Backhouse came into the smaller room.
Straker shut the door behind him.
‘You know Yegor reasonably well. Do you know anything about his mother?’
Backhouse shook his head: ‘Nothing at all. I have no idea. The pit lane is hardly the place for “sharing”.’
‘Can we find out?’ asked McMahon.
Straker nodded. ‘Andy, I’ve been sent his personnel file – it's on the confidential Ptarmigan system. Could you have a look through it?’
‘I can get one of my researchers to do it,’ offered McMahon.
‘Not on something this sensitive, Sandy – it really ought to be a company officer.’
Backhouse nodded and left the room.
McMahon's phone rang again. Seeing who it was, she put the call straight onto speaker: ‘Anatoly?’ she said. ‘Any news?’
‘Yes,’ said the Brandeis researcher. ‘Kosygin has – reluctantly – agreed to meet you.’
‘Great work,’ said Straker.
‘He's suggesting the Komsomolskaya Metro Station – meeting on one of the underground platforms.’
‘When?’
‘He's offered to be there – next to platform two, on the main concourse – in forty-five minutes.’
McMahon looked at her watch. ‘We should just about be able to make it.’
‘Can you confirm with Kosygin, Anatoly, that we’ll be there? Wait a minute – how are we going to recognize each other?’
‘I’ve already asked him that. He's wearing a dark suit, yellow tie and is carrying a pale orange leather briefcase.’
‘Excellent work,’ said Straker. ‘Let's just hope he shows up.’
Straker, turning to face McMahon, couldn’t help but notice her pensive look. ‘What's wrong?’ he asked.
‘Kosygin is a civil servant, and works near the White House. He lives in the Nagorny District.’
‘So?’
‘The civil service buildings are in the north-west of Moscow, while his home is in the south-east – further south even than the Autodrom. Both are on the Zamoskvoretskaya Line.’
‘So our rendezvous, I’m guessing, is off his patch?’
McMahon nodded. ‘Way off. Komsomolskaya's north-east, a completely different line altogether.’
‘Perhaps he's got a meeting up there?’
‘Or, maybe, he's just really concerned … and is really playing it safe?’
FORTY-FOUR
McMahon and Straker climbed out of their car onto the pavement outside the Komsomolskaya Metro building. Given what they now knew about the interference with the Moscow 100 board and Deputy Kosygin's apparent nervousness, Straker felt he ought to be more careful. He started by applying some of his 14 Int Company fieldcraft. Without drawing attention to what he was doing, he scanned the area. There was a bustle of lunchtime activity around the underground station; as far as he could see, no one was worthy of suspicion.
As Straker made to go in, he couldn’t help looking up – finding it hard to believe he was actually looking at a railway station. In front of him was an unexpectedly grand building. Six Corinthian columns supported a deepish frieze, above which was an intricate cornice. Topping off the building was a beautifully proportioned octagonal dome and cupola.
‘This is an underground station?’
McMahon, heading straight into the station, said: ‘The Moscow Metro is absolutely one of a kind – very special. Very grand.’
Straker had to agree. ‘The phrase “civic pride” comes readily to mind.’
‘Oh, yes – but you haven’t seen anything yet,’ she said as they found themselves weaving between a mass of travellers emerging from the station.
Even inside the entrance hall Straker saw something of the extraordinary architecture. McMahon bought them a notional ticket, to afford them access to the platforms.
As they descended the escalators, Straker was nearly overwhelmed: a high barrel ceiling, chandeliers – no trace of any industrial fluorescent lighting – buttermilk yellow walls, white plaster baroque-like fourishes, grandiose murals, and an expanse of polished-granite floors. It all seemed far more like a church – palatial, even – than a railway station. Straker couldn’t help mouthing the word: ‘Wow!’
But he had to pull himself away.
They were approaching their rendezvous.
Straker needed to concentrate.
Stepping onto the floor of the concourse, Straker, once again, scanned the crowd gathered across it.
