McMahon paused for effect before handing Straker one of the files. He took the document; even as he opened it he could see – from the contents page, the index tabs and the elegant layout – how professionally her team had put this together.
‘Tab 1,’ McMahon said.
Straker flipped the page over: ‘Yegor Baryshnikov?’ he read with a sigh.
McMahon grunted acknowledgement.
‘Good grief … When?’
‘Four years ago.’
‘In what capacity? I can’t imagine him as an organizer or entrepreneur?’
‘It seems he was little more than a figurehead.’
‘How did he start negotiations, then? Who did he approach?’
McMahon leant forward and flicked over Tab 2. ‘He wrote an open letter in Pravda, addressed directly to the president.’
‘High-profile stuff.’
‘And pretty unsubtle.’
‘Why?’
‘For the previous three years,’ she said, ‘the president had been in negotiations, personally, with Motor Racing Promotions Limited to host the reinstated Russian Grand Prix in Sochi, down on the Black Sea.’
‘Would Baryshnikov have known about that bid?’
‘Tab 3.’
Turning over the page, Straker saw a collection of newspaper articles, each summarized in English. There were several screen scrapes from the websites of State institutions as well as references to State-controlled TV and radio news bulletins. ‘Okay, so how could Baryshnikov not have known about the Sochi bid? And, when he wrote that letter, he would have been well aware that the Sochi Grand Prix was the president's baby.’
McMahon nodded emphatically.
‘Why on earth, then, would Baryshnikov have been arguing for a switch to Moscow?’
‘Quite,’ replied McMahon. ‘From what little I’ve read this afternoon, hosting a Grand Prix is highly prized. It's also clear that negotiations with Motor Racing Promotions can be notoriously complicated.’
‘So Baryshnikov's counterbid could only have been disruptive – prejudicial, even – to the ongoing Sochi negotiations?’
‘It would have to have been, wouldn’t it?’
‘Why the hell did he do it?’ Straker asked. ‘Naïvety? Arrogance? Did he do it off his own bat – was he put up to it?’
There was a knock on the door.
Straker answered.
An elegantly dressed young woman appeared and apologized for the interruption: ‘I thought you would want to know, Sandy.’
‘What's up?’ she asked.
‘Andy Backhouse has just had a message from Ms Sabatino. She's texted him saying that there are policemen “swarming” all over the hospital. She thinks she's about to be questioned about the accident.’
‘Holy crap,’ said Straker.
‘Thank you, Nadia,’ said McMahon. ‘I’ll be right there – can you get me the British consul, urgently?’
The aide pointed at the small sideboard in the room. ‘He's on the phone for you right now – line two.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
Straker rode with McMahon across Moscow to the hospital. They had no idea if another intervention by the British consul would have an effect this time.
‘Remy cannot be interviewed about the crash,’ said Straker. ‘Her condition's far too frail. She’d have to be still in shock. She only heard about the deaths yesterday – and from us. You saw how she reacted to the news. Have these people no sense of perspective?’
‘How do we stop her being interrogated if the consul can’t get the prosecutor general to see reason?’
‘At the very least you’ve got to be with her. How could the police even contemplate this without ensuring Remy has legal advice?’
They rode in silence as their car headed across town.
Straker's mind whirred through the case and the unthinkable consequences of Sabatino inadvertently saying something incriminating; what if the police were out to trap her? He found himself visualizing a courtroom, an ambitious results-hungry prosecutor, a jury of ordinary Muscovites wanting someone to pay for the deaths of their brethren.
He and McMahon had to stop this interrogation. The risks were far too high.
A word out of place, a comment made too lightly, even an error of memory could result in twenty years’ hard labour. Unwittingly, words from someone still coming to terms with their injuries could so easily undermine their case…
