‘It's more conclusive than you fear,’ she said. ‘Written down the side of it was the word Heϕpoᴫᴼᴦᴎᴙ.’
‘That sounds far too much like “nephrology” for it not to be,’ he said.
Despite her apprehension and her uncomfortable experience, McMahon managed an easier smile. ‘There is very clearly someone – in there – right now … with something of a kidney problem.’
FIFTY-SEVEN
On their way back to rendezvous with the Brandeis messenger's van, Straker's phone rang.
Dominic Quartano.
‘Sorry for the delay in returning your call from Finland,’ said the tycoon. ‘I’m in conference with the Foreign Office all day. What more do you have?’
‘A fair amount,’ replied Straker.
He ran through everything from the unexpected appearance of Obrenovich at the San Marino breakfast, the judgement call he had had to make before deciding to discuss the case in front of the oligarch, the political consequences of hosting the Grand Prix in Moscow, and a potted version of the dire krysha and corrupt legal situations in Russia.
‘And the cause of all this – Obrenovich – offered no help in trying to sort it out?’
‘None at all, sir.’
‘I expect your brain to be fired with anger, frustration – and, if I’m lucky, a desire to get even,’ said Quartano. ‘Okay, Matt, that's it – I’ve had enough of this. I’ll leave you to think about how you want to handle it, but just remember two things: I control a business worth £50 billion … and I want my people home.’
Straker smiled at the simplicity and scope of the brief. ‘I have several ideas,’ he said. ‘One involves Yegor Baryshnikov, which I’m working on with Sandy McMahon right now. There's another I’d like to come back to you on very soon.’
‘Good.’
‘In the meantime, we could try and get something out of Obrenovich. He can at least get me a meeting with the mayor of Moscow.’
‘No problem. I’ll get straight on to San Marino and make sure he arranges it. Anything else?’
‘I’m going to need some specialized Quartech equipment.’
‘Whatever you need.’
‘Good, I’ll be in touch the moment I’ve finalized my plan. But I’m definitely going to need Bernie Callom.’
‘I’ll get him to Moscow straight away.’
‘Now that we know what we’re up against here, Mr Q, I suggest that we all speak to each other only by encrypted sat phone from now on.’
‘Good idea. Okay, Matt – I’ll let you go to work. Just make sure you come up with a way to get the Ptarmigan guys out. If, in the process, your plan happens to teach any of these political arseholes a painful lesson about involving innocent civilians, you’ll have my backing to the hilt. Let me know the moment you come up with something.’
FIFTY-EIGHT
Echoes and hollowness. Darkness and isolated specks of light here and there. Damp. A feeling of metal all around and concrete. Coldness, subterranean coldness.
A voice could be heard along the corridor, muffled by the walls and heavy doors of the prison.
Silence. For a moment.
And then:
A scream that came from the pit of a man's soul.
Light poured down the corridor in the direction of this hellish noise. A door admitted a figure. There were sounds of striding footsteps before the light was swept away as the door swung shut behind him. The figure reached the end of the corridor.
A deep gong-like boom resonated from the thick metal of the door. A sharp metallic clang came in reply. Swinging slowly towards him, the massive door opened outward, ready to admit the visitor.
‘You’ve started,’ barked the new arrival as he stepped straight inside.
The guard looked on edge. ‘Only just, sir.’
‘I told you to wait. Who's here?’
‘Soskov, sir. He is waiting for you.’
The door was slammed behind him as the visitor went deeper into the underground complex. Opening the inner door, the new arrival entered the interrogation suite. Right then he felt energized. This was him entering his space, his night-time escape. He felt the skin tighten around his scrotum – and the joyous, anticipation that came with an erection.
Lit with a naked bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling, the inner room had the presence of an abattoir. White tiles lined every inch of the walls. They also covered the floor, forming gentle slopes down from each wall to a central dark drain – an open grate. There was a rack against one wall with a series of hooks and magnetic strips supporting oversized instruments that looked like a cross between those of a surgeon and the tools of a farrier. A steel joist spanned the room above head height, along which ran a bogey; down from this hung chains via a block and tackle – which, in turn, supported further chains and hooks hanging from them.
Two men were already in the room.
One nervously saluted as the visitor appeared. Dressed in uniform, but without his jacket, he wore a clear plastic apron covering the whole of his front and arms. In his hand, he held what looked like a set of bolt cutters.
The other man in the room was naked.
