‘Straker ordered a taxi to pick him up from an entrance in a side street, which was very clearly not being watched by your surveillance team. And,’ said Gazdanov, pulling a set of papers and photographs out of his briefcase before handing them over, ‘Straker was tagged at Sheremetyevo International Airport yesterday afternoon, arriving back on the direct flight from Finland. I want to know how your men managed to lose him for eighteen hours, colonel.’
Gazdanov went on: ‘You were thwarted in interviewing Sabatino, colonel. We had our statements about the black boxes challenged at a press conference, by someone not exposed as a Ptarmigan plant. Deputy Kosygin has been questioned by the opposition and has divulged key facts about this case. And one of the other side's main protagonists managed to slip out from under your surveillance – even leaving the country.’
Pudovkin suddenly realized he was on dangerous ground. And felt he had to put up a stand: ‘Mr Prosecutor, these are minor glitches.’
Gazdanov held up a hand.
‘None of these incidents, Mr Prosecutor General, has damaged our case.’
‘Not as individual items, perhaps,’ said Gazdanov. ‘But when they are all put together, they add up to more. We have no idea why this man Straker travelled to Helsinki. It had to have had something to do with this case. Do not drop the ball again.’
Trying to regain some esteem, Pudovkin declared confidently: ‘I will be able to find out exactly what he was doing.’
Gazdanov looked momentarily thrown. ‘How?’
‘I have a mole, sir.’
‘Where?’
Pudovkin replied: ‘Inside the Brandeis Gertner law firm, sir.’
FIFTY-NINE
Police Colonel Pudovkin was glad to leave his meeting with the prosecutor general. He felt he had managed to salvage something with his announcement of having a source inside the opposition camp. A valuable asset of that kind ought to safeguard Pudovkin's position, at least for the time being.
Returning to his office on the sixth floor of the Moscow Police HQ, the police colonel was anxious to re-establish his credibility as soon as possible.
He wanted to show he could still make a contribution.
To preserve the mole's concealment, Pudovkin had set up a handling procedure. First, a supposedly mundane text would be sent from an untraceable phone, which would reference a number, the context of which would be varied: a temperature reading, a football score, a number preceding some groceries. That would be a time, preferably outside office hours. Then, depending on the urgency of the contact, a colour would be mentioned, using the colours of the rainbow. Red was the most urgent, while violet was the least. Pudovkin immediately sent a message to his mole: Don’t forget the red peppers, need 6!
Now, the police colonel had to wait until six o’clock when his mole would ring him via a neutral landline – a public payphone, a telephone in a third-party office, or from the mole's own phone at home.
In the meantime, Pudovkin had to make sure of his other responsibilities in this case.
An hour later Police Colonel Pudovkin's car pulled off the forest lane, turning in to face the entrance of the Baryshnikov estate in Barvikha. Radioed in advance, the black-clad guards had opened the main gates to admit their commanding officer as he was driven in.
Pudovkin's car made its way through the grounds of the mansion. Shrubs and blooms lined the drive as it followed the asphalt through the pine trees. As it emerged into open space, Pudovkin saw the large garden extend away to his left, and the imposing facade of the mansion to his right. Swinging round on the drive, he pulled up at the foot of the wide flight of steps in front of the house. One of Pudovkin's unit commanders, Police Major Ustinov, was there to meet him. Ustinov was a short and stocky but fit-looking thirty-something officer with a broad face, starey eyes and jet-black hair. Pudovkin had put him in charge of managing the police operation at the mansion. He saluted Police Colonel Pudovkin before accompanying his commanding officer up the steps and into the house.
Inside, it was decorated in a style Pudovkin could only imagine was consistent with the lifestyle of a millionaire. A large white-painted hallway stretched up two floors. A grand staircase rose from the centre of the hall and split at a mezzanine level into two flights of stairs, one to either side – rising on up to reach the upper floor. A massive chandelier hung in the centre, which certainly wasn’t needed today – daylight poured in through the windows and the entire space was bathed in sunlight. Furniture around the room was modern but sparse. Numerous vases held sizeable displays of flowers, but each of these had wilted or died and turned grey, offering a strangely macabre feel to the place.
The only source of colour in the hall was a collection of Malevich paintings, easily more than thirty in total. Bold geometric shapes and colours were loud against the expanse of white walls. Whoever designed their display had a curatorial understanding of how to show off such masterpieces; they were as well presented as if they had been in any specialist art nouveau gallery.
‘We’ve got Mrs Baryshnikov confined to her suite in the west wing,’ explained the police major.
Pudovkin nodded.
‘Would you like to see her?’
‘Is she as bad as they say?’
The major led the way up the stairs, turning left at the first floor. A collection of smaller works of art were carefully presented along this landing, each lit with its own picture light above it.
Pudovkin then heard music – a piano – emerging from inside the house. He was led into a room through a heavy set of doors. Sunlight poured in here too, through the three floor-to-ceiling windows along the outer wall. A large Persian rug covered the floor, and a nest of armchairs was arranged around a large fireplace. At the other end of the room was a concert grand – a Steinway – at which an elderly woman was playing a movement from Pictures at an Exhibition.
Pudovkin saw that although Mrs Baryshnikov looked a little pale, she was immaculately dressed with her hair tidily set.
While continuing to play, she declared in a loud voice: ‘You have the impertinence to kidnap me in my own home. That does not entitle you to enter my private rooms without invitation.’
‘This is Police Colonel Pudovkin,’ said Major Ustinov. ‘This, sir, is Mrs Baryshnikov.’
‘I don’t care,’ said the woman. ‘I assume this to be another lackey of the dictator Tarkovsky. I do not welcome him, nor any of you police thugs, into my home – violating my privacy.’
‘Mrs Baryshnikov,’ said Pudovkin. ‘I would like to speak to you.’
Tatiana Baryshnikov kept playing, ignoring the request.
Pudovkin walked towards the lady of the house; he made to lower the lid of the piano, not quite making contact with her fingers. ‘Mrs Baryshnikov, it is important you understand all of our responsibilities,’ he said. ‘Your son has a duty to Russia – to defend the memory of its citizens during the trial of the foreigners who killed our people at the Grand Prix.’
Tatiana Baryshnikov rose from her piano stool and faced Police Colonel Pudovkin. She was a good twelve inches shorter than the policeman. ‘What you choose to do to intimidate my son is of no consequence to me,’ she said. ‘Your tactics are despicable.’
Pudovkin was about to reply when an unexpected noise could be heard from outside.
‘What the hell is that?’ he asked.
There were raised voices in other parts of the house.
‘What's going on?’ asked Pudovkin.
