Driven (9 page)

They ate for a few moments, Straker praising the food. ‘If you were so completely ostracized by your brother and boyfriend, how did you get back into racing, then?’

‘That first drive didn’t go unnoticed. I was spotted by a rival team. The owner saw my rapid improvement in lap times. When his driver had an accident and couldn’t race, he got in touch – probably because he liked the novelty of fielding a girl driver, more than me. It certainly caused a bit of a stir. I made it a condition of my agreement, though, to be given a proper budget for practice.’

‘And that was the off?’

‘In karting, yes. I raced for two seasons and notched up some good wins and results. It was then that I came up with my third tenet – nothing to do with chauvinism, you’ll be pleased to hear.’

‘Which is?’ he asked with a concessionary smile at her taunt.

‘Attention to detail. To leave nothing overlooked. The competitive
difference between karts or F1 cars, particularly, in normal conditions is minimal – measured in hundredths of a second per lap, a matter of seconds over a two-hour race. Nothing, really. But working through the whole gamut of a race and race preparation I came across one potentially huge advantage.’

Straker’s expression conveyed considerable curiosity: ‘What was that?’

‘It was so simple and obvious – to me, at least. Race cars and rain don’t mix, right? In the wet, you can easily drop half a minute a lap. Also, because of the far higher likelihood of spins, bumps and crashes, the expected race order in the wet can be completely turned on its head. Wet conditions can easily turn a motor race into a lottery. So I thought: why be a hostage to the wet? Why not try and turn rain – wet conditions – into an advantage? In any season of racing, it’s
inevitably
going to rain sometime. If I could
materially
bring it home when everyone else is cocking it up, I saw the possibility of creating enough of a margin – even in just one race – to make a difference to a whole season’s results.’

Straker nodded and smiled appreciatively at the logic. ‘How did you act on that?’

‘Practice, practice, practice! Some people practise until they get it right; I wanted to practise until I couldn’t get it wrong. Every time it rained – or even looked like raining – I rushed to the track and went out in a kart and drove – drove, drove, drove. I spun. I slid. I spun some more, got soaked, caught God knows how many colds. Nearly caught pneumonia – certainly had a bad bout of pleurisy. But … I kept pushing myself and, in the end … I got better. In fact, I got pretty good.’

‘Doesn’t everyone do this?’

‘No, thank heavens. There’s only one other who I discovered did anything similar – and I only learnt about him after I’d started in Formula One.’

‘Who was that?’

Sabatino raised a self-effacing eyebrow. ‘Ayrton Senna,’ she said.
‘But I’m convinced my obsession with rain also helped my general driving. Tuning-in to the hyper sensitivity of wet conditions, I guess, improved my car control. Must have. Because of that, I genuinely believe that I’m able to push myself harder in the dry.’

‘Makes sense. Who spotted you for the bigger cars, then?’

Sabatino finished a mouthful of food. ‘I soon moved to England, to study engineering at university – go-karting sparking my interest in mechanics – and picked up an occasional drive here and there. I seemed blessed by a series of one-offs. An injury to a driver at Brands Hatch gave me a chance drive in a Formula Ford. A disqualified driver at Thruxton opened up a seat in Formula 3000 for half a season. And my big break came at Donington at the end of last year where I was driving a GP2: I pulled off a coup against Simi Luciano, the runner-up in last year’s F1 season, no less, who had turned up to give some sort of exhibition drive.’

‘You beat him?’

Sabatino nodded coquettishly.

‘What?’

Sabatino smiled at Straker’s reading of her expression. ‘That day, Donington was wet. Not just wet – it was
wet
, wet. Ceaseless torrential rain. Standing water across large parts of the circuit. To everyone’s surprise I wiped the floor with Luciano. I went round
twenty-five seconds
faster than him – only four seconds slower than for a dry lap time. It caused quite a stir.’

Straker gave an I-can-see-why nod in admiration.

‘
That
,’ she said almost as a flourish, ‘was lift-off – Mr Quartano being the reason.’

‘Really?’

‘He was there – at Donington. It all happened so fast. He made me an offer that very afternoon. I think it was about the time he was trying to buy Ptarmigan from the receiver. I guess I’d have to say that from that point on the rest is history.’

Straker shook his head in appreciation. ‘Talent will out.’

‘Maybe, and in the end, perhaps – but not immediately. It’s not
automatically meritocratic. Talent’s still got to find its chance to shine. And so much of that’s down to luck. Quartano, therefore, was my lucky charm.’

Straker nodded. ‘Mine too,’ he said as he subconsciously reached for his drink in a toast. ‘Where do you think your driving talent comes from?’

Sabatino shrugged, taking a sip of her own. ‘Who knows? Certainly not my parents – neither nature nor nurture. My father died when I was four, but had no mechanical bent, and Mother’s practically a certified agoraphobic. She hates me racing – says it’s far too dangerous. If she gets to hear about Helli Cunzer’s accident yesterday, she’ll have a fit. Where does any ability come from? Beats me. I enjoyed riding, and I suppose you enjoy things you’re good at. Horses test you in all sorts of things – but certainly balance, feel, rhythm, and a sense of anticipation. A horse has an independent spirit. A mind of its own. You can get it to do certain things, but it can always spook, change its mind, lose its balance, or require help recovering, particularly jumping cross-country.’

‘And you think those skills transferred to the cockpit?’

‘They’re pretty similar to the demands of car control, I’d say. In that respect, horsemanship and driving ability have a similar core. It’s not for nothing, for instance, that Schumacher’s a quite brilliant horseman – Western riding,’ she said with a smirk. ‘But still. None of those abilities are worth anything, though, without nerve. The key factor in F1 has to be a readiness to push hard and to commit.’

‘Not the will to win?’

‘Male drivers say that. Must play to the macho instinct, I suppose. To me winning’s incidental. A by-product. If I get everything right, I normally come out on top. Winning’s not my drug; getting it right is. You can win and still be rated as a human being.’

Straker was surprised by her tone of self-justification. ‘Why do you say that?’ he asked.

She looked almost apologetic. ‘I was the only driver to go and see Helli Cunzer today. Twenty-four hours ago he nearly died. There but
for the grace of God … Was it weakness to go? To support a man who got it wrong? Am I any less of a winner for caring about a friend who made a mistake?’

There was very nearly a tear in Sabatino’s eye. Straker’s opinion of this woman was changing by the minute.

Their plates were cleared away, creating a natural break in the conversation. Trying to divert herself from such frustration and disappointment, she said: ‘I have a subject for you,’ and gave him a knowing smile. ‘I saw your reaction to it – in the pit lane on Thursday.’

Sensing a tone of mischief, he asked, with exaggerated hesitancy: ‘Reaction to what?’

‘The mention of Charlie Grant?’

Straker immediately looked down, somewhere towards his napkin.

‘There’s a personal history there, no?’

Straker dabbed his mouth.

‘It wouldn’t surprise me if there was,’ she said with a verbal shrug in her voice. ‘She was stunning to look at. All the men clustered round her like bees to honey. She knew how to work people; she had everyone eating out of her trousers.’

‘Charlie was a menace,’ Straker said, leaning back in his chair and looking Sabatino in the eye. ‘For various reasons, she was out to do Quartech – and Quartano, personally – serious harm.’

Sabatino, struck by Straker’s expression and tone of voice, was clearly keen to probe further: ‘How?’

Straker reached again for his drink and took a long sip. ‘By leaking company – and potentially national – secrets to a foreign rival. Because of that, Quartano’s convinced she’s behind this sabotage of you, your car – maybe even Helli’s car – and the race.’

Sabatino looked genuinely surprised. ‘How
did
she die then? I get the feeling it wasn’t anything to do with a road accident?’

Straker shook his head. He paused. ‘She died in Buhran.’

‘Really?’ said Sabatino, indicating that she believed there was a lot more to all this.

Straker shrugged before taking another sip of his drink.

‘How close to her death were you then?’ asked Sabatino, with a strange hint of bloodlust in her voice.

Straker put down his glass and looked her straight in the eye. ‘Too close,’ he said. ‘Now,’ with a clear edge to his voice, ‘can we change the subject, please?’

This time, it was Sabatino’s turn to be taken aback – by the sharpness of
his
tone. She backed off immediately.

T
he Formula One circus was on the move. Being a double-header, most of the artics and motor homes were making straight for the Ardennes to set up for the Belgian Grand Prix the following weekend.

Quartano, accompanied by Sabatino, flew the Mandarin directors out of Monte-Carlo to Mandelieu Airport by helicopter. After seeing them off from there, Remy flew in her private jet to Malta for a few days, to celebrate her win. Straker made his own way to the Nice airport by road, using the time to consider events and refocus on his task. He found himself motivated by something new. For all the pressures Sabatino had to put up with – technical, racing, physical, performance and media – he was troubled by how personally she was now taking the attempt to sabotage her.

Looking out of the window, as the taxi snaked its way through the rocky scenery of the Côte d’Azur in the early Riviera sun, he returned his mind to what he had by way of leads. Two things. One, a piece of physical evidence – the bug found in Sabatino’s helmet; while the second was a name: Monsieur Michel Lyons – the temporary tenant of Apartment 5 at 25 Rue des Princes. What more could he learn about these? And how could either help him?

Straker had an idea. Pulling his mobile from his pocket he scrolled through his contacts directory and retrieved the telephone number for the porter of the block of flats. He asked himself: When would Michel Lyons be leaving Monte-Carlo? Taking a punt, he gave the number a ring.

‘Could I speak to Michel Lyons, in number 5, please?’

‘
Non
,’ said the aged porter.

‘Has he gone out?’

‘
Non
. He has left.’

Excellent, thought Straker, exactly as he hoped. ‘That’s a nuisance,’
he said. ‘I have an important package for him. Do you have an address I could send it on to?’ Straker asked.

There was a grunt from down the line.

‘Please, monsieur, this is very important.’

‘
Attendez
,’ growled the porter.

Straker heard the receiver hit something hard and then the man’s raised voice echoing in the background. He breathed deeply, hoping he would get lucky and be able to keep this lead alive. After several minutes of uncertainty, the aged porter came back on the line and, although sounding disappointed, he said: ‘I have a home address.’

‘
Merci, merci
.’

‘Monsieur Michael Lyons, Flax Cottage…’

Straker’s mind was already racing.

‘…Prince Rupert Lane, Gaydon, Warwickshire, Royaume-Uni.’

Straker shook his head as he jotted down the details. ‘
Pardonnez-moi
,’ he said as apologetically as he could. ‘Did you say Michael, as M – I – C – H –
A
– E – L?’

‘
Oui!
’

‘
Monsieur, merci bien
. Thank you very much. I’ll send the parcel on to him at home.’

Straker ended the call and smiled in satisfaction. ‘Odder and odder,’ he said to himself as he mulled this new information. Dialling his office number in Quartech International’s London headquarters, he spoke to Karen, his department’s research assistant. He could picture her in their office on the ninth floor of Cavendish Square, with its stunning views out over the capital through its floor-to-ceiling, plate-glass windows. He asked the quiet but superbly meticulous Karen to research Michael Lyons, of Gaydon – particularly in respect of any connection he might have with motor racing.

With this additional unexpected piece of the jigsaw puzzle, Straker considered his other potential lead. The physical evidence they had in the form of the jamming device found in Sabatino’s helmet. What could they learn from that, if anything?

Picking up his phone again, Straker rang Andy Backhouse, who
had flown out on the red-eye that morning and whom he expected to be back on the ground in England by now.

‘Come up to the factory as soon as you like,’ said Backhouse keenly.

‘How about later today? I want to tackle this scumbag saboteur as soon as possible.’

‘Sure. I’ll be at Shenington within the hour. I’ll be there till whenever.’

‘Great. I’m due to land at Heathrow with DQ around lunchtime.’

‘I’ll send a car to meet you. See you this afternoon.’

S
traker arrived at Nice airport, and, this being the wealthy Riviera, was processed airside through the large part of the Mandelieu complex devoted to private aircraft. With barely any delay, he was soon driven out across the apron to the steps of the waiting Quartech Falcon. It proudly boasted the company’s logo on the tail fin: a crimson Maltese Cross within the circular part of a black letter Q – and the company motto, “
Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum
”, underneath.

Quartano was already on board. The moment Straker appeared the doors were shut, the engines whined into life, and the plane sought clearance for take-off from the tower.

‘I’ve just seen Dr Chen and his colleagues board their plane,’ reported Quartano, spreading a linen napkin across his lap. ‘Mandarin Telecom could not be more engaged, despite the horrors of poor Helli’s crash. Remy’s win seems to have sealed the deal. We’ve clearly exceeded their expectations from a marketing point of view. Hardly surprising. The press and media coverage from the weekend – around the first female winner of a Grand Prix, let alone Monaco – has been astonishing. We’ve agreed to sign a Memorandum of Understanding within two weeks, and the full contract in Shanghai at the Chinese Grand Prix. Mandarin have already offered to introduce Quartech to Chinese government –
Ministry of National Defense
– officials, no less. Priceless,’ he said with a broad triumphant smile. ‘Thank heavens for Formula One.’

Straker could see how much Quartano was fired up by the events of the weekend. ‘Your absolute priority, Matt,’ he said as the plane levelled off and they were served their coffee and breakfast, ‘is to rid us of any further interference by this sodding saboteur. Thanks to Backhouse’s team finding the bug, and your outstanding countermeasures, we denied them their interference in our communications, which could have done us serious damage. And what about Helli’s crash? God forbid it was sabotage, as it was clearly life-threatening. If they and any bastard insider are still motivated to do us harm – and after the win in Monaco we have to assume they would be – this could get ugly. And now, with a sponsorship deal of $750 million and this phenomenal “in” to Chinese government circles via Mandarin Telecom, Quartech has a massive market position at stake.’

Straker nodded his appreciation of the situation. ‘I’m on it, sir.’

Quartano looked reassured, but his expression seemed to demand elaboration.

‘Backhouse is arranging a car for me from Heathrow,’ Straker volunteered. ‘I’m going straight up to the factory the moment we land.’

‘Good.’

‘I’ve also uncovered some
new
news.’

Quartano raised an eyebrow.

‘I’ve managed to establish that Monsieur Michel Lyons is not actually
Michel
but Mr Michael Lyons. And that he lives in Gaydon.’

Quartano’s expression darkened.

‘Should it surprise us he’s British?’ Straker asked.

‘Not really. If Mr Michael Lyons was to have
any
credibility in motor racing, it would certainly be enhanced by his being British. Seven of the eleven F1 teams are based in England.’

‘And Gaydon?’

‘Fits perfectly,’ replied Quartano. ‘Gaydon is home to Aston Martin and Jaguar Land Rover. Ptarmigan are minutes away. And within an hour you’ve got Lotus, Mercedes, Williams, Lambourn, and Red Bull, while not forgetting that Prodrive’s one junction
down the M40. And Silverstone, of course, is right there too. If you wanted someone to come from the heart of motor racing, Gaydon’s pretty close to it.’

‘Well at least it goes some way to confirming that the occupant of Apartment 5, 25 Rue des Princes
was
the source of the jamming. It would, I suppose, have been too easy for his geographic location to have told us something about his team affiliation?’

‘It might have, if he lived in Maranello or Stupinigi – for Ferrari or Massarella. But, no. Ironically, he’s geographically closer to Ptarmigan than any of the others.’

‘I’ve got Karen in Competition Intelligence doing some digging on him.’

‘Good. Now you know where to find him, I want to know everything about this arsehole – particularly who he’s working for. Then, we will decide how to remove him, and take out anyone around him who fancies themselves as a threat.’