Crash, p.32
CRASH, page 32
Straker watched McMahon as she approached the pedestrian gate. He could see her press the intercom.
He then saw her leaning in towards the grille.
A conversation seemed to take place.
After less than a minute McMahon was hurrying back across the road; she grabbed open the door.
‘Drive,’ she snapped in Russian to the driver.
With no delay the driver fired up the engine and pulled sharply away.
‘I was threatened.’
‘Shit, for doing what?’
‘Trespassing on police property.’
‘Police property? How is this police property?’
McMahon opened the window and breathed deeply.
‘I said I was a friend and was worried because I usually popped in to pick up Tatiana's prescriptions from the doctor.’
‘That's good,’ offered Straker.
‘I asked whether she was all right. The thug on the intercom said it was none of my business.’
‘Shit.’
‘I then asked: “Can you at least reassure me that Tatiana is okay.”’
‘What did he say to that?’
‘Otvyazhis!’
‘Eh?’ he asked.
‘“Fuck off”, in Russian.’
Straker placed a hand gently on hers. ‘Sandy I’m so sorry.’
She smiled apologetically and shook her head. ‘Don’t be. At least we do know something.’
‘What's that?’
‘Mrs Baryshnikov's definitely in there.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because, through a gap in the gates, I just caught sight of an ambulance … being unloaded.’
Straker didn’t look convinced.
‘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.
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.’
‘But you have it now?’
Pudovkin nodded but did not elaborate, not feeling compelled to volunteer that the Ptarmigan people had locked all the computers on board, putting their data behind impenetrable passwords.
‘I am told something happened with the racing driver at the hospital,’ said Gazdanov.
‘It did, Mr Prosecutor. On your instructions, two of my men were authorized to interrogate the racing driver.’
‘And?’
‘They were interrupted, sir.’
‘How? They were given a direct order.’
‘The doctor, Pyotr Uglov at the Yeltsin Medical Centre, accepted that Ms Sabatino was fit enough to be interviewed. Somehow, the Brandeis woman got to hear the interview was taking place. She and Straker turned up unexpectedly and pressurized the doctor. After that, Uglov stormed into the interrogation and halted it. He then signed a certificate – contradicting himself – stating that Sabatino wasn’t fit to be interviewed.’
‘What? Who the hell does this doctor think he is? Have him struck off – investigated for something. What have we got from the driver?’
‘Nothing as yet, Mr Prosecutor. But we still have time.’
‘I hope so, for your sake.’
Pudovkin was intimidated by the law man's tone.
‘What else?’
‘The Brandeis woman, accompanied by Straker and Backhouse, attended the press conference we held at the Autodrom to reveal the causes of the crash.’
‘There were Ptarmigan people there?’ asked Gazdanov incredulously.
‘Yes, sir. The question about the black boxes – and whether they’d been read by the FIA – came from the Backhouse man.’
Gazdanov was annoyed. ‘That was a Ptarmigan question?’
Pudovkin nodded.
‘Why the fuck wasn’t that pointed out? Why the fuck didn’t Baryshnikov point that out? What the hell was Baryshnikov playing at?’ Gazdanov shifted in his large chair. ‘Baryshnikov was crap during that press conference,’ he stated. ‘You need to sort him out before the trial, colonel.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Gazdanov asked: ‘What else have these people been up to?’
‘They tracked down Vladimir Kosygin.’
‘The former Moscow deputy?’
‘Sir.’
‘And?’
‘My men were in the Komsomolskaya Metro Station where they met him.’
‘Did they hear what Kosygin was talking about? Did they find out what the Ptarmigan people were asking him?’
Pudovkin shook his head. ‘No, sir.’
‘Do you know where Kosygin is now?’
Pudovkin shook his head.
‘He's in Butyrka Prison,’ replied Gazdanov.
The police colonel looked surprised.
‘He's had a personal visit from Mr Kondratiev,’ reported the prosecutor general.
Pudovkin blanched for a moment.
‘During one of his “question and answer sessions”, Kosygin “revealed” that Straker had been asking him about the money behind the Autodrom.’
‘Did he mention Avel Obrenovich, then?’
‘Must have. Do you know where Straker was the night before last and yesterday morning, colonel?’
‘In his hotel – the Baltschug Kempinski,’ replied the policeman.
Gazdanov shook his head. ‘Helsinki.’
‘That's impossible, sir,’ said Pudovkin with strained assertion. ‘My people had him under surveillance all evening – at the hotel.’
‘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.
