Driven

by Toby Vintcent

  Pulling off the elastic straps of the HANS device, she removed her helmet to a fusillade of camera shutters. She pulled off the balaclava to another rattle of shutters, giving the public and the world’s media the expression on the face of the first woman ever to win the most male of races, the Monaco Grand Prix.

  They were not disappointed.

  The scene had everything for a modern media story. High emotion, tears, a striking face, cheering crowds, and the radiance of someone delighting in the moment.

  Sabatino’s mood was infectious. Photographers saw the euphoria as well as the significance of this story; working excitedly, they expected to see their images splashed across the front pages of the world’s newspapers the next morning.

  Andy Backhouse broke through the cordon and rushed over to congratulate her, lifting her off the ground in a hug. She was overcome once again as they shared the moment together. Cameras zoomed in for a close-up.

  A minute later Remy Sabatino, wearing a baseball cap with a sponsor’s name emblazoned across the front, walked up the short flight of red-carpeted steps into the Royal Box. His Serene Highness looked as pleased as she did. A court official gently indicated to Sabatino where she should stand as the Maltese national anthem started to play and the island’s flag rose up the middle – and winner’s – flag pole.

  But Sabatino could hardly take any of it in.

  The British national anthem then played, acknowledging the nationality of the winning constructor. As it finished, the crowds roared once more.

  Sabatino was congratulated by the Prince who handed her the most prized trophy in Formula One. After receiving a few words of congratulation, she turned and held it aloft to show the crowd and the world’s television cameras; there was an even bigger crescendo of noise.

  Sabatino soon swapped the trophy for a jeroboam of champagne, which almost dwarfed her. Taking a hesitant sip, because of the weight of the bottle, she soon broke off. The Ferrari and Red Bull drivers – second and third – were bearing down on her, spraying her with champagne.

  Hundreds of camera shutters clicked.

  Sabatino ducked. One image caught the moment.

  In glorious sunshine, with a huge smile across her face, Remy Sabatino had hunched her shoulders, trying to prevent torrents of fizz going down the back of her neck.

  In an instant, that image became one of the most iconic sporting pictures of all time.

  FOURTEEN

  With 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.

  Straker 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.’

  Not 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 insider. 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.’

  An 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.’

  FIFTEEN

  Straker 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,’ an
d, 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.’