Driven (8 page)

W
ith Sabatino’s win, the Ptarmigan Team was in a state of delirium. Corks popped in the headquarters truck as Straker and that contingent of the team were swept up in the moment. A win was always a win, and sparked celebrations. But Treadwell told Straker that this was very different. Remy’s win, here, meant a whole lot more.

She was now the leader of the Drivers’ Championship, six points clear of Paddy Aston – and, in the Constructors’ Championship, Ptarmigan had pushed five points past Massarella to lead it, too, for the first time.

Straker put his various intelligence material, a digital recorder, and other findings into a large envelope, on the outside chance that anyone would want to talk about them that day, and made to join the pilgrimage towards the pits.

However, as he walked along the Monte-Carlo waterfront, he soon realized he was to enjoy no time off. His mobile rang.

‘Matt?’

‘Mr Quartano,’ replied Straker. ‘Congratulations. What a phenomenal result.’

‘It certainly is. Come on board
Melita
when you’re free, will you? I hear you’ve found something.’

There was clearly going to be no rest for the ambitious.

S
traker met up with Backhouse in the Ptarmigan garage. It was jam-packed with people from up and down the pit lane. Champagne was flowing and the buzz was extraordinary.

‘Congratulations, Andy,’ said Straker, bawling above the noise.

Backhouse, already several large gulps of champagne into his celebrations, was almost too overcome to speak.

The noise got louder as Sabatino appeared through the doors
from the pit lane, having just finished her post-race TV interview. Straker watched as the victorious driver was enveloped by the Ptarmigan Team and other well-wishers.

Emerging a few minutes later, Sabatino walked over and gave Backhouse another hug, which lasted for several seconds. Then, turning to Straker, she held out her hand and gave his a perfunctory shake. ‘Not too much sabotage to worry about in the end, then,’ she said in an I-told-you-so kind of tone.

Straker just smiled and said, ‘Congratulations, Remy. What a great result.’

N
ot long afterwards, the celebrations were transferred to the quarterdeck of Quartano’s yacht, but Straker did not have long to enjoy them. He was approached by Tahm Nazar, the Ptarmigan Team Principal: ‘Matt, DQ would like us to go through what you’ve got on the saboteur?’

‘Sure,’ he said putting his glass down and picking up the envelope he had left on one of the white leather benches.

He followed Nazar into the art deco saloon. Already inside were Quartano, Backhouse and Sabatino. One of the yacht’s white-tunicked stewards was laying out some food and drink. He was thanked and asked to shut the door behind him as he left.

They all moved to sit at the dining table.

‘What did you find?’ asked Quartano with no time given over to revelling in the win.

Straker opened his envelope. ‘Immediately after the Adi Barrantes crash,’ he said, ‘we were jammed. An attempt was made to sabotage our communications at a critical moment in the race.’

Sabatino’s face seemed to set. ‘When was that?’ she challenged. ‘I didn’t hear it.’

‘It was while you were all discussing the opportunistic pit stop,’ Straker replied calmly.

Sabatino looked dismissive. ‘I didn’t hear anything like that.’

Straker nodded. He let the moment hang for a few silent seconds.
‘All of this was on your original radio circuit, which was why we fitted a second radio, on a separate frequency, and turned your original radio down to zero. You weren’t meant to hear any of it. You might all like to take a listen, though,’ he said and pressed the play button on the recorder.

The implications of the recording were obvious.

Before it had even finished, Sabatino’s whole demeanour had changed completely, as if someone had thrown a switch. She said, ‘Not being able to speak over the radio – right then – would have scuppered me … I’d have been denied that ad hoc pit stop. I …
wouldn’t
… have won.’

Straker was pleased his methods might finally be being acknowledged. He hoped his expression conveyed none of his satisfaction, though, and to make sure, he lowered his voice: ‘While the saboteur was trying to jam us, I got a fix – via triangulation.’ Straker briefly outlined his strategy before sliding copies of a printout from the surveillance screen showing the intersection of the vectored signals across the table. ‘The location, this time, turned out to be a block of flats in Rue des Princes,’ he said, handing out photographs of the building.

Sabatino looked at the picture of the screen and then the photograph showing the block of flats, appearing increasingly surprised.

‘It seems the saboteur is in a temporary let of Apartment 5,’ continued Straker. ‘His name is Michel Lyons and this is what he looks like,’ with which Straker produced another sheaf of photographs and handed these around the table.

Backhouse looked staggered. ‘How the hell did you
get
all this?’

‘A few tricks of the trade,’ replied Straker. ‘Anyway, this isn’t a complete story, I’m afraid. None of you seems to know him.’

Sabatino picked up one of the photographs and studied the face of the man she now had to acknowledge had been trying to sabotage her race. ‘What do we do about this?’ she asked, looking down the length of the table at Straker. ‘How do we stop this arsehole doing anything like this again?’

‘Several things,’ he replied, ‘but I wanted to go through a few
thoughts with you before I discuss my action plan. First, we have no idea of the scale of this threat. Until we’re all satisfied that Helli’s crash was due to mechanical failure or driver error, I advise we see Ptarmigan – as a whole – to be under threat, here. That said, I didn’t detect any jamming of Cunzer’s radio this week.

‘Second, we need to establish the source of this threat. The jamming device planted in Remy’s helmet could not have been planted by an outsider. It could
only
have been put there by someone intimately connected with the team – someone close. An
in
sider. That creates all kinds of sensitive issues, not least suspicion – about whom we suspect and whom we should trust. We might be lucky, though – it could just have been a leftover from Charlotte Grant.’

‘Charlie?’ chipped in Sabatino. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Very, Remy,’ replied Quartano.

‘Yes,’ agreed Straker. ‘Long story. But, if it
was
her, the saboteurs, now, have clearly lost their mole, which makes things a lot simpler. We must be ready, though, for it to have been someone else – someone who may still be active on the inside.

‘My final observation,’ Straker went on, ‘is to do with the intention of the threat. Your helmet device could have been intended for one of two purposes. Either to eavesdrop and gain advantage over us – learning about our design changes, technological innovation, tactics, pit-stop strategies, and so on. In other words, competitive espionage. Or it was intended for disruptive purposes to throw us off our game and damage our chances. Sabotage.’

‘What’s your read of their intention?’ asked Quartano.

Straker paused. ‘From the precise timing of each burst of jamming,’ he said, ‘I have no doubt that this was sabotage. They were quite clearly trying to damage Remy’s chances.’

The room fell silent.

‘Okay,’ said Quartano, ‘that might give us a hunch
why
they might be doing this, but we’ve no idea who.’

‘Correct,’ replied Straker, ‘apart, that is, from the unknown Michel Lyons.’

‘What about the tease you had me play along with during Q2 yesterday,’ asked Sabatino, ‘when Andy pretended we were going for a three-stop strategy?’

Straker shook his head. ‘Inconclusive, Remy, I’m afraid. The tease certainly prompted a subsequent wave of jamming transmissions in Q3, while you discussed brake balances – and which led to my fruitless intercept up by the Palace. The only car to start the race on a three-stopper was Simi Luciano’s Massarella, but we can’t be sure he did that because of the teaser message.’

‘Right,’ said Quartano in a chairmanship tone, as if to indicate the need to draw something from the discussion. ‘As you say, Matt, none of this is conclusive, but at least we now know we’ve got a problem. Also, whatever motivated these people to do this can only be reinforced by Remy’s win here, let alone with her and the team currently leading both Championships. Let’s heighten vigilance as much as possible – among the team out here, the mechanics, the roadies, and everyone back at the factory. Matt, I want you to go to Shenington as soon as possible and review all our security measures across the board. Right now – while the F1 circus is still in town – I’m going to ask for an unofficial word with Bo San Marino, to alert him to our problem.

‘In the meantime,’ said Quartano raising his glass in tribute, ‘well done again, Remy – and Andy. A truly historic day and a totally deserved win, both strategically and tactically. Could you both go and make a fuss of Dr Chen and his directors? Make sure they all feel part of this.’

As everyone rose from the table to rejoin the celebrations on the quarterdeck, Quartano added: ‘Matt, I’d like you to come with me to see San Marino, please? And be ready to talk through your collection of evidence.’

A
n hour later Straker and Quartano were shown into Bo San Marino’s suite in the stylish Columbus Hotel. The President of the FIA looked as patrician as ever, glowing from Formula One’s triumphant afternoon.

‘Congratulations, Dom,’ he said in his soothing Italian lilt as he generously shook hands. ‘Remy’s win is truly a spectacular achievement for her – for you – for us – for the whole sport.’

‘Isn’t it, Bo. One of the great sporting stories. Sadly, though, we have to tarnish things, I’m afraid. We have some unnerving news for you.’

‘About Helli Cunzer?’

Quartano shook his head. ‘He’s not yet come round, and it’s still too soon to gauge the effects of his terrible crash. No, that’s not our news.’

The Marquis of San Marino looked a little disappointed as he showed his guests to the table in the dining area of his suite.

Once settled, Quartano invited Straker to give an overview of their situation. Telling the story from the beginning, Straker produced Remy’s helmet from a bag and showed him the location and nature of the jamming device. He then explained how he had detected the saboteur, and produced his findings. He played a recording of the team’s radio traffic – to illustrate the precision of the jamming bursts both in Q2 and in the race when the safety car was being deployed.

At the end of the account, Bo San Marino looked at the photograph of Michel Lyons and sat back in his chair. The distinguished face – which had appeared so contented only fifteen minutes before – now looked decidedly troubled.

‘Gentlemen, thank you for bringing this to my attention. I’m grateful to know what you’ve told me. Races, championships even – on which tens of millions of dollars ride – are won or lost by fractions of seconds. This jamming could quite clearly have had a material influence on the outcome of the race. If a team
is
involved in this, and is found guilty, they will face the most severe sanctions.

‘However,’ San Marino went on, ‘as you have had the grace to state yourselves, this,’ he said with a wave of his hand at Straker’s material, ‘while very impressive is not conclusive. You don’t know who’s behind this. There’s not enough, now, for me to act on.’

Both men nodded. ‘That’s agreed, Bo,’ answered Quartano calmly. ‘We were just anxious that you be aware of what’s going on.’

‘Thank you. Can I urge you, at this stage, to be extra vigilant and make sure, for all our sakes, that nothing happens in Spa? You must let me know, immediately, if you detect any further sabotage attempts, or anything intended to thwart Ptarmigan’s or Remy’s performance.’

S
traker rejoined the senior Ptarmigan officials on the quarterdeck of Quartano’s yacht where, in the peachy light of the evening Mediterranean sun, the celebrations were ongoing. A television crew from a major international channel was granted permission to film an in-depth interview with Sabatino on board. As part of the arrangement, Quartano persuaded the producer to include an interview with Dr Chen – so as to offer a perspective on this unprecedented sporting win from a different culture. That it happened to demonstrate the platform Ptarmigan was in a position to offer the CEO of Mandarin Telecom to broadcast to the English-speaking world at the same time was, of course, entirely incidental.

Straker, armed with a fresh glass of champagne, found his way onto the more-secluded upper deck where the interview with Sabatino was taking place. The Mediterranean, the harbour, marina, and hillsides of Monaco provided a luxurious and exotic backdrop. He watched Sabatino – under the lights and surrounded by paraphernalia and numerous technicians – conduct herself with characteristic flair and media savvy.

When it ended, and she emerged from the semicircular cluster of television equipment, Straker was surprised that she made straight for him. ‘How did it go with San Marino?’

‘As well as we might have hoped, I think. He’s appalled, and completely onside. But, as we suspected, we haven’t got enough for him to act on.’

Sabatino paused and looked up into Straker’s eyes. ‘Listen, I meant what I said earlier,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know what you had been getting up to. But what you did helped
directly
with my win today. Without it, I would have lost radio contact – completely – at the critical moment of the safety car. It would have been catastrophic,’
and, with that, she raised her glass in apologetic concession. ‘I would not have won. I would not – we would not – now be leading both Championships.’

Straker said nothing but very gently chinked her glass and smiled in acknowledgment of her surprising change of heart.

‘I’m afraid,’ she said more dismissively than apologetically, ‘that I thought you were yet another one of those good-looking bullshitters, you see – trying desperately to make a role for themselves around here. Believe me, there are plenty of them in Formula One. Now, though – seeing your skills in action – I get why DQ rates you so highly. He says you were quite a soldier.’

Straker looked uncomfortable. ‘Hey, this is your day and evening. We should be talking exclusively about you. How many more interviews like that have you got?’ he said jerking his thumb in the direction of the cameras.

‘One more, for the Yanks. Americans don’t get Formula One – probably because they didn’t invent it. My win seems to have caused quite a stir over there, though, so it ought to be good for me commercially. Good enough, at any rate, to buy you dinner. You hungry?’

Straker found himself again taken by surprise. From Sabatino’s initial resistance to his counter-espionage measures, to the surprising change of tone as she learnt of his success in identifying the jammer, to her acknowledgment of his helping her win, to this invitation to dinner, Straker was learning to be never quite sure what was coming next with her.

‘Famished,’ he said. ‘Are you serious? I mean – on
this
evening, of all evenings? Haven’t you got princes and moguls to schmooze?’

Her smile fell before she added: ‘Yeah, probably – but you helped me win today.
You
’re going to keep me safe, aren’t you? I’m the Championship leader, now, and I want to hear how you’re going to get rid of this bastard saboteur before Spa.’

A
fter her interview on US television, Sabatino and Straker went
ashore in the increasingly orange glow of the setting sun. They walked along the pontoons in the harbour, leaving the celebrations aboard the
Melita
still in full swing. Street lamps and lights in shop-fronts were starting to come on along the waterfront. She led him straight to her chosen restaurant, Miguel’s in Rue de Grimaldi, which was not what he expected at all. No Michelin star chef, no glitz, no glamour and no one in the place he would recognize. Miguel’s was a small family-run affair with elegant décor, gentle lighting, white tablecloths and simple table-top decorations. On first seeing the place, Straker wondered whether Sabatino might have brought him here because she didn’t want to be seen with him in public. After her win today, she was definitely media worthy. Any companion would likely prompt all kinds of press interest and speculation.

‘I love this place,’ she declared with such genuineness as she sat in the chair held for her by the maître d’.

‘Mademoiselle Sabatino. A pleasure to see you again. And many congratulations.’

She nodded her thanks and smiled warmly. ‘I’ve been coming here since my GP2 days,’ she explained.

‘No Monte-Carlo razzmatazz, then? I would’ve thought you’d be hanging out with all the F1 boys?’

The maitre d’ unfurled her napkin and laid it gracefully across her lap.

She smiled coyly. ‘That’s the thing, though, isn’t it?’

‘What?’

‘Boys. F1
is
a lot of boys. Boys and their toys – and the size of their penises.’

Straker gave a reactive laugh. ‘What?’

‘Formula One is
so
testosterone-laden. Ridiculously competitive. Even socially, you can’t talk about anything – say anything – without someone trying to top it or turn it into a competition. Every story gets trumped. Every claim gets wilder. Every drink gets bigger – and more of a test.’

Straker frowned. ‘Isn’t that just the way they are?’

‘Probably,’ she said with an unconvinced shrug. ‘Except I can’t help feeling it’s because I’m a woman.’

‘There are loads of women around these people, aren’t there – wives, girlfriends?’

‘There are, but they all seemed resigned to being spectators. More hangers-on or fawning groupies. They don’t seem to be
competed
with.’

‘You’re different?’

‘I’m supposed to be on their level.’

‘A threat, then?’

‘Shouldn’t be. No more than anyone else around those tables and bars, at any rate. I sense a woman doing their thing unnerves them, though. Makes them insecure. Somehow diminishes their masculinity.’

‘Whoa, paranoia alert!’

‘I
beg
your pardon?’ she said sharply.

Straker paused, slightly taken aback by her apparent mood change. ‘You’re successful in a competitive environment,’ he explained. ‘They wouldn’t be successful competitors if they didn’t envy and resent someone beating them. Of course they’re not going to like you – you’re winning. Exactly the same dynamic would surround you if you were a man.’

‘But I haven’t been winning till now. It hasn’t been resentment of any success. They’ve behaved like that ever since I started.’

‘Of course they have,’ he said almost unsympathetically. ‘Just being
part
of the F1 circus means success – that you’ve arrived. You’re all threats to each other at that rarefied level. Maybe your suspicion of chauvinism induces in you an awkwardness of manner. Maybe you behave with defensive offence when you’re with them?’

‘
Fuck
off!’

Straker leaned back in his chair and sighed: ‘Q? … E? … D?’

‘Fuck
you
!’

There was an awkward – deathly – silence at the table.

Crap, he thought to himself.

Whatever hopes he might have had of setting up a working relationship with this woman now seemed to be shot. Straker cursed inwardly. He hadn’t needed to say so much; he hadn’t needed to goad her. He looked down and rearranged the napkin in his lap. When he raised his eyes after a few moments’ silence, though, he was once again taken completely by surprise. Sabatino was looking at him with a radiant glint in her eye.

‘Not at all,’ she said, her smile lingering. ‘The men in Formula One imply they have big penises. That only a
man
can do what they do. Maybe a woman doing it proves it’s not quite so manly as they’d like everyone to believe it is. Trouble, though,’ she said slightly defiantly, ‘is I know what a big penis
should
look like.
I
know how to measure one.’

Straker smiled, but was not completely sure whether she was being literal or not.

‘Whatever the real reason,’ she said, ‘these boys seem to have to declare themselves whenever I’m around – well, that’s how it seems to me.’

They were interrupted by their waiter introducing himself, explaining the specials, and taking their order for drinks. They asked for two Kir Royales. Reassured that the mood between them might have been restored, Straker looked to change the subject. ‘How did you get into all this, anyway?’ he asked as bread and olive oil was placed between them.

‘F1? Slowly, then quickly.’

Straker offered Sabatino the basket. ‘Sorry?’

She took a piece of bread and dunked it in the oil. ‘Antonio, my elder brother – back in Malta – was a petrolhead. A car nut. Spent his entire childhood dying to get a drive in a go-kart. He stripped down cars, reconditioned parts, tuned up engines. He’d do hundreds of them to earn pocket money from a local garage. The owner’s son raced go-karts, you see. But the son was crap – constantly crashing and damaging everything. Antonio earned pocket money – and brownie points – fixing up his engines and parts. As a treat, every
now and again, the garage people would take him to the track, just outside Valletta. He hoped that, one day, they might give him a drive. They never did. Even so, Antonio would still enjoy going to watch.’

The waiter returned with their drinks. They ordered their food.

‘One Saturday when I was about sixteen, Antonio asked me to go with him to the track. I went and loved it, you know? The whole scene – the noise, the smell of heat, exhaust, oil and rubber. But particularly the speed.’

‘You had no interest in anything mechanical up until then?’

Sabatino shook her head. ‘Ponies. Didn’t have my own, but was completely obsessed. Used to do the same sort of chores as Antonio, but my hangout was the local riding stables. While he was fixing up parts from the rich boy’s mistakes, to get my rides I’d be shovelling shit and grooming. Mother wasn’t rich enough to buy us our fun – we had to earn it for ourselves.’

‘How did
you
get to drive, then?’

Sabatino smiled wistfully. ‘The garage boy fancied me. He kept asking me back – to watch him race. Suddenly, to Antonio, I was a little sister with currency. It looked like I’d be guaranteeing him a lot more tickets for race days. Anyway, over time, I got familiar with the scene. While standing around for hours, I started
watching
. I found myself wanting to understand why some karts were faster than others and, then, why some drivers were faster than others in similar machines. Without realizing it, I seemed to know how to read a track – and the dynamics of racing.’

‘Very analytical.’

‘Maybe, but it got me into serious trouble. After one race, I stupidly pointed out that the rich kid had been beaten by slower drivers and slower karts. Then I told him why. It was like kicking him in the balls. In a tantrum, he said: “Well if you think you’re so fucking good,
you
do it!”’

‘You did – and the rest is history?’ offered Straker as a denouement.

Sabatino took a sip of her Kir Royale, and shook her head. ‘Never
so easy. I did drive – in the last race that day. But only as a laugh. I got bumped, overtaken, baulked – all sorts. There was
some
thing there, though. Definitely. The race was only ten laps, and I was only steady for the last three. But it gave me enough time to try out my observations – about line, timing, acceleration, braking and car control. And, bizarrely, in those last ninety seconds, I found a rhythm.’

‘Which meant you displaced the rich kid and took his drive?’

Sabatino shook her head. ‘The only displacement was me as the rich guy’s girlfriend. He was so pissed off because I’d managed to clock a faster lap time than he ever had.’

‘Within your first ten laps
ever
?’

‘Amazing, huh? But me falling out with the boyfriend triggered a falling-out with my brother – because
I
had been given a drive in a kart and he never had.’

‘All that pique from your brother and the so-called boyfriend.’

‘Yep, all because of wounded pride and jealousy. It was harsh, but, as an experience, a great foundation.’

‘For what?’

‘Being a female doing something at the same time as a man. I realized that, for me, if I was ever to do anything in motor racing – or life, probably – I’d have to learn to cope with an additional set of dynamics.’

‘Don’t tell me – chauvinism?’

Sabatino scowled at him.

‘What
did
you learn then?’ asked Straker moderating his tone enough, he hoped, to prevent another “fuck you”.

Their food arrived and was placed reverentially in front of them by two waiters.

‘Certain things,’ she said. ‘I came up with one overarching mantra.’

‘Which was?’

‘To stay
me
.’

‘
Very
deep.’

‘It is,’ she rebuked. ‘The temptation was to become male – or
masculine. To be one of them. To be what
they
want. I resolved very early on not to do that.’

‘Not even if that helped you to understand them – or how to beat them?’

‘Think like them, yes. But not
be
like them, no. That would never work. I could never
be
them. Trying to be them would only make me phoney.’

‘If
staying you
was your main mantra, what others did you come up with?’

‘Only my Machiavellian killer app!’

‘What’s that?’

‘To treat people – particularly egotistical men – not as they are … but as they
think
they are.’

Straker frowned as he mulled this over. ‘Doesn’t that create phoniness too?’

‘Oh yes!’ said Sabatino with a broad smile. ‘But in them, not me! With this approach, they’re never directly threatened. They’re disarmed. It helps me get their guard down – meaning I can read them much more easily and, ultimately, get them to do what
I
want.’