‘We might just have to take a look at some of this for ourselves.’
‘No, no. No,’ she replied vehemently, suddenly sounding surer of herself. ‘Don’t even contemplate going anywhere you shouldn’t. I am, officially, warning you – right now. Don’t.’
‘As I understand it,’ Straker replied, ‘part of the circuit abuts municipal parkland, which is open to the public.’
‘Communal ownership and access would be completely superseded by police orders,’ McMahon said. ‘Anyone found anywhere near any police-impounded items will be in serious trouble – in all likelihood, arrested. Encroachment on anything to do with a legal case carries the clear penalty of contempt of court.’
‘Which means what?’ Straker asked, showing a hint of impatience.
McMahon answered: ‘Five years’ imprisonment, no questions asked.’
TWENTY-NINE
Straker's frustration with the case was mounting, but it was nothing to the hammer blow they were about to suffer.
Every aspect of this affair – so far – had fallen to their disadvantage. The system appeared to be marshalling itself against them. Straker felt damned if they were going to be prevented from getting to the truth but, realizing he was not going to get any support from McMahon for his suggested action to counter this, he stopped talking.
In the ensuing silence, a gabble of Russian filled the Brandeis car; their driver was listening to some sort of talk radio station.
Straker, having not eaten since arriving in Russia however many hours earlier and been busy non-stop, wanted to find his hotel, order a decent slug of room service and take a high-pressure shower before working out what he was going to do next. ‘Do you know where Quartech's putting me up?’ he asked as the car reached Kremlevskaya Naberezhnaya. They were heading east on the embankment along the north bank of the Moskva River, below the walls of the Kremlin.
Still sounding wary at Straker's intent to be proactive in the investigation, McMahon said: ‘We’ve put you in Ms Sabatino's room – in the Hotel Baltschug Kempinski. Ptarmigan still have the booking; it seemed an efficient substitution, at least while she's still in hospital.’
Just before Saint Basil's Cathedral, the car navigated the slip road to make a right turn over the bridge and head south over the river.
Without any warning, McMahon barked at the chauffeur in Russian.
Almost flinching, the driver leaned across and turned up the radio. Straker wondered what was going on.
He heard the matter-of-fact tone of a news bulletin. In the background were the unmistakable sounds of rapid camera clicks.
‘What's all that about?’ he asked.
McMahon held up her hand to silence him so she could hear. Her face told Straker that some serious news was breaking. The broadcast went on. A voice could be heard, sounding like the man was reading a prepared statement. His intonation only rose as he came to finish speaking. Then, a different voice – more natural, but more hesitant – could be heard.
Suddenly it dawned on him.
Straker suddenly realized who it was.
No wonder McMahon was concerned.
The second man's voice continued for nearly two minutes before the reading voice was back again. In a matter of seconds, the bulletin was over and a woman, presumably in the studio, could be heard moving on perhaps to the next item.
Straker's heart sank. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
McMahon nodded, realizing Straker might have caught the gist: ‘Yegor Baryshnikov has just declared himself for the prosecution.’
‘Holy fuck,’ he growled. ‘That bastard's gone and ratted us out. What the hell is his testimony going to do to our chances in this case?’
They pulled up outside the five star Kempinski Hotel.
Normally Straker would have enjoyed the splendour of the lobby, the modern chandeliers along its length, the mezzanine level and the flowing staircases edged with wafting wrought-iron decorations leading down to the intricate tile-patterned floor. The impression of the Hotel Baltschug Kempinski should have been calming. But Straker's mind was somewhere else entirely.
McMahon accompanied him to reception, to ensure the transfer of the room from Sabatino was efficient, but Straker was in a hurry to get to a television to see more news of this defection. Their receptionist apologized but said there were no television screens in any of the communal areas of the hotel; it was suggested they use the one up in his rooms. Straker asked McMahon if she wanted to see the bulletin too. They were accompanied up to the fourth floor by one of the concierge team.
Up in the sumptuous suite, the concierge went to work in the television cabinet. After a minute or so, Russia-1 appeared on the screen. There was a news bulletin in progress; it was clearly about the Formula One defection. The remote was handed to him by the concierge; Straker thanked him as he left.
The news report was worse than they feared.
Wherever the press conference had been held, the room was packed. Gazdanov was one of the voices they had heard on the car radio, the one sounding like he was reading a prepared speech, because he had been. Gazdanov looked like the personification of smug, revelling in every moment – soaking up every photon of the limelight. Baryshnikov's demeanour, by contrast, was unexpected. Not the abrasive person the driver had been in the motor home. He looked timid, nervous.
‘What's Baryshnikov saying?’ Straker asked.
McMahon's response conveyed some of her own surprise at the man's tone and bearing. ‘That he is proud to be a Formula One driver, but prouder … more proud … of being a Russian. He feels concerned … no guilty … that Ptarmigan, his team, had caused … inflicted … such pain … hurt? … to the people of Russia.’
Straker studied Baryshnikov's face as he spoke. The Russian's eyes were darting left and right. He was speaking with a distinct lack of fluency, the reason perhaps why McMahon was having such difficulty interpreting him.
Gazdanov retook control of the press conference. ‘Russia is proud of her national motor racing star,’ translated McMahon, ‘especially as Mr Baryshnikov is putting Russia's interests before his own and the commercial interest of his team.’
Questions were then yelled at the prosecutor general from the packed floor of the room.
‘Da,’ barked Gazdanov in reply, ‘Mr Baryshnikov is now a major witness in the State's prosecution of this crime.’
‘Yes, we expect Mr Baryshnikov to give Russia the inside story of the Ptarmigan team – so, da, the State can be absolutely sure of succeeding in its prosecution of the culprits.’
The coverage of the press conference ended.
Straker felt as though he had been kicked in the guts. Baryshnikov's defection changed everything. His mind was whirring. His first thought was: How the hell do we defend ourselves now? Anything that Ptarmigan puts up as an argument in the trial – irrespective of its merit – could be flatly contradicted by Baryshnikov. And which version was a Russian jury going to believe?
