‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go on.’
‘Baryshnikov is a competitive, self-centred, driven, egomaniacal … arsehole. Some drivers need those qualities to win.’
‘But?’
‘I am surprised that he sold the team out.’
‘Even after causing such trouble for Sabatino at the FIA after Montreal?’ asked McMahon.
Backhouse nodded. ‘This is very different for one overarching reason, Sandy. Have you spoken to Quartano about Yegor's defection, Matt?’
Straker nodded.
‘What did he say?’
‘He was seething. Said Baryshnikov would never work for him again – was going to get Quartech's in-house counsel to serve his severance papers right away.’
‘Pretty much as expected, then?’ said Backhouse. ‘That means Baryshnikov is finished with Ptarmigan – as of now – mid-season. Tink what that means for the man's earnings? More than that, think what it means in terms of the car he's giving up? Ptarmigan, this year, is the best machine by miles – in a league of its own. With little doubt, Ptarmigan's going to win the Constructors’ Championship. One of our drivers is going to be World Champion. No driver would give up that seat lightly. And that consideration is long before one thinks about the damage he's done to his reputation. Teams need and demand loyalty. Ratting out Ptarmigan is hardly going to enamour him to the other teams in the pit lane, either. Who's going to hire him now? Baryshnikov's all but ended his career doing this.’
Straker looked Backhouse straight in the eye. ‘Precisely, Andy. So why the hell has he done it?’
There was silence.
McMahon volunteered: ‘We’re in Russia. His home Grand Prix. The deaths at the track – of his own countrymen – have affected him in a different way to the rest of us. Perhaps he's taken it more personally than others. He will have come in for considerable pressure from the Russian press, media and public opinion – particularly in putting right what's been done?’
Backhouse shook his head. ‘Baryshnikov is far too ambitious for any of that to matter a fig.’
Three of the Ptarmigan team reacted at the same moment.
Something had caught their eye.
Movement.
It wasn’t difficult to see with the motor home out on its own in the middle of the concrete apron.
Police cars and armed policemen on foot were closing in on the motor home quickly from all sides. How many of them were there? Thirty? Forty? Fifty?
‘Jesus,’ exclaimed Backhouse. ‘What the hell is this?’
Sandy McMahon shot to her feet. Running down the motor home, she pressed the release button and dropped down the steps towards the door before it had fully opened.
Straker snapped painfully to his feet. ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘they’re here to impound the truck. Andy, quick! Start uploading the video footage from all the on-board recorders.’
In an instant, every Ptarmigan member spun round, ran to a console, fired it up, and was selecting video files – triggering their upload to the Ptarmigan mainframe.
‘Hurry,’ said Straker, ‘we’re going to get chucked out of here at any minute.’
Down on the asphalt, Sandy McMahon surveyed the police officers as they approached. She said firmly and loudly in Russian: ‘What is the meaning of this?’
One policeman caught her eye. He was striding out in front. A 9mm Makarov pistol was holstered on his left hip.
‘I have orders to impound this truck,’ declared the officer.
The other policemen formed an imposing semicircle around McMahon and the door of the motor home.
McMahon responded: ‘On whose authority?’
‘By order of Prosecutor General Gazdanov,’ was the reply. ‘You are to evacuate the vehicle at once and hand over the keys.’
‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘And where are the court orders?’
McMahon held out her hand expectantly.
‘I am Police Colonel Pudovkin. And here are the court orders,’ he said handing over the papers.
McMahon took them.
Pudovkin made to move towards the motor home.
‘As you were, colonel,’ she said sharply. ‘Before you act, I am entitled – even under Russian law – to read a court order and challenge it, if I wish.’
Colonel Pudovkin was halted.
Straker was impressed. McMahon was conducting herself with considerable confidence. She appeared unmoved by the circumstances. Straker, though, could see signs of the tension she was feeling: several veins were showing proudly in her neck.
