And hanging upside down.
His ankles were shackled to chains hanging from the joists. His arms were hanging, too – straight down from his shoulders below his head. Around his wrists were leather manacles below which hung further chains, each supporting a sizeable weight. These weights had the effect of stretching the man's entire body, tightening the musculature of his legs, thighs, abdomen, chest and upper arms. It gave the body a sleekness, despite the man carrying an excess of several stone.
In such a stark, contrasting environment – the whiteness of the tiles and then the blackness of the grout, machinery, tools and grate – one colour did stand out.
A brilliant red.
Blood was flowing from one of the suspended man's fingers. This stream of colour was hitting the white of the tiles below him, where the low surface tension of the glaze splayed the blood outwards. Rivulets then carried the blood on down to the central drain.
The visitor surveyed the room. A smile crossed his lips as he savoured the smell and aroma of the room. He seemed to be inhaling exaggeratingly through his nostrils. Walking over, he grabbed the bolt cutters from the man in the apron.
What the man was smelling, though, wasn’t physical or chemical.
Vadim Kondratiev was getting aroused by the smell of fear.
Léon Gazdanov entered the office of the prosecutor general, headquartered in 15A Bolshaya Dmitrovka Ulitsa, at six o’clock that morning. He had not slept at all well. Last thing the night before, he had been briefed on the Grand Prix case, as they were now referring to it; Gazdanov had been given some unwelcome news. He was anxious to understand its implications and plan any necessary actions. Gazdanov had ordered the police officer he, personally, had appointed to run the operation to be in the prosecutor general's rooms at 0600 hours. Moving up through the art deco office building, Gazdanov had no time to take in the architecture or decor. The stakes were growing far too high for that kind of indulgence.
Gazdanov, wearing the blue uniform and gold flashes of his office, carried a slim briefcase. He strode through his anteroom. His elegant PA stood as he appeared; she, too, wore the uniform of the department. Gazdanov handed her his peaked cap. In return, he was told the police colonel was already waiting. The prosecutor general walked towards the tall double doors and barged through the doors of his office.
Police Colonel Arseny Pudovkin turned as Gazdanov appeared and saluted smartly.
‘At ease, colonel,’ said Gazdanov as he heard the heavy walnut doors close behind him.
Gazdanov walked round behind his desk, placed the briefcase on the leather surface and lowered his bulky frame into the upholstered chair. Above him, the large emblem of the double-headed eagle seemed to confer on Gazdanov an air of imperious authority. Being only five feet one, overweight, with a round fleshy face and thinning orange hair, the prosecutor general needed to draw on that branding for all it was worth.
‘What's the latest, colonel?’ he asked.
Pudovkin, physically the near opposite of Gazdanov – tall, slim, with a full head of blond hair, a craggy outdoorsy face and piercing blue eyes – retained his own authority and presence despite the senior man's home-court advantage.
Gazdanov finally offered Pudovkin a seat.
‘We have several things, Mr Prosecutor General. There has been some proactivity from the other side. Your recent decision to put a number of their people under surveillance has produced some results.’
‘Sandy McMahon,’ said Gazdanov, struggling with the pronunciation. ‘The Russo-Irish lawyer at Brandeis Gartner.’
‘Indeed.’
‘The Ptarmigan officer – Andrew Backhouse?’ which the prosecutor found easier to pronounce. ‘The English.’
‘Correct.’
‘Are they aware they are under surveillance?’
‘I think they are, but I doubt whether they would have become aware of it by themselves.’
‘But you do think they are aware now?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How?’
‘Because of the other British man – Colonel Straker, sir.’
‘Army or police?’
‘Royal Marines, Mr Prosecutor. My military contacts tell me the British Marines are a “special” unit, and are more than regular infantry.’
Gazdanov looked deliberately unimpressed.
‘Marines are not to be underrated,’ responded Pudovkin. ‘We’ve all heard of the British SAS. The Marines have a close association with the SBS, the Royal Navy's equivalent of the Special Air Service. I am told – on good authority, Mr Prosecutor – that Colonel Straker passed what they call “Selection” and served two tours with this Special Forces unit.’
‘We don’t suspect him of anything more, though, do we? Intelligence services?’
‘Why do you ask that, Mr Prosecutor?’
‘How does a man with a normal military background have the tradecraft to spot our surveillance?’
‘It seems Straker served with other agencies connected with Special Forces, sir – most notably the British Army's 14 Int Company.’
The prosecutor general nodded but in a way that was meant to show he still wasn’t impressed. ‘Okay, so he may have alerted the civilians to our surveillance. What, though, have we learned from them so far?’
Pudovkin looked down at some of his notes. ‘Straker has been accompanying the lawyer – this McMahon woman – to various places over the last few days: the press conference at the Ministry of Justice, and a meeting with the arrested Ptarmigan director in the cells at the Moscow Police HQ.’
‘Mr Nazar?’
‘Yes, sir. In addition, he has made two visits to Ms Sabatino, the racing driver who caused the deaths.’
Pudovkin, at this point, seemed a little less confident. ‘McMahon was also the one who blocked my attempt to impound the Ptarmigan motor home, which is still parked at the Autodrom.’
