FIFTY-FOUR
Oscar Brogan QC came to lunch in Quartech’s London headquarters two days later. Hosted by Quartano in his private dining room on the top floor of 20 Cavendish Square, they were joined by Straker and Krall. Nazar was away.
‘I wanted to talk through the possibilities mentioned by the whistle-blower,’ said Quartano.
Brogan was helped to a fillet of beef by one of the stewards. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘But there’s little point, Dominic, if you’re not interested in mounting a counter-claim.’
Quartano was served last, with his main course and vegetables of red cabbage, spinach and roasted sweet potatoes. ‘My reservation about launching a counter-claim was before we lost Mandarin, Oscar. Now Massarella have cost me $750 million from that sponsorship deal, I want to hit them with everything we’ve got.’
Straker saw that Krall was fighting to contain herself.
‘Stacey, what’s your take on the substance of the counter-claim?’ Quartano asked.
‘We need hard proof of their acts of sabotage,’ she replied. ‘Oscar and I have been discussing some possible courses of action.’
When Krall finished, the lunch seemed to fall silent as the full possibilities sank in. Straker, aware he was breaking the silence, then said: ‘Andy Backhouse seems to have been involved in different aspects of this. Are we able to cross-examine him as a witness – if we needed to?’
Brogan nodded, looking slightly surprised. ‘If you think that would help? The World Council is keen to give people a fair hearing. If a witness is required – even a hostile one – they’ll sanction their being called.’
With brusque scepticism Quartano asked: ‘And you think that would be helpful, do you, Matt?’
‘If we can put the man under oath, sir, yes.’
For the following few days Straker watched Stacey Krall work frenetically. After Quartano’s go-ahead for filing a counter-claim, she was completely pumped up with preparing to take the fight to Massarella.
Straker helped Krall work up a supporting application to the High Court. In it, she set out Ptarmigan’s charges of sabotage against Massarella F1.
Once filed with the Court, Straker saw Krall’s stress levels go stratospheric – as she waited anxiously for the judgment.
Straker had been involved in many intelligence-gathering operations in the Royal Marines, but these had typically involved concealment and stealth. This was to be his first civilian, up-front, and intrusive experience.
Moving out of London to base themselves at the Ptarmigan factory, Straker helped Krall pull together the finishing touches and details of their plan.
At three o’clock in the afternoon, Straker and Krall drove into Gaydon, behind a police car and a civilian saloon. Parking the three cars on the verge outside Flax Cottage, there was a moment’s huddle in the single-track country lane before Ptarmigan’s court-appointed solicitor turned with two colleagues and, accompanied by a uniformed policeman, walked through the gate and across the gravel to Michael Lyons’s front door.
The doorbell was rung.
Straker and Krall stood back in the driveway.
The door was answered.
Hesitantly, and looking more than a little alarmed, Michael Lyons peered out and saw three men in suits standing in front of him, along with the uniformed policeman.
‘Mr Lyons?’
‘Yes?’
‘I am Arnold Close, a solicitor with Grumman & Phipps. I have here a Search Order issued by the High Court under the Civil Procedure Act 1997. This order states that as the Supervising Solicitor I have been given the power to search your house for intellectual property, technical documents, and any postal, email, or SMS correspondence relating to the Ptarmigan and Massarella Formula One teams.’
Michael Lyons suddenly looked like he had seen a ghost.
‘Do you understand the situation, Mr Lyons?’
The man stared at the solicitor. Then he looked at the policeman, then at Krall and Straker, whom he seemed to recognize, standing at a distance. Finally, he looked back to the solicitor again.
Lyons seemed to be processing this information. ‘What’s all this about?’
The solicitor handed him the Search Order. ‘It’s all set out in here, Mr Lyons. Ptarmigan and Massarella are accusing each other of industrial espionage. Ptarmigan assert that their cars have suffered from certain acts of sabotage on the race track, while Massarella allege that some of their secrets have been stolen. Ptarmigan believe you have documents or information that could clarify the situation.’
Lyons looked down at the order. His face registered shock.
Straker could see the man’s eyes flit across the document, but Lyon’s stare indicated that he was soon deep in thought. Was he weighing up his adjusted loyalties – now that he’d been sacked? Straker wondered. Somehow, though, the man looked resigned.
After a pregnant pause, Lyons looked back at the policeman as if for confirmation and reassurance.
‘Okay,’ he said flatly. ‘Maybe the truth should come out,’ with which he stood back and let the Supervising Solicitor and his colleagues into his house.
An hour later a computer, a laptop, several boxes of files, a small credenza, and a handful of rolled-up tubes of paper from Lyons’s house were loaded into the back of the solicitor’s car.
As Straker and Krall walked out of the drive, Straker snatched a glance back at Michael Lyons standing on the doorstep of his quintessential English cottage.
He was bemused by the man’s expression.
If he had to describe it, Straker would have said Lyons showed, of all things, relief – an odd emotion given that his privacy and possessions had just been so unceremoniously violated.
An hour later Straker and Krall were in a similar convoy, this time pulling up outside the entrance of Trifecta Systems on an industrial estate on the outskirts of Leamington Spa. They alighted and walked as a group up to the glass front doors, and through them into the main reception area. Arnold Close approached the reception desk and addressed the elder of the two women sitting behind it.
‘I’d like to see Justin Greening, the legal officer of the company,’ he said firmly. ‘Please explain that I have a Search Order from the High Court – please make sure you say that: a Search Order.’
The receptionist looked at the solicitor, and then across at the uniformed police officer standing a few feet back. Straker could see the woman was taking the request seriously. Sheepishly, she picked up her phone. When it was answered, she equally sheepishly passed the message on to the legal officer.
It was just as well the police officer was with them this time.
A few moments later a man burst through a pair of inner doors and strode aggressively into the reception area.
‘What the hell is this?’ he shouted as he cast his eyes across the six strangers. ‘What the hell are you people doing here?’
Arnold Close turned to face him. ‘Are you Trifecta’s legal officer?’ he asked.
‘What if I am – what the hell’s it got to do with you?’ the man bawled and moved uncomfortably close to the visitor asking the question.
‘Mr Greening – I’m assuming that’s who you are – I have a Search Order, here, issued by the High Court on behalf of the Ptarmigan Formula One Team. We have the authority to search your premises,’ and offered the order up for inspection.
Greening flicked the document away with the back of his hand.
Sensing trouble, the policeman stepped forward – extending an arm out in front of him, as if to separate the two men: ‘Excuse me, sir, if you’d like to take a step back.’
‘No, I fucking well don’t like – not in my own fucking offices.’
Arnold Close realized this wasn’t going to get anywhere. Turning to the policeman, he said: ‘Perhaps Mr Greening would like to call Trifecta’s own solicitors – in case he’s not familiar with the Search Order process?’
That could so easily have been taken as a professional insult by Greenin
g. Looking at the policeman as Arnold Close said it, though – and, with the policeman nodding his agreement to the idea, Greening seemed to calm a fraction. Turning to the receptionist, he barked: ‘Get me Rafe Cushing at Cushing & Partners.’
There were several moments of silent standoff, until, cowing slightly, the receptionist declared curtly: ‘I have Mr Cushing for you,’ and tentatively offered up the handset.
Greening grabbed the phone and conducted a conversation in hushed tones, shielding himself from the visitors. Handing back the receiver he said defiantly: ‘Mr Cushing will be here within five minutes. Then we’ll kick you all off these premises. In the meantime, you are prohibited from setting foot beyond this area,’ and stormed away, back through the inner doors of the reception hall.
Five minutes later, through the glass windows of the entrance hall, Straker could see a car swing wildly into the Trifecta parking area, and, sweeping round at some speed, screech to a halt on the neat asphalt surface. A short man with red hair and brown-rimmed glasses jumped out. Leaving the car – with its door open and engine running – the man ran towards the glass doors and barged through them into the reception area. At the same time, Greening reappeared from inside the building. The two men converged in the middle of the hall, with Greening saying – and pointing: ‘These are the people, Rafe, to be thrown off the premises.’
Arnold Close turned and, calmly addressing the new arrival, said: ‘This is a High Court Search Order, and I am the Supervising Solicitor – here to enforce it on behalf of the Ptarmigan Formula One Team,’ and handed the document over.
The solicitor raised his glasses and started to read. He flicked the pages over several times, backwards and forwards, seemingly to check and recheck the document.
Having finished he looked up at Justin Greening. ‘This is a valid High Court Search Order, Justin,’ he said gently, ‘I can’t advise you to do anything but comply with it.’
Justin Greening looked fit to burst. Grabbing Cushing by the arm, he wheeled him away from the visitors into a corner of the reception area. Strong words were clearly exchanged. After nearly five minutes, Justin Greening stormed off, barging back through the inner doors of the office, and disappeared.
Walking slowly over to the reception counter, the recent arrival said: ‘I am Rafe Cushing, Trifecta’s solicitor. I will accompany you to the documents identified in the Search Order. They are not in an accessible state at the moment. Please wait here until they are, and then I will personally escort you through the building to get them.’
It was over an hour and half before Cushing accompanied them into the Trifecta office building to access the files and email traffic identified in Ptarmigan’s High Court Order.
Straker shared his concerns with Krall. With such a long delay, Justin Greening had had plenty of time for all kinds of deleting and shredding.
FIFTY-FIVE
The Ptarmigan raiding party returned to the Supervising Solicitor’s offices in Leamington Spa where Stacey Krall and Straker set themselves up in Grumman & Phipps’s conference room. There, the two of them with some Grade C help from the local practice started going through the documents they had seized – arranging and indexing every item methodically into different piles, right across the expanse of the large table.
They ordered takeaway food and set about working into the night. Come two o’clock in the morning, Straker and Krall were the only people still there. Both were beginning to feel the effects of sustained concentration, and decided to call it a day.
Only on exiting the conference room, did they become aware of how late it was. The building was empty. Darkened meeting rooms haunted them from either side of the corridor on their way back to reception. It was also quiet. Nothing more than a background hum from the sleeping building. Krall turned off the remaining lights on the meeting rooms floor, before they walked down the stairs to the main entrance. A night watchman sat behind the reception counter, reading a copy of the Racing Post. Handing over their day passes, Straker and Krall walked towards the main doors. The guard pressed a button to let them out.
The night air was surprisingly warm – even balmy. There didn’t seem to be a breath of wind. It was particularly dark – a star- and moonless sky, encased by a high blanket of cloud. At street level, lamps bathed isolated patches of the road in pools of orange light.
It was deathly quiet. Two o’clock in the morning – and a school night – Leamington Spa was quite deserted. There was no sound, only an occasional bark from a lone dog somewhere off in the distance.
Straker and Krall emerged from the Regency stucco-fronted office in Newbold Terrace, and walked across the narrow strip of private parking – separated from the road by an elegant low balustraded wall – and out on to the street. On the far side was a long row of public pay-and-display parking bays, at right angles to the road facing onto the far pavement, a set of iron railings, and then a high wall-like overhang of dense foliage.
It was dark under the trees.
Only a handful of cars were still parked in the street, with dozens of empty spaces strung out in between, their white lines showing in the dim and patchy orange street light.
Turning half-left, Straker and Krall walked out into the middle of the road, towards their own cars – past a parked saloon.
Straker’s pulse started to quicken.
What was it? What was wrong?
Something wasn’t quite right.
He immediately put a hand on Krall’s arm, instructing her – silently – to halt and be alert at the same time. Straker scanned further down the street. It was not easy to see. There were plenty of shadows.
Straker sensed it again.
Wasn’t it a shape? The wrong shape? In the wrong place?
Krall’s Audi R8 was parked a short distance ahead. But the line of the car seemed wrong. Was one of its doors open?
That wasn’t all.
Straker was immediately on guard.
He became aware of movement. Fleeting movement. In any kind of breeze, he’d probably have missed it – easily confusable and lost against the background movement of leaves and branches. But in this stillness, he was absolutely sure.
Turning to Krall, he breathed: ‘Go back to Grumman & Phipps office,’ and hissed: ‘RIGHT NOW!’
Krall looked even affronted at the tone, not used to following such direct instructions – and certainly not blind. She hissed back: ‘Why?’
‘Someone’s breaking into your car,’ he said. ‘Now GO!’
Krall’s face registered instant alarm. Her attention was held. ‘Breaking?’ she repeated emphatically.
‘Sitting inside it.’
Krall cringed. Stepping back, she made to turn away. But doing so, she let out a squawk.
Out of the shadows from the other side of the road between two of the Regency office buildings, three dark figures came running at them – fast and purposefully.
Running straight at them.
Unexpected dark figures at night would alarm most people. Sinister thoughts of muggers immediately crossed their minds. Adrenalin surged. Whoever these people were, Straker’s hope of Krall getting back to the Grumman & Phipps building had gone.
Instinctively, Straker put himself between her and the rapidly approaching figures. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the rear end of the largish saloon, and tried to manoeuvre her in behind it – as some kind of cover or protection. Straker noticed the flashing red light on the dashboard of the car.
His attention was soon back on the group of approaching figures. There was nothing ambiguous about their intent; they were still closing in, striding menacingly – across the road – still coming straight towards them.
Krall squawked again.
Straker broke his gaze to look round to see what had alarmed her this time. Another figure had emerged, standing up from inside Krall’s Audi, a little further up the street.
That figure was now closing in on them too.
Then there was something else.
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They heard an engine start – down to their left – back towards the Grumman & Phipps office building. A large black car pulled out. Even in the gloom it was very obviously a Range Rover. Ominously, it had no lights on – and was moving at little more than a walking pace. It, too, was closing in on them.
The dog, barking in the distance, seemed to up its frequency – perhaps even sensing the higher level of tension in the air.
Straker tried to do an immediate assessment – anxious to rationalize this scene. Whichever way he saw it, it wasn’t good.
What the hell did these people want?
It was all too clear that his tactical position was poor. Straker had three men in front of him, and both his flanks were covered – by a man on one side, and a car on the other.
This was nothing less than an ambush.
Straker cursed his vulnerability.
He had to go on the offensive – at least cause a distraction. Throw them off their stride.
But how?
Straker edged into the street, passing the end of the largish saloon. Raising his knee, he horse-kicked backwards, square onto the saloon’s boot, just above the bumper. The impact did exactly what he wanted. Against the silence of the night, the car alarm started screaming – blaring out its earpiercing screech along the street, reverberating off the white Regency buildings.
Straker was pleased. The noise immediately affected the three figures coming towards him. They seemed to hesitate at the alarm’s intensity, looking around as if to gauge what effect it might have on the neighbourhood.
Straker immediately exploited their hesitation.
Tipping forwards, to maximize acceleration, he sprinted, running straight at the smallest of the three figures – the one to his right. Suddenly dropping his head and shoulders, he aimed a punch at the man’s chest. His act of pre-emptive self-defence caught all three of them off guard, particularly his target. Before the latter could do anything, Straker had made solid impact. He heard breath forcibly exhaled as he caught him right in the solar plexus – the force of collision strong enough to knock the man backwards off his feet. Quickly disengaging, Straker watched the man buckle – doubling up – and collapse down onto the ground, wheezing for breath.
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