Driven

by Toby Vintcent

  There was at the same time, though, some fierce opposition.

  While Straker accepted this snapshot of press cuttings was filtered, it did seem clear that the detractors of a woman driver had found themselves an emphatic front man.

  Karen had played a blinder in unearthing all this. She had not limited her search to one medium, either. She had even found a YouTube clip, and identified the relevant link in the folder. Firing up his laptop, Straker clicked on the two minute video entitled: F1 IN DANGER OF DAMAGING STATUS OF SPORT.

  As far as he could tell, this was from a local news programme in France – recorded in English but carrying French subtitles. Despite the poor quality of the clip, Van Der Vaal’s gruff personality came through loud and clear:

  “Formula One is unashamedly a masculine sport,” he was heard to say. “It’s all about speed, machines, danger, courage and raw competitiveness. Any softening of these elements can only damage the sport’s appeal.”

  In another article, headed: SPONSORSHIP REVENUES TO BE DAMAGED BY EFFEMINACY, Van Der Vaal attacked the presence of Sabatino on the grounds that male and masculine brands were being diminished by a woman driver.

  His attacks intensified after Sabatino first made it onto the podium.

  Then there seemed to be a dramatic key change.

  The first major counter to Van Der Vaal’s attacks came from within the sport and from a highly respected source:

  VAN DER VAAL TOLD TO BUTTON IT BY F1

  ““Mr Van Der Vaal’s repeated outbursts and attacks on the presence of a female driver are unwarranted and unsporting,” says Lord Lambourn, 61, the dashing aristocratic boss of the Lambourn Grand Prix Team. “Remy Sabatino’s appointment, and Ptarmigan’s brilliance in marketing her and the team’s new-found competitiveness, are what this sport should be celebrating. Eugene is not speaking for the mainstream of this sport with his out-of-date gender politics. Prideaux Champagnes, Lambourn’s superb sponsors, have reported a twenty per cent increase in sales this year – which they attribute entirely to their female consumers. Women – since Remy Sabatino started driving for Ptarmigan – are finding a whole new reason to watch, follow, and get excited by Formula One.””

  Straker found the following headlines and supporting articles:

  QUARTECH SHOWS F1 HOW TO MARKET ITSELF.

  PTARMIGAN TEACHES VAN DER VAAL A LESSON.

  THE TSAR-ELECT IS DEAD – LONG LIVE QUARTANO.

  One thing was becoming abundantly clear. While Straker believed he had been accurate in deducing Massarella’s involvement in the sabotage incidents on the track, he was now convinced he had unearthed a clear motivation for causing Ptarmigan harm.

  An emotional starting point.

  Van Der Vaal’s vaulting ego had clearly got the better of him. He had raised the stakes – having held himself out as the next Bernie Ecclestone – and clearly overreached himself. He’d been completely outshone by Quartech. Van Der Vaal, it seemed, had been humbled – even humiliated, some might have said. That meant Avel Obrenovich might not be the prime mover behind the sabotage attacks on Ptarmigan.

  With this re-evaluation, another related thought came to him.

  What about that bizarre reaction from Joss MacRae in Spa? Was that MacRae just being MacRae, or was there something else behind his behaviour, too? MacRae’s total dismissal of Massarella’s alleged wrongdoing had been mighty peculiar. Straker was prompted to check him out.

  Walking back into the office, Straker said to Karen: ‘What you’ve found is superb,’ he said. ‘Thank you. Could you have a further look and see if you can find any connection, this time, between Van Der Vaal and Joss MacRae?’

  ‘Just those two?’

  ‘Good point, the other names involved might be Massarella, Avel Obrenovich, Obrenovich Oil & Gas and Motor Racing Promotions.’

  Karen wrote down the names and an outline of the task.

  ‘Righto.’

  ‘How’s Charlie’s phone coming?’

  ‘I’ve just heard. Should be finished soon after lunch.’

  Having spent three hours cocooned in the quiet room, Straker left the office for some fresh air. He bought a sandwich, walked up to Regent’s Park, and sat down on the grass to eat his lunch. The park’s trees, planting and manicured lawns helped calm his thoughts. Even so, it didn’t stop his mind eventually drifting back to his divorce, the causes of it – and the other stresses stemming from the effects of his rendition and torture by the Americans. Not even the tranquillity of Regent’s Park could save him from those thoughts.

  Straker walked back to the office, desperate to be distracted again.

  ‘Oh, Matt,’ said Karen. ‘I’ve just got the research back on Charlie’s phone – the directory numbers and some of the names.’

  Glad to be occupied again so quickly, Straker took the latest batch of research and returned to the quiet room to sift through what they had found.

  Now with a fuller name attributed to each number, he hoped to cross-reference these with the itemized phone log. It might enable him to build a picture of the people and organizations with whom Charlie Grant had been in contact. Straker set to work. From the list of calls in and out he found high volumes between her and Adi Barrantes, Lord Lambourn and Andy Backhouse.

  Straker ran his eye down the length of the call logs.

  What leapt out from the whole list was the extraordinary volume of traffic Charlie had engaged in with one particular number. She had been in contact with it at least twenty times a week over the last two months. This had obviously attracted the attention of the research team, too.

  A detailed note – in with the bundle of findings – declared they had been unable to identify its owner, though. It was clearly an Italian mobile phone. They had made numerous calls to it, but none of them had been picked up. They had found no voicemail, either – except on several occasions the ring had been cut short, as if the call was being actively rejected.

  This number sparked Straker’s curiosity.

  Then something else – from that same Italian mobile – also grabbed his attention. Charlie Grant had received an SMS from it which used an unrecognized term and, intriguingly, did so in an active voice. It read:

  Hope the ASD idea is going over well…

  What on earth did that – let alone “going over well” – mean? Straker had become familiar with a number of the terms the team used, or had learned to work them out from their context. But he was sure he hadn’t heard of ASD. Picking up his own phone, he rang Oliver Treadwell at the Ptarmigan factory. ‘Ollie, what does ASD mean?’

  ‘ASD?’ repeated the Strategy Director quizzically. ‘No idea. Never heard of it.’

  ‘Not a racing term, then?’

  ‘Not one of ours, at any rate.’

  ‘Very strange.’

  Discovering the frequency of Charlie’s contact with that Italian mobile number, the anonymity surrounding it – and its mysterious use of an unfamiliar term – all served to pique Straker’s interest. He had no idea whether any of this was important, but immediately felt he was unable to ignore it.

  THIRTY-ONE

  At the end of the day, heading home, Straker was walking down Regent Street – still mulling his inconclusive findings – when his phone went.

  It was someone he wasn’t expecting to hear from at all.

  ‘Remy? How are you? I’m really sorry about the whole Backhouse defection thing.’

  ‘I’m sad, more than annoyed. I’m fond of Andy. He’s been amazing to get me this far. But I like Oliver. The rest of my team’s still there. So I’m okay. I have faith in them all.’

  ‘Good,’ said Straker genuinely. ‘I was worried this might’ve knocked us all off our game.’

  ‘I think Massarella’s far more likely to do that,’ she said without levity. ‘Talking of which, can you update me on the sabotage issues?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Where are you at the moment?’ Sabatino asked.

  ‘London.’

&
nbsp; ‘Can we meet up this evening? Did you have any plans for dinner?’

  Just before seven that evening Straker was waiting for Sabatino at a table in the London institution of Rules in Maiden Lane. She walked in on the dot of their appointed time. Several heads turned as she walked through the restaurant. She was wearing a stripy baggy shirt, skinny jeans, and close-fitting knee-length boots. No make-up. Straker was taken with her presence and suddenly hit by a phrase whose significance just dawned on him – that of someone being comfortable in their own skin. She seemed completely that. There was no invitation to “look at me”, but, at the same time, no self-consciousness either. Here was someone who lived at two hundred miles an hour – and was breaking new ground in a male-dominated sport. Having seen her dish it out to Van Der Vaal on the grid in Spa, Straker was engrossed, here, by how at ease and unassuming she was. Wasn’t this, he had to think, one of the best examples of someone leaving it all at the office?

  He stood as she approached. Unexpectedly, she reached up and kissed him on both cheeks.

  ‘That was a fair bit of recognition,’ he offered indicating the attention she had attracted from parts of the room as they settled into a corner table.

  She shrugged and grunted dismissively. ‘I dread becoming any kind of celebrity,’ she said. ‘No privacy. Cameras picking you off wherever you go. Still, I’ll have to win the Championship for that to be a real problem. I’ve got a long way to go – further still if Massarella keeps trying to trip me up.’

  Despite Straker’s unease at not yet ridding the team of saboteur interference, he was glad the subject had come up so soon. It would allow him to clear the air. ‘Let me bring you up to date with where we are, then?’

  ‘Why don’t we order first?’

  Straker was brought a glass of wine, while Sabatino took half a Guinness. With their privacy restored, Straker described the conclusions he’d drawn from the press coverage of Eugene Van Der Vaal, the problems with the injunction on Backhouse, the move away from Trifecta and, finally, the issue of the Fibonacci Blades.

  ‘That’s impressive work – particularly the decision to move away from Trifecta. Are we going with Valentines or Cohens?’

  ‘Treadwell’s not happy with any move, but would accept Cohens – at a push.’

  Sabatino nodded her agreement. ‘Okay. And when do we get enough evidence to nail Van Der Vaal and Massarella?’

  ‘I’m working on a plan to do that right now.’

  Yet again, Sabatino took Straker completely by surprise, particularly given her initial dismissal of his spy games. Moving her hand forward across the table, she placed it gently on his. She looked him in the eye and said: ‘An F1 team doesn’t have the ability to deal with this kind of sabotage bullshit. Without your efforts, I don’t know where I’d be – not on top of the Championship, that’s for sure. I’d more likely have been withdrawn – or suspended from driving – because of the danger. I want you to know I’m grateful, even if I seem impatient with our progress from time to time.’

  Straker suddenly felt conflicted. He found himself relishing the physical contact with her, but he also wanted to pull back, for the sake of maintaining the professionalism of their relationship. He had responsibilities here, and did not want them to be any more complicated than they might already be.

  THIRTY-TWO

  In the gloriously old-fashioned surroundings of Rules – the cluttered walls with political caricatures by Gillray, prints from Vanity Fair, portraits of West End stars, naval vessels, mounted antlers – and its unashamedly English food, with dishes from seasonal game to bread-and-butter pudding, Straker and Sabatino talked on into the evening.

  He felt there had been a mood change during their dinner – and their level of communication – undoubtedly triggered by the unexpected physical contact and personal gratitude earlier. Their new level of connection almost overwhelmed him.

  Straker found himself drawn to her self-confidence. For all Sabatino’s shunning of the public recognition of her F1 achievements, her success was having an effect on her. It showed in her face. There was an energy there. A radiance. It was powerful. Her dark hair, dark eyes, olive-coloured skin, and her soft but worldly-sounding accent all seemed to sparkle. Was this effect on him, Straker wondered, some equivalence to the aphrodisiac of power?

  Straker kept feeling his self-awareness pull him back – questioning how these developments would affect their working relationship. But as he listened to her talk – animatedly, with passion – her magnetism overrode it. He couldn’t prevent himself wallowing in the uninhibited moment with this striking and fascinating woman.

  ‘There’s something utterly spiritual about Monza,’ she told Straker as the conversation swung round to the next race on the calendar.

  ‘Why spiritual?’

  ‘A number of things. The heritage? There’s the no-longer-used Pista di Alta Velocità – the High Speed Circuit – the one with the old style banking. There are the inimitable Italian fans – the Tifosi – who create a unique atmosphere, except I’m really nervous about them. And then, of course, there’s the rawness of the speed?’

  Straker frowned. ‘Hang on a minute, the Tifosi? Why are you nervous about the Tifosi?’

  ‘Because of these,’ she said cupping her breasts with her hands.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Italian motor racing is so male. I can only pollute their sport.’

  Straker said without levity: ‘Speak to them like you talked to Van Der Vaal. You’d soon put them right.’

  Sabatino laughed.

  ‘They like bravado,’ Straker went on. ‘If that’s a male thing, then you’ve got the female equivalent – what would that be, bravada? You’ll be hailed. That’s completely a non-issue. And what’s this you said about the rawness of the speed at Monza? Isn’t that the case at every circuit?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ she said taking another sip of Guinness, ‘but seventy per cent of Monza’s taken at full throttle – the highest proportion of any track, by a long way. Aerodynamically, we have to run a very low downforce set-up, to reduce the drag, but that decimates the grip. It makes the speed much more difficult to control – makes it very raw.’

  ‘And overtaking?’

  ‘Limited. Only real chance is into Turn One and the chicane – the Variante Della Roggia – Turns Four and Five.’

  Straker smiled. ‘It does help that you’re Maltese to pronounce these fabulously Mediterranean names.’

  ‘Variante Della Roggia,’ she said again extravagantly, as if to make the point.

  ‘That definitely proves you’re sophisticated,’ said Straker with a nod. ‘But … the question is … are you as sophisticated with your music?’

  Sabatino raised her eyebrows at the hefty change of direction. ‘If you mean Mediterranean music – opera – I’m afraid not.’

  ‘No, no – I was thinking more about music to feed your soul.’

  ‘Hip hop?’

  ‘What? No! Jazz!’

  Sabatino pouted. ‘No, but then I’ve never been properly introduced.’

  ‘Excellent. There’s not a moment to lose.’ Straker caught the eye of a waiter and signalled for the bill. ‘Let me take you straight to the high altar.’

  Sabatino made a face. ‘You want to take me to church?’

  ‘Almost. It’ll be my honour to introduce you to the hallowed ground that is … Ronnie Scott’s.’

  Jazz clearly took to Remy Sabatino – as she did to the club.

  Although still early – the second house only just settling in – there was already a buzz about the place, with its usual diversity of people drawn by great music – the music for atmosphere.

  Sabatino was captivated by its immediate sense of intimacy. Mood, though, also oozed from walls, awash with striking black and white photographs of jazz legends. Low ambient lighting was broken by the brighter pools coming from the shaded ceiling and wall lights. Red velvet benches were trimmed with chunky brass railings – and, topping off the at
mosphere, were the numerous red glowing table lamps set among the tiers of table bench seats rising back up from the stage.

  Shown to a table in the corner of the pit, Straker and Sabatino ordered drinks and sat together for an hour, listening to a set by a young quartet from New Orleans – playing an unusual mix of trad and lounge jazz with an occasional hint of Cajun.

  Straker glanced at Sabatino’s face from time to time, to make sure she was enjoying all this. He quickly realized he should have no concerns on that score – her expression showed her to be fully immersed, soaking up the scene. He still kept checking, though – but soon realized he was doing it specifically to enjoy her enjoyment.

  Although there was no dancing, one beat got Sabatino moving rhythmically while sitting at their table. Without even moving her whole body, Straker was taken with her superb sense of rhythm. She turned to make deliberate eye contact with him. She kept moving without inhibition. It could so easily have induced awkwardness – self-consciousness – but there was none on her part. Why should there be any, then, on his? She continued to move. Her movement was suggestive – without being lewd – but her message seemed clear.

  At the end of the number she leaned across the corner table, close enough that he would be able to hear her – even over the noise of the applause. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your divorce.’

  Straker almost flinched. Her personal directness hit him hard. It wasn’t the starkness of it, blunt though it was, it was more the sense of a crystallization. This was the first time he had heard the D word spoken out loud by somebody else.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ he replied defensively, pulling back slightly.

  Her expression showed a similar thought or memory crossing her mind.

  Sabatino smiled sympathetically, and turned back towards the stage to enjoy the resumption of the set. Nothing was said between them for nearly ten minutes. Straker was intrigued. He got the sense that something was brewing. Suddenly she turned to face him. He was struck by the mischievous – voracious, even – expression on Sabatino’s face. ‘You’ve got to tell me something,’ she said.