‘Whatever our analysis of the reasons,’ McMahon said, ‘the reality is absurd. A four-week lead-in to a trial of this seriousness is ridiculously tight. I’m going to need a lot more help within Brandeis.’
Straker nodded.
McMahon rang her office and asked to be put through to the firm's senior partner. She spent a few minutes bringing the practice head up to date. Given the significance of the announcements at the Ministry of Justice, she was given an immediate undertaking for whatever resources she needed.
They were heading south along Andropova Prospekt, just passing the golden onion-shaped dome and white walls of the Alexander Nevsky Church. As Straker and McMahon crossed the causeway, the view opened up dramatically. Over to their left was the Moskva River. On its far bank was the shoreline of the ancient park of Nagat-inskaya Poyma.
Once they drove onto the peninsular, Straker could make out the roofs of the Zhar-ptitsa Autodrom Grand Prix circuit in among the trees. One building shortly dominated the view: backing onto, and running parallel with the avenue, was the ridgeline of the spectacular pit-straight grandstand. Along its entire length flags of over one hundred nations were fluttering gently in the Muscovy breeze. Poignantly, they were all flying at half-mast.
Three-quarters of a mile down the dual carriageway the car started slowing. A major set of traffic lights was ahead; they were pulling into the filter lane. After a short wait they were free to cross. As they turned left, the magnificent entrance to the race track complex was before them.
On the pavement outside the Grand Prix circuit, easily three hundred people were mounting a vigil – carrying banners, flowers, and torches – mourning the deaths. Closer to the gates was another group of people – rougher-looking, most with expensive cameras hanging around their necks. To one end of the press pack was another group manning a bank of TV cameras, all mounted on large heavy tripods, suggesting they expected to be there for some time. The media were present in force.
Approaching the main gate, the car dropped to walking pace. An armed policeman walked forwards holding his hand up, ordering them to stop. McMahon, in Russian, talked with the officer. Straker couldn’t understand what was being said, except he could easily hear the tone was brusque and unaccommodating. After three minutes, the policeman pointed at the ground in front the car – ordering them, presumably, to stay put. The official walked back to his control box.
Straker and McMahon remained seated in the stationary car.
‘No one is allowed into the place now, without the prosecutor general's permission,’ reported McMahon with the first hint of impatience creeping into her voice.
Fifteen minutes later the policeman returned. Something was stated in Russian. McMahon responded, sounding like she was arguing some of the points being put to her. Once again, the policeman left them and returned to his booth.
‘He would admit us,’ she explained, ‘but only if we are accompanied, continually, by a police escort.’
‘What? Even during your conversations with the team, even as our lawyer?’
McMahon nodded. ‘Yep.’
‘Again, no allowance for client-attorney privilege?’
McMahon shrugged.
‘“This is Russia”?’ offered Straker.
It took McMahon several calls over twenty minutes, including one to the British Consulate in which she asked the consul, himself, to contact the prosecutor general's office, before their car was finally admitted to the Grand Prix circuit. To McMahon's credit, they were no longer obliged to be escorted by a policeman when in meetings within their own team.
The car made its way through the deserted Autodrom complex, aiming for the paddock and the Ptarmigan motor home. With the race abandoned, and the Grand Prix teams long-since departed, there was an empty feel to the place. During the build-up to the Grand Prix weekend, this expansive area had felt quite small, even intimate – as streets had been created between the rows of massively expensive mobile headquarters and hospitality facilities. Now, Ptarmigan's turquoise motor home was the only vehicle there in a vast open space.
Straker climbed out and looked around the area before walking to the doors of the motor home. They hissed open as he and McMahon approached.
Straker was still impressed by this mobile control room, even though it was just as he remembered it from the season before: its inside was decked out in rosewood, chrome and glass, with pale turquoise-coloured leather seating, all edged with navy blue piping. Its finish was a powerful statement of style and quality. It had a different feel, though, when not in operation. Its row of eight workstations, set out down the full length of the truck on the right-hand side, made less of an impression. None of the plasma screens were on and, without the operators, it was oddly quiet. A meeting table ran down the other side of the truck, surrounded by a curved bench.
Sitting round this was a group of people including Andy Backhouse, normally Sabatino's race engineer.
‘Matt, thank God you’re here,’ said the middle-aged, dark-haired Brummie with obvious affection. Stepping forward, he took Straker by surprise; the hardened race engineer even gave him a hug. ‘I fear we’re going to need even more of your magic this time.’
‘Detecting and hunting down a saboteur might be one thing,’ replied Straker, ‘but this is something very different … Something far more troubling.’
Uncharacteristically, Backhouse didn’t come back with a quip; to Straker, the race engineer wasn’t anything like his usual self.
Straker introduced Sandy McMahon. In turn, Backhouse introduced them to the six Ptarmigan members in the mobile headquarters. Last to be presented was Ptarmigan's number two driver, Yegor Baryshnikov.
‘You won’t have met Yegor, of course,’ said Backhouse in his Birmingham accent. ‘After Helli left us at the end of last season – following all that crap with Massarella – a seat opened up for Yegor to come and join us from a hugely successful season in GP2. Before that, he was with an IndyCar team in the US.’
Straker shook hands with the tall, slim Russian driver; he was keen to form a view of him. Baryshnikov was a little older than the usual new recruit to Formula One, being in his late twenties.
‘Nice to meet too,’ said Baryshnikov.
Despite his grammar, Straker was distracted; he had heard numerous stories – from different people – about the Russian's arrogance and self-confidence.
‘How's Remy?’ asked Straker as everyone was invited to sit at the long meeting table.
‘Still pretty groggy, we gather,’ replied Backhouse.
‘Anyone been to see her yet?’
Backhouse shook his head. ‘We’ve been advised not to by the hospital. Until she's stronger.’
Once they were all seated, Straker brought them all up to date: ‘Sandy McMahon is a lawyer, based here in Moscow. Mr Q has instructed her firm to help us with this case. As a first step, we’ve been to see Tahm.’
‘How is he?’
‘Not well. We’ve also just been to a press conference at the Ministry of Justice, where they announced the appointment of a federal prosecutor.’
‘Who is appointed?’ asked Baryshnikov.
‘Léon Gazdanov – the prosecutor general.’
‘That's fuck,’ said the driver. ‘Everyone in Russia know him. He's ego. Wants to make big name.’
