It kinked slightly right.
Straker could now hear the traffic on Andropova Prospekt ahead of him. There would be humanity there. Would his pursuers go on shooting at him in such a public place? Even if they didn’t, Straker feared no such restraint would apply to the dogs. He realized he would have no comfort from them, even if he reached a place in full view of the public. Passers-by wouldn’t intervene against such menacing animals. All the dogs needed to do was catch him and bring him down. His pursuers could then saunter up and apprehend him at will, even if they weren’t firing at that point. What the hell would that mean?
Contempt of court … Five years’ imprisonment.
Reaching the end of the narrow path, Straker finally broke out of the woodland into an empty car park beside the dual carriageway. He saw a noticeboard with its own little roof, a large doggie-mess bin and a low rack for bicycles.
Three were parked there. Straker ran to the first and gave it a yank. A sizeable chain held it fast. He tried the next. Same thing. Then, looking at the third, he didn’t even bother – realizing the front wheel had been deliberately removed.
Spinning round, Straker sprinted straight towards the main road. He had fifty yards or so to run. Traffic had built up in the time since he left the avenue nearly an hour before. He reached the verge. The baying dogs sounded as if they were closer than ever – louder than ever, heard easily above the noise of the cars.
How far back were they?
He daren’t look.
Straker reached the pavement beside the road. A constant flow of cars was zooming by in both directions, either side of the central reservation – nose to tail down all four lanes. Straker realized he could never outrun the dogs along the pavement – in either direction – along the side of the road.
Crossing this dual carriageway was his only line of escape.
He would have to take his chances.
Turning to face the road, Straker studied the traffic hurtling towards him from the left, trying to work out how to time his moment. This was the northbound carriage – heavier with traffic as workers from the suburbs headed for their offices in the centre of Moscow. There were barely any gaps. It was solid.
Then Straker saw his chance.
Now!
He dived out into the road – immediately behind a passing lorry. There were five car lengths between it and the next car. With a horn blast, a jab at the brakes and a swerve, that car only just managed to give him the space to cross. But Straker had only crossed one lane. He was standing on the white line dividing the two lanes in the middle of fast-moving traffic.
Straker looked behind him.
One of the Rottweilers had made it as far as the kerb. Its eyes were flashing. Its mouth open. Its teeth bared, slobber flowing from its mouth. The dog had locked on to him, but realized there was danger from the cars. It seemed hesitant.
Cars hurtled past Straker, only inches to either side. Watching the oncoming flow of cars again, he prepared to dive forwards across the next lane towards the central reservation. He held his breath.
Now!
He lunged forward. But mistimed his move. His foot slipped on the smooth asphalt; it didn’t give him anything like the expected amount of purchase. He had committed himself, though – was it going to be enough?
Thwack.
The bulky wing mirror of a passing BMW walloped Straker as he tried to get out of the way. It clipped him badly, catching him on the wrist, catapulting the left side of his body round. It threw him off balance. His momentum across the lane was baulked. He hadn’t cleared the traffic. His presence induced an ear-splitting screech of tyres as the next driver panicked, slamming on the brakes, swerving violently – trying to avoid him.
Straker fell forwards, heavily onto the rough and littered ground of the central reservation. The pain down his left arm and side was excruciating. He tried to scramble to his feet.
Straker looked back across the carriageway through the blur of the passing cars. He could see the dogs, standing hesitantly on the far kerb, with the same sort of look as if they were plucking up courage to dive into water.
Straker tried to face them down. He whistled, beckoning them on. One of the dogs’ attention was caught. Seeing its quarry, it seemed unable to process two pieces of information at once. Catching sight of its prey meant that its instinct kicked in. Without any further hesitancy, it dived forwards to give chase.
A blast of a horn was heard.
Another screech of tyres.
There was a massive – dull – thud. More screeching tyres. The bulk of the Rottweiler had been hit, its corpse struck by the bumper of an estate car. In an instant it was scooped up by the radiator grill. The hundred-pound dog was soon rolling up the bonnet towards the windshield. In a spray of blood it walloped the glass. Even the safety laminate was no match for the might of the impact, which shattered the windshield. It didn’t break, but – acting as a ramp – it sent the Rottweiler's body up and onto the roof. With no resistance from the expensive metallic paint, it slid the full length of the car and fell off the back.
The dog went under the wheels of an eighteen-wheeler right behind it.
As more vehicles whooshed past, Straker could see the effects of the impact between the flashes of cars speeding along the two-lane carriageway. Blood, guts and bits of bone from the dog were flattened or broken off by passing cars.
Straker realized he was still far from safe. Climbing over the steel barrier down the middle of the central reservation, he clutched his left side and prepared to cross the remaining two lanes of the road.
Being the southbound carriageway, the traffic here was nowhere near as heavy. A break emerged. Straker pushed off hard against the kerbstones – like a sprinter off the blocks – propelling himself across. This time there were enough gaps. He made it, his chest heaving with relief as he finally reached the far side.
Straker was now across, having somehow put a clear barrier between him and his pursuers. He hoped dispatching one of the dogs would be enough to put the others off. Only an animal devoid of any self-preservation would give chase now. Straker seemed to have eluded his pursuers. Even so, he wasn’t going to leave anything to chance.
Heavily clutching his left flank and limping badly, Straker was soon running awkwardly to get as far away as possible.
But he was still out in the open – and had a long four miles to get back to his hotel.
THIRTY-THREE
Sandy McMahon was still concerned at Straker's absence from his hotel that morning. Now being driven to her office, she was running down the side of Red Square. Her thoughts were jolted by her phone ringing. McMahon looked at the caller ID. It was simply a number. No name. She didn’t recognize it.
Formally, she answered: ‘McMahon, Brandeis Gertner.’
She could hear a loud background noise. Traffic? Then a car horn.
‘Sandy, it's Matt,’ came a raised voice from the other end. Straker sounded strained – out of breath.
