‘One moment, sir.’
Their car swerved to overtake a large gardener's van parked on the side of the road as a team of ground staff worked on the outside of another mansion in Barvikha.
‘Colonel Pudovkin, what's so urgent?’ came the nasal voice of the prosecutor general.
‘Straker and the lawyer, McMahon, sir – they’ve just turned up at City Hall.’
There was silence for a moment on the line.
‘Who are they there to see?’ the prosecutor asked.
‘We don’t know yet, sir. I’m on my way there, now, to debrief my officers who’ve followed them there.’
‘Do you have any contacts in City Hall?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
Surprisingly, Gazdanov did not explode; all he said was: ‘I do. Get yourself there as soon as possible and report in. This is an unwanted development.’
Pudovkin's car, with lights flashing and sirens blaring, charged on into the centre of Moscow, still at breakneck speed. Little consideration or allowance was made for anyone in their way, even on the other side of the road. Pudovkin's police car frequently crossed over into the oncoming lane, dived across pavements, ignored traffic lights and, on two occasions, went the wrong way down a one-way street.
Remarkably quickly, the police car was closing in. Pudovkin cut the sirens and lights a few blocks away. He instructed his driver to pull up close to Tverskaya Ulitsa 13.
Moscow City Hall, also the official residence of the mayor, came into view. It was an imposing building over six floors. Its top half looked like a self-contained neoclassical building with a central triangular pediment, eight Corinthian columns and symmetrical wings to either side. This well-proportioned facade, though, looked like it had been plonked down on top of another building, almost serving the role of plinth to the top half. It had the same symmetrical wings, but a much more blocky, out-of-proportion central section. Where the building was painted, it was coloured a deep maroon – a striking contrast against which to set off the gold-leaf-covered crest of Moscow at the very apex of the building.
Pudovkin radioed Major Kuprin and was directed to the watchers’ mobile HQ. Leaving his car, Pudovkin strode into a side street; there, he climbed into the back of the unmarked police van. Kuprin and two other officers were inside the command vehicle, watching screens and wearing headsets as they monitored the visual and radio reports being sent in by the men out around City Hall. Pudovkin was told Straker and McMahon were still inside the building. He was briefed on the extensive net of police officers that Major Kuprin had deployed to watch all the exits. Pudovkin was about to ask some questions when his phone went. He saw it was the prosecutor general.
‘Sir?’ answered the police colonel.
‘Straker and McMahon are there to meet the mayor.’
‘Hell. Did your contact have any idea of their agenda?’
‘None. It's scheduled as a private audience – no officials.’
‘What do you think this means, sir? Do you think Straker's made the connection between the Grand Prix circuit and Mayor Pavlova?’
‘We don’t sodding well know what he knows,’ barked Gazdanov.
At the Baryshnikov mansion, Major Ustinov had been unable to think of much else since the incident with the drone that afternoon. Pudovkin had since rung him, leaving a clear impression that things were not right. Several actions seemed to have been initiated by the other side: Pudovkin declared that the drone they had frightened off was unlikely to have been a news-gathering organization, and that they should consider it to be connected with their task of containing Mrs Baryshnikov.
Ustinov set about shoring up his operation.
He cancelled all leave, extended all periods of duty, doubled the size of each security detail and instigated a series of foot patrols around the grounds. No fewer than three teams were now to be out in the gardens, trawling through the trees around the property, twenty-four hours a day. In addition, Mrs Baryshnikov was not to set foot outside her designated living space: her bedroom, sitting room and bathroom.
All around the mansion and grounds there was a heightened sense of alertness.
Six o’clock came and went. Police Colonel Pudovkin was getting anxious.
There was no call from his Brandeis mole.
By a quarter past six, Pudovkin was worried that their arrangement might have been compromised.
After what seemed like an age, his mole inside Brandeis Gertner finally did ring through – at ten to seven. The voice at the other end sounded breathless. Nevertheless, Pudovkin pushed on: ‘Why did Straker go to Finland?’ he asked.
‘To see the FIA president,’ came the reply.
In part, Pudovkin was relieved. Straker seeing a neutral third party – particularly one that he and the prosecutor general had taken pains to shut out from the case – would be of little consequence to him.
‘He also saw someone else,’ said the mole.
‘Who was that?’
‘Avel Obrenovich … I … I have to go.’
The call was ended.
Pudovkin was left listening to dead air.
Pudovkin realized that Straker had now managed to make a number of key connections. Ringing the prosecutor general, he passed on the news.
‘My mole at Brandeis has just told me that Straker went to Finland to see the president of the FIA.’
Gazdanov merely grunted.
‘He also saw Avel Obrenovich.’
‘Holy shit.’
