Crash, p.36
CRASH, page 36
‘Nothing,’ barked Gazdanov nasally. ‘The mayor of Moscow is irrelevant to our case. We have Baryshnikov – who will validate the technical aspects of the car, the race and the crash. Once that testimony is in the minds of the judges and the media, the case will be over. No one will need to look any further than Ptarmigan for responsibility and blame. Be in my office for seven.’
Pudovkin could not believe the other man's attitude, either towards the deaths of Straker and McMahon or his single-minded pursuit of this case.
Pudovkin reported to the prosecutor general's office at the appointed time. He found Gazdanov energized for the day ahead.
‘I’ve just been told the judges will allow Sabatino to stand trial,’ the prosecutor said. ‘We can proceed.’
Pudovkin demonstrated as much enthusiasm as he felt he ought to show, almost having to force himself to pay Gazdanov adequate attention until they left for the Supreme Court.
SIXTY-FIVE
The three Supreme Court judges filed in at nine thirty that morning. Shortly afterwards, the accused – in their chains and wheelchair – were paraded in and locked in the cage. Pudovkin looked at the faces, particularly of Sabatino. She must have been told of the deaths overnight, he thought. She looked desiccated. Her eyes were damp; her cheeks were red, while her head was slumped forward as low as the halo brace would allow.
Pudovkin sensed a very different mood around the Supreme Court that morning. Evocatively, the defence barrister had left an empty chair at the table where Sandy McMahon had sat the day before.
Oscar Brogan was the first to his feet after the judges had sat down. ‘My Lords, I stand before you in mourning following the tragic death last night of my learned colleague, Ms Sandy McMahon. I would ask your Lordships one question: Does the murder of a leading and indispensable member of the defence team not concern your Lordships as to the troubling influences on this case?’
There was a murmur around the courtroom.
The three judges could be seen conferring with each other. After a few minutes the central judge turned towards Brogan: ‘We have had no application or evidence laid before us that links Alexandra McMahon's death with this trial.’
Brogan, at this point, made a show of scoffing.
‘Until any link is proven,’ continued the judge, ‘we can only try what is before us.’
Brogan did not rise to his feet to acknowledge the last point from the senior judge. As a result, it earned him a change in tone from the bench: ‘Furthermore, Mr Brogan, we have reached a ruling on your application in respect of Ms Sabatino's readiness to stand trial. We find in favour of the prosecution. We cite the first assurance offered by the consultant at the hospital – Mr Pyotr Uglov – on the grounds that this came before the accused's lawyer, Ms McMahon, had exerted undue pressure on the trauma consultant. We are led to understand that she threatened to accuse him of professional misconduct.’
Pudovkin looked at the back of the prosecutor general's head; even from behind he could see that Gazdanov was reacting triumphantly to this ruling.
‘Mr Gazdanov,’ continued the senior judge switching his attention to the prosecution barrister, ‘please call your first witness.’
Pudovkin was suddenly distracted. His phone was vibrating in his pocket. Looking down, it didn’t take long for the police colonel to realize the urgency. Discreetly as he could, he rose from the concentric bench and let himself out through the main doors at the back of the courtroom.
Pudovkin rang Police Major Ustinov immediately at the Baryshnikov mansion. The news from there was alarming, to say the least.
Three-quarters of an hour before, at precisely nine o’clock, Major Ustinov had arrived for duty at the Baryshnikov residence. His first port of call – as every day since this operation started – was the police's makeshift command centre. Two of his officers were on duty inside. He asked for an update on the night's events; Major Ustinov was encouraged that all had been quiet. Assuming command, he stood the two officers down and, helping himself to some coffee, settled himself into the control room for the day.
Ten minutes later everything changed.
Ustinov heard something in the distance, a muffled sound – through the trees.
What was that? A blast of some kind – some sort of air horn?
He listened out.
It went off again a few seconds later – and then again … for a third time.
Then it was gone. That was it.
After the incidents from a few nights before, everyone around the Baryshnikov house had become decidedly jumpy. Mrs Baryshnikov was now confined to her apartment. But with her state of health, the police had taken the extra precaution of installing a panic button, which linked her directly to the control room.
So far, she had not had need of it.
At nine fifteen, Ustinov was startled by an ear-piercing screech. Hurriedly, he checked the feed from the security cameras in each room of Mrs Baryshnikov's apartment. When he saw the picture from her bathroom, he leapt to his feet.
There was a figure.
Lying on the floor.
Motionless.
‘Christ,’ he shouted aloud. Grabbing a radio and running for the door as he spoke, he transmitted: ‘Principal down! Principal down! Mrs Baryshnikov's bathroom.’
Police Major Ustinov ran down the corridor to the main hall, swung round the end of the staircase banisters, hurtled up the steps – three at a time – and sprinted down the landing to Mrs Baryshnikov's private rooms.
Fumbling with the key in the lock, he burst in through the door and on towards the bathroom. The moment he was inside, he grimaced at the smell. A powerful waft of urine hit him hard.
Two other policemen, answering the call, charged into the room shortly afterwards. They, too, recoiled at the smell before looking down at the shape of the elderly woman lying on her side on the bathroom floor.
As Ustinov stooped down to look at her face, he saw she was beyond sallow; almost as a reflex he yelped: ‘Oh my God – she's yellow.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked one of the policemen.
‘Well it can’t be good – must be something to do with her piss, given the smell in here.’
‘Her kidneys?’
Major Ustinov climbed to his feet; barking into the radio, he ordered: ‘Someone call an ambulance. Now!’
Ustinov and his men struggled to lift the lifeless form of Mrs Baryshnikov out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. Repeated attempts were made to speak to the old woman, but she wasn’t responding.
‘Is she going to be okay?’ asked one of the men.
‘We’d better fucking hope so,’ replied Ustinov.
A few minutes later a distant siren could be heard.
‘Thank fuck,’ said Major Ustinov as he proceeded to shout new orders into the radio: ‘Hello Alpha – Hello Alpha. Ambulance inbound. Ambulance inbound. Open the gates. Let it in – immediately!’
Ustinov's command was acknowledged.
He looked down at the still inanimate Mrs Baryshnikov. His only relief came from hearing the siren grow louder. It then became deafening, as it closed in on the house. Ustinov ran to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and stepped out onto the balcony. He could see the ambulance coming to a stop at the foot of the main steps. Two paramedics climbed out.
‘Up here,’ he shouted, ‘quickly – you’ll need a stretcher.’
He was pleased to see an urgent reaction from the two medics. In a matter of seconds they were climbing the front steps and charging towards the main entrance into the mansion.
Inside, Major Ustinov had run to the top of the staircase. He shouted: ‘Up here,’ his commands echoing around the spacious hall.
The paramedics ran on up the stairs. Major Ustinov turned to lead the arrivals along the landing, and showed them into the private apartment.
Wasting no time, the paramedics – carrying the stretcher between them – made directly for the bed. One of them pulled out a stethoscope and listened to Mrs Baryshnikov's heart. The other looked at her face, lifting the woman's eyelids.
‘Christ,’ he said, ‘how long has she been like this?’
‘About ten minutes.’
The first paramedic looked up, as if to say any such estimate was wildly out.
‘She looks uraemic,’ said the second medic. ‘She's clearly gone into shock. Does this woman have a kidney problem?’
‘Yes,’ said Major Ustinov.
‘We’ve got to get her to dialysis – and fast.’
‘She's got a dialysis machine – in there. Next door.’
‘Show me!’
The police major led him into the bathroom. As the medic entered, he said: ‘Urgh, it should not be smelling like that in here. Where's the machine?’
‘Over there.’ Ustinov pointed to the trolley-borne artificial kidney against the wall.
Bending down to check it over, the medic said: ‘How long's it been smelling like this?’
Ustinov couldn’t admit they didn’t know; that they didn’t check it.
‘This thing must have sprung a leak,’ said the paramedic from almost underneath the machine. ‘Yes, look,’ he said, sticking his finger under one of the pipes. ‘This has come loose. That poor woman must have been recycling her own urine.’
‘How bad is that?’ asked the major.
‘Well it's not good. We’ve got to get her to the hospital.’
The medic dived out of the bathroom, back to the patient's bedside. The other had set up an oxygen line and placed a mask over Mrs Baryshnikov's mouth. Without a word of command, the paramedics manoeuvred the stretcher in beside the woman and lifted her onto its canvas. Her oxygen supply was also loaded and secured. Grabbing each end of the stretcher, the medics lifted her clear. One of them barked to the policemen: ‘Get the door!’ as they headed across the bedroom.
‘Where are you taking her?’ asked Ustinov.
‘It's obviously her kidneys, so the Moscow Nephrology Unit.’
Fewer than three minutes later the doors of the ambulance were being closed. One of the medics remained in the back with the patient, while the other climbed into the cab. As he fired the engine, he hit the siren and lights. Dropping the clutch, he accelerated the ambulance away down the drive, and out through the gate. Turning left, towards the centre of Barvikha, the ambulance sped away heading in the direction of the main road to Moscow.
SIXTY-SIX
Pudovkin listened to the report from Major Ustinov at the mansion.
‘Christ, that's all we need – another death,’ said the police colonel. ‘Is she going to be all right?’
‘The medics said she was in a bad way. But never said she was critical.’
‘Where have they taken her?’ he asked.
‘The Moscow Nephrology Unit.’
‘Find out which ward she's in, will you – and how she is. Gazdanov will have our balls if we don’t know.’
Discreetly, Pudovkin retook his seat behind the prosecutor general in the courtroom.
Léon Gazdanov declared: ‘The prosecution calls its next witness: Yegor Baryshnikov.’
Pudovkin turned to watch the Russian Formula One driver's entrance, and then glanced across to see the reaction from the two accused sitting in the cage to the left of the judges. Pudovkin suddenly felt conflicted. For the prosecution, he was buoyed by the impact Baryshnikov's testimony would have on the State's case. For the other side, Pudovkin could not fail to notice the hate-filled expressions on the faces of the accused. Baryshnikov's switch of loyalties was having a clear effect on his erstwhile teammates.
There was a moment's pause while the accused were set up with earphones for simultaneous translation. In Russian, Léon Gazdanov asked the witness: ‘Will you give the court your name, please?’
‘Yegor Valentinovich Baryshnikov.’
‘And your profession?’
‘Formula One driver.’
‘And your employer?’
‘Formerly …’ said Baryshnikov quietly, ‘… the Ptarmigan Formula One team.’
‘And how long have you been a Formula One driver.’
‘A test driver for two years. A race driver for this season.’
‘Because of that, would you say that your knowledge of Formula One, its safety procedures and the drivers’ code – or whatever you might call it – is well established?’
‘I’d like to think so.’
‘And your knowledge of Ptarmigan – the culture of the team, and its management practices? Would you say that you have an understanding of those, too?’
Baryshnikov nodded.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Baryshnikov,’ boomed Gazdanov, ‘would you please answer the question loud enough for the justices to hear.’
‘Yes,’ stated the driver, looking up at the row of judges.
‘Now, I’d like you to give us your professional driver's opinion of the Zhar-ptitsa Autodrom circuit.’
‘It's a modern complex.’
Gazdanov sounded like he was trying again: ‘So, does that mean it fulfilled all the safety requirements of a modern Grand Prix circuit?’
‘My Lords,’ came an intervention from across the room. ‘I would be grateful if the prosecution did not lead the witness.’
Gazdanov smiled at Oscar Brogan.
The senior judge looked from Brogan to Gazdanov and seemed to nod.
Brogan sat back down.
Gazdanov turned to face Baryshnikov: ‘In your opinion, was … is … the Zhar-ptitsa Autodrom a safe circuit?’
Baryshnikov said: ‘Yes.’
‘Please tell us, Mr Baryshnikov, about the circuit from a racing point of view. For instance, how many of its corners were designed so that you could safely overtake each other?’
‘There were considered to be five corners where overtaking was expected.’
‘And was Turn Eleven – where the accident took place – one of those expected overtaking places?’
Baryshnikov did not respond straight away. He even turned and looked round to face the cage, looking directly at the figure sitting in the halo brace. ‘No,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Baryshnikov,’ said Gazdanov, ‘could you speak up, please. Was Turn Eleven one of the expected overtaking places on this circuit?’
‘No,’ repeated Baryshnikov loudly enough to be heard this time.
‘So what did – what do – you think of Ms Sabatino's attempt to overtake you at that point?’
‘I wouldn’t have done it,’ he said, lowering his head again, his voice trailing off.
Pudovkin saw that Gazdanov's cockiness seemed to have tempered slightly. The words Baryshnikov was using were completely in line with the prosecution's “script”, but the delivery was flat; as a witness, he wasn’t selling their points with any conviction.
‘Mr Baryshnikov, your Ptarmigan car was working well in the build-up to – and during – the Grand Prix?’
Brogan was back on his feet: ‘Once again, my Lords, I object – the prosecutor is clearly leading the witness.’
‘I am merely reciting back to the witness the thrust of his own witness statement, but…’ said Gazdanov with an exaggerated gesture ‘…to indulge the defence counsel, I will instead ask: Mr Baryshnikov, could you tell us how you thought your car was performing before – and during – the race?’
‘It was okay.’
‘Did you, in fact, say in your witness statement that it was performing superbly?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you, Mr Baryshnikov. Now, each Formula One car has on it a form of data recorder – a sort of black box – does it not?’
Baryshnikov nodded.
‘Answer verbally, if you would, please, Mr Baryshnikov.’
‘Yes.’
‘Does that go for the Ptarmigan cars, too, Mr Baryshnikov?’
‘Yes.’
‘And have you had a chance to examine the data recorder recovered from the wreckage of Ms Sabatino's car?’
Pudovkin watched Baryshnikov's expression intently. He saw the driver swivel his head and look across at the cage again. A whole gamut of emotions seemed to cross his face.
Baryshnikov turned back towards Gazdanov.
Pudovkin could see the prosecutor general was now leaning forward slightly, as if in anticipation – as if going in for the kill.
Gazdanov prompted: ‘Mr Baryshnikov … ’
Pudovkin did not know what occurred next.
Or how.
But he knew instantly that something had happened.
SIXTY-SEVEN
There was an instantaneous change in Baryshnikov's demeanour.
Baryshnikov boomed: ‘Data recorders – or “black boxes” as you call them – can only be read by the FIA, the governing body of Formula One. You, Mr Gazdanov, have denied the FIA access to the “black boxes”. So, no, I don’t know what's in them – and neither can you.’
Gazdanov jolted upright.
Pudovkin looked up at Baryshnikov.
What on earth was going on?
Pudovkin scanned the faces of the Supreme Court justices. Each judge looked as if he had just been slapped.
Looking across at Brogan, Pudovkin saw that he was equally surprised.
‘More to the point,’ said Baryshnikov – now projecting powerfully across the room – ‘when I said I would not have attempted an overtake at Turn Eleven, what I meant was that I would not have attempted an overtake there – because I am not brave enough. What Remy – Ms Sabatino – did on that corner was quite outstanding: the mark of an intuitive driver. Ms Sabatino is in a completely different league to me.’
The courtroom burst into chatter.
Pudovkin stared into the face of the witness, trying to understand his astonishing volte-face. What was he doing? Then Pudovkin turned to look round.
He scanned the rest of the room.
Suddenly it came to him.
He realized what had happened. In an instant.
All the pieces fell into place.
There, standing at the back of the courtroom – just inside the main door – was a man wearing the bright turquoise of a Ptarmigan Formula One team jacket. Pudovkin didn’t recognize him. This man, though, had his arm round the shoulders of an elderly lady, a lady with short dark hair and striking dark eyes. Another man, also dressed in the same turquoise livery, stood on the other side of this woman, also with his arm across her shoulders.
