Straker's brain was whirring. Ptarmigan may not have discovered anything concrete in their investigation so far, but his suspicions had been building that something unusual was going on. This defection was only enhancing those feelings.
He would have to reconsider his opinion of all these Russian institutions: clearly with the Baryshnikov defection, they were showing a readiness to be invasive – to go even as far as recruiting witnesses from the other side.
Straker reached a conclusion, but then had reservations about what it meant. He did not want to appear alarmist – and yet at the same time he didn’t want to be naïve.
Sandy McMahon was about to speak when Straker swiftly held a finger up to his lips. He then beckoned her to follow him to the door. Straker led her out of the suite and closed the door behind them.
Once out in the corridor, McMahon said: ‘I feel terrible I never got to speak to Baryshnikov – as we discussed I would in the motor home.’
Straker looked up and down the softly lit landing to make sure there was no one there. He replied: ‘Forget it. You couldn’t have made any difference. That defection has not happened since our meeting today; it's been brewing for much longer than that. Thank-fully, we never discussed anything meaningful about our defence while he was with us.’
McMahon looked around. ‘What the hell are we doing out here?’
‘I don’t want us to say anything significant in there. I want to change rooms.’
It took a moment or two for the sinister inference to register. ‘What? Why … you don’t …?’
‘Just think about how the authorities have behaved for a moment, Sandy. They’ve done everything they can to thwart us, even enticing Baryshnikov away. They’ve shown the lengths they will go to. Would they have been able to find out where Remy was staying? Of course. Why wouldn’t they, then, have wanted to keep tabs on her, too?’
‘You don’t think they’ve interfered with her room?’
Straker's face told her the answer.
‘But she hasn’t been in there since the crash.’
He shook his head gently. ‘We have no idea when – whatever all this is – began. It could have been weeks in the planning. At the risk of appearing paranoid, I want to switch rooms.’
Twenty minutes later the hotel had responded to Straker's request and set him up in a smaller suite one floor down; the new accommodation was reassuringly grand and still boasted a similar view out over the river and the Bolshoy Moskvoretsky Bridge. What took the transfer longer than expected was the need to pack up Sabatino's kit, which was still scattered around the Kremlin Suite.
‘I’d offer you dinner,’ said Straker as they stored the last of Remy's items in the wardrobe, ‘but I’d better brief Quartano.’
McMahon nodded her understanding with some sympathy. ‘Not likely to be an easy conversation. Oh, and I nearly forgot this,’ she said pulling a mobile phone from her pocket complete with its charger. ‘It was by the bed upstairs; I assume it's Ms Sabatino's?’
She placed it on the bedside table.
‘I’ll be here to pick you up at, what, 7:30 tomorrow morning?’ McMahon added, except Straker now seemed distracted; she was thanked almost automatically for all that she had done that day as Straker walked her to the door.
The moment McMahon had left the new room, he set about quelling his apprehension at calling Quartano. How the hell was the tycoon going to react to their latest news – to this act of betrayal?
As if he didn’t know.
Straker turned all the major lights off in the room and stood by the window; the view was the same as the one upstairs: he was looking out over the floodlit towers and domes of Saint Basil's Cathedral and the stark blocky shapes of the Kremlin. He breathed deeply, collecting his thoughts. The room was stuffy. He needed to open the window.
In a cooling Moscow breeze, Straker prepared himself and dialled. He was connected straight away.
Straker explained to Quartano the latest developments involving the Baryshnikov defection, expecting him to explode at any moment.
At first Straker was unnerved.
Quartano seemed remarkably calm. Had this, thought Straker, gone so far that replying with a sense of humour was the only sane thing to do?
Quartano asked with a hint of levity: ‘Is this one of your Machiavellian masterstrokes … have you encouraged a loyal lieutenant to defect to the enemy … to gather intelligence?’
‘Not this time, I’m afraid, sir, no.’
Straker waited for the tycoon to realize that his benign supposition was false.
It didn’t take long.
‘The low-life,’ roared Quartano. ‘He's fucking screwed Ptarmigan. He's screwed his colleagues. The gutless low-life. Does that man have no shame? First he rats out Remy to the FIA after Montreal – and now this!’
Straker didn’t have anything to say; from previous experience he knew it was best to lean back and let the anger play out. Quartano ranted on: ‘He's fired, as of now. He’ll never work for me again. Period. Is that understood? Stacey Krall can serve him his severance papers, right now.’
When Quartano realized that Straker wasn’t responding, he regained some composure. ‘Sorry, Straker – sorry. What the hell do we do now? We’re so completely fucked.’
‘We do seem to be facing an overhang of institutional barriers, sir.’
Quartano grunted agreement. ‘Who now hold all the power.’
Straker inhaled deeply. ‘Contrary to appearances, Mr Q, I would doubt whether everything on the Russian side in this case is quite as definite and certain as the institutions and authorities would have us believe.’
‘I don’t understand?’
Straker lowered his voice: ‘We need something – anything – to create a chink. We need to find something, however small, to start questioning, challenging, or God-willing undermine any of the ploys the Russian authorities are pursuing against us.’
Quartano sighed heavily. ‘Where would you even begin looking for that?’
‘It's likely to require something bold,’ said Straker quietly, ‘particularly now, of course, that anything Ptarmigan might say in court can be countermanded by Russia's favourite son and patriot.’
