Driven (16 page)

There was a buzz around the table.

Straker sensed they might be getting somewhere at last. Stepping back in to the discussion, he said: ‘Okay, good, but we need to be robust here. Could that light have been activated by the jolt – would that have been enough to light it up? If not, were the light’s sensors working properly? Can we see if the light came on at any other time today? Can we see whether the engine limiter was – or wasn’t – working properly, and then can we see whether the limiter system was indeed activated at that critical moment?’

Treadwell nodded. ‘That’s logical, and disciplined, thinking, Matt. We’ll get all the relevant data and check everything out.’

Production of the reports was delegated to different team members around the table, all of whom got up and went straight to work.

S
traker was distracted from the bustling activity around the motor home by his ringing phone. It was Maurice Beauregard. He sounded disappointed. The sniffer dogs had completed their sweep of the area around Les Combes but had not found anything in the woods on the hillside above that part of the circuit. Although a dead end, Straker was far from disappointed. He was confident the dogs would have found something had there been a presence in the woods above the track. A
sizeable area of ground could now reasonably be eliminated as the possible location of his unknown radio signal. He thanked the Belgian profusely – both for the police search and also for the CCTV footage.

T
en minutes later the findings of the research into the engine limiter were ready to be presented to the team.

‘The engine sensors were fine,’ confirmed Backhouse. ‘Coolant, camshaft, oxygen. The rain light
didn’t
come on because of faulty sensors.’

‘I can confirm the light
didn’t
come on because of the jolt or vibration of the incident,’ reported Treadwell.

‘Its illumination
was
linked directly to the engine limiter,’ declared Sabatino. ‘And, yes, the engine limiter
was
active for the duration of the incident – but had
not
been triggered by me.’

Straker sensed an agreement around the meeting room table. ‘So we
are
confident to conclude, then, that the engine limiter was on, but not activated by us – either deliberately or by accident?’

‘Absolutely,’ stated Backhouse.

‘And if the engine limiter was activated – out on the track – at that speed, we’d expect the effects to be as they occurred?’

Backhouse and Sabatino nodded repeatedly. ‘Almost identical. Having found this,’ he said, ‘the incident now makes much more sense.’

‘Okay,’ said Straker, ‘good. This is a clear step forward. But, if this was none of our doing, we need to establish
how
we think the engine limiter was activated.’

Straker was surprised by the ensuing silence in the room.

‘We don’t know?’ he offered as rhetorical confirmation. He paused to be sure. ‘In that case, does
when
the engine limiter was activated tell us anything? Can we identify the exact time, please?’

A page was consulted. ‘1.36.52.09.’

‘And, just remind me, what was the time coding for the radio interference on the data link carrier wave?’

‘1.36.52.09.’

‘They’re identical!’ exclaimed Sabatino.

Straker, holding up his hand, said: ‘Let’s not jump to conclusions – correlation is not causation. Before we discovered this engine limiter dimension, we had been looking at interference in the carrier wave, possibly from an unknown radio signal,’ he said. ‘Let’s try and close the circle, then: could the
engine limiter
have been activated by a radio signal?’

‘Fuck a duck,’ responded Treadwell. ‘How can we not, now, see a link between the activation of the limiter and the unknown radio signal?’

Straker saw the same feeling reflected in the expressions around the motor home. ‘Okay, if this logic is holding up,’ he said, ‘we’re back to looking for that radio source. So far, though, we haven’t got anywhere with it coming from the spectators – and we’re pretty sure of that, having gone through some comprehensive footage from the CCTV camera. And, I’ve just heard from the Belgian police – who have drawn a blank with their sniffer dogs – that there was no sign of anything in the woodland above the circuit. Neither of these help directly, but they
are
reasonable eliminations. We need, then, to look for the next possibility for the source of that transmission.’ Straker pointed at the image on the laptop. ‘There’s a car – bang next to the incident. Could the radio signal have come from that?’

There was further buzz around the table.

‘Can we take another look at the on-board footage of the Massarella?’ Straker asked.

The laptop was pulled back into position. Backhouse hit the play button. They saw the forward-looking view from above the driver’s helmet again. The clip showed the turquoise Ptarmigan shooting past and swerving violently, heading towards the corner of Les Combes.

‘Play it again, this time in as slow a motion as possible,’ said Straker.

The footage was rerun.

The picture showed Barrantes, with his right hand on the wheel.
Then, with a tilt of the helmet to the left, the driver looked like he was checking the track behind him through his left-hand mirror.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Straker forcibly.

‘What?’ replied Backhouse.

‘Didn’t you see that?’

‘See what?’

‘Run it back.’

The footage jumped back by ten seconds and played again. It showed the familiar helmet tilt. A second later, the driver started raising his left hand, at which point Straker quickly leaned in and tapped the pause button with his finger.

‘What?’

‘
What?
’

‘There,’ said Straker, pointing at the exact spot on the screen. ‘Barrantes has got something taped to his glove.’

‘What – where?’

They all peered at the freeze-frame image.

‘What the hell … well spotted, Matt! What
is
that?’

Treadwell prompted the computer to zoom in. ‘Looks like some sort of fob – like a car alarm.’

The image was then nudged forward, one frame at a time.

‘
And
it looks like he’s squeezing it,’ said Sabatino. ‘With his thumb. Could that be some kind of zapper?’

‘Mark the time code. What’s the
exact
time he squeezes it?’ asked Straker.

Treadwell read it out as he wrote it down: ‘1.36.51.99.’

Sabatino sighed audibly: ‘Barrantes’s action happened ten one hundredths of a second before my engine crashed. Matt, you’ve sussed it.’

Straker shook his head. ‘Not yet. Let’s be thorough,’ and then said, in a way that acknowledged he was repeating himself: ‘Let’s not jump to any conclusions. We have no idea what that fob thing is for. All we have is the coincidence of two actions, but no proof of a connection.
Post hoc ergo propter hoc
.’

Sabatino pulled a what-the-fuck-does-that-mean smile. ‘Matt, the right word here is
coincidence
,’ she countered. ‘That’s cause and effect, right there. We have proof of a button being actively pressed, on what looks like a fob – an item that has no place on an F1 car. We have proof of a radio signal – which you called the unknown radio – and which you spotted from a burst of interference in the data carrier wave. We’ve discovered an indication that my rain light was activated, which we have verified was not because of any fault in the sensors – but because it’s linked to my pit lane engine limiter which, at the critical moment,
had been
activated, but not by a malfunction or by me.’

‘I agree,’ said Treadwell, emphatically. ‘There’s a line of best fit, here; these discoveries clearly point to some kind of remote activation of Remy’s engine limiter.’

Straker was anxious that he – they – be sure. A lot of credibility would be riding on this.

‘Oh come on, Matt,’ said Sabatino, ‘it’s
far
too coincidental to be dismissed.’

Straker finally nodded. He really could not dismiss their deductions.

‘Holy shit,’ said Backhouse.

‘It’s Massarella, then. It’s Massarella doing this. The
sons of fucking bitches
.’

W
ithin the hour, the President of the FIA – Bo San Marino – received Matt Straker and Andy Backhouse in his hospitality suite within the Spa-Francorchamps complex.

Straker, having been at the last meeting to reveal the discovery of sabotage in Monte-Carlo, made contact through official channels and offered this meeting to the President as an update and follow on. San Marino agreed to see Ptarmigan immediately.

As Straker and Backhouse walked in through the President’s doors, though, they were taken by surprise. Joss MacRae, the head of the F1 commercial rights holder, was there too. In response to Backhouse’s expression, San Marino said: ‘I hope you don’t mind Joss being in on this,’ but offered no chance for them to demur.

They were invited to sit. Straker looked over at Joss MacRae who, already sitting and working on some papers in his lap, seemed far from ready to engage.

‘What’s happened to prompt another meeting?’ asked the President.

‘Sir,’ replied Straker, ‘when we met before in Monaco, we presented you with evidence of interference with Ptarmigan’s radio communication.’ Straker glanced across at MacRae who still seemed distracted. ‘We regret that we’ve had another case of intervention here this afternoon. We had an incident during Q2 when Remy Sabatino’s car went unexpectedly out of control approaching Les Combes. We have findings to indicate that this was induced by another team.’

Joss MacRae suddenly looked up and glared at Straker. ‘How convenient that one of the overpaid chauffeurs should cite a third party to excuse lousy driving.’

Straker felt his hackles instantly rise, but fought to freeze his face
to prevent giving away the strength of his reaction. He determinedly maintained eye contact and, judging the moment to reply, did so in a slow, soft voice: ‘Do facts not have a bearing in assessing such things?’

‘The stuff you produced for the President in Monaco – some crackle on a radio – hardly warrants serious consideration. And, as for this afternoon, when a driver makes a clear error – dropping their car under braking – what facts are needed? If you don’t have any proof, shut the fuck up.’

Straker turned to look at Backhouse, who appeared fit to burst.

‘Is that it?’ asked the race engineer. ‘You’re not prepared even to listen to our findings?’

MacRae leant forwards and looked Backhouse straight in the eye. It was an intimidating stare, one that MacRae was known to have used to devastating effect during his career. ‘This is what I know, Mr Backhouse. This is a
business
. Billions of dollars are at stake, as are many thousands of jobs. The last thing Formula One needs, right now, is another scandal. You make a sanctimonious song and dance, based on unsubstantiated allegations, about an obvious rival of yours for the Championship – and you know what sponsors will say? Sour grapes. No thanks. And how would that look to your new benefactors and the vastly inflated sum of money you’re hoping to fleece them for? I say grow up, and grow a pair,’ he said, which, after a few moments, seemed to amuse him.

Backhouse’s face changed colour several times while MacRae had been speaking.

Straker looked across at San Marino, trying to judge
his
reaction to this unexpected line. Straker was disappointed to discern no real reaction from him to MacRae’s comments. But San Marino was a dignified man, and might be being old-fashioned, Straker hoped. Wasn’t he remaining silent for the sake of presenting a collective front from the leadership of F1?

‘Can I ask you a question, Joss?’ said Straker.

MacRae, slightly surprised by such a reasonable response to
his provocative tirade and Straker’s tutoiement, looked a little off balance.

‘Just suppose that there
is
some validity to our findings?’ said Straker. ‘And what if,’ Straker went on deliberately ignoring MacRae’s grunts, ‘someone were to be killed, because of this – which could so easily have happened this afternoon. Your first death since 1994. What would that do to your
business
?’

MacRae shook his head in a particularly dismissive way. ‘It would make for great spectacle, great TV, and great news coverage. Cunzer’s spectacular balls-up in Monaco – shown in countless news bulletins around the world – easily added ten points to our ratings.’

Straker weighed up the situation and reached a clear conclusion. This exchange was getting them nowhere. Rising slowly to his feet, he said: ‘I can only thank you both for your time,’ and looked across at Backhouse, inviting him to follow his lead out of the room.

‘F
uck me,’ said the race engineer as they exited the President’s suite onto the corridor. ‘What the
hell
was that?’

Straker, suffering the after-effects of suppressing his own reaction, felt his heart rate and body temperature rise. ‘We may not have a cast-iron case, but any reasonable mind would remain curious, surely – at least until it had been completely disproven.’

Stomping down through the grandstand complex they reached the Ptarmigan garage in the pit lane. Once ensured of some privacy, Straker pulled out his iPhone and rang Quartano in London. He invited Backhouse to lean in to hear the conversation.

‘He said
that
?’ replied Quartano. ‘“
Ten points to our ratings
”?’

‘Verbatim.’

‘“Don’t rock the boat”. Don’t upset this multi-billion-dollars-a-year business. MacRae’s attitude – complacency, let alone callousness – is staggering.’

Quartano was enraged but realized quickly he had to rationalize the situation. ‘What’s your response to all this, Matt?’ he asked, restoring his equilibrium.

‘We need to get over the offence of this and try to understand MacRae’s response. The man’s behaviour was completely disproportionate. My starting point, whenever faced with someone behaving so unreasonably – in any circumstance – is to try and identify their emotional starting point.’

Quartano grunted. ‘Sorry? Don’t know what that means.’

‘That there is clearly more to this than meets the eye. I’ll wager something’s going on between the people involved in this – or is happening behind the scenes – for MacRae to have had such an exaggerated and unreasonable reaction.’

‘Like what?’

‘I’ve no idea. But,
some
how – inadvertently – we must have touched an already-open sore. If I could find any indication as to what that is, we might understand this a little better.’

‘I like that.’

‘Good, but obviously it isn’t going to happen this afternoon. For now, we’ve got to focus on protecting Remy.’

‘What can you do?’

‘A fair amount. We’re already reconfiguring the engine limiter system – changing its frequencies and computer code. Nobody will be able to interfere with that anymore. Also, we’re adding second frequencies to the data links now – as we did, before, to the radio net. That means we’ll be transmitting over parallel channels – so we can be sure of maintaining contact, even if there are further attempts to disrupt any one of our communications.’

‘Matt, that’s good work. But don’t let up on exposing these people. I want us to bring Massarella to book for what they did there this afternoon.’

‘Right, sir. Further accusations without proof, though,
will
simply look like sour grapes. We’d have to build a cast-iron case, if we’re to have any hope of nailing them properly.’

‘Do whatever you have to do, Matt. And, now, of course, for the added satisfaction of exposing that odious little arsehole MacRae.’

T
hat evening, just before midnight, Straker found Backhouse in the bar at Ptarmigan’s hotel in Malmedy. The room was fairly dark, lit by spotlights here and there, but with most of the illumination coming from behind the display of bottles against the back wall. Backhouse was sitting on a bar stool on his own, and had clearly been there for some time, his mood unimproved since their distressing meeting with San Marino and MacRae earlier that day.

‘How can they behave like that?’ he asked Straker. ‘They were
no
help – and we need help against Massarella’s … devi-
us
-ness.’

Straker could only nod his agreement. He caught the eye of the barman and ordered a drink for them both.

Backhouse swayed slightly as Straker climbed onto a bar stool beside him: ‘But can you be sure, Matt, that you can stop them?’

‘We need evidence, Andy, particularly if they go on being as
devious
as they have been.’

‘And they
will
be – they
will
. It’s the FIA penalties that are forcing them to be so underhand. If they got caught, they’d be fined tens of millions of dollars.’

The barman reappeared with their drinks, placing Straker’s whisky down on a napkin in front of him. ‘Indeed, Andy. Worse, they could end up killing someone.’

A hint of panic flashed across Backhouse’s face. ‘That could be
catastrophic
,’ he said. ‘I dread sending Remy out again – after today – knowing she might be hurt.’

Straker took a sip of his whisky and looked at Backhouse over the rim of his glass.

‘It’s wrong, Matt, it’s
wrong
. They shouldn’t be getting away with this. How
do
we show the world what they’re doing,’ Backhouse asked almost forlornly. ‘
How?
’

‘Without being proactive,’ Straker replied, ‘and I mean invasive – I really don’t know. We have no power to interview them, nor any power to eavesdrop. We have no intercept rights – no entitlement to search premises.’

‘So there’s nothing more you can do to prove it’s them – or be sure
of stopping them?’ said Backhouse almost with a catch in his voice. ‘We’ve just got to sit back and
take
this?’

Straker saw the race engineer’s face say it all. He suddenly felt the man’s anguish.

Was now the time? Straker asked himself. He thought of Sabatino – of Cunzer – of Ptarmigan – even the $750 million sponsorship that was at stake. Straker seemed to come to a decision. Leaning in, he whispered close to the man’s ear – for several seconds.

Straker pulled back to study Backhouse’s expression.

He was baffled.

Backhouse’s face was suddenly impossible to read.

S
traker turned in shortly afterwards, his mind in turmoil. Knowing he was so preoccupied, he was anxious about falling asleep in case he suffered an episode. Every time he felt he might be dropping off, he jolted himself awake in anticipation of suffering one of his flashbacks. It began to be wearying. The only thing keeping him sane was the thought of being responsible for keeping someone else safe.

Finally overcome by tiredness – towards two o’clock in the morning – he eventually succumbed to sleep. Even so, he woke at four, starting himself awake again to find every light in his room still burning brightly. With a heart-felt growl of frustration he took solace in the only way he knew how while in this frame of mind. Climbing into his running kit, he let himself out of the family-run hotel, setting off on a purging run through the darkness. A chill in the air was welcome. Its edge served as a refreshing distraction.

Running straight up a long drag from the valley bottom, Straker used the pain and exertion to try and clear his head. Only after a prolonged stint of anaerobic respiration, and the resultant muscle burn searing his concentration, did he start to calm himself down. As he ran along the dirt track of a long woodland ride, he began to turn the sabotage incidents over in his mind, along with that monstrous reaction from MacRae.

What the hell was going on there?

Straker quickly realized that trying to fathom all that out would have to come later. For now, he had to focus on the more immediate issue: how to protect Ptarmigan and Sabatino from further sabotage of their performance – let alone safety – here in Spa. Clearly, the FIA or MacRae weren’t going to be of any help. He had to think of something else.

Straker ran on. Dawn broke and the first sunlight struck the tops of the mountains.

After a long uphill drag of a solid mile through the forest, he reached a bend in the road. There, a gap in the trees gave him a superb view out over Malmedy and the valley below. Breathing deeply to aid his recovery, he thought through the sabotage again and made a decision. There
might
be a way of buying some protection – for today, at least.

Monza, in two weeks’ time, would be another bridge to be crossed at a later date.

R
ace day of the Belgian Grand Prix rolled on. The sun was shining, and there was a light breeze. Track temperatures were around twenty degrees Celsius.

In spite of the clear danger of sabotage, and her fury at MacRae’s bizarre outburst, Sabatino was adamant she was going to race.

By half-past one the cars were on the grid and the pit straight was chock-a-block with mechanics, the ubiquitous pit lizards holding the drivers’ name boards, other team members, hoards of media, and showboating celebrities inauthentically professing years of interest in Formula One.

Straker escorted Sabatino from the garage in her turquoise suit, he carrying her fire-retardant balaclava and helmet. Immaculately turned out – her short nut-brown hair was freshly clean, in place, and shining – she didn’t need to wear make-up to show that she’d made an effort, not least as her mood had changed. Her brown eyes behind the black-rimmed glasses were sparkling. Straker inferred
she’d managed to harness her anger at the FIA reaction into positive energy and self-belief, once again.

Or was it the idea Straker had put to her?

They ducked through the pit wall onto the track. Her car, in P14, was way down to their left. Instead, she turned right, along the start/finish straight towards the front of the grid. Straker struggled to keep up as she strode between the mass of bodies, cars, mechanics and trolleys. Sabatino made her way up to the leading Massarella car, driven by Simi Luciano, in P3.

‘Hey, Eugene,’ Straker heard her say as she barged into the Massarella clique standing in front of their car and caught the team boss by surprise.