Acting as a distraction to Straker’s uncalmed mood, the tycoon was flying into Milan that evening. Straker was asked to get himself and Nazar airside and ready to board the Quartech Falcon the moment it came to a standstill.
Straker spent some time arranging things, able to put the Sabatino issue out of his mind – at least for the time being.
Later that day, on board the company jet, Straker and Nazar were greeted by Quartano and Bernie Callom, Quartech’s Marketing and PR Director.
‘Welcome,’ said Quartano. ‘This trip to Shanghai should be momentous. Get it right and we should be on for signing Mandarin Telecom and landing the biggest sponsorship deal Formula One has ever seen. Let’s get you all a drink. Then, Tahm, you can tell me what went wrong for Remy this weekend.’
Straker sat silently in the cabin, not engaging with any of the subsequent conversation.
Quartano accepted the racing incident explanation. ‘Where does that leave us?’ he asked.
‘Still okay in the Constructors’ Championship,’ reported Nazar. ‘Remy and Luciano didn’t score here in Monza, even so Helli’s spirited second place to Barrantes’s seventh actually extended our Constructors’ lead. We’re on 94 as against Massarella – in second – on 87 points.’
‘So not a total disaster. And in the Drivers’ Championship?’
‘Tighter as a result of the weekend. Remy is still on top – with 56 – ahead of Aston, now in second, on 54.’
‘So just two points in it. And Luciano? Where’s he now?’
‘Still on 50, but back down to third.’
Quartano smiled and exhaled. ‘Three drivers covered by six points. Pretty close. We’re going to have to find some extra performance or consistency, soon, for us to break away.’
Following a refuelling stop in Dubai, the Quartech Falcon landed in Shanghai early the following evening. Monday. A limousine met the Ptarmigan party at the airport and drove them straight to the Four Seasons Hotel in Weihai Road.
Two hours later another car took them, through the dusk, from the hotel to their dinner engagement on the Bund. Driving through the city, the bustling energy of Shanghai and the Chinese people was clear to see. Streets were thronged. Neon signs were glowing in every direction. In the midst of all this bustle were striking juxtapositions of the ultra-modern with the traditional – the most obvious being the frequent sights of curved wooden Chinese rooftops in between huge expanses of glass and concrete.
Their car reached the Huangpu River as an orange sun set behind them. They turned north onto the Bund, the city’s western frontage along the river. Before them was a fantastic sight – full of diametric contrasts.
‘Here, on the left,’ Callom offered, ‘is the colonial city – I’ve been doing some reading for our promotional material. You’ll see the buildings are all pretty grand – baroque – from the time of Shanghai’s trading heyday. Most of the big European powers were here from the eighteenth century on – the British, French and Russians. This place boomed in the 1930s. With its style and buzz, Shanghai was even dubbed the Paris of the East. Over to the right,’ he said pointing through the opposite window, ‘look at the contrast! That’s Pudong.’
Straker looked across the river to the east. The architecture could not have been more different. A skyline as futuristic as he had seen anywhere in the world. Adding to the impact, most of the buildings carried vast neon signs stating the names of their occupants. Prominent among them was Mandarin Telecom’s sign and logo.
‘No carved columns or verdigris domes over here,’ Callom went on. ‘All the same, the buildings are pretty distinctive. The one with the ball top and bottom – that’s the Oriental Pearl Tower. And the tallest building is nothing less than the tallest building in the world – the Shanghai World Financial Centre. Welcome, gents,’ said Callom with a flourish, ‘to the world’s economic superpower. Twenty-five years ago all that area on the other side of the river was a paddy field.’
‘Is that all it took?’ asked Nazar. ‘You’d hardly see that kind of energy and drive in Europe,’ he added with a hint of provocation.
Straker thought of Canary Wharf, smiled – but didn’t take the bait. The car pulled up in front of M on the Bund.
Alighting in front of the restaurant, they made their way up through the historic Nissin Shipping Building. Mandarin Telecom had reserved exclusive use of the roof terrace. Their table was outstanding – laid up for just eight of them – on its own in the centre of the outdoor space. In the balmy evening breeze they were treated to views of sparkling lights – across the skyline of Pudong, among the boats plying the Huangpu River, and down the curved sweep of elegant colonial buildings fronting the Bund.
There to greet them was Dr Chen, flanked by some of his directors.
Quartano turned and gestured to Pudong. ‘The economic sensation continues,’ he said. ‘I’m impressed to see Mandarin Telecom’s name as the most prominent of the lights across the river.’
Dr Chen bowed his acceptance of the compliment. ‘Thank you, sir, we are pleased with our progress – domestically. With the prospective association between our two companies, we hope to develop just as fast internationally, going forward. We are looking to Ptarmigan and Formula One to accelerate our brand awareness around the world.’
‘An excellent thought on which to begin our evening.’
In deference to the Chinese culture of doing business, Quartano was careful only to react to topics of conversation and not initiate them. The protocols were keenly observed.
During dinner, the Quartech and Ptarmigan visitors were treated to multiple courses – Straker lost count of how many. Each one, it was explained, being a tribute to the culinary style distinctive of a different region of China.
Straker, returning to the Four Seasons quite late, found himself brooding – brooding over his unresolved tension with Sabatino back in Monza. Why the hell was this weighing on him so heavily?
As if he didn’t know the answer.
Straker couldn’t relax with all that occupying his mind. His hotel room felt like a prison. He had to get out. Setting out on a long run through the early hours, he only made it back to the Four Seasons as the first pinkish-orange light of dawn was breaking to the east.
A Mandarin Telecom car arrived at nine to take the Ptarmigan party across town – and across the river – to the headquarters building in Pudong.
Arriving at the foot of the forty-eight-storey glass tower, there was a sign welcoming the visitors flanked by two enormous arrangements of orchids.
‘That’s very symbolic,’ whispered Callom. ‘Orchids mean fertility – implying abundance, growth and prosperity.’
‘Did you learn that through your research, Bernie, or did you just happen to know that anyway?’ asked Nazar mischievously.
An elegant thirty-something Chinese woman appeared wearing an immaculate dark suit, a Mandarin Telecom logo tastefully embroidered into the lapel of her coat. She introduced herself as Dr Chen’s assistant and asked the visitors to follow her to the lifts.
Crossing the atrium of the building, they were struck by its size. Stretching up over five floors, it hosted three full-sized palm trees, a large rock display, and copious amounts of running water – including a thirty-foot fountain. Bypassing the reception desk and elegant waiting area, they were led straight to the lift marked Guests Only.
With a slight popping of their ears, the lift rocketed up through forty-seven floors in a matter of seconds. The Ptarmigan team was soon ushered gracefully into a vast open office occupying half the floor. Over by the large continuous plate-glass window Dr Chen and his directors were sitting at a long conference table. They rose and greeted their visitors once more. Before the formal meeting began, the visitors were invited to make the most of their platform in the sky – being introduced to the aerial views of Shanghai. An astonishing sight. All the shapes on the far side of the river were shrouded in a mist as the sun was only just beginning to burn through the cloud. Several landmar
ks were pointed out. The M on the Bund, where they had dined the night before. The Old HSBC building. The extent of the International Settlement. And the area of the French Concession.
The CEO of Mandarin Telecom soon invited the visitors to sit at the long table. ‘Gentlemen,’ said Dr Chen as he took his seat. ‘We are pleased to have reached a satisfactory point in our negotiations.’ Looking up he nodded to his female assistant who promptly walked forward carrying a number of leather folders. Each person, starting with the visitors, had one placed before them.
‘We have, here,’ Dr Chen explained, ‘the Memorandum of Understanding covering the sponsorship of the Ptarmigan Formula One Team for the next three years.’
Straker waited until it was evidently okay to open his folder. As he did so, he saw the agreement was beautifully laid out, typeset in English alongside Chinese characters.
‘This is indeed exciting,’ said Quartano addressing Dr Chen and then looking into the faces of the Chinese directors in turn. ‘We are all inspired by the potential of this association between our two companies.’
‘Thank you, Mr Quartano. Likewise. As we have agreed, and is set out formally in here,’ continued Dr Chen laying an open hand deferentially over his leather folder, ‘we will move to full contracts as soon as we can. We have agreed with your Mr Callom that news of this will be embargoed until the Singapore Grand Prix in two weeks’ time. There, we will make a preliminary announcement, looking to sign the contract itself at the Chinese Grand Prix, here in Shanghai, two weeks after that.’
‘That would be most fitting, Dr Chen.’
At which point the Chinese CEO was handed a Montblanc fountain pen by his female assistant. Through his thick black-rimmed spectacles Dr Chen looked down and signed the Memorandum of Understanding on the largest sponsorship deal in Formula One history.
Seven hundred and fifty million dollars over three years.
The deal was done.
Almost.
FORTY-TWO
Quartano flew the team back with him from Shanghai to London in the Quartech Falcon later the same day. There was an exuberant mood on the plane as they toasted and revelled in the prospect of the Mandarin Telecom sponsorship.
For Ptarmigan, there was the excitement of knowing the team had secured an unprecedented budget and the wherewithal to challenge unhindered for the two Championships in Formula One over the next three years – providing an opportunity, with a level of financial predictability, none of the staff would have known in their motor racing careers.
For Quartano, there was the satisfaction of having done it again – even in his seventies: of spotting an opportunity, of committing to a distressed commercial situation, of providing leadership and business expertise, of appointing the right people, of building the right team, and of then seeing his judgement bear fruit. Rarely, though, had such a turnaround yielded such a quantifiable – and sizeable – benefit quite so quickly. Ptarmigan, bought for a symbolic £1 when the team was on its uppers nine months before, was now attracting third-party funding worth three-quarters of a billion dollars.
Straker, still thinking about the tension in Monza, was so buoyed by the mood on board he decided to take some initiative. Firing off a text to Sabatino while they were in the air, he wrote:
I think we need to talk about things. Can we grab some time in Singapore? Matt.
He felt it was unemotive, short – to the point.
He felt better just with the sending of it.
Two days later, though, he had not had a reply.
This did not do his frame of mind any good. Unresolved tension threatened to drag his psyche down. He craved a distraction, but the bank holiday weekend was long and empty. Straker found solace occupying the part of his mind he always felt energized when playing bridge – except the last thing he wanted was to be sociable. Instead, he played – alone in his flat – against his Pro Bridge Professor. He played the machine for hours on end, making, among other contracts: two small slams, a dozen game calls, and managing on one occasion to get the machine four down in three no trumps. For Straker, an electronic game didn’t come anywhere close to playing the game for real, particularly the feeling of being on a wavelength – when bidding tightly – with a partner. And, he was well aware how sad playing this game – alone – truly was. But, at the same time, he also knew that, currently, he was not himself.
Whatever the stigma of such a solitary occupation might be, he didn’t care. Its mental stimulation – made possible in delicious isolation – served a therapeutic purpose, and worked for him. It managed to tide him over psychologically, until he was ready to leave for Singapore.
As Straker left for the Far East, though, there had still been no reply of any kind from Sabatino.
The press conference announcing Mandarin Telecom’s sponsorship of Ptarmigan was to be held in the Ballroom of Raffles Hotel on the morning of Qualifying for the Singapore Grand Prix.
Quartano flew out to join the Ptarmigan team – to present this coup to the sport and to the world.
The ballroom was heaving with journalists and TV cameras.
Everyone was there.
At the appointed time, the lights were dimmed and a video was run. Dramatic music and a stirring voice-over announced the tie-up between China’s largest telecommunications business and the glamorous world of Formula One racing.
The imagery was spectacular, but so was the message.
A substantial business from an Eastern communist country was ready to break out globally and embrace the consumer markets of the West – through the medium of the world’s most exciting sport. Formula One was showing itself to be significant enough to begin breaking down geopolitical barriers.
At the end of the video, Quartano took to the stage accompanied by Dr Chen, the CEO of Mandarin Telecom, and Tahm Nazar, Ptarmigan’s Team Principal.
The room fell silent.
Quartano’s rounded baritone voice commanded complete attention as he declared the partnership with Mandarin and introduced Dr Chen.
The Chinese tycoon, ironically a card-carrying member of the China Communist Party, declared his company’s delight in the sponsorship of the team and stated that their aim was to enjoy the exposure of motor racing around the world to build the most successful telecoms company on the planet.
Having made their statements, there were questions from the journalists. Their recurring theme was clear: ‘How much is this sponsorship worth?’
Quartano, with unwavering control of the floor, replied: ‘We still have some discussions ongoing. In any event, we consider this is an issue of confidentiality, and the final amount will not be disclosed.’
There was a considerable clamouring to ask related follow-ups, all of which Quartano batted away. One journalist launched an oblique attempt to elicit the magnitude of this number.
‘In light of this sponsorship,’ he asked, ‘will Ptarmigan still need financial help from other sponsors, or even Quartech, anymore?’
Quartano’s face remained neutral, even though he appreciated the subtlety invested in the question. ‘Need and want are two very different things.’
The journalist came back with: ‘You haven’t answered the question.’
‘How about that?’ Quartano replied and smiled broadly. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we thank you all for coming. We’d like to thank the Singapore government for hosting this spectacular Grand Prix, and look forward to an exciting weekend of motor racing.’
It was to be an exciting weekend, all right.
At lunchtime on Saturday the heavens opened.
The rains, substantial even by Singaporean standards, were torrential – likened by everyone to an out-of-season monsoon.
Driving conditions were little short of treacherous.
Straker, although taking comfort from their switch away from the troublemaking Trifecta Systems to Cohens, and having been sabotage-free in Monza, was still vigilant – set up as usual in the headquarters motor home.
Being a
night race, Qualifying One started at the same time of day as the race proper – therefore after dark. Singapore looked all the more impressive at night. Lights burned across the towering skyline – not for cleaning or weekend servicing – but because, in all probability, the Lion City was still working, even on a Saturday evening. Industriousness, not birthright, earned this entrepôt its respected status as an economic powerhouse
Five minutes into Q1 there were six cars out on the track. All were on full wets. And while the treads and sipes on each tyre may have been designed to displace sixty litres of water a second, they were as near-useless against the standing water around half the circuit, some of which was over an inch deep. Driving an F1 car through this was like walking in leather-soled shoes on sheet ice. Cars were sliding about all over the place.
Against the lap record of one minute forty-five, no one had completed a lap in under two and half minutes.
Six minutes into Q1 a backmarker lost control under braking into the Singapore Sling, Turn Ten. First the front left locked-up. Then it started aquaplaning, there being virtually no help from the aerodynamics at such slow speed. The car simply headed on in a straight line. Going deep into the corner, it showed no response to the direction set by the steering wheel. Then, suddenly, with full left lock on, the car hit a dryer patch of road, caught some grip, and started to turn. But the back wheels, still on the surface water, kicked out to the right. The driver steered aggressively into the slew, but in vain. The water had made the track like ice. The car started to spin.
Going at only fifty miles an hour, the driver was merely a passenger. The car spun, slammed into a section of the circuit’s unforgiving barriers, ripped off its right-front wheel, the whole of its front wing, and shattered the nosecone. Debris, from the splintered carbon fibre, skidded out across the chicane like ducks and drakes across the water.
Race Control immediately red-flagged the session. The remaining cars teetered back to the pits, the drivers soaked to the skin in their open cockpits.
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