Straker had to fight to stop absorbing every part of her.
McMahon moved over to sit next to him on the sofa.
Some of the spark had returned to her pale blue eyes. ‘I’m not going to quit the case,’ she declared quietly, ‘I couldn’t do that. But, given recent developments, I do have one new condition.’
‘Which is what?’
‘That you must make me feel safe.’
Straker's dark eyes intensified. ‘Sandy, I can’t guarantee your safety.’
‘That's not what I asked for,’ she said with a hint of the legal in her tone but with a provocative smile. ‘I said that I wanted you to make me feel safe.’
Straker smiled. ‘I don’t know how to do that.’
‘That's the surprise about you,’ she replied. ‘Because it's something you do without trying – just as you did at the Metro station. As of now, for instance, I want you to make me feel safe in this apartment again.’
Straker looked confused.
‘Make me feel safe. Stay the night with me.’
Straker studied her, trying to gauge what she was saying.
‘What's wrong?’
‘I’m not sure that's a good idea,’ he said. ‘Not with you dressed like that; not with you looking like that.’
McMahon's expression suddenly looked more defiant than at any time since discovering the break-in. ‘Why, what's wrong with how I’m dressed – how I look?’
‘Oh there's absolutely nothing wrong with how you’re dressed or how you look, that's just it.’
‘So?’
‘You’re asking too much,’ he said. ‘I just don’t think I have that much self-control.’
McMahon's face changed again. Gone, though, was the anxious victim of a burglary; gone was any distress – nor was there any sign of the feisty lawyer. Straker sensed that Sandy McMahon, the person, was in front of him for the first time.
Lowering her head, she then looked up as if from under her eyebrows. ‘You really don’t think you could control yourself?’
Straker shook his head.
McMahon's smile showed the gumline again above her imperfect but porcelain-white teeth.
‘Really?’ she breathed.
FORTY-NINE
After spending the next day in the Brandeis command centre processing Ptarmigan's emails for the witness statement, it was time for Straker to leave for Finland. He made his way down through the Imperatorskaya Tower. McMahon's car was waiting for him in the basement car park. Straker climbed in and he asked the driver if he knew their itinerary.
‘Your hotel, and then the airport, isn’t it, sir?’ came the heavily accented reply.
The car moved off across the smooth concrete surface and made to climb up the ramp to ground level.
The traffic in the Presnensky District was more congested. Twilight was turning to night. Lights were burning in every direction. For the first time that day Straker felt tired.
Nevertheless, he set about thinking through the investigation. Had they made any progress? He really didn’t know. They certainly hadn’t yet made any material difference to their chances at trial.
Inevitably, his mind returned to the main thing that had been bugging him: the deliberate attempt by Avel Obrenovich to conceal his involvement in the Zhar-ptitsa Autodrom. Why had he done that? He was a Russian – known to be involved in Formula One – and rich enough to back it financially. Why had Obrenovich gone to such lengths to stay anonymous, then sacked all the directors from the board of Moscow 100 – possibly even seeing to it that two members of that board were killed?
Straker's thoughts turned to Kosygin, the ex-politician. He had been a nervous wreck. Why had he been in such a state? Was that because of Obrenovich, too? Straker considered some of the negatives. Several calls had been made to Kosygin's phones, to thank him for the meeting and to check he was all right afterwards – but they had all gone unanswered. What, if anything, did that mean?
Straker suddenly thought of the figure tailing Kosygin, the one he had spotted on the far side of the underground station. What kind of surveillance was that? Was that also something to do with Obrenovich?
And then he thought about McMahon's break-in and the symbol that had been left on her bedside table … the broken model of the Ptarmigan F1 car. Did that have something to do with the odious Russian oligarch?
Straker's concern was mounting.
The car came to a halt at a set of traffic lights.
His driver was indicating to turn right. As the car moved forwards and started to turn, Straker's thoughts induced him to stay vigilant. What might these people do next?
Almost involuntarily, Straker snatched a glance behind through the rear side window of the car.
All he could see was a collection of bright white headlights in the gloom.
Nothing stood out.
They drove on for a quarter of a mile before they slowed for the next set of lights. This time his driver was indicating left. Again Straker used the change of direction to scan the cars down the road behind him.
