Driven

by Toby Vintcent

  Straker breathed in. ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘How did Charlie Grant die?’

  The look in her eye was not hesitant – it was demanding. It was quite clear she wasn’t going to let this go as she had during their dinner in Monte-Carlo.

  Whether it was the sense of well-being from digesting Rules’s jugged hare, the treacle pudding, or the three glasses of a half-decent Malbec – their better familiarity with each other, or even the increased sense of closeness between them that evening – Straker didn’t react as sharply as he had before.

  ‘You won’t believe it,’ was the most dismissive defence he could mount.

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘It’ll repulse you.’

  Her expression, if anything, became more anticipatory than ever.

  ‘I doubt that.’

  Even with this momentary focus on Charlie Grant, Straker found it impossible to stop his imagination summoning up – all too clearly – their final scene.

  Sounding defensive, he said: ‘We were in the Middle East, in the wake of the Arab spring. Quartano had finally – and successfully – negotiated a billion-dollar weapons contract with the Buhrani Defence Minister. A signing ceremony was arranged out on a desert firing range, within what should have been a secure area – a Buhrani military garrison. Except that Charlie Grant, I uncovered through my investigation, had been leaking details of that weapons contract – as well as the blueprints for a top secret Quartech rifle.’

  ‘Leaked to whom?’ Sabatino asked, now turned fully to face Straker across the corner of their table.

  ‘A German rival – which was also involved with an Al-Qaeda-aligned terrorist cell in Buhran, a group determined to overthrow the monarchy there and declare an Islamic state.’

  ‘Heavy, heavy. Why was Charlie doing all this?’

  Straker tilted his head as an invitation to be patient. ‘The signing ceremony was ambushed – by the Al-Qaeda cell. Numerous dignitaries were killed. The Defence Minister, who was also an heir to the throne, and several Quartech staff were taken hostage.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Quartano and I arrived at the ceremony – from Germany – half an hour too late. There was carnage. Bodies everywhere. Through binoculars, I was fortunate to catch a distant sight of the hostages – being driven off across the desert on the back of open army trucks.’ Straker took a long drag of his wine.

  ‘How were they released, then?’ she asked. ‘Quartech pay a ransom?’

  Straker shook his head as if to say how-could-you-suggest-such-a-thing. ‘I flew a tactical helicopter recce of the desert behind the firing range. I managed to locate the terrorists’ camp – the place where they had taken the hostages. It turned out to be a lost city among the dunes of the hinterland. I pulled together a team of soldiers, from what was left in the garrison. I put together an operation, briefed them, and led a company attack at dawn the following morning. We took out all the terrorists in a raid, and succeeded in releasing the hostages.’

  ‘Wow. And you led all that?’

  ‘Was the company commander.’

  ‘How many soldiers made up this attack group?’

  ‘Eighty-odd.’

  Sabatino clearly looked impressed. ‘Then what?’

  Straker’s mind’s eye suddenly took over. ‘Dawn was just coming up over the Buhrani desert. I was releasing the hostages – when I heard a click.’

  ‘What does that mean? What kind of click?’

  ‘A safety catch.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Someone had a rifle and was preparing to fire.’

  Sabatino’s eyes widened. ‘Who?’

  ‘Charlie Grant.’

  ‘At whom?’ she asked hurriedly.

  ‘Dominic Quartano.’

  ‘No!’

  Straker, looking down, could bring it all back. So painfully. Charlie was standing there, the low early morning sun gleaming off her perfect skin, her hair flowing in the gentle desert breeze, her white diaphanous robe wafting in the wind – standing there with the rifle at the aim, trained on Quartano, her brilliant dark grey eyes flashing with anticipated triumph. Straker inhaled deeply. That image would haunt him always: the incongruity of a beautiful woman confidently handling and aiming a weapon with lethal intent.

  ‘Why? Why did she do all that – why did she want to harm Quartano?’

  ‘Revenge,’ Straker said matter-of-factly. ‘It was all about revenge.’

  Sabatino pulled a face that showed this was hard for her to comprehend. ‘For what?’

  ‘The death of her father,’ Straker explained: ‘Quartano had mounted a hostile takeover – taking over the Grant family company. Its entire board was fired and replaced, including Charlie’s father. Apparently, the man never got over it. Killed himself six months later.’

  ‘And Charlie blamed Quartano?’

  Straker nodded.

  ‘How did the standoff in the desert end?’

  ‘Quartano, very coolly, started trying to reason with her. But Charlie being Charlie – that wasn’t going to work. However, while she was directing her anger at him, I managed … to … intervene.’

  Sabatino’s face was suddenly a picture – clearly drawing her own conclusions. ‘So you … you…?’ she said, oddly unable to complete the sentence.

  Straker lowered his gaze.

  ‘Wow,’ said Sabatino.

  Straker lifted his eyes. He looked at her through the moody cabaret-style lighting of Ronnie Scott’s, her face partly in shadow. ‘I told you that you wouldn’t believe it.’

  He looked her in the eye. Her response was strange.

  Hard to read.

  Straker tried to discern her reaction. But couldn’t do it. Didn’t know what to make of her expression.

  Then Straker was completely taken by surprise. Sabatino, very suddenly, half rose, leant forward across the L-shaped bench, and kissed him forcefully but sensuously square on the mouth. For several seconds. Then, pulling back – but only by a fraction – she held intensive eye contact with him, her eyes flicking backwards and forwards between his.

  Straker was utterly floored.

  ‘You like sex, right?’ she said slowly, taking him by surprise yet again.

  He nodded, shrugged – and then smiled into her face apologetically at the lameness of his reaction.

  ‘Why don’t we keep it that uncomplicated. Let’s go and atone – purge – ourselves for our deeds, right now, through raw physical release.’

  Straker’s reservations, voluntary or involuntary, professional or social, suddenly vanished. Her reaction to his deeply private revelation was extraordinary. He would have expected most people – he didn’t know for sure, having never actually told anyone – to be repulsed by such a barbaric secret. To Straker’s way of thinking, Sabatino’s reaction was counter-intuitive. What triggered her to react this way? Was it the danger? Was it something more primeval – a moth-to-the-flame attraction to the killer instinct?

  ‘We shouldn’t go back to your place,’ she said, ‘you’ll have too many vibes from your wife, and will feel awkward. We’ll go to my hotel.’

  Straker, abandoning any earlier reservation about complicating their professional relationship – the intrusion into his divorce – the revelation about Charlie, smiled uninhibitedly and said: ‘Sure, I get that. Where are you staying?’

  ‘The Dorchester.’

  ‘Stylish.’

  ‘I’m paid an indecent amount of money. The least I can do is spend it in decent places.’ She looked at him intently as she smiled. ‘You coming?’

  ‘Very nearly.’

  ‘Don’t you dare. Not yet, at any rate.’

  Reaching her hotel room in Park Lane, she turned on the light, kicked the door shut behind them and approached him directly, kissing him firmly on the mouth. Her body, pushed in hard against his, was already inducing a strong response. Straker found her predatory approach erotic and intoxicating.

  Kissing him, Sabatino started unbuttoning hi
s shirt and, within a few moments, was at his belt and trouser buttons. With a hand into his fly, and a gentle cupping and circling of her hand and fingers, Straker felt a shock wave run through him. She was electrifying.

  Pushing him back on the bed, and kneeling astride him, she finished removing his clothes and then lifted her top over her head, revealing her slim taut figure. Unclipping her bra – passing both hands behind her back which served to project her chest – Straker was treated to the sight of her round, hand-sized breasts. No effects of gravity or the surgeon’s knife were anywhere to be seen.

  Leaning down, she kissed him hard on the mouth and, without lifting herself off him, deftly removed her jeans and knickers. This was amazing. Straker had never been so passive and yet so aroused.

  Sabatino grabbed both Straker’s wrists, and pinned his arms above his head. He was lying spread eagled with this writhing, spirited, energetic and beautiful woman on top of him.

  She continued to pleasure them both with the rhythmic action of her hips. That continued for a time, her knowing exactly how far to excite him before slowing up and letting him subside. She came three times in the process.

  Starting again, she felt Straker’s movements intensify. Very quickly, she lifted herself up and off him – and took him further by surprise. She grabbed the end of him between thumb and forefinger and squeezed him hard. ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ she said firmly. ‘The Colonel hasn’t finished his duty … not by a long shot.’

  It worked.

  He laughed out loud, at her directness, her control – and the clear knowledge of what she wanted, and how.

  What a woman. Not then, but afterwards, he was given to mulling whether she was this confident and direct because she lived the high-octane life of a racing driver, or whether she was a racing driver because she was naturally this self-assured.

  In the end he concluded he didn’t give a stuff.

  Thankfully, she was what she was and was magnificent for it.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The next morning, following an even more energetic “round four”, Straker shared an expansive breakfast with Sabatino, served off a crisp white linen tablecloth in her room in the Dorchester. Just after eight, he left her to walk to the office.

  There was suddenly a different feel to his world. Halfway across Mayfair, Straker felt himself to be better. It wasn’t simply the endorphins of last night, powerful though they were – nor was it just the intimacy with another human being, which he had been without for so long. Straker felt his buoyancy was more profound than that. Several strands of his new life seemed to be helping distance him from his troubles. There was the role at Quartech. His status with Quartano, particularly after the Buhran assignment. His involvement in the spectacular world of Formula One. And now, after last night, a closeness to one of the most fascinating women he could imagine. What might this closeness to Sabatino end up meaning? he wondered. Straker’s mind only knew positive thoughts that morning – a sensation he had not experienced for a very long time.

  Irritating him – as it broke his reverie – was the ring of his phone. But seeing who it was, he relaxed – feeling this incursion to be a part of his new-found optimism. ‘Karen? How’s it going?’

  ‘Pretty well, I think, Matt. I’ve got something for you.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘You asked me to look for any connections between Van Der Vaal … Massarella … Obrenovich and Joss MacRae?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘Were you aware that in March – just gone – MacRae sold a thirty-three per cent stake in Motor Racing Promotions Limited – for a mix of cash, equity and convertible prefs?’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Straker recovering some of his buoyancy. ‘No. I didn’t know that. For what sort of money?’

  ‘Around £500 million.’

  ‘Christ. To who? Hang on, if that’s the case why doesn’t everybody know about this?’

  ‘Because,’ said Karen knowingly, ‘nobody does. I couldn’t find a single article on it. I talked to our bank in Zurich. It’s all been done completely hush-hush. The stake was bought by a Lichtenstein Anstalt.’

  Straker exhaled audibly. ‘That’s, surely, why nobody knows about it, then – but, by the same token, neither can we. A corporate shield’ll stop us from knowing who’s behind it, too. Sod it – that’s a tantalizing dead end.’

  Karen chuckled teasingly. ‘There are no shareholders listed, no. But I have done some digging.’

  She paused for effect.

  ‘There was a director named … just one.’

  Straker stayed silent.

  ‘I assumed he would be one of those professional company secretary – trustee – director – types?’ Karen went on. ‘I made some further enquiries around Vaduz. And that’s when I struck gold.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘This guy’s only ever named with the interests of one other client.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A Swiss oil company … Helveticoil.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘You probably won’t have. But you will have heard of its owner.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  She paused again. ‘None other than … Avel … Obrenovich!’

  ‘Shit – no!’

  There was silence on the phone.

  ‘Matt?’

  ‘Karen, that’s brilliant work. You might just have blown this whole thing wide open.’

  Straker continued his march to the office, buoyed up once more. Before he had the chance to think through the ramifications of Karen’s discoveries, his phone went again. This time it was Oliver Treadwell.

  ‘How soon can you get up to the Ptarmigan factory?’ he asked.

  Straker heard an edge to the Strategy Director’s voice. ‘As soon as you like. Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘We’ve found the cause of Helli’s crash.’

  Straker sensed the answer was sinister. ‘What was it?’

  ‘It would be better to show you – in person. I should warn you, though … it’s not good news.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Just under two hours later, having hammered his Honda Civic up the M40, Straker was standing in the loading bay of the Ptarmigan factory. Treadwell led him over to a temporary workbench, set up for the purposes of the investigation. Straker still had no inkling of what was coming.

  Treadwell had laid out two component fragments from Cunzer’s car on the work surface. ‘This is what we’ve found,’ he said gravely.

  On the table were two things. Straker understood one of them to be a wishbone – a V-shaped boomerang-looking component made of carbon fibre, part of the car’s suspension. The other, he would hazard a guess, was a section of exhaust.

  ‘This is what we believe caused Helli’s crash,’ said Treadwell seriously, lifting up the V-shaped component. ‘These wishbones are made of carbon fibre – a lightweight, strong material. But it has a drawback…’

  ‘… it won’t take the thread of a screw,’ offered Straker, remembering his tour with Andy Backhouse.

  ‘Precisely – the stuff just crumbles. The only way to fix it to other components and materials, therefore, is glue.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘So on the wishbones – to fix the V-shaped spars at either end – we fit metal lugs, or flexures. These flexures are then used to bolt the wishbone to the wheel assembly at one end, and to the chassis mount on the other.’

  ‘And the flexures are held to the spars by the glue?’

  ‘Except that here, on Helli’s car, the glue on the chassis flexure of the wishbone has failed.’

  ‘Does it do that?’

  Treadwell’s face looked even blacker. ‘Not normally, no. In any case, this was no wear-and-tear failure.’

  It was Straker’s turn to look grave. ‘Why? What’s happened to it?’

  ‘It’s been melted.’

  ‘What do you mean – been – melted?’

  Treadwell placed the wishbone back down on the table top and pick
ed up the other component lying on the workbench. ‘On our cars,’ he said, ‘the exhaust system runs very close to the chassis-mounting of the lower rear wishbones. We can do that because we heavily insulate the exhaust with a special silicon-based polymer – as you see, here,’ he said pointing to the lagging around the pipe.

  Straker leaned in and studied the casing. But then he spotted something else. And leant in closer.

  There seemed to be a tiny, ragged-edged hole through the metal tubing and insulation. ‘What’s that?’ he asked. ‘That’s not machine made?’

  Treadwell’s face told him he had hit the mark. ‘It isn’t,’ said the Strategy Director. ‘It’s not meant to be there.’

  Straker frowned. ‘What’re the consequences of that hole? You talked about the wishbone first – I’m guessing there’s some kind of cause and effect here?’

  Treadwell nodded at Straker’s quick thinking. ‘That hole, even that small, could have, over time, released heat – enough heat, given its precise location, to melt the carbon fibre glue. Hot gas had been escaping from the exhaust – straight onto the metal flexure on the end of the wishbone.’

  Straker ducked his head down to look at the hole in the exhaust pipe again, and even rubbed a finger over it. His mind was already whirring with the inevitable question: ‘Okay, Ollie,’ he said. ‘How did that hole come about?’

  Treadwell now looked like he was in mourning. ‘We’ve never had a failure in that exhaust system. Not one. That’s not to say we couldn’t – but we haven’t yet. In any case, a natural failure wouldn’t happen right there – it’s not subjected to that much heat- or pressure loading.’

  ‘So you’re saying it didn’t just give out – you’re saying it was made?’

  Treadwell nodded.

  ‘Deliberately?’

  Treadwell nodded again.

  ‘We’re working on determining how it was made – but that hole, in that exact location, is utterly suspicious.’