But then the order and the Championship were all about to be turned upside-down.
Everything changed on Sabatino’s in-lap, while she was making her way back to the pits.
Inching slowly – because of the wet – she changed down as she approached Junção, Turn Twelve. Even at the virtual snail’s pace of sixty miles an hour, that was plenty fast enough given the volume of surface water. Paddling for second gear, the Ptarmigan’s rear wheels suddenly locked-up, taking her by surprise. Steering aggressively to correct the resultant slide of the back end, she managed to avoid a spin.
She slid to a stop.
Her first reaction – following the sabotage incident at Spa – was to look around her and in her mirrors. But there were no other cars in sight. Next, she looked down at the indicator on her steering wheel. Her gears had clearly jumped from third to first.
Not what she’d asked for at all.
Cursing mildly at the inconvenience, she revved the engine and paddled again. Nothing. The car was now not responding. Wouldn’t accept any gear.
At all.
‘What’s up?’ asked Backhouse over the radio.
‘Gears, Andy. I changed down. She’s jumped down two. That, on this surface, locked-up both rear wheels.’
‘And now?’
‘Nothing. I’ve got a box full of neutrals. Can’t get her into gear at all. Anything showing on the telemetry?’
‘Nothing.’
For two minutes Sabatino tried to engage a gear. Nothing would take. ‘It’s no good, Andy. I’m going to need recovering.’
Half an hour later Sabatino’s forlorn-looking Ptarmigan was delivered to the pit lane on the back of a truck. It was hoisted off, hanging beneath a hydraulic arm, lowered to the ground, and quickly pushed backwards into the team garage.
Sabatino, still soaking wet from the rain, stood over the car, watching the guys take off the aerodynamic shell as they looked inside to see what was wrong.
‘Go and change, Remy,’ suggested Backhouse gently. ‘We’ll let you know as soon as we’ve fixed it.’
Straker’s immediate concern was why the thing had failed. Was this an organic failure, or induced by interference. Were their ghosts already back to haunt them?
Sabatino returned fifteen minutes later. She was met in the garage by a troubled-looking Backhouse and a disheartened-looking Straker.
Reading the two men’s faces, she asked seriously: ‘What’s wrong?’
Backhouse grimaced. ‘The gearbox has gone.’
Sabatino’s expression hinted at defiance. ‘Fixable?’
Backhouse inhaled and shook his head.
In an instant, Sabatino seemed to buckle at the waist and half turned away. ‘You’re kidding! You’re kidding me?’ she screamed. ‘You’re fucking kidding!’
Backhouse shook his head with great sincerity. ‘Remy, I’m sorry … it’s got to be replaced.’
Sabatino, still agitated, turned to face the two men. ‘That’s a ten-place penalty … that’ll drop me ten places on the grid. TEN!’ she yelled. ‘It’s over, the Championship’s fucking over.’
Straker stepped forward and tried to place his hands on each of her shoulders. ‘No, it isn’t,’ he said gently.
Disconcertingly, she shrugged aggressively, shaking his hands away.
‘That puts me down in thirteenth. Nine places behind Paddy. Nine! I’m out of the points. He’s on for five. It’s his. The fucking Championship is his.’
SIXTY-SIX
All afternoon Sabatino was impossible to talk to – to reason with. She scowled, fumed, and grumped her way through every meeting and conversation. Nothing seemed to placate her.
Straker decided to stand back, and let her rage play out.
Backhouse, working with a gang of mechanics in the garage all afternoon, gave the defective gearbox every last chance. He had it removed, placed up on a sterilized workbench, dismantled, and assessed for repair – component by component. But one of the gear clusters had failed; bits of it had worked loose, and, having caught between two moving parts, had ruptured the cassette. There was no way it could be repaired reliably enough to stand up to seventy-one gruelling laps in the race. Grimly, Backhouse instructed the gearbox be replaced and that the team file the change with Race Control.
Sabatino’s ten-place penalty was announced in the paddock at four o’clock that afternoon.
She would now have to start from thirteenth on the grid.
Nine places behind her Championship rival.
The points Sabatino needed to secure the title were suddenly a long way out of reach.
Straker found Sabatino in the motor home. She was still sullen and uncommunicative. He tried twice to converse and be supportive, and both times she snapped back. After one more try, he stood up, grabbed his phone and, deliberately in her hearing, rang the team driver: ‘Bill, can you come to the motor home, please – to take Miss Sabatino back to her hotel?’
She glowered at him critically, as if to challenge his right to make any decisions on her behalf.
Hoping she might still co-operate when the driver turned up, Straker ducked out of the Ptarmigan motor home to find a little privacy – some distance away. On his iPhone, he searched the web to find a number. Using the link on the website, he dialled it. ‘Could I speak to the manager, please?’
There was a pause – some clicking – some excruciating bossa nova muzak – before a Portuguese-accented man came on the line.
‘João Asturias,’ he said, ‘how can I make your day better?’
‘Mr Asturias, thank you for taking my call. I have an emergency – and I need your help.’
Asturias sounded suitably concerned and receptive.
Straker explained what he was after. ‘Can you do all that for me – in a bit of a hurry?’
‘Of course, Senhor, we can – and will – do it, with pleasure.’
Straker, thanking Asturias profusely, rang off and returned to the turquoise motor home in time to see Bill, the team driver, pull up alongside.
Climbing back into the Ptarmigan headquarters, Straker walked up to Sabatino, careful to take her firmly by the hand – not the wrist – and led her down the steps to the waiting car.
Her mood barely changed during the drive, or as they rode the lift up to her floor in the hotel. Taking the key card from her, Straker opened the door, and stood to one side to let her into her suite.
She was immediately taken aback.
The room was dark – not black – but dark – unlit by electric lighting. Instead, there was candlelight. Masses of candles flickered from every flat surface on the inside. Soft music – Dean Martin – could be heard wafting over the sound system. Sabatino was about to turn round and react to Straker, when a Portuguese voice came from inside.
‘My lady,’ it said, ‘I am Senhor Asturias, the manager of the hotel. And I offer our compliments of the house,’ and wafted forwards holding a silver tray on which stood a bottle of Taittinger, a flute already filled, and a half-pint glass of Guinness.
This greeting – from a stranger – took the puff out of Sabatino’s reaction.
Almost automatically, she reached out for the Guinness, and took a sip. Her eyes becoming accustomed to the change in light, she noticed a padded massage table had been set up over by the drawn curtains, stacked with a number of neatly folded fluffy white towels. An immaculately dressed Chinese girl wearing a dark blue Nehru-collared silk jacket was in attendance. On a low table beside her was a small incense burner offering up an intoxicating scent – as well as several bottles of aromatic oils and a warming plate holding a collection of large rounded flat stones.
Asturias, having placed his tray of drinks down on a portable stand, proceeded to walk forward, and, with an outstretched arm, invited Sabatino to move into the bathroom. Here, again – with no electric lighting – the space was lit with hundreds of candles, spectacularly reflecting off the wall-sized mirrors. Next to the bath – filled to the brim and almost overflowing w
ith white foam – was another portable stand, this one supporting a large tray. On it was a crisp white linen cloth hosting silver cutlery, and an array of plates with collections of exotic fruits, pastries, meats, cheeses, and four different types of chocolate. In the corner of the tray stood a slim and elegant silver vase holding a single rose.
Sabatino, turning round to face Straker, said: ‘This is all a bit cheesy, isn’t it.’
Straker exhaled with an exaggerated blow. Shaking his head, he walked forward and threw the electric light switch on in the bathroom and killed the music. Against the earlier dimness, the numeruos bright spotlights were almost blinding, even hurting eyes.
‘Okay, João, take it all away,’ said Straker and started indicating – with a series of wildly dismissive hand gestures – that Asturias should pick up all his cheesy paraphernalia. ‘But … João, please leave me the chocolate … if you will?’
‘Ah, er, hang on,’ stammered Sabatino, spinning round. ‘Hang on, a minute,’ she said loudly, holding up a hand to try and halt the removal.
Straker glared at her, the diagonal folds of skin above his eyes intensifying his stare more than ever. ‘You don’t want it taken away then?’
Sabatino turned round to look back at the bath and the tray of goodies waiting beside it. Sheepishly, she shook her head.
Straker threw the bathroom switch back the other way, immediately restoring the room to the much softer and flickering candlelight, and re-engaged Dean Martin. ‘Sense at last. João, thank you,’ and turned away from the door, allowing the hotel manager to withdraw. As Asturias passed, Straker smiled, shook the man by the hand, and patted him on the shoulder as he let him out of the suite.
When the door was closed, Straker heard Sabatino say from inside the bathroom: ‘This is okay,’ – her resistance clearly de-energized since the Yes or No showdown of a few moments before – ‘but,’ she added, trying to restore her sense of control, ‘you can let the Chinese girl go. I’ll ask Colonel Straker to perform the massage, if he’ll be so kind?’
After an hour in her bath – and a more spirited go at the tray of snacks than Straker had expected – Sabatino climbed out and walked through into the bedroom. There, she climbed up onto and lay face down on the masseuse’s table. Straker, rubbing some oil on his hands, began his attempt at massage, hoping he’d be able to stretch out the limited number of moves and techniques he could think of.
The limits of his repertoire were never tested. Before he ran out of ideas, the gesture of the unsolicited pampering had finally got through to Sabatino. Fewer than twenty minutes later, they ended up in bed together. This time, they seemed to make love rather than – as on previous occasions – perform gymnastic sex.
Lying beside each other afterwards, they were both pretty near spent.
A matter of a few minutes later they fell into a nap.
Two hours on and they were bathed again and changed.
Straker, continuing his religious silence of the afternoon, said nothing about racing, the Championship, the Qualifying session, the gearbox, or her place on the grid. Sabatino began to show a little more appreciation for his attempts at a distraction. By seven o’clock, she was even enthusiastic about the idea of a light meal somewhere out, but nearby. Straker let the idea be entirely hers.
After supper, he walked Sabatino back to her hotel.
‘I’m happy to go to my room,’ he said as he kissed her gently on the cheek, ‘to give you a decent night’s rest before tomorrow.’
‘Where’s this Mama stuff keep coming from? I haven’t finished with the Colonel, yet. Not yet. Not by a long way.’
With his efforts to distract Sabatino throughout that afternoon, evening and night, Straker was grateful to have also been distracted from his own concerns.
But lying in bed after she had dropped off to sleep, he couldn’t calm his thoughts.
Following the official Qualifying session, Straker had been pleased and relieved. With Sabatino in P3 and Aston in P4, she had been well positioned for the Championship – staying ahead of Aston. And, from Straker’s point of view, in P3, she would have been well in front of the suspected collision threat from Adi Barrantes – the proximity threat, as he called it, Barrantes being a long way down the grid behind her.
But now – with the gearbox penalty, and the ten-place drop to P13 – Straker could only fixate on Adi Barrantes’ Massarella.
Barrantes was lurking there, now, in P6.
In order for Sabatino to get back up to the front of the pack – to get close to, let alone retake the advantage from Aston – she would have to get past the menacing black Massarella of Adi Barrantes.
The proximity threat was back.
And the risk – and stakes – were higher than ever.
SIXTY-SEVEN
Next morning the weather had cleared. None of the threatening clouds were left. Sublime sunshine bathed Interlagos – the land between the lakes – and Sabatino awoke refreshed and seemed completely refocused.
‘Nine places? It’s just nine places,’ she said as they were both wearing white towelling robes and eating breakfast in her hotel suite. ‘I’ve got a second advantage per lap on each car between me and Aston. This is doable,’ she declared as if coming to an understanding.
Straker continued to say absolutely nothing. He was still distracted by the threat of proximity and intentional collision.
By mid-morning, the cars were out on the grid. Sabatino’s Ptarmigan, now in P13, had its new gearbox. Exhaustive checks had been carried out overnight to ensure there were no possible complications or snags with the change of such a major component.
Sabatino walked onto the grid. While trying to get to her car, she was repeatedly bombarded with media interview after interview. It began to dawn on her the kind of a mêlée that would follow if she did succeed today. If the press were like this now, what would they be like if she actually won the World Championship?
Finally climbing into her car, she was grateful to escape the attention and to enjoy a moment’s peace. Sitting there – isolated – with time to reflect, she suddenly realized that she was back in the zone. They, Ptarmigan, had rid themselves of all that trouble with Massarella, which removed a considerable amount of stress, and – today, now – she had become resigned to the ten-place drop for the replacement gearbox. This race might be tougher than needed, and certainly tougher than any of the team had expected, but she realized she was ready to take her fight to Paddy Aston.
On the hooter blast, her adrenalin started to kick in for real. The grid cleared and, with Sabatino’s engine finally running, she absorbed the thunderous noise of the cars all around her.
She was grateful.
The intensity of the sound helped to occupy the entirety of her attention.
The lights came on and the Formula One runners pulled off on their formation lap for the last time this season. Round they went, all swerving, zig-zagging, accelerating, braking – every driver busily working temperature into their cars in their own way round the 2.7 mile circuit.
Sabatino spent half the lap changing up and down the gears, making doubly sure her new gearbox was working and reliable. It felt good – better, even, than the last.
After Bico De Pato, Turn Ten, she let the cars to her front pull away, to give herself a longer run on a stretch of clear track. Pumping her right foot, she accelerated hard and threw the car round Junção, Turn Twelve. She nodded to herself.
The car felt good.
The conditions were ideal, and her car’s set-up was pretty much spot on.
Straker, back on station in the motor home with all his surveillance equipment, watched the field re-form, each car slotting into its designated place on the grid. He was completely focused on the two black Massarellas in P2 and P6.
Sabatino looked down. Her temperatures were all good. She blipped the accelerator. The Benbecular sounded fantastic and ready.
This was it.
One red light came on.
Saba
tino felt her heart rate quicken.
Two red lights. She breathed deeply, and exercised her fingers.
Three red lights.
Four.
Five.
Wait … Wait! … WAIT!
GO!
The engine roar around her was deafening. Cars screamed forward off their spots. She hurtled forwards. Accelerating. Accelerating fast.
Suddenly, the car in front darted to the right. In nothing less than a reflex, Sabatino did the same. A Sauber had stalled on the grid. It was stationary. The cars behind had to swerve violently to avoid ramming straight into the back of it.
How didn’t she hit it? – skimming past it by only a whisker.
In the run down to Turn One, and the intensifying bottleneck of cars all trying to squeeze through an ever-shrinking space, one part of her brain had already registered that the Sauber had held a place ahead of her but behind Aston.
She’d clawed back one place already.
She was twelfth.
Turn One, at the top of the upcoming Senna S, was the corner for overtaking on the circuit. To take the challenge to her Championship rival, this was where she was going to have to do most of the work that afternoon – to be bold – and to take every opportunity that came along, however tenuous.
But not this time.
In the mêlée of the start, she was happier to get round safely, and get herself under way.
Into the corner they ran.
Every car was now in, through, or half-out of Turn One. Front runners were already accelerating, streaming down the hill through the Senna S. From six rows back, Sabatino could see the field jostling and squabbling for position spread out down the hillside combination of turns – a right, left, then a more gentle left – below her.
Suddenly there was a smash.
Two cars had come together at the bottom of the first right-hander. A Lotus had lost its back end – after being bumped? – and was sliding across the track. Then slam! Another car smashed straight into its back wheels. Debris flew outwards, right across the circuit.
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