One of the ground staff, who had been manning the forward link with the expedition, hurried straight out from inside the block of tents.
‘Matt, Matt,’ said the aide, ‘you’ve had an urgent message from Mr Quartano. He wants you in Moscow as soon as you can get there. You need to leave immediately. I’ve arranged for you to fly out the moment you’re ready. We don’t want you getting trapped by the weather.’
Straker was surprised at the news. ‘Any idea why? What's going on?’
‘There's been a terrible crash at the Grand Prix in Moscow. I think you know the driver involved?’
Straker looked the other directly in the eye. ‘Not Remy?’ he asked.
Straker had hardly any time to think or organize himself. Within the hour he had said his goodbyes, expressing regret he would not be with the team in the “NAAFI” that night to celebrate their success – and was on a plane bound for Longyearbyen.
Waiting for him there – on the Norwegian archipelago of Sval-bard – out on the apron, fuelled and ready to fly, was Dominic Quartano's private jet. As Straker climbed aboard, he heard the door shutting behind him and the engines whine into life. Before he had been helped out of his clothes, Straker felt the plane taxiing away. Moments after he had settled into his seat, the Quartech Falcon's engines were at full revs and hurtling him down the runway.
Four hours after reaching the North Pole, Colonel Matt Straker was in the air, en route for the crisis in Moscow.
SEVENTEEN
Straker's plane flew in from Norway and landed at Vnukovo International Airport at seven o’clock the next morning. While being processed by the immigration staff in the VIP terminal, a figure approached him.
‘Colonel Straker?’ said an unplaceable accent. ‘Sandy McMahon. I’m a partner with Brandeis Gertner. Stacey Krall asked us to look after you, for Mr Quartano.’
Straker was momentarily thrown by this striking redhead. He replied: ‘Thank you, Sandy, yes.’
The lawyer gestured to a porter, who closed in to take Straker's bags.
Straker watched McMahon intently. Intrigued.
His first impression of her was that of poise; he didn’t know how a partner of a law firm was expected to look, or expected to move, but Sandy McMahon wouldn’t have conformed to any mental picture he might have had. She seemed to stand and move like a classical dancer. Tall, slim, with a long neck, McMahon had a narrow freckled face, high forehead and fine strawberry blonde hair pinned neatly into a swirl. Holding the senior position of partner in a global firm of solicitors, Straker expected her to be at least, what, in her thirties? Except she looked considerably younger than that, dare he think almost too young: the band of freckles under both eyes and over the bridge of her nose might have had something to do with it. Despite her apparent youth, if Straker had been asked to sum her up there and then, he would have said: elegant. But that had nothing to do with make-up or her clothes; they were simple and plain: no artificial colour showed on her face, and she wore a simple navy blue trouser suit over a white T shirt and low-heeled loafers. McMahon's elegance came entirely from her presence.
‘I have my driver outside,’ she declared. ‘I assume you’re keen to get started. I have to say, though, I’m not quite sure with what: Stacey Krall said you aren’t a lawyer.’
Straker was now intrigued by her tone.
McMahon gave further instructions to an elderly porter in fluent Russian. Her pale blue eyes glinted; rather than appearing to absorb the world around her, they seemed more to be declaring a direction of travel. They and her voice left no doubt that whatever she was asking for was already too late. Such command was another surprise: Straker was taken by McMahon's air of certainty.
Trying to make conversation on their way to the car, Straker said: ‘I’d like to go and see Remy first, please.’
‘She's still unconscious, there’d not be much point.’
‘That doesn’t matter – to me.’
McMahon pulled a knowing face.
‘Is there an issue?’ Straker asked, sensing that there might be further disapproval from the lawyer.
‘I took the trouble to Google you,’ she replied as she strode out. ‘I noticed that you two were involved.’
Straker smiled at her curiosity. ‘We had some interference last season from another Formula One team, who’d been sabotaging her car. I was involved, as you put it, to combat and rid Remy of that threat.’
‘So it was only a professional involvement?’
‘Does that matter?’ he asked gently. ‘Remy and I needed to work closely together – because of that sabotage business. She's great company.’
Straker turned to face her; he found himself intrigued again, this time by McMahon's response. He didn’t understand her reaction to his last point at all.
She drew her phone from a pocket. In English, Straker heard McMahon asking someone to arrange permission from the police to visit Sabatino in the hospital. She ended the call.
‘Why would we need permission from the police?’ he asked.
‘Because Ms Sabatino has been arrested,’ McMahon replied flatly. ‘The police now have her under armed guard.’
‘While she's in a hospital – you’re kidding?’
‘You didn’t know?’
Straker shook his head. ‘I’ve been out of reach. Clearly, I need to be brought up to date.’
With no enthusiasm, McMahon said: ‘Fine,’ as they reached her car. It was already waiting at the kerb. Before Straker could offer to hold the door open for her, McMahon had opened the passenger door for herself and climbed in. Straker realized that McMahon meant business. After he had opened a rear door and was sitting on the back seat, he chose to mirror her lack of warmth: ‘Where are we with the case, then?’ he asked as they pulled away.
‘Things have been deteriorating, with the public mood turning pretty dark. The president raised the level of anger with the memorial service, fuelling it with the very public arrest of Dr Nazar.’
‘Tahm's been arrested, too?’
‘At the memorial service.’
‘Oh, shit.’
McMahon made a point of ignoring Straker's swearing. ‘The way he was arrested, though – by the police, very publicly – has convinced people he must be guilty. Dr Nazar's humbling at the cathedral, which has since been shown in repeated clips on State television, has offered the public a very obvious scapegoat.’
