Straker’s arm almost shot up as he took hold of it, expecting it to be far heavier. It only weighed about the same as two litres of milk.
‘The only trouble with carbon fibre,’ Backhouse went on, ‘is that you can’t screw anything into it; it won’t take the thread of a screw, for instance. The stuff just crumbles.’
‘How do you fasten it to other materials then?’
‘Good old-fashioned glue!’
After looking at the next workshop, focusing on hydraulic technology, Straker was shown the engine section of the factory. Backhouse explained that Ptarmigan did not make their own engines, which would be far too expensive – even with their sizeable Quartech budget. He explained how their engine partner, Benbecular, fitted in, and likened the power, quality and reliability of their engines to those of Mercedes, Renault and BMW. Straker learnt that Ptarmigan’s only involvement with engine design was in engine management, working with an outside contractor, Trifecta Systems, to develop Ptarmigan’s own bespoke operating system – a highly sophisticated optimizer which offered them various nuanced options and settings they could adjust during a race.
‘All this is worked on in here,’ said Backhouse as they entered a room that reminded Straker of a music studio. Technicians were working at something resembling a mixing desk, while through another sheet of safety glass an engine was bolted to a static mount and being run at what sounded like – even with the soundproofing of the glass – full throttle.
‘Finally,’ said Backhouse, as they made their way on through the Ptarmigan factory, ‘we come to aerodynamics and our wind tunnel.’
They passed through a further set of security-controlled automatic doors, and entered another manufacturing section. Inside, Backhouse led Straker towards a man in a white coat who was studying what looked to Straker like a scale model of a Formula One car.
‘Colin, can I introduce Matt Straker of Quartech? Matt, this is Colin Moore, Ptarmigan’s Director of Aerodynamics.’
The two strangers shook hands. Straker took in Moore’s intense expression which was enhanced by his closely – almost brutally – shaved head.
‘Andy’s giving me a crash course in how our cars are designed and built.’
Moore smiled and asked how much Straker knew of aerodynamics in the context of these cars. He admitted not much.
‘Without aerodynamic surfaces,’ said Moore inviting Straker to look at the model on the workbench, ‘a Formula One car couldn’t go anywhere near as fast as they go. Mechanical grip – the grip provided simply by the balance of the car, the tyres and their contact with the road surface – would not, on its own, hold a modern car on the track. Aerodynamic surfaces are critical.’ To give Straker an idea of their effectiveness, Moore indicated that an F1 car travelling at ninety miles an hour generated enough aerodynamic downforce that it could run upside-down along the roof of a tunnel.
‘However, the greater the downforce, the more the drag – and so the less quick we can go. But all of us are presented with numerous challenges. The first is set by the Formula, which limits the dimensions of the car – including the size and placement of any wings and fins. Second, the FIA – in trying to reduce the cost of F1 – has banned the teams from all testing, other than on the track during race weekends.’
Straker pulled an are-you-serious? face.
‘And, third, we’re allowed to simulate the aerodynamics in a wind tunnel, but – get this – we have to do it with half-sized cars. Our half-sized models are made of plastic rather than metal and carbon fibre, which of course requires a whole other manufacturing process,’ he said with a wave of his hand at all the technicians and machine tools laid out across the bustling workshop.
After a few minutes looking at the model, Moore led them on to a nearby computer screen. ‘F1 is an open-wheel formula. In other words, we can’t smooth the shape by covering the whole body like a Le Mans car, and we have limits on the size of the aerofoils we can fit. When an F1 car punches a hole through the air,’ he explained, ‘its profile, wheels, and protuberances create drag – friction, resistance – which slows us down. Our aim is to minimize that drag, and help increase the ease with which it slices through the air.’ The aerodynamicist tapped a few icons on the screen. Two images appeared. Straker saw the screen was horizontally split – top and bottom – each showing a silhouetted chassis. Blue smoke seemed to be flowing over each one. ‘Here,’ he said pointing at the upper image, ‘is a simulation of our car’s core body with no aero assistance at all.’
This top car, without any wings or surfaces, showed the blue smoke swirling frantically off the front wheels and bubbling the length of the car, with a huge cloud of turbulence behind. ‘Every element of disturbed air slows us down,’ said Moore. ‘Now look at the bottom model, which shows our current aerodynamic package.’
This car, fitted with the wings and surfaces, showed the blue smoke – the airflow – over and around it was considerably smoother. Even where there were blunt bits of the car, the small blades and fins attached to various parts clearly trimmed and nudged the airflow preventing nearly all of the turbulence seen in the one above.
‘Does this computer model analyze the airflows and then prescribe what changes are needed?’
‘Sadly not for everything. CFD, Computational Fluid Dynamics, are getting better but – for reliability – if we want to try something new, we prefer to physically cut out a fin or wing, stick it on the model, run it through the tunnel and see what happens.’
‘Pretty much trial and error, then?’
The aerodynamicist nodded and moved further down the workshop. ‘Here, for instance,’ said Moore, ‘we’re working on and testing a design for a new front wing we’ve come up with. It’s quite a radical innovation. We’ve configured these three blades,’ he said lifting up a model of the nosecone, ‘to go on each end of the front wing.’
These, Straker saw, were curved and in different sizes, the smallest was about the same size as a paperback novel with the largest about the size of a piece of A3.
‘As you can see, they’re each curved and, when they’re fitted together, have the effect of spiralling the air up and back off the end of each wing. We’ve nicknamed them our Fibonacci Blades.’
‘As in the golden section?’ offered Straker.
‘The very same,’ said the aerodynamicist with a nod of appreciation. ‘It’s uncanny how nature’s arithmetic, so often, gets it right.’
Straker took the model and studied it more closely. ‘When do you hope to have this on the cars?’
‘Spa this weekend. We’re testing it in the wind tunnel at the moment, if you want to go and take a look?’
Backhouse accepted the invitation and they thanked Moore for his time. Straker was led from the modelling workshop through another set of computer-controlled doors and into a vast room. This was filled with a deafening rushing sound. Above their heads was a twelve-foot diameter tube configured in a circle about thirty yards across. ‘That’s the tunnel up there,’ said Backhouse as he led Straker up some stairs. ‘Air is accelerated and then whizzed continually round that loop.’
‘Like your own mini Hadron Collider?’
They reached a viewing gallery. Set in one wall was a sheet of glass which gave them sight of a half-sized model of a Ptarmigan racing car suspended from the ceiling by a complicated-looking hydraulic arm.
Backhouse provided a voice-over for Straker as he stared transfixed through the window: ‘You will notice the floor under the car is being rolled extremely quickly, which is turning the wheels. We do that to simulate the airflow through and around a real car as best we can.’
‘How long do you test each model for?’
‘Each modification gets about an hour in here. The results are analyzed. We then play with a few alterations, which we hope will make a difference, and then go back and test it all again – and so on.’
‘Good God, it sounds never-ending.’
‘It is – because it’s an iterative pr
ocess. It shouldn’t surprise you that this wind tunnel is running twenty-four hours a day.’
‘No down time, then? How close to Spa will we be testing the car for that race?’
‘Right up until Remy’s car leaves here for Belgium tomorrow evening – hopefully fitted with our new design, the Fibonacci Blades, that Colin mentioned next door. You can see them, there, on the model,’ said Backhouse pointing through the window.
Backhouse walked Straker back to his office. ‘The fact is that if you don’t make improvements to your car, with every other team constantly trying to innovate, you’ll effectively end up going backwards,’ summarized Backhouse. ‘The Formula may get more and more restrictive from one year to the next, but, despite that, the developments we all make to our designs still make the cars go faster and faster every year.’
‘The pressure to perform is absolutely remarkable,’ declared Straker. ‘We were lectured on competitiveness throughout training in the Marines, but I truly didn’t fully understand what being competitive meant until I saw this. Your pursuit of every possible ounce of performance – in every single component of the cars – is astonishing. With all this effort and dedication, it makes the work of the saboteur all the more detestable.’
EIGHTEEN
Backhouse led Straker into his spacious office, which had a restful view through the reflective glass out over the Oxfordshire countryside. Its inside walls were festooned with pictures of racing cars, miniature replicas of trophies, models of Ptarmigan cars and other memorabilia. Unexpectedly, one wall showed an array of photographs from a time when Backhouse had clearly been a member of the Massarella team. Straker had been completely unaware of that association in Backhouse’s past.
Turning his attention to the room, he was grateful to see a plate of shrink-wrapped sandwiches and several cans of soft drink waiting for them on the desk.
‘Thanks for the tour,’ said Straker. ‘It’s helped fill me in on the process, pressures, as well as our systems. Can we talk about overall security?’
‘Sure,’ said Backhouse, unwrapping the sandwiches and offering them to Straker. ‘You saw our computer-operated doors around the factory. Every member of our four hundred staff wears a security pass and has to swipe in and out of everywhere they go, as we did. That would have to make it hard for anyone to be where they shouldn’t, or do anything without being spotted.’
Straker acknowledged the statement with a nod.
‘What about scrutiny of the team out on the road and while we’ve got people at races?’
‘Not possible to be so tight,’ said Backhouse. ‘The road crew numbers about sixty, which includes the lorry drivers, those who travel with the cars, the kit, those who set up the garages in the pit lane, and the staff in the headquarter truck. Lorries can get left unattended, as do, sometimes, the cars and our kit – when things are being unloaded.’
‘What can we do to tighten security away at races?’
Backhouse finished chewing and snapped open a can of Coke. ‘The circuits operate very strict accreditation and pass controls, as you saw in Monte-Carlo. But they are not perfect and – here’s the crucial flaw – they don’t stop accredited members of other teams coming near us. We often find people wandering about – particularly, would you believe, in the pit lane?’
Straker frowned. ‘Where, then, do you reckon we are most vulnerable to interference?’
‘If these saboteurs have someone on the inside, Matt, it could be anywhere. I wouldn’t know where to begin.’
Straker was surprised by such resignation. He hadn’t expected Backhouse to be quite so fatalistic. ‘What about external interference, then?’
‘We have a number of external suppliers – not many – who we accredit at the factory visit by visit. There, though, I think the opportunities are more limited – as the risks are enormous. If the saboteurs are connected with another team, and they got caught, the fines they’d suffer from the FIA would pretty much put them out of business. So if it is another team, they have got to be extraordinarily careful, clever and discreet.’
‘I think we need to face up to this being a very real and devious threat.’
Backhouse almost shrugged. ‘What do you want from us then?’
‘Enhanced awareness,’ replied Straker. ‘You have good security in the factory, which seemed to work well as we walked around this morning. We need everyone to stick to your existing rules, to the letter; it might be an inconvenience, but that will make it harder for any rogue insider. Also, at races, let’s cut out all visits to the pits for non-team members. Let’s set up our own internal checks into and out of our garage in the pit lane.’
Backhouse raised his eyebrows. ‘You do realize there’s an incompatibility between the spontaneity of a tactical racing team and the rigid processes of a security system.’
‘Look what happened to Helli. Do we really want to take any chance with machines that go this fast? It’s not just the lives of our drivers. It could be the crowds around the track. Next time the saboteurs strike, they could actually kill people.’
‘Of course I understand that,’ said Backhouse testily.
‘So we’ll tighten everything up?’
The race engineer nodded unenthusiastically. ‘So what are you doing – about all this?’ he said with just a hint of a challenge.
Ignoring Backhouse’s frustrated tone, he said: ‘Sabotage research. I want to learn more from the bug, which I’m hoping will tell us something. I also want us to go over what’s left of Helli’s car – to convince ourselves that his crash wasn’t caused by anything sinister.’
Backhouse took another bite of his sandwich. ‘The Monaco kit should be here by lunchtime tomorrow. We can examine the bug and begin the crash investigation then.’
‘Okay.’ Straker went on: ‘In the meantime, I want to chase down every lead – particularly Michael Lyons. How far are we from Gaydon?’
‘Ten or so miles.’
Straker looked at his watch. ‘In that case I’d like to borrow two things?’ Straker explained what he wanted to do. ‘The first, therefore, is a version of whatever system you use to track the cars round a circuit?’
‘A GPS tag. We can fix up some bits and pieces normally attached to an MES logger. What’s the other?’
‘A car?’
‘We’ve got Ptarmigan courtesy cars. You can have one of those.’
‘Are they liveried?’
‘Turquoise, brand name, the works.’
Straker smiled apologetically. ‘I’m looking for something inconspicuous – not flashy. Unmarked.’
‘Not really, then. You can take mine, if you like?’
‘What’ve you got?’
‘A six-year-old Ford Focus.’
‘Perfect.’
Later that afternoon, having spent some time with a Ptarmigan technician, Straker drove the nondescript Ford down the Edgehill escarpment, making his way to Gaydon. To his delight he saw four Aston Martins – being driven under trade plates – go by in the other direction.
He reached the edge of the village and started looking for the address elicited from the porter of that apartment block in Monte-Carlo.
A few minutes later Straker found himself driving down a very rural single-track road. Several hundred yards further along he saw a patch of mown verge and several white-painted stones marking the entrance to a driveway. “Flax Cottage” was painted, in an Old English typeface, on a plaque fixed to the gate.
Straker had reached his target.
Slowing to a walking pace, he crawled by – looking through the driveway to take in the small cottage, its thatched roof, neatly gravelled drive and wealth of colourful plants and flowers in the garden. There were no cars parked out front.
Straker found another house a few hundred yards further on, meaning that Lyons’s home was isolated and fairly private.
Turning round, but hanging some way back from Flax Cottage – on a bend in the road – Straker pulled up onto the verge and positio
ned himself to have a partial view back along the lane towards Michael Lyons’s driveway. This spot would allow him discreetly to observe anyone who came or went. He looked at his watch. It was nearing five-thirty in the afternoon.
So now he was sitting there, watching the house that he believed belonged to the Monte-Carlo saboteur. This address was all he had to go on to trace the people trying to do Ptarmigan harm. Straker had to smile to himself. How could this sleepy single-track road, and the modesty of this quintessentially English cottage, be so directly linked to the glamour, pace and wealth of the global Formula One industry? But it was – through an unknown I.T. specialist from Gaydon in Warwickshire.
Who was Michael Lyons? Who did he work for? And why the hell had he been trying to sabotage Remy Sabatino in Monaco?
Straker settled back in to his seat and waited for him to appear down this lonely country lane.
NINETEEN
It wasn’t until seven o’clock that evening that anything happened. A Peugeot hatchback appeared, coming down the road towards him.
Straker sat up.
The car indicated left and shortly afterwards pulled in through the gate of Flax Cottage. Was this Michael Lyons returning home?
The evening was still bright, although with the cloud thickening to the west, the sun was long obscured and the light levels were fading fast.
Wanting to take a closer look, Straker climbed out of his car and walked along the lane towards Flax Cottage. He reached the gate and cautiously peered into the driveway. The small Peugeot was parked out on the gravel. Lights had come on in the house. Each window, Straker saw, had a curtain drawn across it. The occupant had clearly withdrawn for the day.
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