‘You’re kidding,’ said the in-house counsel. ‘What the hell's the rush? That's indecent!’
‘I’ll come to my thoughts on why all this has happened in a moment. The prosecutor general's actual words were: “I intend to have those responsible for this corporate manslaughter before the Supreme Court of Russia – and starting their lifetime of hard labour – within a month.”’
‘Holy shit.’
‘Unbelievable,’ agreed Quartano. ‘How can you hope to prepare for trial under such time pressure? Have you got the guys going over the car to get to the bottom of the accident?’
Straker braced himself. ‘No. And we won’t. Remy's car has been impounded. McMahon is pretty sure the wreckage is going to be assessed by a court-appointed expert, probably a Russian.’
Quartano nearly exploded: ‘A Russian motor racing expert … that's a contradiction in terms. God help us. Do you want me to push San Marino – to get the FIA to step in?’
‘No, sir – not publicly; at least – not yet,’ replied Straker. ‘One of the reasons the Russians are investigating all this themselves is because they see F1 standards as responsible for the crash. San Marino and the FIA, therefore, are being seen as part of the problem. The Russians are dead against any involvement by the FIA – convinced the FIA's primary objective would be to mount a cover-up of the accident. Bringing them in privately, though, could be very helpful; but let me try and build up a clearer picture of what went wrong first, before we talk to San Marino?’
‘Okay, Matt – say when you want … I’m sure I can encourage his involvement.’
‘Ahead of that,’ said Straker, ‘Andy Backhouse is pretty sure we can piece together most of what we need from the telemetry records, either here in the motor home, or back at the factory.’
‘We’ve got no time to waste – God, Stacey – four weeks to the trial. What do we do for a silk? We’ve got to have a Rottweiler – and a fast-working one?’
‘Oscar Brogan would be perfect,’ replied Krall. ‘I’ll brief him straight away.’
‘What about the language issue?’ asked Straker. ‘The trial's likely to be in Russian, isn’t it?’
‘Undoubtedly, which makes Brogan all the more perfect,’ said Krall with a chuckle. ‘Oscar Brogan – né Osip Broganski – is first-generation British: his parents were Russian émigrés.’
‘How lucky is that?’ agreed Straker. ‘Even so, the sod here – of course – is going to be that our response to the legal attack would be far more effective if we could be aggressive, fight back on a similar footing – which Oscar masters without question. But that would kill public sympathy for us. We can never forget that thirty-one people died as a result of all this.’
‘It's going to be a tough one to fight,’ observed Quartano. ‘I’d have every confidence that Brogan would strike the right balance – pitch it right.’
Straker judged this was the moment to bring up his next concern. ‘Talking of a tough fight, I should tell you we’ve had a strange incident with Yegor Baryshnikov this afternoon.’
‘What now?’ Quartano asked.
‘I’d just held a preliminary meeting of the team, introducing Brandeis as our lawyer. Baryshnikov was adamant the trial is going to be a foregone conclusion – that we will lose, not least as Gazdanov had been appointed as the prosecutor. Worse, Baryshnikov firmly placed the blame for the crash on Sabatino.’
‘Oh God, no; he's not up to more of his Montreal mind games, is he?’ Krall asked.
‘I think it's worse than that. Baryshnikov stated, unequivocally, that Ptarmigan should take full responsibility for the deaths. When we tried to disagree with him he pushed back vehemently and ended up storming out of our meeting.’
‘What's wrong with that man?’
Krall asked: ‘Does he want to win that badly?’
‘For God's sake, don’t let him anywhere near the press. If he gets reported saying anything like that, he’ll seal Ptarmigan's fate for good.’
‘McMahon's going to speak to him as soon as possible – to make sure he knows how important all this is.’
‘What about Remy?’ asked Quartano. ‘Have you managed to speak to her yet? Her testimony will be crucial.’
‘It will be,’ said Straker, ‘but, no. Andy was talking to the hospital this afternoon. She is now conscious, apparently, but extremely frail. The police have put her under armed guard.’
‘In the hospital? Jesus,’ said Krall. ‘More overkill!’
Quartano asked: ‘ To keep her captive?’
‘Essentially, yes – although I’m glad they are, actually. I would worry for Sabatino's safety if she weren’t that well guarded. The accident continues to cause great distress. I told you about the goading I received from the police. There were also massive crowds protesting outside the Ministry of Justice this afternoon, and there's a three-hundred-man vigil outside the main gates of the Grand Prix circuit.’
‘Sounds almost like hysteria,’ said Quartano.
‘For sure something's going on. The prosecution, though, is probably this zealous as an institutional response, trying to assuage the public mood. The government seems hell-bent on being seen to do something to avenge the dead.’
‘And, now, poor Tahm and Remy are stuck in the middle of all this,’ sighed Quartano, ‘apparently with the full weight of the State bearing down on them.’
‘They are,’ agreed Straker. ‘Worse, if the charge of corporate manslaughter sticks, they’re each looking at twenty years’ hard labour.’
TWENTY-FIVE
That lunchtime Remy Sabatino had her first solid food since the crash. Because of the halo device, she had to be propped up on a mountain of pillows. Half sitting, a wheeled hospital-bed tray was positioned in front of her, enabling her to eat lunch in bed. Her motor skills were shaky. She dribbled and spilled a fair amount, but was determined to manage. Swallowing was agony. Even so, she felt better almost at once for having eaten something substantial.
Sabatino was still being kept in isolation, enforced by the armed policemen outside her door. As a result, she had not been spoken to by anyone other than the consultant since the accident – and he’d not discussed anything of what had happened. Nurses were now slipping in and out without speaking to her as if she was toxic. She still knew nothing of the details of her accident. She was confused, sore and wondering why no one had come to see her.
Having ended the call to London, Straker remained in the private cabin of the motor home. There was a knock on the door. He heard a muffled ‘Matt’ and recognized Backhouse's voice. Straker open the door.
‘I think we might have found something.’
Straker followed him into the open-plan section of the motor home.
‘What is it?’
