Straker explained his itinerary, and suggested a time later that evening: ‘It doesn’t matter how late, Jean, even with the time difference.’
Leaving Helsinki within the next two hours, Straker set about flying back to Moscow.
His anger returned.
How was Ptarmigan's position in Russia anything other than hopeless? It appeared, now, that they were up against the might of a shadowy, ruthless crime boss able to control all aspects of a corrupt Russian government. Most alarmingly, this man could completely manipulate the judicial system against them. How could Ptarmigan ever hope to win out against that?
Despite the apparently impossible odds, Straker was damned if he was just going to resign himself to their inevitable fate.
What, though, could he conceivably do to counter such overwhelming opposition?
On the flight out of Helsinki, Straker found himself motivated to think. On a legal pad, he began playing around with his favourite planning tool: a mind map. For all the elements he now knew to be involved in this crisis, Straker wrote down words and encircled them: President Tarkovsky, Crush Opposition, Avel Obrenovich, Mayor Pavlova, 34 Deaths, Moscow 100, Massarella F1 Team, FIA, Yegor Baryshnikov, the Zhar-ptitsa Autodrom, Circuit Operator, Ptarmigan, Remy Sabatino, Tahm Nazar, Corporate Manslaughter, the FSB, Prosecutor General, Supreme Court, Police Impounding Evidence, Legal Nihilism, Telephone Justice and, finally, Vadim Kondratiev.
Nothing came to him … looking at these elements face on; Straker realized he would have to think laterally. He started drawing connector lines between the loops where he knew there to be links. In very short order the mind map looked like a spider's web. The interconnectivity was staggering. So much was linked or associated with everything else.
One name, though, seemed to have more connections than any of the others.
Vadim Kondratiev.
Which made sense, didn’t it?
Wasn’t he the spider in the middle of all this?
As he headed back to Russia, Straker realized he would have to be more vigilant than ever. Having spotted the motor scooter tailing him from the Brandeis office to his hotel on the way out, Straker felt sure that – whoever these people were – they would be onto him again the moment he reappeared at Brandeis or his hotel. If someone like Kondratiev was behind all this, though, what else was possible? Was Obrenovich himself being followed while in self-imposed exile? Would “they” even know about Straker's meeting with him in Helsinki?
Straker landed back at Sheremetyevo International Airport.
Even while still airside, he was alert, studying everyone he could see around the building.
He was approaching Immigration.
He felt his pulse rate rise.
A number of policemen stood behind the row of booths in passport control. Trying to affect indifference, Straker adopted the world-weary body language of the international commercial traveller. Inside the booth was a no-nonsense border guard. Straker slid his passport through the slot under the glass.
In a matter of seconds Straker thought his investigation was over.
Practically snatching the passport, the immigration officer bent it back on its spine before slapping the digital section of the passport down onto the UV reader. The computer terminal beeped. The guard rubbed the face-down page backwards and forwards, before tapping a couple of keys on the keyboard. It beeped again. He took it off the device.
Straker wondered what was wrong. Why wasn’t his passport being accepted?
He watched with alarm as the guard leant across his booth and pressed a red button.
‘Wait!’ came the instruction in his direction.
Shit – had there been an alert put on his name?
The door at the back of the kiosk opened and a uniformed official stepped in. It wasn’t a policeman. Was that grounds for relief?
The supervisor moved the positioning of the passport on the scanner himself, and pressed a series of keys. Again the computer beeped.
Was it a malfunction, or was there something more sinister behind this?
Another attempt was made with the passport on the reader. Still no dice.
One of the immigration officers picked up the landline phone. A conversation ensued. The caller turned to look at Straker while the man answered some of the questions he was asked.
Christ, thought Straker – it's all over. These bastards aren’t going to let me back in. Maybe … it could be even worse.
Three minutes went by.
The call was ended.
The caller leant down and whispered something in the other man's ear. With no further consultation, Straker's passport was thrust back through the slit at the bottom of the glass. He was instructed to pass.
What the hell was that all about?
As Straker emerged through the row of booths, he saw the line of policemen straight in front of him. To his relief they remained inactive.
But as Straker walked towards the baggage reclaim and exit, he saw two men – in plain clothes – peel away from beside an office door and start walking after him.
What the hell was this? Who were these people? If the incident with the passport was official, wouldn’t a response to a flagged passport be by the authorities? Wouldn’t that involve a response from the uniformed police? Who were these, then, if they were in plain clothes?
Straker's mind whirred as he rode the escalator down into the baggage reclaim area. With just hand luggage, he didn’t need to attend any of the carousels, so he could make straight for the customs channels. He soon realized his followers had increased their pace to keep up with him.
What should Straker do? If he tried to lose them, he would reveal his awareness of them, which would only arouse suspicion. Wasn’t it better to act as if he were unaware: whoever these people were, they obviously knew he was now in the country. Weren’t they also going to know his business and associations? Straker deduced he was far less likely to compromise himself if he acted in ways they might expect.
Out on the pavement in front of the terminal, Straker queued briefly for a taxi. Climbing in, he gave instructions for Brandeis's office in the business district – and set about keeping tabs on his tail.
