Driven

by Toby Vintcent

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Within the hour, the President of the FIA – Bo San Marino – received Matt Straker and Andy Backhouse in his hospitality suite within the Spa-Francorchamps complex.

  Straker, having been at the last meeting to reveal the discovery of sabotage in Monte-Carlo, made contact through official channels and offered this meeting to the President as an update and follow on. San Marino agreed to see Ptarmigan immediately.

  As Straker and Backhouse walked in through the President’s doors, though, they were taken by surprise. Joss MacRae, the head of the F1 commercial rights holder, was there too. In response to Backhouse’s expression, San Marino said: ‘I hope you don’t mind Joss being in on this,’ but offered no chance for them to demur.

  They were invited to sit. Straker looked over at Joss MacRae who, already sitting and working on some papers in his lap, seemed far from ready to engage.

  ‘What’s happened to prompt another meeting?’ asked the President.

  ‘Sir,’ replied Straker, ‘when we met before in Monaco, we presented you with evidence of interference with Ptarmigan’s radio communication.’ Straker glanced across at MacRae who still seemed distracted. ‘We regret that we’ve had another case of intervention here this afternoon. We had an incident during Q2 when Remy Sabatino’s car went unexpectedly out of control approaching Les Combes. We have findings to indicate that this was induced by another team.’

  Joss MacRae suddenly looked up and glared at Straker. ‘How convenient that one of the overpaid chauffeurs should cite a third party to excuse lousy driving.’

  Straker felt his hackles instantly rise, but fought to freeze his face to prevent giving away the strength of his reaction. He determinedly maintained eye contact and, judging the moment to reply, did so in a slow, soft voice: ‘Do facts not have a bearing in assessing such things?’

  ‘The stuff you produced for the President in Monaco – some crackle on a radio – hardly warrants serious consideration. And, as for this afternoon, when a driver makes a clear error – dropping their car under braking – what facts are needed? If you don’t have any proof, shut the fuck up.’

  Straker turned to look at Backhouse, who appeared fit to burst.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked the race engineer. ‘You’re not prepared even to listen to our findings?’

  MacRae leant forwards and looked Backhouse straight in the eye. It was an intimidating stare, one that MacRae was known to have used to devastating effect during his career. ‘This is what I know, Mr Backhouse. This is a business. Billions of dollars are at stake, as are many thousands of jobs. The last thing Formula One needs, right now, is another scandal. You make a sanctimonious song and dance, based on unsubstantiated allegations, about an obvious rival of yours for the Championship – and you know what sponsors will say? Sour grapes. No thanks. And how would that look to your new benefactors and the vastly inflated sum of money you’re hoping to fleece them for? I say grow up, and grow a pair,’ he said, which, after a few moments, seemed to amuse him.

  Backhouse’s face changed colour several times while MacRae had been speaking.

  Straker looked across at San Marino, trying to judge his reaction to this unexpected line. Straker was disappointed to discern no real reaction from him to MacRae’s comments. But San Marino was a dignified man, and might be being old-fashioned, Straker hoped. Wasn’t he remaining silent for the sake of presenting a collective front from the leadership of F1?

  ‘Can I ask you a question, Joss?’ said Straker.

  MacRae, slightly surprised by such a reasonable response to his provocative tirade and Straker’s tutoiement, looked a little off balance.

  ‘Just suppose that there is some validity to our findings?’ said Straker. ‘And what if,’ Straker went on deliberately ignoring MacRae’s grunts, ‘someone were to be killed, because of this – which could so easily have happened this afternoon. Your first death since 1994. What would that do to your business?’

  MacRae shook his head in a particularly dismissive way. ‘It would make for great spectacle, great TV, and great news coverage. Cunzer’s spectacular balls-up in Monaco – shown in countless news bulletins around the world – easily added ten points to our ratings.’

  Straker weighed up the situation and reached a clear conclusion. This exchange was getting them nowhere. Rising slowly to his feet, he said: ‘I can only thank you both for your time,’ and looked across at Backhouse, inviting him to follow his lead out of the room.

  ‘Fuck me,’ said the race engineer as they exited the President’s suite onto the corridor. ‘What the hell was that?’

  Straker, suffering the after-effects of suppressing his own reaction, felt his heart rate and body temperature rise. ‘We may not have a cast-iron case, but any reasonable mind would remain curious, surely – at least until it had been completely disproven.’

  Stomping down through the grandstand complex they reached the Ptarmigan garage in the pit lane. Once ensured of some privacy, Straker pulled out his iPhone and rang Quartano in London. He invited Backhouse to lean in to hear the conversation.

  ‘He said that?’ replied Quartano. ‘“Ten points to our ratings”?’

  ‘Verbatim.’

  ‘“Don’t rock the boat”. Don’t upset this multi-billion-dollars-a-year business. MacRae’s attitude – complacency, let alone callousness – is staggering.’

  Quartano was enraged but realized quickly he had to rationalize the situation. ‘What’s your response to all this, Matt?’ he asked, restoring his equilibrium.

  ‘We need to get over the offence of this and try to understand MacRae’s response. The man’s behaviour was completely disproportionate. My starting point, whenever faced with someone behaving so unreasonably – in any circumstance – is to try and identify their emotional starting point.’

  Quartano grunted. ‘Sorry? Don’t know what that means.’

  ‘That there is clearly more to this than meets the eye. I’ll wager something’s going on between the people involved in this – or is happening behind the scenes – for MacRae to have had such an exaggerated and unreasonable reaction.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. But, somehow – inadvertently – we must have touched an already-open sore. If I could find any indication as to what that is, we might understand this a little better.’

  ‘I like that.’

  ‘Good, but obviously it isn’t going to happen this afternoon. For now, we’ve got to focus on protecting Remy.’

  ‘What can you do?’

  ‘A fair amount. We’re already reconfiguring the engine limiter system – changing its frequencies and computer code. Nobody will be able to interfere with that anymore. Also, we’re adding second frequencies to the data links now – as we did, before, to the radio net. That means we’ll be transmitting over parallel channels – so we can be sure of maintaining contact, even if there are further attempts to disrupt any one of our communications.’

  ‘Matt, that’s good work. But don’t let up on exposing these people. I want us to bring Massarella to book for what they did there this afternoon.’

  ‘Right, sir. Further accusations without proof, though, will simply look like sour grapes. We’d have to build a cast-iron case, if we’re to have any hope of nailing them properly.’

  ‘Do whatever you have to do, Matt. And, now, of course, for the added satisfaction of exposing that odious little arsehole MacRae.’

  That evening, just before midnight, Straker found Backhouse in the bar at Ptarmigan’s hotel in Malmedy. The room was fairly dark, lit by spotlights here and there, but with most of the illumination coming from behind the display of bottles against the back wall. Backhouse was sitting on a bar stool on his own, and had clearly been there for some time, his mood unimproved since their distressing meeting with San Marino and MacRae earlier that day.

  ‘How can they behave like that?’ he asked Straker. ‘They were no help – and we need help against Massarella’s … devi-us
-ness.’

  Straker could only nod his agreement. He caught the eye of the barman and ordered a drink for them both.

  Backhouse swayed slightly as Straker climbed onto a bar stool beside him: ‘But can you be sure, Matt, that you can stop them?’

  ‘We need evidence, Andy, particularly if they go on being as devious as they have been.’

  ‘And they will be – they will. It’s the FIA penalties that are forcing them to be so underhand. If they got caught, they’d be fined tens of millions of dollars.’

  The barman reappeared with their drinks, placing Straker’s whisky down on a napkin in front of him. ‘Indeed, Andy. Worse, they could end up killing someone.’

  A hint of panic flashed across Backhouse’s face. ‘That could be catastrophic,’ he said. ‘I dread sending Remy out again – after today – knowing she might be hurt.’

  Straker took a sip of his whisky and looked at Backhouse over the rim of his glass.

  ‘It’s wrong, Matt, it’s wrong. They shouldn’t be getting away with this. How do we show the world what they’re doing,’ Backhouse asked almost forlornly. ‘How?’

  ‘Without being proactive,’ Straker replied, ‘and I mean invasive – I really don’t know. We have no power to interview them, nor any power to eavesdrop. We have no intercept rights – no entitlement to search premises.’

  ‘So there’s nothing more you can do to prove it’s them – or be sure of stopping them?’ said Backhouse almost with a catch in his voice. ‘We’ve just got to sit back and take this?’

  Straker saw the race engineer’s face say it all. He suddenly felt the man’s anguish.

  Was now the time? Straker asked himself. He thought of Sabatino – of Cunzer – of Ptarmigan – even the $750 million sponsorship that was at stake. Straker seemed to come to a decision. Leaning in, he whispered close to the man’s ear – for several seconds.

  Straker pulled back to study Backhouse’s expression.

  He was baffled.

  Backhouse’s face was suddenly impossible to read.

  Straker turned in shortly afterwards, his mind in turmoil. Knowing he was so preoccupied, he was anxious about falling asleep in case he suffered an episode. Every time he felt he might be dropping off, he jolted himself awake in anticipation of suffering one of his flashbacks. It began to be wearying. The only thing keeping him sane was the thought of being responsible for keeping someone else safe.

  Finally overcome by tiredness – towards two o’clock in the morning – he eventually succumbed to sleep. Even so, he woke at four, starting himself awake again to find every light in his room still burning brightly. With a heart-felt growl of frustration he took solace in the only way he knew how while in this frame of mind. Climbing into his running kit, he let himself out of the family-run hotel, setting off on a purging run through the darkness. A chill in the air was welcome. Its edge served as a refreshing distraction.

  Running straight up a long drag from the valley bottom, Straker used the pain and exertion to try and clear his head. Only after a prolonged stint of anaerobic respiration, and the resultant muscle burn searing his concentration, did he start to calm himself down. As he ran along the dirt track of a long woodland ride, he began to turn the sabotage incidents over in his mind, along with that monstrous reaction from MacRae.

  What the hell was going on there?

  Straker quickly realized that trying to fathom all that out would have to come later. For now, he had to focus on the more immediate issue: how to protect Ptarmigan and Sabatino from further sabotage of their performance – let alone safety – here in Spa. Clearly, the FIA or MacRae weren’t going to be of any help. He had to think of something else.

  Straker ran on. Dawn broke and the first sunlight struck the tops of the mountains.

  After a long uphill drag of a solid mile through the forest, he reached a bend in the road. There, a gap in the trees gave him a superb view out over Malmedy and the valley below. Breathing deeply to aid his recovery, he thought through the sabotage again and made a decision. There might be a way of buying some protection – for today, at least.

  Monza, in two weeks’ time, would be another bridge to be crossed at a later date.

  Race day of the Belgian Grand Prix rolled on. The sun was shining, and there was a light breeze. Track temperatures were around twenty degrees Celsius.

  In spite of the clear danger of sabotage, and her fury at MacRae’s bizarre outburst, Sabatino was adamant she was going to race.

  By half-past one the cars were on the grid and the pit straight was chock-a-block with mechanics, the ubiquitous pit lizards holding the drivers’ name boards, other team members, hoards of media, and showboating celebrities inauthentically professing years of interest in Formula One.

  Straker escorted Sabatino from the garage in her turquoise suit, he carrying her fire-retardant balaclava and helmet. Immaculately turned out – her short nut-brown hair was freshly clean, in place, and shining – she didn’t need to wear make-up to show that she’d made an effort, not least as her mood had changed. Her brown eyes behind the black-rimmed glasses were sparkling. Straker inferred she’d managed to harness her anger at the FIA reaction into positive energy and self-belief, once again.

  Or was it the idea Straker had put to her?

  They ducked through the pit wall onto the track. Her car, in P14, was way down to their left. Instead, she turned right, along the start/finish straight towards the front of the grid. Straker struggled to keep up as she strode between the mass of bodies, cars, mechanics and trolleys. Sabatino made her way up to the leading Massarella car, driven by Simi Luciano, in P3.

  ‘Hey, Eugene,’ Straker heard her say as she barged into the Massarella clique standing in front of their car and caught the team boss by surprise.

  Van Der Vaal glowered at the interruption.

  ‘I know what you’re up to,’ she said with a smile. Slowly, and entirely at her own pace, she pulled three pieces of paper from inside her turquoise racing suit, unfolded them and held them up against her chest so he could see them. ‘This page shows my data link carrier wave and telemetry up to my incident at Les Combes yesterday,’ she said pointing with a finger. ‘This is a photograph of Barrantes activating some form of zapper at exactly the same time. And this picture shows my rain light coming on – indicating the engine limiter being activated – at over two hundred miles an hour. Look at the time code on all the pictures, Eugene.’ Then with throwaway levity she added: ‘I know exactly what you’re up to.’

  Despite his irritation at the interruption, Eugene Van Der Vaal couldn’t help looking down at the images. But then he pulled an amused but dismissive expression. ‘More of your fantasies – to make up for being only a woman, my dear?’ he said, clearly softening his Afrikaans accent. ‘You know, male drivers don’t need these sorts of excuses when they make such a rookie mistake.’

  Straker saw her smile in return, completely unfazed by the patronizing tone. Her face then hardened. ‘I know that you, Eugene, and Massarella, limited my engine.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, young lady.’

  A mechanic tried to squeeze past two TV crews doing an interview with Luciano and inadvertently bumped into Straker, knocking him slightly off balance. Holding Sabatino’s helmet didn’t help his centre of gravity. Stepping quickly out to the side to steady himself, he tried desperately not to put his foot down on the Massarella’s front wing. As Straker looked down to place his feet, though, he saw something that took him completely by surprise.

  On either side of the Massarella’s black nosecone, he saw a shape he recognized almost instantly – identical to the distinctive airflow surfaces he had been shown by Ptarmigan’s aerodynamicist and seen tested in the wind tunnel in Shenington, and which were now on Sabatino’s car. Weren’t they their Fibonacci Blades? How the hell had they got there? Straker couldn’t believe it. He almost shivered at the breach of trust by their infernal traitor. Regaining his balance, he turned back to t
he exchange.

  ‘I heard you went running off to San Marino,’ Van Der Vaal was saying. ‘He threw your whingeing out as inconclusive.’

  Sabatino, stretching herself up, moved in just a little closer to the Afrikaner, which induced a look of awkwardness on the South African’s face for the first time. ‘You’ve put me down to fourteenth place. I’ve got nothing to lose today. So, Eugene,’ she said as she folded up her pages, and put them back in a pocket, ‘how many cars do you want to lose in this race, eh? One? … Both?’

  For a fleeting moment there was a glimmer of hesitation. Straker sensed that Van Der Vaal didn’t quite know whether she was being serious.

  ‘Any trouble from you, Eugene, and I take your cars off. Capiche?’

  Straker was engrossed; he even forgot the work of the rogue insider for a moment. He watched this electric encounter, his eyes flicking from one to the other. Then he saw Sabatino attempt to throw Van Der Vaal off balance again. Slowly, gently, she stretched up and leant in even closer to the Massarella team boss. Equally slowly, she raised a hand and placed it on his arm. Van Der Vaal’s look of hesitation returned. Sabatino, well aware of the effect her closeness and touch was having on him, deliberately held her position and stance well within his personal space.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ growled the Afrikaner, but with less commitment as he ever so slightly tried to lean back away from her.

  ‘If you can make something look like driver error, my friend, so can I,’ she said and, in a surprisingly sensual way, started stroking Van Der Vaal’s wrist with the backs of her fingers. ‘Have a good race, Eugene,’ she said, and, turning round, walked calmly away.

  Straker could hardly keep the smile off his face. ‘That was superb,’ he breathed.

  ‘Felt good,’ she said returning his smile. ‘You’re sure throwing this at them won’t blow your spy game – won’t damage your chances of catching them next time?’

  ‘For future races, maybe. But not today. With no help from MacRae, or spine from San Marino, there’s not much more we can do. It has its risks, and it’s not what we would’ve done for choice. But what else is left to us? Shocking Massarella – even half as well as that – must surely throw them off balance.’