Driven

by Toby Vintcent

  ‘Wouldn’t have thought so, would you?’

  ‘How do they square with Lyons’s clandestine jamming, then?’

  Backhouse shook his head.

  ‘So Lyons must have been doing this as a sideline – a bit of moonlighting – mustn’t he?’

  Backhouse shrugged in part-support of the logic.

  There was a moment of silence between them. Straker leafed through some of the other pages. ‘There’s a list of Trifecta investors here – and, hang on, that’s interesting: There’s been some recent corporate activity. Back in March, someone acquired fifty-one per cent of the company. Someone called Avel Obrenovich?’

  Backhouse’s face changed in an instant. ‘I don’t believe it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s extraordinary.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He only happens to be Massarella’s principal sponsor.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  Straker buzzed with this new intelligence, his mind swirling. What did it mean? Frustratingly, he was called away from his meditations before he could plan his next step.

  Minutes after twelve noon, having had a pretty clear overnight run, the convoy of Ptarmigan lorries arrived back at the Shenington factory from Monte-Carlo. Backhouse led Straker down to the loading bay to see them arrive. Pulling in through the large hangar-like doors, their air brakes were applied and the engines cut. With only hours before the lorries would be away again, this time for Belgium, the team went to work immediately, unloading and processing all their kit and equipment. Most of the attention – including Backhouse’s and Straker’s – was paid to the lorry carrying the wreckage of Helli Cunzer’s car. Fork-lift trucks, hand-pushed trolleys, and about twenty men converged round the tailgate as the segments, fragments and remains of the car were extracted and placed on the painted concrete floor of the bay.

  ‘We’ll be laying all the bits out on the floor in here,’ Backhouse explained, ‘and we’ll subject every remnant to scrutiny and testing to try and determine the cause of the crash.’

  Straker soon went back to his temporary office.

  He was called by Backhouse ten minutes later. ‘I’ve got Remy’s helmet,’ he said. ‘Do you want to come and see us research the jamming device?’

  They met up again as Backhouse was carrying the helmet into the electronics lab. He placed it on one of the work benches. Backhouse peered in through the visor and then ran his finger into the folds in the foam lining where the device had been put back.

  His expression changed dramatically as he moved his fingers round the inside of the lining. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘What?’ asked Straker.

  ‘It’s not there.’

  ‘It’s not there?’

  ‘No.’

  Carefully turning the helmet over, Backhouse unpopped some of the fastenings, pulled the foam inner out of the casing and laid it on the white workbench. Gently easing the foam panels apart, he opened up the groove where the jammer had been. ‘It’s definitely not here,’ he repeated and looked up into the other’s face. ‘It’s gone.’

  Straker looked deeply concerned. ‘I want the area around it on the lorry dismantled and checked. Immediately.’

  Straker called Quartano an hour later from his temporary office.

  ‘What do you mean it’s gone?’ asked the tycoon. ‘You sure it hasn’t just fallen out? Somewhere in the truck, or fallen out into its carrying case?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m afraid not. We’ve stripped the compartment down completely.’

  ‘Someone’s taken it out for safe keeping?’

  ‘No, sir. We’ve asked everyone if they’ve been near the helmet – not why, of course – and we’ve even made contact with absent members of staff who are away on a break for a few days.’

  ‘Matt,’ said Quartano with unexpected gravity. ‘Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?’

  ‘As much as I can be.’

  ‘Christ, you know what this means, of course,’ said Quartano solemnly.

  ‘It’s been removed – to cover the saboteur’s tracks. But worse, it means that even if Charlotte put it there, she clearly wasn’t the person who took it out. Someone else did. And it must’ve been one of the team. It means we’ve got a serious problem. Our saboteurs do still have a collaborator … right here … on the inside.’

  PART TWO

  EAU ROUGE

  TWENTY-TWO

  Straker returned home to Fulham early that evening, craving the comfort of familiar surroundings. But opening the door of his – their – empty flat, the hollowness hit him hard. Worse, among the backlog of post strewn across the mat, he saw an envelope franked with the name of his wife’s solicitors. A pulse hissed through his ears. The grim reality of what that letter meant was all too obvious.

  Dropping his bags inside the door, Straker placed the letter on the hall table, unable to bring himself to open it.

  After running a bath, and pouring a hefty tumbler of whisky, he finally summoned himself.

  Having read it, he sighed. And breathed deeply. He and Jo were, mercifully, not at war. They would clearly reach an agreement and looked like they would settle as fast as the process allowed. He had a flat. She had a flat. There were no children. But it was the fact of it that finally got to him. Six years, altogether, many of which had been happy and close.

  Straker found himself swallowing hard.

  His rendition and enhanced interrogation by the Americans, and resultant struggles to reconcile those ethics with everything he had believed in for twenty years, really did for them – well him, at any rate.

  He hoped, now, that he was over the worst of his turbulent reaction to those experiences. The flashbacks had been becoming much less frequent. His recovery had been happening gradually, but – tragically – not fast enough to reassure his wife that his psyche was on the mend.

  Straker spent his one day of leave moping around the flat. His curtains remained closed for the entire time. He sat slumped in a chair. His only distractions were a bottle of whisky and the track which best captured his mood – Miles Davis’s ‘Blue in Green’ – which he played semi-hypnotically in a continuous loop on his B&O CD player. He didn’t remember eating. He never felt hungry. Waking from another fitful sleep in the middle of the following night, he set out on a punishing run through the deserted streets of west London, trying to purge himself.

  He was glad to be going away again.

  Just before leaving their flat, breathing deeply, he signed the letter, slid it back into its envelope and posted it in a postbox at the end of his street.

  This time it was Belgium.

  He flew to Liège, timing his arrival to coincide with Remy Sabatino’s flight in by private jet from Malta, she having asked for an update on his dealing with the sabotage threat. By the time they met up, Straker had just about forced himself to regain some equanimity.

  They climbed aboard their chartered helicopter and flew in the Bell Jet Ranger up into the mountains of the Ardennes. Several silent minutes into the flight, Sabatino spoke to him over the intercom. ‘You okay?’ she asked provocatively.

  Straker turned to face her. ‘Sure.’

  ‘You seem quiet?’

  ‘No, no,’ he said defensively, aware he was not being particularly convincing. ‘I was … thinking about the investigation.’

  ‘Right…’

  Straker stepped straight back in before she could say anything else. ‘We’ve made some progress,’ he said.

  ‘With Helli’s car?’

  Straker shook his head. ‘No, not yet – they’re still working on that. It’ll be a few more days before we’ll know any more there.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘We’ve found some links with Michael Lyons – your radio jammer.’

  Sabatino looked impressed. ‘Wow – with who?’

  ‘Trifecta Systems.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘We’re pretty sure Lyons works there.’

  ‘But they suppl
y us, don’t they? Why would they be sabotaging us at the same time?’

  Straker’s whole mood seemed to change with his subsequent smile.

  Sabatino looked disapproving. ‘What’s so funny? How’s that funny?’

  ‘Don’t you see?’ he said searchingly. ‘That’s good news. It’s a lead – a clue. Precisely because it doesn’t make any sense.’

  Sabatino looked blank.

  ‘It’s a clear invitation for us to look into this further,’ he explained. ‘If it did make sense, we wouldn’t bother with it – we wouldn’t give it a moment’s thought. We’d move straight on.’

  Sabatino’s face registered a partial understanding of what Straker was getting at. ‘Who are the other links with, then?’

  ‘We’ve found a connection between Trifecta and Avel Obrenovich.’

  ‘No! How?’

  ‘Recently – very recently – Obrenovich became the majority shareholder in Trifecta.’

  Sabatino looked impressed then somewhat concerned. ‘That’s more good detective work. Wow. Does that mean Massarella are behind this, then?’

  ‘We’ve got no proof of any direct interaction between any of these people,’ Straker went on. ‘Elsewhere, we do have a different connection – this time one between Michael Lyons and Benbecular – through a man who works for them called Jeremy Barnett.’

  Sabatino shook her head to indicate no recognition.

  ‘At this stage, though, I can’t see any reason to believe that’s anything other than a routine relationship.’

  Sabatino’s expression showed a mix of intrigue and anxiousness.

  ‘But,’ continued Straker calmly, ‘we do have one point of concern.’

  Because of his tone, Sabatino looked at him intensely.

  ‘I know you didn’t approve of my putting the bug back in your helmet – after Qualifying in Monaco – to provide misinformation to the saboteurs?’

  Sabatino nodded – and then shook her head, acknowledging that she now did.

  ‘Well, when your kit was returned to the factory, I asked Andy to have the device taken out and examined, hoping we might learn something from it. But when he went to look for it … the bug was gone.’

  ‘Fallen out?’

  Straker shook his head. ‘No, we’re sure it was removed.’

  ‘Removed?’

  ‘We searched everything.’

  Sabatino fell silent for a moment. ‘What does that mean?’ she asked. ‘Does it mean we do have a traitor – on the inside of the team?’

  ‘I’m afraid it appears that way,’ he said firmly.

  Sabatino continued to look straight at Straker. Her dark brown eyes and tanned face suddenly looked less striking than they should have done. For all her brilliance as a driver, and her courage and toughness when racing wheel to wheel at breakneck speed, there was a glimmer of vulnerability. ‘What are you doing about it, then?’

  Straker smiled inwardly at the change in her attitude – how she would have so readily dismissed this before as spy games, as she first did in Monaco. Having expected this question, and knowing he had to sound convincing to retain her trust, he said: ‘Several things,’ and explained them confidently, without losing eye contact.

  ‘And none of those will interfere with the workings of the team?’

  ‘Minimally.’

  ‘Who are you telling about this threat?’

  Straker allowed himself to convey a little uncertainty at his point. ‘I wanted to talk to you about that. This is a sport and you’re the competitor. How would the guys around you react to the idea of a saboteur been in among them?’

  Sabatino slowly rocked her head from side to side, as if weighing up the consequences.

  ‘It’s your call,’ he went on, ‘but making a big song and dance about it could just make people suspicious of each other – and so easily damage team spirit?’

  Sabatino, far from looking vulnerable, now looked like she was ready to affect events rather than be prey to them. ‘Given the other measures you’ve described, I’m happier not to advertize the existence of the insider. How many people know about this as of now?’

  ‘That the bug was removed?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Only Backhouse, Quartano, you and me.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  The helicopter flew in over the extensive forests of the Ardennes. Sabatino looked out of the window. After cogitating Straker’s news for a few minutes, she turned to face him – and smiled naturally. Then, moving her hand towards him, she laid it briefly on the clothed part of his sleeve, and said: ‘What you’ve done so far with the investigation is impressive. If you do as much here as you did for me in Monaco, I know I’ll be fine.’

  Straker nodded his acknowledgment of her trust.

  They began a sweeping banked turn. Straker was given a superb view of the magnificent Spa-Francorchamps race track spread out below. In contrast to Monaco, where the circuit was right in the thick of things, here the track was out in the wilds – in the middle of nowhere.

  He could see the grey ribbon of road snaking its way through the dense dark green woodland as it rose and fell with the rolling topography of the mountains. The only vaguely similar aspect to Monaco was the short stretch of public highway that Spa – in this, its latest guise – incorporated into the circuit, complete with its everyday white lines and road markings.

  ‘How does this track compare with the others?’ asked Straker looking to lighten the conversation.

  Sabatino’s brown eyes flashed from behind her black-rimmed glasses. ‘I’ve raced here only once, with a GP2 team, but it’s easily my favourite.’

  ‘Does it matter that you’ve not driven an F1 car round here before?’

  ‘Yes and no – mainly no. I’ve spent a good deal of time in the simulator. The main difference for me, this time, will be Eau Rouge.’

  ‘Eau Rouge?’

  ‘The section of any race track in the world. When you drive it in the slower cars, you’re not driving to the limit of the circuit – more to the limit of the cars. For me, this time, the test of nerve will be whether I lift off or not.’

  Straker looked slightly puzzled.

  ‘Whether I go through the compression and the S-shaped corners at full throttle,’ she explained, ‘or whether I chicken out and lift off – lift off the accelerator.’

  ‘How fast will you be going through this Eau Rouge?’

  ‘With any luck,’ she said with a flash of a smile, ‘at just over two hundred miles an hour.’

  Soon after the helicopter put down Straker and Sabatino made their way to accreditation and were issued with their passes. As they parted company, there was a moment between them – an acknowledgement of the threat from an unknown source. Straker didn’t want to be too upbeat and seem flippant, or too down, so as to be dispiriting. He ended up feeling pleased. He felt the overriding mood at their departure was one of stoicism.

  Straker made straight for the pit lane, anxious to meet up with Backhouse and familiarize himself with the lie of the land.

  The race engineer declared: ‘I’ve got you a meeting with Spa’s head of security just after lunch.’

  ‘Good work. That’ll help address our external threats. What happens, though, if we suffer another jamming signal?’

  ‘Without the transmitting device? Is that likely?’

  ‘Depends on whether that’s all the saboteurs had,’ replied Straker. ‘We only found that one by chance. It’s perfectly possible there’s something else in the mix that we’ve missed or don’t know about.’

  Straker found the offices of the security manager behind the main grandstand. Maurice Beauregard was a middle-aged man with a paunch. But the man’s alert blue eyes suggested to Straker that they didn’t miss much.

  Backhouse had done some useful homework and briefed Straker accordingly. Beauregard had been with the Brussels police for ten years, ending up responsible for close protection of key personnel at SHAPE. A gunshot wound, sustained while fen
ding off an attempt on the life of the Turkish Ambassador to NATO, had brought Beauregard’s active service to an early close. His role at the Spa-Francorchamps circuit may have been a bit of a comedown in responsibility – and pay – by comparison, but, rather than be put out to grass, Beauregard preferred to keep active. Besides, it suited him spiritually as he was a fanatical motor racing fan.

  Straker entered his office, shook hands, and asked whether he would mind if they held the meeting in private.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ said Straker after shutting the door. ‘We have a problem and we’re keen to ask your advice. May I speak to you in the strictest confidence?’

  Straker didn’t mind sounding a little melodramatic. At least it was working. Beauregard lowered himself into his chair, his eyes fixed intensely on Straker’s face. He had Beauregard’s attention all right.

  ‘In Monaco,’ Straker went on, ‘one of the radios we used to communicate with our drivers was jammed.’

  ‘Jamm-ed?’ repeated Beauregard. ‘What is jamm-ed?’

  ‘Blocked out by another signal. Deliberately interrupted.’

  Beauregard looked unmoved.

  Anticipating such scepticism, Straker had thought it wise to bring his recordings of the radio traffic in Monte-Carlo. He placed the digital recorder on Beauregard’s desk and pressed play.

  Even before he had run it all the way through, Straker was in no doubt he had Beauregard onside.

  ‘We have removed the device that did this,’ continued Straker not wanting to complicate the issue further, ‘but we’re concerned, of course, that there might be others that we haven’t found.’

  Beauregard looked suitably troubled hearing that his beloved sport might be sullied by this sort of thing. Hoping to reinforce the gravity of the situation, Straker said: ‘We’ve made a representation to the FIA about this.’

  Beauregard was clearly affected. ‘This is terrible – but why are you telling me now?’