Driven (19 page)

Straker ran his eye down the length of the call logs.

What leapt out from the whole list was the extraordinary volume of traffic Charlie had engaged in with one particular number. She had been in contact with it at least twenty times a week over the last two months. This had obviously attracted the attention of the research team, too.

A detailed note – in with the bundle of findings – declared they had been unable to identify its owner, though. It was clearly an Italian mobile phone. They had made numerous calls to it, but none of them had been picked up. They had found no voicemail, either – except on several occasions the ring had been cut short, as if the call was being actively rejected.

This number sparked Straker’s curiosity.

Then something else – from that same Italian mobile – also grabbed his attention. Charlie Grant had received an SMS from it
which used an unrecognized term and, intriguingly, did so in an active voice. It read:

Hope the ASD idea is going over well…

What on earth did that – let alone “going over well” – mean? Straker had become familiar with a number of the terms the team used, or had learned to work them out from their context. But he was sure he hadn’t heard of ASD. Picking up his own phone, he rang Oliver Treadwell at the Ptarmigan factory. ‘Ollie, what does ASD mean?’

‘
ASD?
’ repeated the Strategy Director quizzically. ‘No idea. Never heard of it.’

‘Not a racing term, then?’

‘Not one of ours, at any rate.’

‘Very strange.’

D
iscovering the frequency of Charlie’s contact with that Italian mobile number, the anonymity surrounding it – and its mysterious use of an unfamiliar term – all served to pique Straker’s interest. He had no idea whether any of this was important, but immediately felt he was unable to ignore it.

A
t the end of the day, heading home, Straker was walking down Regent Street – still mulling his inconclusive findings – when his phone went.

It was someone he wasn’t expecting to hear from at all.

‘Remy? How are you? I’m really sorry about the whole Backhouse defection thing.’

‘I’m sad, more than annoyed. I’m fond of Andy. He’s been amazing to get me this far. But I like Oliver. The rest of my team’s still there. So I’m okay. I have faith in them all.’

‘Good,’ said Straker genuinely. ‘I was worried this might’ve knocked us all off our game.’

‘I think Massarella’s far more likely to do that,’ she said without levity. ‘Talking of which, can you update me on the sabotage issues?’

‘Sure.’

‘Where are you at the moment?’ Sabatino asked.

‘London.’

‘Can we meet up this evening? Did you have any plans for dinner?’

J
ust before seven that evening Straker was waiting for Sabatino at a table in the London institution of Rules in Maiden Lane. She walked in on the dot of their appointed time. Several heads turned as she walked through the restaurant. She was wearing a stripy baggy shirt, skinny jeans, and close-fitting knee-length boots. No make-up. Straker was taken with her presence and suddenly hit by a phrase whose significance just dawned on him – that of someone being comfortable in their own skin. She seemed completely that. There was no invitation to “look at me”, but, at the same time, no self-consciousness either. Here was someone who lived at two hundred miles an hour – and was breaking new ground in a male-dominated
sport. Having seen her dish it out to Van Der Vaal on the grid in Spa, Straker was engrossed, here, by how at ease and unassuming she was. Wasn’t this, he had to think, one of the best examples of someone leaving it all at the office?

He stood as she approached. Unexpectedly, she reached up and kissed him on both cheeks.

‘That was a fair bit of recognition,’ he offered indicating the attention she had attracted from parts of the room as they settled into a corner table.

She shrugged and grunted dismissively. ‘I dread becoming any kind of celebrity,’ she said. ‘No privacy. Cameras picking you off wherever you go. Still, I’ll have to win the Championship for that to be a real problem. I’ve got a long way to go – further still if Massarella keeps trying to trip me up.’

Despite Straker’s unease at not yet ridding the team of saboteur interference, he was glad the subject had come up so soon. It would allow him to clear the air. ‘Let me bring you up to date with where we are, then?’

‘Why don’t we order first?’

Straker was brought a glass of wine, while Sabatino took half a Guinness. With their privacy restored, Straker described the conclusions he’d drawn from the press coverage of Eugene Van Der Vaal, the problems with the injunction on Backhouse, the move away from Trifecta and, finally, the issue of the Fibonacci Blades.

‘That’s impressive work – particularly the decision to move away from Trifecta. Are we going with Valentines or Cohens?’

‘Treadwell’s not happy with any move, but would accept Cohens – at a push.’

Sabatino nodded her agreement. ‘Okay. And when do we get enough evidence to nail Van Der Vaal and Massarella?’

‘I’m working on a plan to do that right now.’

Yet again, Sabatino took Straker completely by surprise, particularly given her initial dismissal of his spy games. Moving her hand forward across the table, she placed it gently on his. She looked him
in the eye and said: ‘An F1 team doesn’t have the ability to deal with this kind of sabotage bullshit. Without your efforts, I don’t know where I’d be – not on top of the Championship, that’s for sure. I’d more likely have been withdrawn – or suspended from driving – because of the danger. I want you to know I’m grateful, even if I seem impatient with our progress from time to time.’

Straker suddenly felt conflicted. He found himself relishing the physical contact with her, but he also wanted to pull back, for the sake of maintaining the professionalism of their relationship. He had responsibilities here, and did not want them to be any more complicated than they might already be.

I
n the gloriously old-fashioned surroundings of Rules – the cluttered walls with political caricatures by Gillray, prints from
Vanity Fair
, portraits of West End stars, naval vessels, mounted antlers – and its unashamedly English food, with dishes from seasonal game to bread-and-butter pudding, Straker and Sabatino talked on into the evening.

He felt there had been a mood change during their dinner – and their level of communication – undoubtedly triggered by the unexpected physical contact and personal gratitude earlier. Their new level of connection almost overwhelmed him.

Straker found himself drawn to her self-confidence. For all Sabatino’s shunning of the public recognition of her F1 achievements, her success was having an effect on her. It showed in her face. There was an energy there. A radiance. It was powerful. Her dark hair, dark eyes, olive-coloured skin, and her soft but worldly-sounding accent all seemed to sparkle. Was this effect on him, Straker wondered, some equivalence to the aphrodisiac of power?

Straker kept feeling his self-awareness pull him back – questioning how these developments would affect their working relationship. But as he listened to her talk – animatedly, with passion – her magnetism overrode it. He couldn’t prevent himself wallowing in the uninhibited moment with this striking and fascinating woman.

‘There’s something utterly spiritual about Monza,’ she told Straker as the conversation swung round to the next race on the calendar.

‘Why spiritual?’

‘A number of things. The heritage? There’s the no-longer-used
Pista di Alta Velocità
– the High Speed Circuit – the one with the old style banking. There are the inimitable Italian fans – the Tifosi
– who create a unique atmosphere, except I’m really nervous about them. And then, of course, there’s the rawness of the speed?’

Straker frowned. ‘Hang on a minute, the Tifosi? Why are you nervous about the Tifosi?’

‘Because of these,’ she said cupping her breasts with her hands.

‘
What?
’

‘Italian motor racing is so male. I can only pollute their sport.’

Straker said without levity: ‘Speak to them like you talked to Van Der Vaal. You’d soon put them right.’

Sabatino laughed.

‘They like bravado,’ Straker went on. ‘If that’s a male thing, then you’ve got the female equivalent – what would that be, bravada? You’ll be hailed. That’s completely a non-issue. And what’s this you said about the rawness of the speed at Monza? Isn’t that the case at every circuit?’

‘Pretty much,’ she said taking another sip of Guinness, ‘but seventy per cent of Monza’s taken at full throttle – the highest proportion of any track, by a long way. Aerodynamically, we have to run a very low downforce set-up, to reduce the drag, but that decimates the grip. It makes the speed much more difficult to control – makes it very raw.’

‘And overtaking?’

‘Limited. Only real chance is into Turn One and the chicane – the
Variante Della Roggia
– Turns Four and Five.’

Straker smiled. ‘It does help that you’re Maltese to pronounce these fabulously Mediterranean names.’

‘
Variante Della Roggia
,’ she said again extravagantly, as if to make the point.

‘That definitely proves you’re sophisticated,’ said Straker with a nod. ‘But … the question is … are you
as
sophisticated with your music?’

Sabatino raised her eyebrows at the hefty change of direction. ‘If you mean Mediterranean music – opera – I’m afraid not.’

‘No, no – I was thinking more about music to feed your soul.’

‘Hip hop?’

‘What?
No!
Jazz!’

Sabatino pouted. ‘No, but then I’ve never been properly introduced.’

‘Excellent. There’s not a moment to lose.’ Straker caught the eye of a waiter and signalled for the bill. ‘Let me take you straight to the high altar.’

Sabatino made a face. ‘You want to take me to
church
?’

‘Almost. It’ll be my honour to introduce you to the hallowed ground that is … Ronnie Scott’s.’

J
azz clearly took to Remy Sabatino – as she did to the club.

Although still early – the second house only just settling in – there was already a buzz about the place, with its usual diversity of people drawn by great music –
the
music for atmosphere.

Sabatino was captivated by its immediate sense of intimacy. Mood, though, also oozed from walls, awash with striking black and white photographs of jazz legends. Low ambient lighting was broken by the brighter pools coming from the shaded ceiling and wall lights. Red velvet benches were trimmed with chunky brass railings – and, topping off the atmosphere, were the numerous red glowing table lamps set among the tiers of table bench seats rising back up from the stage.

Shown to a table in the corner of the pit, Straker and Sabatino ordered drinks and sat together for an hour, listening to a set by a young quartet from New Orleans – playing an unusual mix of trad and lounge jazz with an occasional hint of Cajun.

Straker glanced at Sabatino’s face from time to time, to make sure she was enjoying all this. He quickly realized he should have no concerns on that score – her expression showed her to be fully immersed, soaking up the scene. He still kept checking, though – but soon realized he was doing it specifically to enjoy her enjoyment.

Although there was no dancing, one beat got Sabatino moving rhythmically while sitting at their table. Without even moving her
whole body, Straker was taken with her superb sense of rhythm. She turned to make deliberate eye contact with him. She kept moving without inhibition. It could so easily have induced awkwardness – self-consciousness – but there was none on her part. Why should there be any, then, on his? She continued to move. Her movement was suggestive – without being lewd – but her message seemed clear.

At the end of the number she leaned across the corner table, close enough that he would be able to hear her – even over the noise of the applause. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your divorce.’

Straker almost flinched. Her personal directness hit him hard. It wasn’t the starkness of it, blunt though it was, it was more the sense of a crystallization. This was the first time he had heard the D word spoken out loud by somebody else.

‘It’s complicated,’ he replied defensively, pulling back slightly.

Her expression showed a similar thought or memory crossing her mind.

Sabatino smiled sympathetically, and turned back towards the stage to enjoy the resumption of the set. Nothing was said between them for nearly ten minutes. Straker was intrigued. He got the sense that something was brewing. Suddenly she turned to face him. He was struck by the mischievous – voracious, even – expression on Sabatino’s face. ‘You’ve got to tell me something,’ she said.

Straker breathed in. ‘Tell you what?’

‘How
did
Charlie Grant die?’

The look in her eye was not hesitant – it was demanding. It was quite clear she wasn’t going to let this go as she had during their dinner in Monte-Carlo.

Whether it was the sense of well-being from digesting Rules’s jugged hare, the treacle pudding, or the three glasses of a half-decent Malbec – their better familiarity with each other, or even the increased sense of closeness between them that evening – Straker didn’t react as sharply as he had before.

‘You won’t believe it,’ was the most dismissive defence he could mount.

‘
Try
me.’

‘It’ll repulse you.’

Her expression, if anything, became more anticipatory than ever.

‘I doubt that.’

Even with this momentary focus on Charlie Grant, Straker found it impossible to stop his imagination summoning up – all too clearly – their final scene.

Sounding defensive, he said: ‘We were in the Middle East, in the wake of the Arab spring. Quartano had finally – and successfully – negotiated a billion-dollar weapons contract with the Buhrani Defence Minister. A signing ceremony was arranged out on a desert firing range, within what should have been a secure area – a Buhrani military garrison. Except that Charlie Grant, I uncovered through my investigation, had been leaking details of that weapons contract – as well as the blueprints for a top secret Quartech rifle.’

‘Leaked to whom?’ Sabatino asked, now turned fully to face Straker across the corner of their table.

‘A German rival – which was also involved with an Al-Qaeda-aligned terrorist cell in Buhran, a group determined to overthrow the monarchy there and declare an Islamic state.’

‘Heavy, heavy. Why was Charlie
doing
all this?’

Straker tilted his head as an invitation to be patient. ‘The signing ceremony was ambushed – by the Al-Qaeda cell. Numerous dignitaries were killed. The Defence Minister, who was also an heir to the throne, and several Quartech staff were taken hostage.’

‘No!’

‘Quartano and I arrived at the ceremony – from Germany – half an hour too late. There was carnage. Bodies everywhere. Through binoculars, I was fortunate to catch a distant sight of the hostages – being driven off across the desert on the back of open army trucks.’ Straker took a long drag of his wine.

‘How were they released, then?’ she asked. ‘Quartech pay a ransom?’

Straker shook his head as if to say how-could-you-suggest-such-a-thing.
‘I flew a tactical helicopter recce of the desert behind the firing range. I managed to locate the terrorists’ camp – the place where they had taken the hostages. It turned out to be a lost city among the dunes of the hinterland. I pulled together a team of soldiers, from what was left in the garrison. I put together an operation, briefed them, and led a company attack at dawn the following morning. We took out all the terrorists in a raid, and succeeded in releasing the hostages.’

‘Wow. And you led
all
that?’

‘Was the company commander.’

‘How many soldiers made up this attack group?’

‘Eighty-odd.’

Sabatino clearly looked impressed. ‘Then what?’

Straker’s mind’s eye suddenly took over. ‘Dawn was just coming up over the Buhrani desert. I was releasing the hostages – when I heard a click.’

‘What does that mean? What kind of click?’

‘A safety catch.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Someone had a rifle and was preparing to fire.’

Sabatino’s eyes widened. ‘Who?’

‘Charlie Grant.’

‘At whom?’ she asked hurriedly.

‘Dominic Quartano.’

‘No!’

Straker, looking down, could bring it all back. So painfully. Charlie was standing there, the low early morning sun gleaming off her perfect skin, her hair flowing in the gentle desert breeze, her white diaphanous robe wafting in the wind – standing there with the rifle at the aim, trained on Quartano, her brilliant dark grey eyes flashing with anticipated triumph. Straker inhaled deeply. That image would haunt him always: the incongruity of a beautiful woman confidently handling and aiming a weapon with lethal intent.

‘Why? Why did she
do
all that – why did she want to harm Quartano?’

‘Revenge,’ Straker said matter-of-factly. ‘It was all about revenge.’

Sabatino pulled a face that showed this was hard for her to comprehend. ‘For what?’

‘The death of her father,’ Straker explained: ‘Quartano had mounted a hostile takeover – taking over the Grant family company. Its entire board was fired and replaced, including Charlie’s father. Apparently, the man never got over it. Killed himself six months later.’

‘And Charlie blamed Quartano?’

Straker nodded.

‘How did the standoff in the desert end?’

‘Quartano, very coolly, started trying to reason with her. But Charlie being Charlie – that wasn’t going to work. However, while she was directing her anger at him, I managed … to … intervene.’

Sabatino’s face was suddenly a picture – clearly drawing her own conclusions. ‘So you … you…?’ she said, oddly unable to complete the sentence.

Straker lowered his gaze.

‘Wow,’ said Sabatino.

Straker lifted his eyes. He looked at her through the moody cabaret-style lighting of Ronnie Scott’s, her face partly in shadow. ‘I told you that you wouldn’t believe it.’

He looked her in the eye. Her response was strange.

Hard to read.

Straker tried to discern her reaction. But couldn’t do it. Didn’t know what to make of her expression.

Then Straker was completely taken by surprise. Sabatino, very suddenly, half rose, leant forward across the L-shaped bench, and kissed him forcefully but sensuously square on the mouth. For several seconds. Then, pulling back – but only by a fraction – she held intensive eye contact with him, her eyes flicking backwards and forwards between his.

Straker was utterly floored.

‘You like sex, right?’ she said slowly, taking him by surprise yet again.

He nodded, shrugged – and then smiled into her face apologetically at the lameness of his reaction.

‘Why don’t we keep it that
un
complicated. Let’s go and atone – purge – ourselves for our deeds, right now, through raw physical release.’

Straker’s reservations, voluntary or involuntary, professional or social, suddenly vanished. Her reaction to his deeply private revelation was extraordinary. He would have expected most people – he didn’t know for sure, having never actually told anyone – to be repulsed by such a barbaric secret. To Straker’s way of thinking, Sabatino’s reaction was counter-intuitive. What triggered her to react
this
way? Was it the danger? Was it something more primeval – a moth-to-the-flame attraction to the killer instinct?

‘We shouldn’t go back to your place,’ she said, ‘you’ll have too many vibes from your wife, and will feel awkward. We’ll go to my hotel.’

Straker, abandoning any earlier reservation about complicating their professional relationship – the intrusion into his divorce – the revelation about Charlie, smiled uninhibitedly and said: ‘Sure, I get that. Where are you staying?’

‘The Dorchester.’

‘Stylish.’

‘I’m paid an indecent amount of money. The least I can do is spend it in decent places.’ She looked at him intently as she smiled. ‘You coming?’