Driven

by Toby Vintcent

  ‘Luciano’s moving … sorry, Mike … over to the right – aggressively across Sabatino’s front. He’s trying to shut her out, well before the corner. But look, there – look, look, look – she’s not having any of it – she’s not yielding – she’s holding her nerve – holding her position.’

  To bring home the drama, the TV shot zoomed in on the extraordinary bottleneck of cars, power and noise into the impossibly narrow first corner.

  ‘Sabatino’s being squeezed over to the right. She’s going in at a sharp angle. She’s going in deep. And, whoa! – watch that Ptarmigan’s understeer. She’s been suffering from it all weekend – practice and Qualifying – particularly in the slower corners. I don’t think it’s ever been quite as bad as that, though.’

  ‘It’s the low downforce set-up, Mike – that’s what’s doing it.’

  ‘She’s having to seriously wrestle that car into Turn One. And look out for that Ferrari – off the second row – looking to pounce on her from behind. Heh, heh! Sabatino’s managed to fend him off – but, oh, watch that Ptarmigan fishtail through the exit. She so nearly lost it there.’

  ‘Sabatino cannot have enjoyed that – the Ptarmigan’s, clearly, a real handful with that low-downforce set-up.’

  The leaders were are all quickly through the first four corners, and soon approaching the Lesmos.

  ‘And that’s interesting, Ben – Sabatino seems to be finding some stability, now – at last.’

  ‘Yeah, Ptarmigan’s aero package showed, all through practice, that it works much better at the higher speeds.’

  ‘Well, she’s managing to use it, now, to hold her gap behind Luciano to point-seven of a second. Simi would’ve wanted to get away further – with a clear track in front of him – but Sabatino’s not letting him go that easily.’

  ‘And, Ben, she’s holding her lead over the Ferrari just behind her, too.’

  Suddenly, Straker’s eyes and ears were caught. His surveillance screens flashed and, over the headphones, he heard Treadwell speaking with Sabatino. It turned out to be simply routine – a message that her temperatures were all showing comfortably in their respective windows.

  ‘Now the front runners are coming round to the end of the circuit – to La Parabolica. The whole field seems to be running well – no major upsets.’

  ‘Certainly not yet, anyway, Ben. And now, let’s see how they run round this hairpin, and enter the Rettifilo. This, if anywhere, is where we’re likely to see some action on the overtaking front. Who, though, is going to have the straight-line speed advantage. This is where all of that starts – right here, going into La Parabolica.’

  Luciano braked late and hard.

  ‘Sabatino’s braked even later than the Massarella. She’s closed right in.’

  ‘Now it’s all about the corner and the exit – which car’s giving its driver the better balance and control.’

  The Massarella turned in tight. Sabatino’s Ptarmigan was right up behind.

  ‘Through the apex – and, now, down goes the power.’

  ‘Both drivers were pretty tight through there.’

  ‘Luciano seems to be accelerating hard – third, fourth, fifth – right up to eighteen thousand revs.’

  ‘But Sabatino’s keeping pace out of the hairpin, Ben. She’s right there with him.’

  The camera switched to the far end of the half-mile-long Rettifilo, to look back, offering a long, head-on shot of the approaching cars. Through the heat shimmer, the Massarella’s black and business-like profile was all that could be seen, as Sabatino was tucked so closely in behind. Travelling at that speed, the Massarella seemed to bobble over a silvery-watery mirage on the surface of the track. Then the TV picture switched to a helicopter shot, directly overhead, giving the commentators something much more obvious to talk about.

  ‘There they go – nose to tail. Sabatino’s right up behind the Massarella. She’s getting a good tow, using the hole punched through the air by the car in front, to reduce the drag. But, of course, its turbulence will disturb the airflow over the Ptarmigan, reducing her downforce. But, here – at this very moment – on this straight – that’s okay. There’re no lateral forces on the Ptarmigan right now.’

  Sabatino’s car was now almost bumping the rear end of the Massarella. Seemingly in an instant, the turquoise Ptarmigan dived out to the left.

  ‘Here she goes! She’s having a go down the left-hand side.’

  ‘Yes, but look at that – Luciano’s seen her in his mirrors – and is moving straight across – to the left – to try and block her.’

  Sabatino, being aggressively squeezed over to the dirty side of the track, suddenly lifted off for a fraction of a second before changing direction, darting back the other way – back behind the Massarella – to try a dive again, this time down the right-hand side.

  ‘That’s clever, Ben – Sabatino knows Luciano can only make one defensive move, under the rules – and that he’s just made it. Now going down the right-hand side, she’s still got three-quarters of the Rettifilo left to mount her challenge – without legitimate influence from Luciano.’

  The overhead camera followed the two flat-out cars down the start/finish straight. It showed all too clearly how close the cars were – almost touching – as Sabatino’s Ptarmigan started inching its way alongside.

  ‘Aargh, this is sensational. Two Formula One cars – absolutely at full throttle – throwing themselves down the pit straight at two hundred miles an hour – and we’re only interested in the tiny relative speed between them.’

  ‘Which is, what, Mike – no more than two or three miles an hour?’

  The TV picture switched again – to the forward-looking camera mounted on the front wing of Sabatino’s Ptarmigan – only inches off the ground. The surface of the track swept by, below, in a hypnotic blur. Filling the left of the picture was the black wall of the Massarella’s rear-right tyre, spinning in another blur – while the car’s black radiator pods and front wing tapered away down to the blurred surface of the road ahead.

  ‘Wheel to wheel – inch by inch – they couldn’t be any closer.’

  ‘Is she going to do enough – do enough before the corner?’

  ‘Who knows, Ben,’ said the other commentator with a chuckle clearly delighting in the drama. The shot changed yet again, this time from behind. Viewers could see the rears of both cars – appearing, from that angle with the compressing of perspective, to be absolutely side by side. Beyond them, hazily in the distance, was the looming braking zone of Turn One.

  ‘I don’t think Sabatino’s going to do it – she’s not done enough. Her engine hasn’t quite got the grunt.’

  ‘No, and here comes the end of the straight. Luciano, surely, has the right to retake the line.’

  ‘I’d say so. And if Sabatino’s going to hold her current line, she’ll be in the dirt very soon, and on a very tight line into that corner.’

  Sabatino finally had to yield.

  ‘Wow, what a shame, Ben – but what a charge! What a charge!’

  ‘Absolutely. What an effort. It shows one thing really clearly, though, Mike – Luciano’s going to have to be on his guard. Any mistake he makes out of the Parabolica, and Sabatino will surely have him.’

  ‘Provided that understeer of hers doesn’t let Luciano get away round the rest of the circuit. She’s got to be right up behind him into and out of the hairpin to stand a chance.’

  Round they raced for another lap.

  Their high-speed joust was repeated seven more times, with Sabatino harrying Luciano all the way down the majestic start/finish straight into the first corner, only to find she never quite got the shot she needed.

  Then something happened.

  ‘Look, Ben, Sabatino’s trying a different entry into the hairpin this time.’

  ‘Let’s see if it works? Sabatino’s hanging left and braking slightly earlier. She’s turning in slower – but – but – she’s faster out. Look at that! She’s got a much better
exit this time. She’s definitely closer as they straighten up.’

  ‘It’s looking good – she’s tucked right up behind, in Luciano’s slipstream. Can she do it?’

  Sabatino darted out, this time to the right.

  ‘Here they go again. Look – look at them run.’

  ‘It’s a drag race!’

  The two cars pelted down the full length of the magnificent long straight, inches apart. All the way.

  ‘Two hundred miles an hour, and we’re still only interested in the relative speed between the Ptarmigan and the Massarella. It looks like it’d probably be measured in feet per hour, this time.’

  The two cars were hurtling down towards the end of the Rettifilo. The crowds started roaring. They had come for excitement – the excitement of Monza – the home of Italian motor sport. Expectations were not being disappointed.

  ‘Aargh – it’s all too much. She’s got enough time, hasn’t she, Mike?’

  ‘The Ptarmigan is giving its all – but where’s that extra handful of horsepower she so desperately needs?’

  ‘She is still gaining.’

  ‘Side by side. Wheel to wheel.’

  ‘At over two hundred miles an hour. Sabatino’s still pulling forward. She’s edging further forward.’

  ‘But will she do enough?’

  Both cars hit their respective rev limiters. Straker willed Sabatino’s car on, almost unable to breathe as he watched the titanic struggle play out over nearly ten seconds.

  ‘That Ptarmigan Benbecular is giving its all. She’s gaining … gaining – so slowly. It does look, though, that she could just about draw level and take him.’

  ‘But can she do it in time?’

  ‘She hasn’t yet. It all depends on who blinks first. It’s all about braking, now – into Turn One.’

  ‘Wait, Luciano’s been spooked – he knows this is threatening his lead of the race. He’s starting to move – moving across towards her. He’s already staking a claim on the line – does he still have the right?’

  ‘It might just be to try and intimidate her. They’re getting closer and closer. Who’s got the nerve to face the other down? Does Sabatino have the nerve to hold her ground?’

  The other commentator laughed dismissively. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry about her nerve, Ben. Our rookie woman has definitely got the anatomy for this game.’

  The other commentator – and Straker – chuckled. ‘Indeed, and neither’s giving way. Neither’s giving way. But they’re going to have to brake soon – one of them’s going to have to back off.’

  Straker suddenly saw a puff of blue smoke off one of the front tyres between the cars, but they were so close and it was all so fast that he couldn’t tell whose tyre had locked-up. The commentators were none the wiser.

  ‘Who was that braking?’

  ‘Who knows – but Luciano’s pouncing. He’s now definitely staking a claim on the line. He’s moving over – moving across.’

  ‘Luciano’s going to shut the door – going to hold her off.’

  Then Sabatino very clearly hit the brakes.

  ‘Yeah, there he goes – taking the chance to cut right across in front of her. He’s got it – he’s secured the line.’

  ‘But he’s cutting right across her path. What about Sabatino’s understeer? Is she going to be able to slow down fast enough?’

  ‘Hang on – hang on. Oh no, look at that!’

  ‘That’s understeer. Sabatino’s got the mother of all understeers.’

  ‘The front end’s going away from her. She’s going to end up T-boning him – isn’t she?’

  ‘She might, she might…’

  ‘She’s almost on full right lock – but its having no effect. She can’t avoid him. She’s going to ram him, smack in the ribs.’

  The TV picture switched to the camera on Sabatino’s front wing. The shot put the viewer right in the middle of the action. There was dramatic convergence. An almighty crunch. Bits flew off both cars. The Ptarmigan’s front left bashed into the Massarella’s radiator pod. The cars juddered on the impact. Both cars’ back wheels interlocked – and bumped – momentarily bouncing the Massarella off the ground. It fell back down – heavily. The two cars intertwined, and slid ignominiously off the circuit onto the run-off on the outside of the corner, grinding to a halt. A cloud of dust enveloped the scene.

  Both sets of suspension were degraded, and Luciano had very obviously suffered a punctured front right.

  The Massarella and the Ptarmigan were well and truly out of the race.

  Sabatino made her way back to the pit lane on foot, still wearing her helmet to conceal her fury at being forced to drop out of the race. Keeping her helmet on was also the clearest possible sign that she did not want anybody to talk to her.

  Once safely inside the Ptarmigan garage, she took it off. Clearly agitated.

  Ten minutes later her mood exploded. The stewards announced a formal investigation of her crash with Simi Luciano.

  FORTY

  Massarella, they soon learned, had lodged an official protest, accusing Sabatino of unsportsmanlike behaviour – deliberately taking out her principal rival for the Drivers’ Championship. Ptarmigan was summoned to Race Control.

  Sabatino was incandescent at the slur. Without even smartening herself up, she strode out of the motor home, straight off to see the FIA steward with Treadwell jogging behind, anxious to catch her up.

  Mario Pinolla, a tall, thin, elderly Italian with an aquiline nose and angular face, called them into a meeting room and asked Sabatino to explain herself at Turn One. Peering over his half-moon glasses, Pinolla made her and Treadwell feel like a couple of naughty school boys in front of the headmaster.

  ‘It was a racing incident. I went for the inside of Luciano. He closed the door on me. I tried to brake. Locked-up, and just slid into him.’

  Pinolla looked at her with a completely sceptical expression on his face. ‘What about the threat you made to Mr Van Der Vaal, then? At Spa. That you would run his cars off the road?’

  Sabatino bristled but remained silent.

  She happened to glance at Treadwell. He closed his eyes and shook his head – as if to dissuade her from raising the whole sabotage story – before quickly stepping in himself: ‘Mr Pinolla, please look at the course of the whole race. For eight laps, Remy exited the Parabolica, ready to mount a challenge. Both cars were very evenly matched in straight-line speed. Remy had a legitimate shot at holding the inside line into Turn One. Our telemetry – all weekend – shows the Ptarmigan’s downforce is severely affected when any lock’s applied to the front wheels. Every time Remy went to turn in, the downforce fell away. Into that corner, where the surface on the inside is still dirty, a combination of low downforce and dirty track caused a complication in a justified racing manoeuvre.’

  Pinolla removed his half-moon glasses.

  Before the steward could respond, Treadwell went on: ‘I would ask you, please, to point to any action on Ms Sabatino’s part that you think was deliberately intended to destabilize her car?’

  Pinolla’s expression hardened. He looked Sabatino in the eye. ‘What about this threat you made in Spa?’

  Yet again Treadwell stepped in before Sabatino could speak: ‘Mario, you know Eugene Van Der Vaal – he dishes out this sort of stuff all the time. Remy was indulging in nothing more than a bit of a psych-out.’

  ‘What is sick out?’

  ‘Psych-out – psychological playfulness. Words, Mario. They’re just words.’

  Five minutes later Sabatino and Treadwell re-emerged into the brilliant Italian sunshine as the noise of the race continued all around them. Walking back to the paddock they had to fight their way through the inevitable media scrum.

  ‘Did you mean to crash?’

  ‘Did you deliberately take Luciano out?’

  ‘Are you going to apologize to Massarella?’

  They had to wrestle their way through a jostling press pack all the way to the Ptarmigan motor home.


  ‘How did it go?’ asked Straker as Sabatino and Treadwell climbed the stairs and shut the door on the rabble behind them.

  ‘Those bastards at Massarella never let up, do they?’ she growled.

  Treadwell tried to be philosophical: ‘We were cleared by the stewards. The system worked properly,’ he said calmly.

  ‘Massarella’s little game didn’t work,’ offered Straker. ‘We were exonerated.’

  ‘We can’t brush all this off so easily. It’s fucking up my Championship.’ She turned to face Straker. ‘None of this would be happening – at all,’ she snapped at him, ‘if you had succeeded in getting rid of the sabotage bollocks from Massarella. We’re always on the fucking defensive. Why aren’t we exposing their sabotage incidents and chewing their arse?’

  Straker reacted viscerally to her outburst. It hit him like a body blow; he felt her accusation even constrict his chest. How could she lash out at him, let alone in public like this – not to mention after their night together? Straker fought hard to retain his professionalism. He looked her straight in the eye. ‘We don’t have the evidence, yet.’

  Sabatino made for the cabin at the end of the motor home. ‘Well for fuck’s sake, get some. I’m tired of being the victim,’ after which she stormed inside and slammed the door behind her.

  PART FOUR

  SINGAPORE SLING

  FORTY-ONE

  After a respectable pause, Straker got up and left the motor home. He had to get away from the humiliation. To walk off his anger. “How dare you?” he screamed – to himself, marching out of the paddock and into the crowds. He knew Sabatino was under stress; they all were. Interference from Massarella must have been taking its toll on her nerves, but so it was on everyone else’s. He was damned if he was going to be spoken to like that – let alone in front of other people.

  Straker fumed.

  His dealing with this and her conduct, though, was going to have to wait. His phone was ringing. It was Dominic Quartano.