Driven (2 page)

A
few minutes later a figure approached the
Melita
, walking along the marina pontoon. Recognized by the burly security man standing guard on the quayside, the new arrival was readily invited aboard. He was soon walking purposefully across the gangplank, and up onto the yacht’s quarterdeck.

‘Ah, Tahm, could I have a quick word?’ said Quartano, holding out an arm behind the visitor to show him into the art deco saloon.

Tahm Nazar, Team Principal of Ptarmigan Formula One, was in his late fifties, but seemed completely unlike the typically determined-looking F1 team boss. More the appearance of a professor, he had a near-white moustache and wispy flyaway hair, both of which contrasted with his mahogany-toned skin.

The two men enjoyed their car’s performance for a few moments.

‘Tahm,’ said Quartano after offering Nazar a drink from the steward. ‘I’m sorry for our loss of Charlotte Grant.’

‘Very sad.’

‘Not for public consumption, but she proved to be a right pain in the arse.’

Nazar looked a little surprised at the tycoon’s unexpected vocabulary.

Quartano nodded his confirmation. ‘We discovered that she had been leaking Quartech blueprints for a state-of-the-art rifle to a rival company; at the same time she was trying to sabotage a defence contract we were negotiating in the Middle East – which nearly cost us billions.’

Nazar took a sip of his drink. ‘You’d never have thought it possible.’

‘No one’s more shocked – and let down – than I. But I am concerned, Tahm. Charlie was doing a lot of sensitive stuff for you
– intelligence gathering on the other teams. Just to be on the safe side, I need to be sure she wasn’t doing Ptarmigan any harm.’

Nazar looked unconvinced. ‘Are you sure you want to go to that much trouble and expense?’

Quartano looked at his watch. ‘I’ll know for certain in just over an hour – after our meeting with Mandarin Telecom. Putting that opportunity at risk – because we weren’t prepared to be vigilant – would be insanity. I’m assigning you one of my best people, Matt Straker … I’ll introduce him to you in a moment.’

‘From Charlie’s team?’

‘Competition Intelligence and Security, yes.’

‘An industrial spy, then?’

‘My eyes and ears on our markets and competition.’

‘And you rate him?’

‘Completely. He has one hell of a CV. Colonel in the Royal Marines until a couple of months ago. Quite a guy. Afghanistan, DSO, several tours with Special Forces. He was the one who saved the Buhran deal – and his investigation flushed out Charlie as the traitor. I want him to be your eyes and ears until we’re absolutely sure Charlotte Grant didn’t leave Ptarmigan any nasty legacies.’

‘Okay, Dom.’

‘Make sure you only introduce him around the team as a research resource, though – helping you to keep an
outward
-looking eye on other teams’ developments and innovations, etc. For morale reasons, best not to mention our internal suspicions.’

Nazar nodded his agreement.

‘Good man. Come and meet him now – we’ve a few minutes before the Mandarin Telecom directors arrive.’

Q
uartano led Nazar out of the saloon back onto the quarterdeck, walked him over, and introduced Matt Straker.

‘Welcome to Ptarmigan,’ said Nazar, shaking hands.

Straker was in his mid-thirties, six two, medium-to-slim build, with wiry dark hair and eyebrows. Nazar, taking in his face, thought
it strong and intense – an intensity reinforced by the bridge of Straker’s nose, which seemed to run in a straight line – almost vertically from his forehead to its tip: Nazar was put in mind of the warrior-on-a-Greek-urn kind of profile. From Quartano’s description of him, at least, the warrior association seemed right enough.

That was all until Straker smiled.

At that point his face lost all its edge and intensity – radiating warmth and a genuine readiness to engage.

‘Thank you,’ said Straker. ‘Given our concerns about what Charlotte might have done here, I hope I end up doing absolutely nothing for you – whatsoever.’

Nazar smiled warmly, moved by the younger man’s modesty.

A
Quartech aide appeared from the saloon and politely attracted Quartano’s attention. ‘Sir, the directors from Mandarin Telecom are here.’

The boss nodded and, drawing his team forwards with a series of inclusive hand gestures, bade them all make for the stern of the yacht.

Quartano took a moment.

He inhaled more deeply, his nostrils flaring slightly:

This was it.

This was
the
meeting.

Several Chinese businessmen were walking somewhat tentatively across the gangway. ‘Dr Chen, thank you for coming,’ said Quartano, with an authentic air of welcome.

Dr Chen, the CEO of Mandarin Telecom, was a dark-haired man in his sixties with heavy-rimmed glasses, dressed in an immaculate, handmade, charcoal-grey suit. The two men shook hands very formally, Quartano investing their greeting with due ceremony. ‘May I present the Principal of the Ptarmigan Team, Mr Tahm Nazar?’

Moving forwards, Nazar shook hands with Dr Chen.

Quartano continued: ‘And this is my Marketing and PR Director, Mr Bernie Callom.’ The artistic communications specialist walked
forward and bowed deeply to greet the Mandarin Telecom chief executive. ‘I’d also like you to meet Colonel Matt Straker, our Competition Intelligence Director, who’ll be helping me look after you and your colleagues during your stay in Monte-Carlo.’

In turn, Dr Chen introduced the three members of his board. All hands were shaken before Quartano invited their guests into the yacht’s saloon where he offered them a drink. Small talk ensued for several minutes before the Chinese visitors were invited to sit in the nest of elegant art deco armchairs. Monaco’s harbour, yachts, hillside, and morning sun were visible through the picture windows all around them.

‘Dr Chen,’ said Quartano running a hand through his mane of silver hair. ‘We are honoured that Mandarin Telecom is prepared to consider sponsoring the Ptarmigan Formula One Team. Mr Callom has prepared a presentation to indicate the benefits we feel this would bring your company. Before he elaborates, I’d very much like to offer you a few preliminary observations of my own.’

Dr Chen took a sip of his orange juice and gave a perfunctory nod.

‘Mandarin Telecom is exceptionally well placed to break out of China and establish a global presence. Your mobile phone technology is leading-edge, while your distinctive style – embodied in your eye-catching handset design – resonates well with younger consumers all over the world. China chic, we would call it. We’ve conducted extensive market testing which we’re keen to show you,’ said Quartano as he looked over his shoulder as the cue to one of his aides. A weighty, bound document, emblazoned with Mandarin Telecom and Ptarmigan logos, was soon handed forward. Quartano took it and smiled his thanks.

Dr Chen’s attention appeared to lock on to the research document, seeming surprised that Quartech should have done so much work – unprompted – in advance. The effect was not lost on Quartano.

‘Formula One fits your brand and markets – almost perfectly,’
he went on, deliberately placing the document in clear view on the armrest between them. ‘Sponsoring Ptarmigan will give you immediate access to the global television audience – put conservatively at 400 million – who watch each race. And, with twenty Grands Prix now on the calendar, the geographic spread of the season would give you a significant advertizing presence in every key consumer market around the world.’

Dr Chen placed his glass on a table decorated with heavy marquetry beside him. ‘Mr Quartano,’ replied Dr Chen. ‘I’m impressed by your appreciation of our marketing needs. However … The 400 million you mention is appealing, hence our interest. But that is for Formula One as a whole. The question we have to answer is why we should sponsor the Ptarmigan Team, and not one of the others?’

Quartano smiled warmly and added with conviction: ‘You should sponsor Ptarmigan, Dr Chen – precisely,’ he said deliberately pausing for effect – ‘because you were …
impressed by our appreciation of your marketing needs
. We do offer something different. Quartech acquired Ptarmigan for business purposes. We see enormous crossover benefits of the team’s technological innovation to our other companies – and,
most
importantly, we see huge value in the marketing reach of this sport. We understand – we would say better than any of the teams – that you need to see a substantial commercial return on any sponsorship money you might invest.’

‘Ptarmigan was bankrupt at the beginning of this year, Mr Quartano,’ offered Dr Chen – verging on a challenge. ‘It suffered financial failure, collapsing with sizeable debts.’

‘Quite so. Except all that happened before Quartech bought the team. Since then I have replaced the management, bringing in Tahm, here, as one of the world’s most respected team bosses in motor racing. I’ve written off the debt you mentioned and provided the team with a substantial budget – £100 million this year. I’ve built Ptarmigan a new factory in Oxfordshire. I have made all Quartech’s leading-edge technology and management expertise available to the team. We’ve signed a four-year deal with Benbecular, to supply
Ptarmigan with engines. And, with the recruitment of Remy Sabatino as our number one driver, not only have we risen close to the top of the Constructors’ Championship, but in Sabatino we have a phenomenal communicator and media personality to front the team – widely acknowledged as a major benefit to the sport as a whole.’

Quartano waited until he met the visitor’s eye directly. ‘Dr Chen,’ he continued authoritatively, almost sternly: ‘Ptarmigan is going to win this year – because of Quartech. Our backing – technical and financial – sets Ptarmigan apart. We’re ready to offer Mandarin Telecom a unique opportunity to be part of this turnaround story – and to help you grow your business around the world on the back of the ground-breaking publicity we are going to generate.’

Quartano, the master negotiator, chose this moment to stop talking.

The yacht’s saloon fell silent.

The
Melita
gave the slightest hint of movement in the wash of a passing boat.

Dr Chen looked straight back at Quartano for several seconds. For all his intended Chinese inscrutability it was obvious the power of the message had struck a chord. ‘I would be interested to hear more of what you propose,’ he said.

Quartano smiled genuinely but with restraint – realizing they had just moved the relationship significantly on. ‘Excellent. I’ll ask Mr Callom, now, to go through his joint marketing proposal with you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Dr Chen. ‘However, we will want our own marketing department to do an assessment of the television impact of this potential relationship. We have brought a freelance journalist with us. We would ask that he film a test interview with your star driver – and we, ourselves, would like to meet Remy Sabatino.’

M
att Straker was looking forward to that meeting too. While only a casual motor racing fan, he was well aware – through mainstream press and television coverage – of its more prominent figures. Getting to meet someone he had only known through the media was an intriguing prospect. What would Sabatino be like in real life? he wondered.

Within the hour, Straker and Quartano were walking the Mandarin Telecom directors along the Monaco pit lane towards the Ptarmigan garage. Bernie Callom’s presentation seemed to have gone down well; the Chinese businessmen had not flinched when – at the end of it – Quartano put a price tag of $750 million on their proposed three-year deal.

For Quartech, given the capital it was risking to back Ptarmigan, the Mandarin Telecom sponsorship would be a sizeable payback and represent a substantial – and rapid – return. But that wasn’t Quartano’s “deal”.

Quartano had been trying to break the Chinese defence market for years. Commercially, of far more value to him was the access this relationship could afford his company to the highest level of the Chinese business community: Mandarin Telecom’s client list included every organization that meant anything in China. And of those, Quartano’s holy grail was the PRC’s Ministry of National Defense. Through the Mandarin relationship, and Ptarmigan’s corporate hospitality, he expected to find himself in a unique position to promote the full range of Quartech’s defence equipment and satellite services to the largest military organization on the planet.

Quartano would not have been able to capitalize on any opportunity Ptarmigan might create had the car and team not been competitive. That made the biggest decision he had taken even more rewarding.

His choice of leading driver.

A few moments later, even at the modest limiter-speed of eighty kilometres per hour, the bright turquoise Ptarmigan Formula One car seemed to hurtle down the pit lane towards them. Its noise was overwhelming. Sabatino swerved deftly into the bay – as in a racing pit stop – but instead of the crew diving in around the car, the engine was soon cut. The driver unfastened the steering wheel, and started to climb out.

Sabatino released the elastic straps of the HANS device on either side of the helmet, took it off, then undid the Velcro at the top of the turquoise tunic to pull the fire-retardant balaclava up and over the head. Straker watched the striking features of Remy Sabatino appear – before she ran a hand through her short, nut-brown hair, set her black-rimmed glasses squarely on her face, tugged out her earplugs, turned to face Quartano and acknowledged his presence with a nod of her head and a flash of her dark brown eyes. She signalled politely with a hand gesture that she would be with him shortly before pointing rapidly back and forth between herself and her race engineer. Half-turning away, she spoke with Andy Backhouse, a squat British man in his forties with dark thinning hair, hairy arms, and heavy glasses – who had just joined her from the pit wall.

‘I’m getting understeer into Mirabeau and Rascasse,’ she stated. ‘Hoped it was just a dirty surface, and would rubber up. That’s not happening. The track’s still pretty green.’

Backhouse nodded and then squinted badly against the head-splitting screech of a car flying down the straight on the other side of the pits behind them. ‘The fronts were cooler than we thought. That’s why we suggested the brake trim,’ he said in his pronounced Birmingham accent. ‘Why didn’t you make the adjustment?’

Sabatino looked surprised. ‘What trim?’

‘I radioed you down into Mirabeau.’

‘Never heard a word of it. All I got was static. You kept cutting out. Interference.’

‘That’s weird,’ said Backhouse. ‘That radio’s brand-new – we’ve only just replaced all its circuitry – since Bahrain.’

Sabatino noticed the unexpected expression on her race engineer’s face. ‘Can we check it over, then? We don’t want that happening again.’

‘Sure…’ he said, regaining his focus, ‘…and, on the tyres, we’re already checking the temperatures with the manufacturer.’

‘If they’re going to stay that cool, can we warm them by dropping a PSI or two – and try a click on the front wing?’

Sabatino smiled her thanks to Backhouse before breaking away to meet Quartano and his guests, now standing in front of the team’s garage. ‘Sorry about that, Mr Q – nearly always better to be debriefed immediately afterwards, while it’s still fresh.’

Quartano gave her a that’s-no-problem smile – before saying proudly to his visitors: ‘Gentlemen, may I present Ms Remy Sabatino of Malta, Ptarmigan’s number one driver, currently lying second in the Drivers’ Championship.’

Most of the Chinese directors smiled coyly and bowed even more politely than usual. Sabatino, at five feet two, was easily absorbed into the gaggle of Chinese businessmen as she shook hands and acknowledged them all individually.

‘Remy, we’ve had a promising discussion with our friends about Mandarin Telecom sponsoring Ptarmigan.’

Sabatino nodded and smiled directly at each man in turn. Dr Chen and his colleagues smiled back.

‘They have asked that Mr Li, here, a freelance journalist, might record an interview with you to be evaluated by their marketeers back home?’

Sabatino nodded immediately. ‘Sure. How about now? Would now be good?’

‘Excellent,’ replied Quartano. ‘Tahm, can we find them space somewhere inside the garage?’

Five minutes later Mr Li had set up his camera, tripod and cameraman ready to begin the recording. Sabatino, perching on a stack of her tyres, faced the group of businessmen who were semicircled around her.

‘Miss Sabatino,’ said Mr Li somewhat formally, in heavily accented English. ‘How are you coping as the first woman driver in Formula One?’

Sabatino smiled broadly. ‘Actually, Mr Li, I’m not the first. There have been several. Italy had two – Maria Teresa de Filippis in the 1950s and Lella Lombardi in the 1970s. Divina Galica, British, was also on the scene in the mid-70s, around the same time that South Africa’s Desiré Wilson competed at her home Grand Prix. More recently, Giovanna Amati drove for Brabham in the early 1990s.’

‘But how many of them won any races?’ asked Mr Li dismissively.

‘None.’

The journalist seemed to sneer: ‘Doesn’t that prove you’re at a disadvantage – being a lady driver?’

With a dazzle of her trademark smile, Sabatino said: ‘I’m lying second in the Championships – you tell me, Mr Li,’ and gave him a wink. Then, a little more seriously, she added: ‘As with most things, it comes down to technique, feel and judgement. I have a degree in engineering, so I understand the car. I’ve won races in everything from karts to GP2, so am comfortable with my car control. And judgement? Well, I negotiated myself into the best seat on the grid, so I’m pretty happy with that too, Mr Li.’

Straker revelled in the way Sabatino handled herself. He had seen her sparkle many times on TV but it was clear that her charisma wasn’t some kind of media affectation or any sort of favouritism the camera bestowed on some people. Her televisual and media personality – a major component of any prospective sponsorship package and, therefore, a significant part of its overall value – was completely authentic.

‘And what about physical strength?’ continued the Chinese journalist, sounding slightly irritated at her nonchalant, unforgiving answers.

Sabatino maintained her smile while a little forced patience crept into her voice. ‘There’s a physical difference between men and women, sure. Strength, of course. Stamina, perhaps. With semi-automatic
gearboxes these days – worked by fingers on the steering wheel – we don’t need heavy foot-operated clutches anymore. For the steering and brakes, the car has to carry a certain amount of hydraulics, anyway – even to help the men – so we tweak them a little. As for increasing stamina and resistance to G-force, etc., methodical preparation can condition anyone. After all, it’s
women
who have the strength to give birth, Mr Li – not men.’

Sabatino gave the interviewer a thanks-for-asking-and-enjoy-the-rest-of-your-day kind of smile; she looked up to see the enthralled faces of the Chinese directors who had been listening attentively.

Quartano smiled with barely-contained pride.

Behind them another figure approached, also wearing the striking turquoise livery of the Ptarmigan Team. ‘Ah, Helli!’ said Quartano warmly, offering his hand. ‘Let me introduce you to some of our friends?’ and turning to the group of Chinese businessmen, Quartano added: ‘May I present Herr Helmut Cunzer, from the Republic of Germany – Ptarmigan’s esteemed number two driver.’

Helli Cunzer, a pint-sized man in his twenties with fine facial features, bronzed skin, and close-cropped blond hair, gave their guests a boyish smile. ‘Helli came to the team having been runner-up in the GP2 Championship last year. We have great hopes for his phenomenal talent.’

Cunzer, yet to be spoiled by the attention and praise of Formula One success, smiled again, not quite sure how to take the compliment. ‘Thank you, Mr Quartano.’

To save him any further embarrassment, Quartano suggested that Cunzer and Nazar show the Mandarin Telecom directors around the rest of the garage. The Chinese gentlemen nodded enthusiastically, not least with so much to see going on all around them.

After they moved off, Quartano turned and said: ‘Remy, you won’t have met Matt Straker – who works with me in London.’

Sabatino turned and, looking up to Straker’s six-feet-two frame, shook hands politely. ‘So you’re the army guy Tahm was talking about?’

Straker smiled back less than fully, slightly unsure why she had chosen to pick up on his military background. ‘Was … with the Royal Marines.’

‘That’s just what we want,’ Sabatino said looking at him intently, ‘
more
testosterone around here.’

‘Matt’s a colleague of Charlie’s,’ Quartano chipped in.

Sabatino’s expression palled slightly. ‘I was sorry to hear the news. Tragic. It’s been hard to imagine such an accident. Easier here, maybe,’ she said with a flourish of her hand indicating Formula One, ‘but not out on the road.’

Straker must have looked momentarily nonplussed as Quartano quickly volunteered: ‘Such a waste to be killed by a drunk driver.’

So that was the line, thought Straker. Whatever the deceit, it had to be easier – and quicker – than the truth.

‘We all liked her. She seemed very
popular
,’ said Sabatino with the flick of an eyebrow.

‘So I gather,’ said Straker. ‘I’m hoping to pick up where she left off.’

Sabatino studied his expression with exaggerated curiosity, before giving him a look that indicated they both really ought to know that was going to be unlikely.

A
ndy Backhouse reappeared. ‘Mr Quartano?’ he said as an apology for butting in. ‘Remy – the tyre people are doing some more work for us. Meantime, they’re happy with your idea of dropping two PSI on the fronts, and we’ll combine that with your suggestion of a click on the front wing.’

Sabatino nodded her approval. ‘Great. We’ll give it a try in a mo’,’ and, nodding her exit from Quartano and Straker, disappeared into the back of the garage.

Once Backhouse had called out the adjustments to his mechanics around Sabatino’s car, Quartano introduced him to Straker as Ptarmigan’s new Competition Intelligence and Security officer – the replacement for Charlie.

‘So you’re the company spook?’ said Backhouse in his Brummie accent.

‘I expect to feel right at home here,’ Straker said with a smile, ‘given how much you all spy on each other already.’

‘Ah, yes. On the back of things like the Spygate scandal, perhaps, it’s not difficult to see why you might think that!’

Straker accepted the concession with a smile.

‘Well, I’m glad to have you with us,’ said Backhouse genuinely. ‘I’ve heard great things about what you do. When do you want to get started?’