‘It was extraordinary to hear the prosecutor general's reaction to the consul bringing up your example of the Magnitsky case.’
‘I’m not surprised it had an effect on him,’ McMahon replied. ‘It would have been a provocative point. That case was a huge issue here.’
‘And the consul mentioned sanctions: I hadn’t realized the UN went that far.’
McMahon nodded: ‘Oh, yes – it all went a very long way. December 2012. The US Congress even passed the Magnitsky Act, imposing significant restrictions on US citizens and companies interacting with key Russian officials. The biggest impact was that it prevented named Russians – senior people – from using the American banking system.’
‘Did that work?’
‘Disproportionately well, actually, and not to the detriment of the Russian economy, that time. Most of the senior government figures had sizeable wealth abroad. That Act of Congress froze those assets, targeting pretty effectively the political class that was probably responsible for the Magnitsky death in the first place. Hence, I imagine, the sensitivity when the consul raised it in his conversation with the prosecutor general. Diplomatically, though, the Magnitsky Act served to recalibrate the world's view on the integrity and reliability of Russia's institutions. And to those of a certain age, it was an uneasy flashback to the Soviet Russia of the Cold War.’
Their car pulled up outside the hospital. In reception, the permission they believed they had been granted to see Sabatino was flatly refused. Once again, numerous calls had to be made – back through the British Consulate, and from there to the prosecutor general's office – before their request was finally granted. It took thirty minutes for this tortuous communication trail to bear fruit.
Eventually, it was Mr Uglov who appeared in reception to authorize their visit. But his approval was heavily qualified. They had to fill out detailed forms before they were allowed any further into the hospital; even when those had been completed, several of their entries were challenged or elaborations were demanded. Only after that did the consultant let the visitors up to Sabatino's room.
Straker's concern was compounded when their way was barred by the two armed policemen standing guard directly outside her door. Further records were taken of his and McMahon's ID before they were allowed through.
At last Sabatino's door was opened to them.
Straker led the way in.
He wasn’t sure what to expect. The reality of her state struck him hard. In a closed room, the curtains still drawn under orders from the police, Sabatino was lying on the bed, lit by a harsh overhead fluorescent light. Monitors, drips and tubes attached to needles in her right arm were arranged haphazardly around her bed.
It was Remy Sabatino's encasement in the halo brace that hit Straker hardest: its ring bolted to her skull, and the four spars anchoring it rigidly to the body-armour-like vest, created a harrowing image.
Lying under a single sheet, folded back to her waist because of the body armour, Sabatino wore a hospital gown to cover the rest of her torso. Straker saw the plaster casts on her left leg and arm. He saw the tracheotomy tube protruding from her throat – and the small patch of diffuse blood that was showing through the cloth-like straps around her neck. His expression fully reflected his shock.
Straker wasn’t sure that Sabatino was yet aware of his presence. He studied her eyes and realized she was in a semi-stupor. Gently, he said: ‘Remy?’
Her eyes swivelled towards the voice. Sabatino breathed: ‘Matt!’
She moved her right hand across her body – the tubes from the drip flapping – to touch his arm.
The warmth she derived from seeing someone familiar showed immediately in her eyes; tears started welling. ‘What are you doing here? I’ve not seen anybody – no one's come to see me – not Tahm, Andy, Yegor. I’ve been completely isolated.’
All Straker could do, thinking of the legal situation they faced, was to squeeze her hand and offer some comfort.
‘I have no idea which hospital I’m in, or where I am. I’m just relieved to be in one piece … well … sort off.’
Straker continued to hold her hand, longing to provide support for as long as possible. It was clear that Sabatino was completely oblivious to what had been going on.
Straker looked across at McMahon who tilted her head sharply in the direction of the armed police in the corridor outside.
‘Remy, I don’t know how much time we are likely to have with you, so I need to bring you up to date quickly – in case we get thrown out of here.’
Sabatino smiled, expecting this to be some sort of joke.
‘I need to introduce you to Sandy McMahon,’ he said.
The lawyer stepped forward into Sabatino's feld of vision.
‘Sandy's with a firm of solicitors here in Moscow. DQ has appointed her and Brandeis Gertner to look after you and Ptarmigan.’
‘A solicitor – to look after me?’ she rasped.
‘Remy, it seems you’ve not been told anything about your accident.’
Sabatino acknowledged the point with silence.
‘Things have become rather complicated. Are you up to this?’
Sabatino's eyes showed a hint of concern for the first time.
Straker moved in closer and sat on the bed beside her. ‘You had a terrible accident – crash, at the Grand Prix.’
She smiled as if to say tell me about it.
‘You went off the track – at high speed. You hit the tyre wall, went through a concrete wall and fence, and …’ Straker paused, ‘… landed in among a group of spectators.’
Sabatino's face fell. ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘Were any of them hurt?’
Straker braced himself: ‘Remy, thirty-one people were killed.’
Without saying a word, new tears were welling in her large dark eyes. In a matter of moments they were running down her cheeks. She stuttered: ‘Thirty … one … people … dead?’
Straker squeezed her hand again.
Sabatino did not speak. Her eyes rolled up, her whole body seemed to slump and, then, with her face crumbling, she let out a heart-wrenching, uncontrollable howl. All her pain – all the discomfort she had endured for the last few days – all the attempts she had made to be brave – all her struggles to recover – all were set at nought. Her trials, efforts and the challenges she’d set herself – all her little triumphs – meant absolutely nothing against the horror of anybody dying.
