Driven

by Toby Vintcent

  Straker felt he needed to step in. Time was tight. Both drivers were expected to appear at the Festival at lunchtime. ‘I’ve got us all together,’ he said severely, ‘because I’m anxious you’re made fully aware of the sabotage threat we still face. It’s more serious than we thought.’ Bending down, Straker reached into a holdall and lifted the two key components from Cunzer’s car – the wishbone and the exhaust section – which he placed on the table between them. This was Treadwell’s cue to give an account of the conclusions drawn from the crash investigation.

  Cunzer and Sabatino looked increasingly shattered.

  They ended up studying the flexure on the wishbone, and inevitably rubbed a finger over the hole in the exhaust.

  ‘Someone did this to me,’ said Cunzer, the shock of the realization all too clear in his face and voice. ‘Someone made me crash.’ Looking directly at Straker, he said: ‘Who did this? Who could possibly do this – who could be putting my life in danger?’

  Straker realized he needed to sound authoritative and yet remain genuine, knowing all too well that he didn’t have enough of the answers. ‘This had to have been done by someone in the team – an insider,’ he stated.

  The drivers fell silent.

  The mood was eerie.

  ‘It must be the same person who planted the bug in my helmet,’ offered Sabatino to the room rather than to Straker directly.

  ‘Highly likely, but not known for sure,’ he replied. ‘Both interventions – the bug and this,’ said Straker with a sweep of his hand over the damaged components, ‘were done some time ago – in the build-up to Monaco – and nothing like this has happened since. They could simply be historic acts, nothing more than a legacy from Charlie Grant.’

  ‘What about my engine limiter in Spa – and, particularly, the removal of the bug from my helmet after Monaco?’ Sabatino asked. ‘Don’t they indicate more recent evidence of an insider?’

  Treadwell stepped in: ‘Possibly, Remy. Certainly Andy Backhouse handled your helmet, and he’s since defected. He, too, is a suspect. With Charlie and Backhouse now both out of the picture, though, we’re clearly hoping the saboteurs have lost their insider, if it was in fact either of them.’

  Sabatino looked far from convinced or settled. She picked up one of the components, and drew attention to the wishbone by waving it. ‘This shows real intent to do Helli and the team harm. My high-speed loss of control at Spa, and now knowing about this from Monaco, means that Helli and I have been at serious risk.’

  Straker made himself meet her eye, despite the awkwardness he felt – anxious to maintain his professional credibility. ‘I wish I could say that wasn’t the case.’

  Cunzer looked back and forth between the others around the table. ‘Do you think we are still at risk from an insider, Colonel?’

  This time Straker looked Cunzer in the eye: ‘I can’t guarantee that you aren’t.’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Water. Cold water, smashing down into his face. And the panic of not being able to move. He was struggling – violently struggling, straining against the straps. But he couldn’t breathe. The contraction of his diaphragm – as he fought not to breathe – was unbearable. How much longer could he hold out? Now the cramp. The pain. The pain in his leg was agony. Bastards! These people were allies. Allies, for fuck’s sake! Straker fought on against the straps, thrashing from left to right. Something warm: he felt something warm. That wasn’t right! It didn’t fit.

  Straker’s brain began to compute. Why was it warm?

  He struggled again and then, finally, broke from his sleep. Dripping with sweat – his head spinning – he regained consciousness. The bedroom light in Fulham was still on. Angrily, he ripped away the duvet.

  Straker pulled himself up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and sat there, his chest heaving and heart racing, trying to calm down. It took several minutes for him to register his immediate surroundings. Looking at his alarm clock he recognized all too clearly the return of his affliction. It was three-forty a.m.

  What the hell had triggered such a relapse? He thought through recent events, but didn’t have to for long. His meeting with Sabatino loomed large. His disappointment with her behaviour. That was undoubtedly the cause of this disturbance. That – and the intensity with which he had conjured up memories of his troubles to get him through that meeting with her.

  Oh Christ, Straker thought. Now setbacks in parts of his new life were pulling him straight back – down – even deeper into the dark.

  Knowing the rest of the night was now lost for sleep, he climbed into his running kit. He pounded the streets of Fulham, through the darkness, until the sun came up.

  All manner of thoughts swirled around Straker’s head for several days. He would have to shut Sabatino out of his mind, at least in the way that might have been. He decided to fill the days before Monza with activity and distractions.

  He resolved to throw himself into anything, however small, to take his mind off her. An early necessity was his car. He rang Treadwell for the number of the recovery shop, but learned he was away – and that his office didn’t have it. Straker tried to remember what Treadwell had said: Morgan of Kineton – or something – wasn’t it?

  To get a contact number, Straker threw some guesses into Google. Scores of results were displayed – including the one he was after. Attracting his attention, though, were several to do with a different Morgan altogether – the Morgan of Morgan sports cars.

  Out of curiosity he clicked on their website. He was captivated. Their latest design was prominently displayed, which didn’t do it for Straker at all. Much to his delight, though, the British design icon – the Morgan Roadster – was still there, portrayed in an eye-catching and fresh electronic brochure. Evidently, the classic Morgan was still very much in production.

  Forcing himself to concentrate on the job in hand, he returned to his search for the intended Morgans and found the name of the recovery shop in Kineton. When he got through, the news on his Honda was not good. It was terminal. It had basically had it. Little more than scrap. Straker cursed. He couldn’t do without a car.

  Then he had a flippant thought.

  After the downer of his divorce, and the unwanted complexity of his involvement with Sabatino, didn’t he deserve to give himself a lift? Following Quartano’s offer on the completion of his last assignment – which included a directorship on the Quartech main board and a substantial bump in salary – wasn’t he in a position to indulge himself? If so – why the hell not?

  He could only resist the idea for so long.

  Logging back on to the earlier Google pages he looked up a list of local Morgan dealers and emailed a showroom in Henley-on-Thames.

  Forty-eight hours later Straker had plenty else to think about and keep him occupied – activity triggered by the passing of the deadline he had issued to Michael Lyons. Straker requested a conference call with Nazar and Treadwell.

  ‘I take it we’ve heard nothing from him?’ Treadwell asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ Straker replied.

  ‘Hardly surprising,’ said Nazar. ‘Even so, your ploy was probably worth a shot – to try and unnerve the other side.’

  ‘It may still happen, Tahm,’ offered Straker casually, ‘if, when you inform them, you make a point of citing Michael Lyons as the reason for terminating our business with Trifecta. The ploy could still have caused unseen – or delayed – consequences.’

  ‘I’ll send the termination notice today,’ said Nazar, ‘mentioning Apartment 5 at 25 Rue des Princes, yes? – and stating that this takes immediate effect.’

  ‘Spot on,’ said Straker.

  ‘Okay, fine. But Matt, if this is going to have unseen consequences, I trust you to be ready for whatever they might be.’

  Straker grunted positively. ‘I have a week to work with our new electronics firm, Cohens, to prepare our defences.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Ptarmigan F1 pitched tent in Monza, twelve miles n
orth-east of Milan. In the lead-up to the Italian Grand Prix, there was a frenzy of media speculation. Many commentators were building up expectations for a dramatic reaction to a female driver’s incursion into this most masculine of environments. The anticipation was electric. How would all this play out in the spiritual heart of macho Italian motor racing? How would the Tifosi react to a woman driver?

  In the end, Sabatino’s apprehension of the Tifosi was completely unfounded. Italian men, for all their love of cars and motor racing, proved themselves to be first and foremost lovers of women. The Tifosi took Sabatino instantly to heart. There was even a hint of mania.

  Being Monza, the circuit was crowded – even for the first day of practice. Sunny and warm weather helped. In every direction, the packed stands appeared like seas of fluttering scarlet, rippling in the breeze. Scarlet flag upon scarlet T shirt showed the black prancing horse on its famous yellow shield. Ferrari devotees were there in force. But this time, there was a surprise. Another colour was prevalent. Ptarmigan’s brand of turquoise.

  The Tifosi were hailing Sabatino.

  This welcome may have eased Sabatino’s own apprehension, but it created – if anything – a bigger irritation for Massarella. Even more so than usual. Massarella may have had the Italian heritage, but they always found themselves playing second fiddle to Ferrari – especially in Italy. Under normal circumstances that may have been galling enough. But this time Massarella seemed to be demoted even further – because of the Tifosi’s excitement for Sabatino and her Ptarmigan.

  Van Der Vaal’s expression conveyed more and more of his angry chippiness. To counter his irritations, he projected his recruitment of Andy Backhouse as a major coup – revelling in having won over a key member of a rival team. The Massarella boss paraded Sabatino’s former race engineer up and down the pit lane, through the paddock – and had Backhouse stand next to him during every TV interview Van Der Vaal gave in the build-up to the race.

  Just before a practice session, Van Der Vaal even walked Andy Backhouse across the front of the Ptarmigan garage – with an arm across his shoulders – in full view of Nazar, Treadwell, Cunzer and Sabatino.

  Sabatino tried to distract herself from all that pettiness by throwing herself into practice. Taking herself out onto the famous circuit for the first time in a Formula One car, she set about doing her job.

  Even on her first out-lap, as she worked temperature into the car, she found it was understeering far more than on any circuit to date. With the very low downforce set-up, the Ptarmigan was seriously struggling to hold the line through the slower corners. Before completing half a lap she was on the radio to Treadwell, her new race engineer. ‘The car’s all over the place. Completely out of balance. I’m getting hideous understeer going in, and a fishtail coming out. Everything’s changed.’

  Straker, listening in, fully expected this drop-off in stability to be blamed on his instigating the change of engine management system.

  Sabatino drove on. She reached the approach to the faster corners of the legendary Lesmos. Only when the Ptarmigan was cranked up did the aerodynamics start to kick in and give her any confidence.

  Because of the understeer, the Ptarmigan team worked without a break over the following two days, dissecting all the telemetry – running endless simulations through their models back in Shenington. They tried everything to mitigate the lively handling of the car. Only by increasing the angle of the front wing could they make any difference – and that seemed to cost her badly in straight-line speed.

  Extraordinarily – despite all her difficulties – Sabatino took everyone by surprise. She managed to qualify in P2, having learnt over the two days of practice to work with – rather than fight – the vagaries of the car. Simi Luciano, in his Massarella, was only just able to beat her, putting himself on pole.

  Straker remained apprehensive. If the saboteurs were still out to do Ptarmigan down, surely this challenging pace was a renewed invitation for them to try again. He tried to convince himself that, with the help of the new electronics firm, he had done enough since Spa to reduce Ptarmigan’s risk from sabotage.

  But he couldn’t relax.

  He set up all his usual surveillance systems in the motor home headquarters – just in case.

  THIRTY-NINE

  The day itself started as a perfect morning for the Italian Grand Prix. The sun shone. The air temperature was in the late twenties. And there was the gentlest of breezes. Nothing less than deserved for the spiritual home of motor racing.

  Nevertheless, Van Der Vaal was spitting. What more did he have to do here? He had put an Italian – in a Massarella – on pole, and yet the Tifosi were celebrating one of their beloved Ferraris on the second row.

  But that was Van Der Vaal’s problem. To everyone else, the stands were in magnificent voice, creating the classic Monza atmosphere in the build-up to the race.

  Straker hoped he was ready. Now with Cohens supporting them, he had been able to set up even more sophisticated surveillance and feedback systems. He hoped he was not being complacent in having the BBC coverage on one of his three screens and their commentary in one ear of his headphones. As the start of the race approached, he began to listen in. The grid walk had just finished, and the show was being thrown up to the commentary box, ready for the race:

  ‘Thank you, David, and welcome, everybody, to the Italian Grand Prix, staged on the hallowed circuit of Monza. Conditions are looking good. No sign of rain, and the temperatures are forecast to peak out in the low thirties. Twenty-two runners, and a tight Drivers’ Championship – all promise an exciting afternoon of motor racing. Currently leading – and really beginning to attract attention – is the history-making Remy Sabatino, Formula One’s first female driver to mount a serious challenge on the Championship. Seven races in, and she is six points ahead of her nearest rival – Italy’s own Simi Luciano. The excitement looks like continuing here today – Luciano is one place in front of her on the grid. If the grid positions were held to the end, though, Remy would stay on top of the Championship table, albeit with her lead reduced.’

  ‘Indeed, Ben, it really is all extremely tight,’ chipped in the other commentator. ‘And it’s because it is that tight that Sabatino’s had such a strong reception. Even in her rookie year, she’s taking her fight straight to the big dogs. And that’s not been lost on the knowledgeable Tifosi. Look at the stands – here in Italy – here at Monza. I can’t remember the last time I saw the scarlet of the Scuderia so diluted like this. See that Ptarmigan turquoise – it’s everywhere,’ he said as the producer quickly backed the commentator up with several different wide shots of the stands, showing a mass of flags and banners fluttering in the gentle Lombardy breeze. ‘It’s amazing.’

  ‘Certainly is, Mike. Sabatino and the whole of Ptarmigan have shaken things up this season. And we mustn’t forget, of course, that the team was on its uppers – as recently as the back end of last year. And yet, here they are – less than twelve months on – with a superb car and a woman driver – both as serious contenders for both Championships. Don’t let anyone say that Formula One is boring.’

  ‘Absolutely not, and, of course, the drama doesn’t end there. The pit lane, paddock, and stands are all pleased, today, to welcome back Remy’s teammate, Helli Cunzer – making his first return to the car after that heart-in-the-mouth crash in Monaco a few weeks ago.’

  The TV picture cut away from scenes around Monza to a slow-motion replay of Cunzer’s death-defying high-speed crash in Monte-Carlo, the drama of it losing none of its potency despite the countless times it had been shown. At the end of the clip, which showed Cunzer being airlifted off the Monaco circuit and flown out over the harbour in an emergency helicopter, there was a happier shot of the youthful good-looking blond German walking down the pit lane in Monza that weekend, waving at the crowds, acknowledging his reception from so many well-wishers.

  ‘Well said, Mike, and his return’s all the more impressive with him qualifying P6 on th
e grid. That result shows, formidably, that his confidence and speed have been restored so quickly – further tribute to driver and car.’

  ‘Indeed, and we shouldn’t overlook the competitive significance of that, either. If the Ptarmigan drivers hold their starting positions to the end of today’s race, Ptarmigan’s one-point lead would be preserved as the mid-season leaders of the Constructors’ Championship.’

  Action was soon visible along the crowded pit straight as the team bosses, mechanics, and array of celebrities started scurrying off the grid.

  ‘Okay, we’re getting close to the start. The engines are running. We’re ready for the parade lap, round this three-and-a-half-mile circuit.’

  Straker used the time during the slow procession to check all his screens and frequency settings at his console in the motor home. A couple of messages, between the pit wall and the Ptarmigan drivers, were helpful testers. They showed all his new Cohens systems to be working perfectly.

  ‘The cars are retaking their places on the grid. The backmarkers are in position. A green flag is being waved by a marshal from the back. Race Control has confirmation to start.

  ‘Yes, here we go. We have one red light.

  ‘Two, three, four – and now five.

  ‘Just listen to that roar – that crescendo – of power.

  ‘Wait!

  ‘Wait…

  ‘And the lights are … OFF!

  ‘GO! Monza is GO. Luciano’s away well. He’s on the clean side of the circuit. Sabatino’s got a good start, too – if anything a better one. She’s clearly found grip, even down that dirty side of the track. And look, she’s moving up on Luciano, moving up on the Massarella – down the inside of the run into Turn One.’

  ‘She certainly is, Ben, she’s had a great start. And, so far, everyone’s got away okay – no apparent incidents.’