Driven

by Toby Vintcent

He found the message to Charlie Grant from that mysterious – unidentified – Italian mobile number, which, just as he remembered, referred to this ASD acronym.

  No wonder Treadwell had been unable to recognize it when Straker had asked him what this term meant – ASD was clearly one of Massarella’s own. Whatever this coincidence meant, Straker had found a connection between proprietary Massarella terminology and Charlie Grant.

  Didn’t this channel of communication have to be the basis of the allegation?

  He had to find out more, fast, to have any chance of countering it.

  The other end of this text message was that Italian mobile phone number which the researchers in London had tried multiple ways, unsuccessfully, to identify.

  How, though, could he identify the other end of this “connection”? And quickly? Being in the very hearing to pass judgment on this matter, they were quite obviously running out of time.

  Suddenly Straker had a mischievous thought. Was this really the time to try it?

  What the hell! They had little else to go on to defend themselves. And nothing to lose.

  Opening up the text message on Charlie’s iPhone that referred to ASD, Straker hit Reply. In the space below he typed in his message:

  I’M RIGHT BEHIND YOU!

  He read it several times as if to make sure he should be doing this.

  Four seconds later he pressed Send.

  The phone did its thing, pulsing several times before reluctantly dispatching the message.

  Straker could now only wait.

  His mind whirred. What if the Italian mobile was switched off? Or not manned? Or what if his assumptions were wrong – and this had come from somebody else?

  Any of these outcomes would leave Straker none the wiser.

  But he hoped for something more.

  If the message did “get home”, it would have a double effect. The recipient would see a completely unexpected Caller ID, which, under the circumstances, would be a shock – and the message itself might carry a metaphorical meaning all of its own.

  Straker waited.

  How long would this take?

  Then he sensed rather than watched the room intently. Nothing happened. Damn! This wasn’t going how he thought it would.

  But then – Bingo!

  In the row along the table, one of the figures – to the left – suddenly started fidgeting and moving awkwardly in his chair – clearly looking for something in his pocket. After a short wrestle with the layers of his clothing, the figure pulled out his mobile phone.

  The Massarella team boss looked down.

  Straker, from the side, saw something to behold. Van Der Vaal’s eyes widened dramatically.

  And then, in almost cartoon-like panic, Van Der Vaal spun round to look down the row of chairs behind him along the back wall. The brutish South African panned along the faces. Straker, holding the phone out of sight below the level of his thigh, was quick enough to have looked away towards the centre of the room before he felt Van Der Vaal’s stare wash over him. Through his peripheral vision, Straker soon saw the Massarella boss return his attention to his mobile phone.

  Straker had made a connection. A solid connection. Not just from Massarella – but from Van Der Vaal himself – to Charlie Grant. What now, though? What the hell could this mean? This completely unexpected revelation showed that there had been electronic communication between the teams. Didn’t that blow their whole defence wide open?

  Straker was beside himself.

  Grabbing a piece of paper, he leant across and whispered a request to borrow Treadwell’s pen. Straker soon started scribbling out a note.

  Van Der Vaal, refocusing on the room, was soon back in full flow: ‘Mr President, I have a claim – a good claim against Ptarmigan. Our technology, which we have proved we started developing before Ptarmigan, has ended up on their car. Their components aren’t just similar to ours,’ he said. Then, dripping with Afrikaans pronunciation, he grunted: ‘They … are … identical. How did this happen without Ptarmigan stealing our ideas? That’s what this Council should be asking. We are one hundred per cent the victims here. It is unconscionable to think that Ptarmigan should not be held to account for this blatant infringement.’

  Straker finished scribbling his note. He folded the piece of paper, leant forward, and tapped Brogan on the shoulder. Somewhat taken by surprise, the barrister turned round. He saw Straker offering up the folded paper. Brogan took it. Opening it up the legal counsel read:

  Oscar, I’ve JUST worked out who the Massarella and Ptarmigan contacts were.

  Brogan looked round to meet Straker’s eye. His face registered surprise, then seemed to search Straker’s – as if to verify that he was sure.

  Straker nodded and held up Charlie Grant’s iPhone as if to provide some form of physical proof.

  Turning back round to face the room, Brogan said commandingly: ‘Mr President? I am sorry to interrupt. May I ask Council’s indulgence to confer with my client for a moment?’

  ‘This is highly irregular, Mr Brogan.’

  ‘I accept that, sir. But a five-minute conversation, in private, might help us all to speed this process along.’

  San Marino seemed to sigh. ‘Very well. Let us all take a ten-minute recess.’

  In the noise of the meeting being adjourned, Brogan stood up and left the table, indicating that the Ptarmigan contingent should follow Straker out of the chamber. They made it back to their waiting room, filed in, and Straker closed the door behind them.

  FIFTY

  Fifteen minutes later Oscar Brogan was ready to address the hearing of the World Motor Sport Council once again. San Marino called the meeting to order and asked him whether, in the light of his conference with colleagues, Brogan had anything to say.

  ‘Thank you, Mr President, I do. I am not sure how to explain this, sir, but as bizarre as it may sound my client has, during the course of this very hearing, come into new information.’

  Oscar Brogan QC, ever the master of controlling a room’s attention after thirty years of practice in court, was sure he had the FIA hanging on every word. ‘Without prejudicing my client’s position, I am prepared to acknowledge a contact within Ptarmigan who might – I say again who might – have been in contact with someone at Massarella. But only,’ he said quickly and loudly to pre-empt the expected hubbub from the Council members, ‘if, Mr President, the Council will accept a request to grant my client extra time to re-examine its submission to this Council and prepare to account for itself more fully at a follow-up hearing.’

  Brogan conspicuously stopped talking to yield the floor. He had fired his shot – his conditional shot – and believed his statement and request were complex enough to avoid a reflex or snap answer from the governing body.

  The room was in uproar. None of this was expected. Few Council meetings – if any – had ever had such a googly bowled at them.

  Only one person seemed unfazed by the commotion and complexity of the moment. The 7th Marquis of San Marino retained his gravitas and composure throughout. Calling the meeting to order, the President waited for quiet before he spoke directly to Oscar Brogan.

  ‘I dare say all of us are a little bemused by a claim that your client has come by evidence – if we might call it that – during this very meeting. Whatever the trigger, though, your acknowledgement – I’m sorry, your provisional acknowledgement – of a Ptarmigan name in contact with Massarella would certainly move this case along and, from the sound of it, give us some much-needed fact on which to base any judgment or action.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr President,’ said Brogan in response to the statesman-like summing up. ‘So, would the Council be prepared to grant my client additional time to re-present its submission to the FIA under the current allegations?’

  San Marino had clearly made up his mind on this but, to ensure collective responsibility, he cast a quick glance around the room as a form of consultation. Facing forward again San Marino said: ‘I believe in the interests o
f equity, the Council would be so moved – but I would add one proviso. That a grant of more time depends entirely on our knowing the name or names in question.’

  Straker, sitting against the long wall as before, climbed quickly to his feet and leant forwards to whisper into Brogan’s ear. The barrister’s head could soon be seen nodding.

  ‘Mr President,’ said Brogan as Straker sat down, ‘my client would like to do so by asking for confirmation from someone here in this meeting.’

  San Marino’s expression conveyed some surprise. ‘Very well, Mr Brogan, but through me – through the Chair – if you please.’

  The room fell silent.

  ‘Thank you, Mr President. If Mr Van Der Vaal is not prepared to identify and reveal the source of the leak inside Massarella, will he at least confirm the person who my client now believes was the contact point at Ptarmigan?’

  Straker looked straight at Van Der Vaal, who seemed momentarily thrown.

  ‘Well, Eugene?’ asked San Marino over the continuing noise. ‘Will you?’

  Van Der Vaal remained looking uneasy. Leaning to his left, he conferred quickly with the rather stiff Italian-looking fellow beside him. The Massarella boss soon straightened up, looked at San Marino, and nodded hesitantly.

  Brogan addressed the chair. ‘Very well, Mr President. Was the Ptarmigan contact … a Ms Charlotte Grant?’

  The room burbled again, but sounded like it wasn’t quite sure why. No one present was likely to have heard the name before. But at least a name sounded a little more specific. In search of the next instalment of this story, all eyes around the table soon turned to Eugene Van Der Vaal.

  ‘Well, Eugene,’ said San Marino. ‘Are you prepared to answer?’

  The Massarella boss looked stunned, as if he was trying to weigh up the consequences to him of any possible response.

  ‘Well?’ asked the President again. ‘Will you give the Council an answer?’

  Van Der Vaal conferred again with the thin man beside him.

  ‘Eugene, a Yes or No will do.’

  Van Der Vaal sat up straight and looked at San Marino. Finally, after a long pause, the Massarella boss gave the shortest and sharpest of nods.

  Chatter broke out around the table. At last, they thought – this might be information that could move things on.

  ‘Mr President,’ stated Brogan loudly over the chatter filling the room. ‘Thank you. I hardly need point out that this has changed almost everything to do with this case. Mr Van Der Vaal’s confirmation has provided genuinely new information to my client. Furthermore, this throws up endless questions,’ he said, increasing his volume to emphasize the point. ‘How is it that Mr Van Der Vaal, personally, knows the name of the Ptarmigan contact? How does he know? When did he know? If Mr Van Der Vaal knew, why did he not notify Ptarmigan immediately that his team’s IP might be being divulged to another team? Indeed, why is this the first time we,’ he said with a sweep of his hand round the room, ‘know anything about it? Most obviously, though, why did Mr Van Der Vaal not do anything to stop it? More particularly, if Mr Van Der Vaal knew all about this, and didn’t do anything to stop it, what was his role in the leaks? Mr President, I could go on – these are only the questions I have come up with off the top of my head. We now request, as mentioned before, the opportunity for Ptarmigan to reassess its response and reposition its entire defence to the charges made against it by Massarella.’

  ‘Hang on a minute – not so fast, Mr Brogan,’ said Joss MacRae, sniping in from the end of the table. ‘This identification of a Ptarmigan employee involved as a contact with Massarella proves that there is a case to answer. Moreover, your acceptance of Mr Van Der Vaal’s confirmation of this name shows your client’s submission to this hearing to have been wholly incomplete – inaccurate – if not misleading.’

  There was a new burst of mutterings around the table.

  ‘Not so, sir. Not so,’ said Brogan firmly over the noise. ‘Mr President, there’s an exceptionally good reason why my client could not have been expected to identify Ms Grant as the contact point with Massarella.’

  MacRae’s face showed a sneer. ‘And what is that, Mr Brogan?’

  ‘Because, Mr President, Ms Charlotte Grant … is dead.’

  The noise became tumultuous.

  Chat and exclamation was coming from every part of the room, even from the assistants and juniors on the chairs against the back wall of the Chamber. No one had expected anything like this.

  ‘I hasten to add, Mr President,’ said Brogan over the noise, ‘that Charlotte Grant died in circumstances completely unrelated to Formula One.’

  San Marino held up his hand to try and calm the chatter.

  ‘That’s as maybe, Mr Brogan,’ he said loudly. ‘However … however … thank you … However, we cannot escape the fact that we seem to have confirmed this afternoon – at least – that a member of Ptarmigan staff was in contact with Massarella. Her being deceased in no way removes the allegation or the responsibility, Mr Brogan.’

  ‘My client accepts that completely – in principle – Mr President. But I respectfully submit that Ptarmigan could not have been aware of this fact and so my client has not – and could not have – prepared a defence with this individual in mind. As a result, I respectfully submit that no decision that you or this Council might make on this discussion – today – could possibly be regarded as fully-informed, equitable, or just.’

  San Marino squinted in one eye as he considered the situation. ‘I, as President of this body, am anxious above all to ensure fairness and equity. I am prepared to acknowledge your request on behalf of your client, Mr Brogan. But – but – I must ask you to re-present to this Council at the earliest possible opportunity. How long do you believe your client will need to reorganize its defence?’

  Brogan conferred with Nazar.

  ‘Sir, when is the FIA Council next due to meet?’

  ‘We have a meeting at the RAC Club in Pall Mall, London, on the Monday after the London Grand Prix. In two weeks’ time.’

  ‘In that case, Mr President, might I suggest we have the opportunity of re-presenting to you then?’

  ‘Agreed. We will continue with the enquiry into the allegations of Ptarmigan’s industrial espionage on August 9th. This hearing is adjourned until then.’

  FIFTY-ONE

  Confused and dismayed were the only ways to describe the Ptarmigan delegation as they returned to their room in the FIA headquarters.

  ‘Holy crap,’ said Sabatino the moment they had shut the door behind them and were alone. ‘How the fuck has this – whatever this is – happened?’ she blasted in a more agitated state than Straker had ever seen her before. ‘This is going to cost me the Championship, for fuck’s sake.’ Straker thought she was about to fly at him as she had in Monza.

  ‘Indeed, what the hell is going on here?’ asked Nazar accusatorily of Brogan and Straker. ‘Where the hell did this Charlie Grant stuff come from? Are we completely out of control?’

  Straker spoke calmly, trying to diffuse the tension in the room: ‘Not at all,’ he said with more conviction than he probably felt. ‘Tahm, you’ve seen the work that’s been done. We had no idea there was any contact between Massarella and Ptarmigan. We do now. Moreover, we have a name – a name around which to build a proper rebuttal of these ludicrous charges.’

  ‘But that’s just it,’ Sabatino retorted loudly. ‘We have … a name. We have just admitted – and had it confirmed by the claimant – in an FIA hearing – that we did have someone in contact with Massarella. How can that do anything for us but scream: “We’re guilty!”?’

  Brogan answered calmly. ‘I know it’s not going to seem so, but this is a beneficial development for us.’

  Sabatino looked completely incredulous.

  ‘For there to be a Ptarmigan contact,’ the barrister stated, ‘there had to have been someone who leaked the designs from Massarella. Van Der Vaal, personally, confirmed Charlotte Grant’s identity. That admission, al
one, opens up a whole new line of enquiry and defence.’

  ‘But that’s just it, isn’t it. Defence,’ said Sabatino. ‘We’re always on the damn defensive. And Quartano doesn’t want us to attack – for fear of upsetting Mandarin Telecom.’

  Straker looked at Nazar then at Brogan. ‘After this morning, Remy, the sponsorship deal will be long gone. Having looked the Chinese in the eye and said that we were clean, we’ve completely lost face as well as our credibility with them. Quartano’s going to be mad, but at least this’ll remove any reticence about fighting back. We may have lost the sponsors, but we will protect your position in the Championship.’

  Straker let that comment hang. Its significance was not lost on Sabatino; she began to calm slightly, even before Brogan backed Straker up.

  ‘The legal argument has been complicated today, but I strongly believe it’s been so in our favour. It’s thrown significant doubt on Massarella’s claims. Matt and I will conduct a wholesale reassessment of our approach to fight this case.’

  ‘That’s all for another time,’ barked Treadwell. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’

  The room finally quietened down.

  Sabatino still looked far from happy. ‘Christ, the press are going to kill us on the way out.’

  ‘How are we going to deal with them?’ asked Treadwell with unresolved tension in his voice.

  Straker stepped straight in: ‘We should make a short statement.’

  ‘Like what? How the hell do you spin this?’ said Sabatino in exasperation.

  Straker, looking and sounding like he was making it up on the hoof, said: ‘How about: “We have received new information only today, confirmed by Massarella … The FIA has granted us time to consider this … and has invited us to re-present it at the next Council meeting in London … We are more confident than ever of clearing our name”?’

  Brogan nodded. ‘That works.’

  Nazar followed with: ‘What do we say to: “Doesn’t this make you guilty?”’

  ‘“Innocent until proven otherwise”,’ responded Straker. ‘“No one’s proved anything, yet”?’