McMahon's PA brought the unidentifiable phone to reception.
Back in the small HQ room, McMahon looked up the number for Mrs Baryshnikov from the Ptarmigan HR file and dialled.
‘It's ringing,’ she declared.
It kept ringing, with no answer.
Suddenly the call went through. McMahon swallowed; in Russian, she asked: ‘Could I speak to Mrs Baryshnikov, please?’
The lawyer's eyes were flashing. ‘Who am I?’ she repeated. ‘A friend.’
A pause.
‘She can’t speak? I’m sorry – I hope she's okay? Is she there, though?’
Another pause.
‘What's that to do with me? As I said – I am a friend. I’ve not heard from her in a while. I was anxious she was okay. Who are you, then?’ McMahon asked. ‘A relative? A friend of the family?’
Straker couldn’t follow the Russian but the expression on McMahon's face and her tone told him the conversation was getting awkward.
‘He's rung off.’
‘That sounded pretty odd.’
‘Was very weird.’
‘What's going on?’ Straker asked.
McMahon shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea. That guy sounded strange.’
‘Strange, how?’
‘Staccato. Blunt. No charm – no people skills.’
‘Not a member of the family, then?’
McMahon shook her head. ‘And not a servant, either – you’d never have someone like that answering the phone for you.’
‘Not a doctor or medic?’
‘Hardly, with that bedside manner.’
‘A plumber, then? An odd-job man?’
McMahon's face told them she didn’t think so. ‘His words were: “You can’t speak with her”.’
Straker pulled a face. ‘That's interesting. Not: “She's not here”, but “You can’t speak with her”?’
McMahon nodded. ‘Doesn’t that suggest she was there, then?’
Straker's phone went. He answered the call. “Quartano” he mouthed to the others.
‘Mr Q?’
‘Matt, I’ve been on to San Marino. He will see you, but not in Russia. He's still in Finland. He can see you, in Helsinki, the day after tomorrow – for breakfast in his suite at the Hotel Kämp.’
‘Good.’
‘I’m going to put you over to Jean, who’ll talk you through the arrangements she's made.’
‘Matt,’ said Quartano's PA, ‘I’ve booked you a room in the same hotel as Lord San Marino. Your flight leaves Sheremetyevo International Airport at ten forty-five tomorrow evening. I’ve just emailed you your ticket and boarding pass.’
‘Oh heavens – to which email address, Jean?’
‘Yours?’
Straker now hoped Sabatino had not lost possession of his phone to the police in the hospital. ‘Could you send them to Remy's phone – and only hers – from now on?’
Straker explained his itinerary for seeing the president of the FIA to Backhouse and McMahon.
‘That's positive, isn’t it?’ asked the lawyer.
Straker nodded. ‘It's a pain being out of the country, but I should be back by early afternoon the day after. I’m going to need the briefing material on Obrenovich, though, fairly pronto.’
That evening, back in his hotel, Straker was taking a bath, using the time to think through the investigation. But he was soon distracted. Sabatino's phone started ringing. He could hear it next door. Climbing out, without grabbing a towel, Straker walked dripping wet into the sitting room, leaving clear footprints across the deep-pile carpet.
He saw the number ID’d on the screen. ‘Sandy?’
