What kind of backlash would there be from the public when they realized that nothing was being done to avenge the deaths at the Grand Prix?
He couldn’t get out of his mind the threat to the two Ptarmigan accused of being re-arrested.
Backhouse was relieved that they had a covert exit all lined up, even though it was going to be a slog.
Against every expectation in the build-up to the trial, Nazar and Sabatino were free. Having been kept apart for the last four weeks, they seemed too shocked to say anything now that they found themselves back together again.
Finally, Sabatino asked Backhouse: ‘Andy, is it true about Matt – and the Russian lawyer?’
Backhouse's face fell slowly.
Sabatino couldn’t hold back. Tears ran again, but this time with much greater intensity. Everyone in the car was affected with sadness, made all the more intense as it conflicted with their sense of relief. After everything they had been subjected to during the last few weeks, their emotions were utterly raw.
It took eight hours for the people carrier to reach the outskirts of Saint Petersburg. Instead of heading for the golden domes and spires of the ancient capital, the escapees entered an area of old and seedy-looking docks. Backhouse was soon on edge, as if he was looking for something. Rounding a warehouse, they drove beneath a vast rail-borne crane. He sighed with relief. Up ahead, berthed alongside the dilapidated quayside, was a black motor yacht that appeared to blend effortlessly with the tired, industrial, grey-field backdrop of the docklands.
Backhouse paid off the cab. He and Nazar lifted Sabatino out of the car and carried her aboard the Hunton XRS43. As the powerboat's lines were slipped, there was a growl from the bow thruster as the vessel was nudged laterally away from the harbour wall. White water burbled to her stern, the helm pushing forward on the throttles – engaging the two 662 horsepower Mercury diesels. At the frustrating speed limit of 6 knots, the Hunton made her way impatiently to the entrance of the harbour.
Once out in open water, the helm pushed fully forward on the throttles. Both engines spooled up to full revs. One hundred yards from the mouth of the harbour, the Hunton was already up on the plane. Across the calm waters of Saint Petersburg harbour, the 43-foot motor yacht was soon doing over 35 knots. Savouring the breeze, the Ptarmigan escapees looked back at the receding baroque skyline of Saint Petersburg, just catching the late afternoon sun.
Still the Hunton powered on.
The smooth, still surface enabled the helm to maintain both engines at full throttle. In a short while they passed Kotlin Island, and shot the bridge through the Saint Petersburg Dam – letting them out into the Gulf of Finland. The helm nudged forward on the throttles again, to make sure they were fully open as they headed on out to sea.
Thirty minutes passed. The skipper turned and gave Backhouse a confirmatory nod. The race engineer reached down, pulled out a bottle of champagne and made the announcement with a pop from the cork. ‘We’ve just this minute passed the Estonian border – and are, now, safely in international waters. Friends,’ he declared loudly, ‘we are out of fucking Russia.’
At this distance from the shore, the surface of the water was showing a little more energy. While only modest, there was the beginning of a small swell. Easing back their speed to 20 knots, the Hunton settled into a soothing rhythmic motion as she continued to make her way out to sea.
Not long later, they felt the power being significantly reduced. Backhouse stood up and looked out through the long scoping for’ard windscreen of the yacht. Proudly, he announced: ‘The Melita!’
The others got to their feet, too, to take in the sight of the mother ship as they made their approach. Dominic Quartano's 1930s three-hundred-foot-long superyacht was clearly visible. Low sunlight was catching her majestic superstructure and, against the cobalt blue sky and dark waters of the Baltic, she was an eye-catching sight.
Bringing the Hunton down to a walking pace, the helm manoeuvred the powerboat in alongside. Lines were thrown fore and aft. Moments later a gangplank was lowered. With help from two of her colleagues, one in front and one behind, Sabatino – hesitantly, as her left leg was in plaster and she was still wearing the halo brace – teetered across the gangplank to board The Melita. The lines were thrown back to the Hunton. Another growl came from the bow thruster as the powerboat traversed away from the yacht. The helm applied power from the engines, as he made his way back to her home port in Finland.
The moment Sabatino was on board, the captain escorted her to the sickbay. Dominic Quartano had arranged for a spinal consultant to be on hand. He was waiting to cross-reference her condition with her scans and to take additional X-rays, using The Melita's state-of-the-art medical equipment, if necessary.
Surprisingly her examination took just over an hour.
Following her medical check-up, Sabatino limped into the yacht's art deco saloon; Andy Backhouse and Tahm Nazar were already sitting there in a set of armchairs, each with a flute of champagne in their hands.
Backhouse observed enthusiastically: ‘Fantastic, Rems, you’ve lost the halo brace! Does that mean everything's better than expected?’
Sabatino nodded. ‘Dr Uglov, at the hospital in Moscow, was good enough to email through the scans and X-rays he’d taken. Mr Q's spinal guy was convinced Uglov had played it ultra safe. So, thankfully, the brace is no longer required.’
‘Wonderful news,’ said Backhouse offering to help her sit.
‘It's a testament to the robustness of your car, I suppose,’ she said as, still sore, she lowered herself down into an armchair, ‘that I can go through a crash of that magnitude, survive and come away with only relatively minor injuries. I’m expected to mend physically. But I’ll never get over the deaths of thirty-four Russians … or the loss of Matt.’
It was as if the realization from saying this out loud for the first time finally hit her.
Sabatino's face crumpled.
Tears were soon pouring down her cheeks.
Backhouse offered her a glass of champagne, but she declined with a polite wave of a shaking hand. ‘I really don’t feel like celebrating.’
‘I’m afraid we did all know how bold Matt's strategies could be.’
Sabatino sniffed in response.
Backhouse turned away from her, casting an eye to the end of the room.
At this, the double doors of the saloon opened.
Two figures appeared, silhouetted by the bright evening sunlight behind them. Sabatino was surprised by any new arrivals. Looking up, she was unexpectedly faced with two strangers. And because of the backlighting, she couldn’t see them clearly. She squinted hard, her expression soon verging on alarm.
A man with a completely shaven head and large black sunglasses walked forwards, wearing clothes styled somewhere between gothic and grunge. Beside him was a woman with very short, jet-black hair, dramatic raccoon eye make-up, black lipstick and wearing ill-fitting black clothes. Sabatino's brain was screaming. People don’t dress like that around F1 – around Ptarmigan – in a room like this – on a yacht like this.
The two figures continued into the room.
Sabatino's attention was trained on the man. Bald head … Dark glasses … Gothic clothes. Who the hell was this?
She didn’t know where it started.
In a recess of her mind there was the tiniest flash of familiarity. Not with the bald head, she had never seen that before. There was something in the shape of the man's mouth.
Suddenly there was an ear-piercing shriek.
Sabatino, struggling awkwardly, fought to heave herself up and out of the chair. Then, with her leg still in plaster, she shuffled – limping hurriedly – across the silk carpet of the saloon.
