‘Okay, so what is the prosecution relying on to make its case, then?’
‘The nature of the crash – the fact that it was a Ptarmigan car that caused the deaths,’ offered McMahon. ‘Mechanical failure or driver error, implicating Ptarmigan in corporate manslaughter.’
‘Quite,’ answered Straker. ‘So if we could prove our cars and systems did not fail, the blame would shift, would it not?’
‘How do we have any hope of doing that without access to the wreckage?’
‘A fair point,’ nodded Straker.
‘And, making it worse,’ Backhouse went on, ‘is that any conclusion we come up with will be flat-out contradicted by Baryshnikov. He is now the Russian expert – he is the trump card that the authorities will use to stomp on any explanation we come up with.’
‘Precisely!’ breathed Straker. ‘Andy, you’ve hit the bullseye.’
Backhouse gave him an I-don’t-get-it look: ‘We’re going to get slaughtered. Every which way we turn we will hit that impregnable legal wall or, worse, we will get contradicted.’
‘Exactly,’ said Straker, ‘so, let's see whether we can’t pick away at that contradiction, shall we? Let's see if there isn’t a way to weaken some of the bricks in that impregnable wall?’
FIFTY-SIX
Backhouse and McMahon found Straker's findings from Helsinki utterly demoralizing, while they found his strategy for dealing with the threat they now faced far too nebulous to feel any kind of reassurance.
Straker was aware the others were not onside. Even so, he was ready to explore the lines of defence he had mentioned. Once he’d been left alone in the inner HQ, he made straight for his earlier spreadsheet of the telephone data from Baryshnikov's Quartech phone. He wanted to juggle the Sort Data facility a couple more times. His mind kept going back to Baryshnikov's diffidence during both of his press conferences. This was the first of the “surprises” that Straker wanted to investigate.
Half an hour later, Straker called McMahon. She joined him shortly afterwards in the inner HQ.
He said: ‘Right, this is what I want to do.’
McMahon listened.
‘Except under no circumstances, though, can we be followed out of the building.’
McMahon's face showed concern.
‘After the break-in at your flat, Sandy, this sort of activity goes far further than your legal brief. You do not have to come – if you don’t want to.’
Ten minutes later, McMahon – having said she would participate – made ready to exit the building through the basement garage.
She was on edge.
For this sortie, they weren’t going to use their usual Brandeis car. Instead, Straker and McMahon were climbing into the back of a van – one of the small fleet used by the firm's messengers to transport legal documents around the city. Its sides and doors were opaque; Straker was pleased. The moment the doors were shut on them, he knew they could not be seen from the outside. Concealment, though, had its price; they had to suffer the discomfort of squatting on a couple of filing cartons in the back of the van's enclosed dark compartment.
Straker and McMahon were heading for a destination two miles away, in the north of Moscow.
When they got there, the van pulled in through a gated entrance into an office compound.
Instructing the driver to park the van out of sight from the road behind, Straker and McMahon climbed out and transferred into a pre-booked taxi already waiting for them. Straker remained vigilant, looking out for any sign that their escape might have been spotted.
It seemed to have worked. He was sure he had got them away without being seen.
McMahon remained uncomfortable that such evasive action was even needed.
It took just under an hour to make their way through Moscow towards the Odintsovsky District. Their taxi entered a less built-up area of low-rise buildings with larger spaces between them, typically occupied out here by stretches of mature pine trees. Their line of approach took them along the modest Rublyovo-Uspenskoye Road, which straightened up as it reached the village.
Straker's first indication of their arrival came from the rows of unexpected shop fronts boasting some of the world's most luxurious brand names: ‘Blimey,’ he said, ‘Gucci, Dolce & Gabbana, Ralph Lauren, Ferrari, Bentley, Harley-Davidson? What is this place?’
‘It's the smartest – and richest – place to live in Moscow.’
‘In the middle of a pine forest?’
‘Barvikha was where the Soviet leaders built their dachas – their weekend homes … retreats. The cachet this place had in the USSR survived into the new regime. Anyone who's anyone, now, has a place out here.’
Straker stared out of the window as their taxi turned off the main road and headed down what looked like a ride cut through a forest. Mature pine trees edged the lane on either side. The density of their trunks limited the distance they could see into the woods from the road to fewer than fifty yards. Imposing entrances with Keep Out gates appeared every quarter of a mile or so.
McMahon chatted to the driver. ‘He says it's just down here, along this lane.’
Straker said: ‘Okay, ask him to slow down as we get close.’
Presently they were approaching their target destination. It was very quickly clear that they had got the right place. Two large black vans protruded out into the road. Straker and McMahon saw that beside them several men, dressed in black, were standing guard.
‘Oh my God,’ said McMahon, ‘they’re all armed.’
Their taxi drew level with the gate. They had a clear sight of the entrance. A semicircular expanse of asphalt was flanked by two large pillars. Edging the semicircle was an imposing eight-feet-high wall, curving back to two more pillars flanking a vast set of double wrought-iron gates. Flowers of different colours and shapes filled the borders to either side; these were set off against the smooth brilliant-white painted walls. The gates were locked. The black vans were parked directly in front of them. Clearly, no one was going to be going in or out through there.
‘Look at Mrs Baryshnikov's security,’ said McMahon.
Straker studied the security detail closely. The men were armed with the stumpy 9A-91 carbine, with what looked like holographic sights. ‘They’re equipped with highly specialist weaponry,’ he said, ‘but is that to keep people out – or to keep her in?’
As they drove on past, the density of the trees on that side of the road reduced slightly. Visibility – further into the woods – was soon possible. There were even intermittent gaps in the pine trees. Both Straker and McMahon craned over to the right of the taxi as they were offered fleeting glimpses of the property inside.
