McMahon muttered: ‘You think he’ll even come?’ as they walked between the long row of pink limestone pillars. She appeared apprehensive. ‘What if he chose this place because he is being watched or being followed?’
‘Then we had better be careful.’
Beyond the pillars, on either side, were the two platforms. Trains were pulling in and out every few minutes. People were coming and going constantly.
There was no sign of anyone resembling Kosygin's description.
A train pulled in over to their right. Another mass of humanity poured out onto the platform.
Finally Straker saw something.
A man was standing – on his own – in the lee of an octagonal column at the far end of the concourse. He was holding open a newspaper.
Straker nudged McMahon. ‘Think that's our guy?’
‘Yellowish tie … pale orange leather briefcase … very possibly?’
Straker scanned the area again, looking for anyone out of place. With people expected to be moving through the station, anyone standing still ought to catch the eye. When Straker was sure there was nothing unusual around them, he walked McMahon slowly towards Kosygin. They moved off the main concourse to stand behind one of the pillars.
‘Mr Kosygin?’ asked McMahan in Russian.
The man looked up. He gave off an expression of alarm. Kosygin was in his mid-fifties, five feet something with thinning and obviously dyed hair and a receding hairline. He had a round, fleshy face – even fleshier through his being at least three stone overweight. Kosygin looked them up and down between snatched glances between the pillars, out into the concourse, and then the other way towards the nearest platform.
Straker said: ‘Thank you for seeing us today,’ which McMahon translated.
Kosygin barely nodded. Sweat was beading on his forehead. His face was flushed.
‘Would you like to go somewhere else to talk?’ Straker offered.
‘No,’ came the reply. ‘Talk here – and quickly. I am nervous someone is watching.’
‘Okay, Mr Kosygin. Please feel free to leave us whenever you want to.’
Straker was pleased to see Kosygin's stance ease very slightly.
‘We are here representing the Ptarmigan Formula One team. As you may know, some of our staff are being charged with corporate manslaughter – following the accident at the Grand Prix.’
There was a nod.
‘We would like to know more about the Zhar-ptitsa Autodrom. We think it could be helpful in pursuing justice for your lost colleagues and to our defence.’
Kosygin looked surprised.
‘You were involved with Moscow 100 – as the bid was being put together, yes?’
Another nod.
‘We understand why you are nervous. Two of your colleagues were removed from that board.’
‘We were all removed – the driver, the ex-president of the Automobile Federation, the local businessman and me. Two of them were removed – permanently,’ said Kosygin. ‘They are dead.’
There was a loud and sudden bang away to the right.
Kosygin flinched at the noise.
Straker looked over in that direction. On the far side of the concourse a litter trolley had collided with a metal bucket; the noise, though, had bounced around and over the barrel ceiling, the acoustics making the sound seem much louder and much closer. Straker put a hand on Kosygin's arm to try and reassure him. The beads of sweat on Kosygin's forehead returned.
‘We have learned that the land, the Nagatinskaya Poyma Park, was bought by Moscow 100 on a 999 year-lease?’
A nod.
‘And that the amount paid was around ten billion rubles?’
A shake of the head.
‘No?’
‘Five billion.’
‘Thank you. We understand that the Nagatinskaya Poyma Park was public property – a common. Who in the government signed it over to Moscow 100?’
Kosygin's face froze, as if he was weighing up how much to divulge.
Straker's pulse rose in response – he suddenly got the feeling they were about to discover something.
Kosygin exhaled. ‘The mayor of Moscow – Mayor Pavlova.’
‘Okay,’ said Straker; at least Kosygin was telling them things they didn’t know. ‘We can’t find anything about who was behind the development of the Autodrom, though; can you help us?’
