Driven (23 page)

‘Here they go again. Look – look at them run.’

‘It’s a drag race!’

The two cars pelted down the full length of the magnificent long straight, inches apart. All the way.

‘Two hundred miles an hour, and we’re still only interested in the relative speed between the Ptarmigan and the Massarella. It looks like it’d probably be measured in
feet
per hour, this time.’

The two cars were hurtling down towards the end of the Rettifilo. The crowds started roaring. They had come for excitement – the excitement of Monza – the home of Italian motor sport. Expectations were not being disappointed.

‘Aargh – it’s all too much. She’s got enough time, hasn’t she, Mike?’

‘The Ptarmigan is giving its all – but where’s that extra handful of horsepower she so desperately needs?’

‘She
is
still gaining.’

‘Side by side. Wheel to wheel.’

‘At over two hundred miles an hour. Sabatino’s
still
pulling forward. She’s edging further forward.’

‘But will she do enough?’

Both cars hit their respective rev limiters. Straker willed Sabatino’s car on, almost unable to breathe as he watched the titanic struggle play out over nearly ten seconds.

‘That Ptarmigan Benbecular is giving its all. She’s gaining … gaining – so slowly. It does look, though, that she could just about draw level and take him.’

‘But can she do it in time?’

‘She hasn’t yet. It all depends on who blinks first. It’s all about braking, now – into Turn One.’

‘Wait, Luciano’s been spooked – he knows this is threatening his lead of the race. He’s starting to move – moving across towards her. He’s already staking a claim on the line – does he still have the right?’

‘It might just be to try and intimidate her. They’re getting closer and closer. Who’s got the nerve to face the other down? Does Sabatino have the nerve to hold her ground?’

The other commentator laughed dismissively.
‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry about her nerve, Ben. Our rookie woman has definitely got the anatomy for this game.’

The other commentator – and Straker – chuckled.
‘Indeed, and
neither’s giving way.
Neither’s
giving way. But they’re going to have to brake soon – one of them’s going to have to back off.’

Straker suddenly saw a puff of blue smoke off one of the front tyres between the cars, but they were so close and it was all so fast that he couldn’t tell whose tyre had locked-up. The commentators were none the wiser.

‘Who was that braking?’

‘Who knows – but Luciano’s pouncing. He’s now definitely staking a claim on the line. He’s moving over – moving across.’

‘Luciano’s going to shut the door – going to hold her off.’

Then Sabatino very clearly hit the brakes.

‘Yeah, there he goes – taking the chance to cut right across in front of her. He’s got it – he’s secured the line.’

‘But he’s cutting right across her path. What about Sabatino’s understeer? Is she going to be able to slow down fast enough?’

‘Hang on – hang on. Oh no, look at that!’

‘That’s understeer. Sabatino’s got the mother of all understeers.’

‘The front end’s going away from her. She’s going to end up T-boning him – isn’t she?’

‘She might, she might…’

‘She’s almost on full right lock – but its having no effect. She can’t avoid him. She’s going to ram him, smack in the ribs.’

The TV picture switched to the camera on Sabatino’s front wing. The shot put the viewer right in the middle of the action. There was dramatic convergence. An almighty crunch. Bits flew off both cars. The Ptarmigan’s front left bashed into the Massarella’s radiator pod. The cars juddered on the impact. Both cars’ back wheels interlocked – and bumped – momentarily bouncing the Massarella off the ground. It fell back down – heavily. The two cars intertwined, and slid ignominiously off the circuit onto the run-off on the outside of the corner, grinding to a halt. A cloud of dust enveloped the scene.

Both sets of suspension were degraded, and Luciano had very obviously suffered a punctured front right.

The Massarella and the Ptarmigan were well and truly out of the race.

S
abatino made her way back to the pit lane on foot, still wearing her helmet to conceal her fury at being forced to drop out of the race. Keeping her helmet on was also the clearest possible sign that she did not want anybody to talk to her.

Once safely inside the Ptarmigan garage, she took it off. Clearly agitated.

Ten minutes later her mood exploded. The stewards announced a formal investigation of her crash with Simi Luciano.

M
assarella, they soon learned, had lodged an official protest, accusing Sabatino of unsportsmanlike behaviour – deliberately taking out her principal rival for the Drivers’ Championship. Ptarmigan was summoned to Race Control.

Sabatino was incandescent at the slur. Without even smartening herself up, she strode out of the motor home, straight off to see the FIA steward with Treadwell jogging behind, anxious to catch her up.

Mario Pinolla, a tall, thin, elderly Italian with an aquiline nose and angular face, called them into a meeting room and asked Sabatino to explain herself at Turn One. Peering over his half-moon glasses, Pinolla made her and Treadwell feel like a couple of naughty school boys in front of the headmaster.

‘It was a racing incident. I went for the inside of Luciano. He closed the door on me. I tried to brake. Locked-up, and just slid into him.’

Pinolla looked at her with a completely sceptical expression on his face. ‘What about the threat you made to Mr Van Der Vaal, then? At Spa. That you would run his cars off the road?’

Sabatino bristled but remained silent.

She happened to glance at Treadwell. He closed his eyes and shook his head – as if to dissuade her from raising the whole sabotage story – before quickly stepping in himself: ‘Mr Pinolla, please look at the course of the whole race. For eight laps, Remy exited the Parabolica, ready to mount a challenge. Both cars were very evenly matched in straight-line speed. Remy had a legitimate shot at holding the inside line into Turn One. Our telemetry – all weekend – shows the Ptarmigan’s downforce is severely affected when any lock’s applied to the front wheels. Every time Remy went to turn in, the downforce fell away. Into that corner, where the surface on the inside is still dirty,
a combination of low downforce and dirty track caused a complication in a justified racing manoeuvre.’

Pinolla removed his half-moon glasses.

Before the steward could respond, Treadwell went on: ‘I would ask you, please, to point to any action on Ms Sabatino’s part that you think was deliberately intended to destabilize her car?’

Pinolla’s expression hardened. He looked Sabatino in the eye. ‘What about this threat you made in Spa?’

Yet again Treadwell stepped in before Sabatino could speak: ‘Mario, you know Eugene Van Der Vaal – he dishes out this sort of stuff all the time. Remy was indulging in nothing more than a bit of a psych-out.’

‘What is sick out?’

‘
Psych-
out –
psycho
logical playfulness. Words, Mario. They’re just
words
.’

F
ive minutes later Sabatino and Treadwell re-emerged into the brilliant Italian sunshine as the noise of the race continued all around them. Walking back to the paddock they had to fight their way through the inevitable media scrum.

‘Did you mean to crash?’

‘Did you deliberately take Luciano out?’

‘Are you going to apologize to Massarella?’

They had to wrestle their way through a jostling press pack all the way to the Ptarmigan motor home.

‘How did it go?’ asked Straker as Sabatino and Treadwell climbed the stairs and shut the door on the rabble behind them.

‘Those bastards at Massarella never let up, do they?’ she growled.

Treadwell tried to be philosophical: ‘We were cleared by the stewards. The system worked properly,’ he said calmly.

‘Massarella’s little game didn’t work,’ offered Straker. ‘We were exonerated.’

‘We can’t brush all this off so easily. It’s fucking up my Championship.’ She turned to face Straker. ‘None of this would be happening
–
at all
,’ she snapped at him, ‘if you had succeeded in getting rid of the sabotage bollocks from Massarella. We’re always on the fucking defensive. Why aren’t we exposing their sabotage incidents and chewing
their
arse?’

Straker reacted viscerally to her outburst. It hit him like a body blow; he felt her accusation even constrict his chest. How could she lash out at him, let alone in public like this – not to mention after their night together? Straker fought hard to retain his professionalism. He looked her straight in the eye. ‘We don’t have the evidence, yet.’

Sabatino made for the cabin at the end of the motor home. ‘Well for fuck’s sake,
get
some. I’m tired of being the victim,’ after which she stormed inside and slammed the door behind her.

A
fter a respectable pause, Straker got up and left the motor home. He had to get away from the humiliation. To walk off his anger. “How
dare
you?” he screamed – to himself, marching out of the paddock and into the crowds. He knew Sabatino was under stress; they all were. Interference from Massarella must have been taking its toll on her nerves, but so it was on everyone else’s. He was damned if he was going to be spoken to like that – let alone in front of other people.

Straker fumed.

His dealing with this and her conduct, though, was going to have to wait. His phone was ringing. It was Dominic Quartano.

A
cting as a distraction to Straker’s uncalmed mood, the tycoon was flying into Milan that evening. Straker was asked to get himself and Nazar airside and ready to board the Quartech Falcon the moment it came to a standstill.

Straker spent some time arranging things, able to put the Sabatino issue out of his mind – at least for the time being.

L
ater that day, on board the company jet, Straker and Nazar were greeted by Quartano and Bernie Callom, Quartech’s Marketing and PR Director.

‘Welcome,’ said Quartano. ‘This trip to Shanghai should be momentous. Get it right and we should be on for signing Mandarin Telecom and landing the biggest sponsorship deal Formula One has ever seen. Let’s get you all a drink. Then, Tahm, you can tell me what went wrong for Remy this weekend.’

Straker sat silently in the cabin, not engaging with any of the subsequent conversation.

Quartano accepted the racing incident explanation. ‘Where does that leave us?’ he asked.

‘Still okay in the Constructors’ Championship,’ reported Nazar. ‘Remy and Luciano didn’t score here in Monza, even so Helli’s spirited second place to Barrantes’s seventh actually extended our Constructors’ lead. We’re on 94 as against Massarella – in second – on 87 points.’

‘So not a total disaster. And in the Drivers’ Championship?’

‘Tighter as a result of the weekend. Remy
is
still on top – with 56 – ahead of Aston, now in second, on 54.’

‘So just two points in it. And Luciano? Where’s he now?’

‘Still on 50, but back down to third.’

Quartano smiled and exhaled. ‘Three drivers covered by six points. Pretty close. We’re going to have to find some extra performance or consistency, soon, for us to break away.’

F
ollowing a refuelling stop in Dubai, the Quartech Falcon landed in Shanghai early the following evening. Monday. A limousine met the Ptarmigan party at the airport and drove them straight to the Four Seasons Hotel in Weihai Road.

Two hours later another car took them, through the dusk, from the hotel to their dinner engagement on the Bund. Driving through the city, the bustling energy of Shanghai and the Chinese people was clear to see. Streets were thronged. Neon signs were glowing in every direction. In the midst of all this bustle were striking juxtapositions of the ultra-modern with the traditional – the most obvious being the frequent sights of curved wooden Chinese rooftops in between huge expanses of glass and concrete.

Their car reached the Huangpu River as an orange sun set behind them. They turned north onto the Bund, the city’s western frontage along the river. Before them was a fantastic sight – full of diametric contrasts.

‘Here, on the left,’ Callom offered, ‘is the colonial city – I’ve been doing some reading for our promotional material. You’ll see the
buildings are all pretty grand – baroque – from the time of Shanghai’s trading heyday. Most of the big European powers were here from the eighteenth century on – the British, French and Russians. This place boomed in the 1930s. With its style and buzz, Shanghai was even dubbed the Paris of the East. Over to the right,’ he said pointing through the opposite window, ‘look at the contrast! That’s Pudong.’

Straker looked across the river to the east. The architecture could not have been more different. A skyline as futuristic as he had seen anywhere in the world. Adding to the impact, most of the buildings carried vast neon signs stating the names of their occupants. Prominent among them was Mandarin Telecom’s sign and logo.

‘No carved columns or verdigris domes over here,’ Callom went on. ‘All the same, the buildings are pretty distinctive. The one with the ball top and bottom – that’s the Oriental Pearl Tower. And the tallest building is nothing less than the tallest building in the world – the Shanghai World Financial Centre. Welcome, gents,’ said Callom with a flourish, ‘to the world’s economic superpower. Twenty-five years ago all that area on the other side of the river was a paddy field.’

‘Is that all it took?’ asked Nazar. ‘You’d hardly see that kind of energy and drive in Europe,’ he added with a hint of provocation.

Straker thought of Canary Wharf, smiled – but didn’t take the bait. The car pulled up in front of M on the Bund.

Alighting in front of the restaurant, they made their way up through the historic Nissin Shipping Building. Mandarin Telecom had reserved exclusive use of the roof terrace. Their table was outstanding – laid up for just eight of them – on its own in the centre of the outdoor space. In the balmy evening breeze they were treated to views of sparkling lights – across the skyline of Pudong, among the boats plying the Huangpu River, and down the curved sweep of elegant colonial buildings fronting the Bund.

There to greet them was Dr Chen, flanked by some of his directors.

Quartano turned and gestured to Pudong. ‘The economic
sensation continues,’ he said. ‘I’m impressed to see Mandarin Telecom’s name as the most prominent of the lights across the river.’

Dr Chen bowed his acceptance of the compliment. ‘Thank you, sir, we are pleased with our progress – domestically. With the prospective association between our two companies, we hope to develop just as fast internationally, going forward. We are looking to Ptarmigan and Formula One to accelerate our brand awareness around the world.’

‘An excellent thought on which to begin our evening.’

In deference to the Chinese culture of doing business, Quartano was careful only to react to topics of conversation and not initiate them. The protocols were keenly observed.

During dinner, the Quartech and Ptarmigan visitors were treated to multiple courses – Straker lost count of how many. Each one, it was explained, being a tribute to the culinary style distinctive of a different region of China.

S
traker, returning to the Four Seasons quite late, found himself brooding – brooding over his unresolved tension with Sabatino back in Monza. Why the hell was this weighing on him so heavily?

As if he didn’t know the answer.

Straker couldn’t relax with all that occupying his mind. His hotel room felt like a prison. He had to get out. Setting out on a long run through the early hours, he only made it back to the Four Seasons as the first pinkish-orange light of dawn was breaking to the east.

A
Mandarin Telecom car arrived at nine to take the Ptarmigan party across town – and across the river – to the headquarters building in Pudong.

Arriving at the foot of the forty-eight-storey glass tower, there was a sign welcoming the visitors flanked by two enormous arrangements of orchids.

‘That’s very symbolic,’ whispered Callom. ‘Orchids mean fertility – implying abundance, growth and prosperity.’

‘Did you learn that through your research, Bernie, or did you just happen to know that anyway?’ asked Nazar mischievously.

An elegant thirty-something Chinese woman appeared wearing an immaculate dark suit, a Mandarin Telecom logo tastefully embroidered into the lapel of her coat. She introduced herself as Dr Chen’s assistant and asked the visitors to follow her to the lifts.

Crossing the atrium of the building, they were struck by its size. Stretching up over five floors, it hosted three full-sized palm trees, a large rock display, and copious amounts of running water – including a thirty-foot fountain. Bypassing the reception desk and elegant waiting area, they were led straight to the lift marked Guests Only.

With a slight popping of their ears, the lift rocketed up through forty-seven floors in a matter of seconds. The Ptarmigan team was soon ushered gracefully into a vast open office occupying half the floor. Over by the large continuous plate-glass window Dr Chen and his directors were sitting at a long conference table. They rose and greeted their visitors once more. Before the formal meeting began, the visitors were invited to make the most of their platform in the sky – being introduced to the aerial views of Shanghai. An astonishing sight. All the shapes on the far side of the river were shrouded in a mist as the sun was only just beginning to burn through the cloud. Several landmarks were pointed out. The M on the Bund, where they had dined the night before. The Old HSBC building. The extent of the International Settlement. And the area of the French Concession.

The CEO of Mandarin Telecom soon invited the visitors to sit at the long table. ‘Gentlemen,’ said Dr Chen as he took his seat. ‘We are pleased to have reached a satisfactory point in our negotiations.’ Looking up he nodded to his female assistant who promptly walked forward carrying a number of leather folders. Each person, starting with the visitors, had one placed before them.

‘We have, here,’ Dr Chen explained, ‘the Memorandum of Understanding covering the sponsorship of the Ptarmigan Formula One Team for the next three years.’

Straker waited until it was evidently okay to open his folder. As he did so, he saw the agreement was beautifully laid out, typeset in English alongside Chinese characters.

‘This is indeed exciting,’ said Quartano addressing Dr Chen and then looking into the faces of the Chinese directors in turn. ‘We are all inspired by the potential of this association between our two companies.’

‘Thank you, Mr Quartano. Likewise. As we have agreed, and is set out formally in here,’ continued Dr Chen laying an open hand deferentially over his leather folder, ‘we will move to full contracts as soon as we can. We have agreed with your Mr Callom that news of this will be embargoed until the Singapore Grand Prix in two weeks’ time. There, we will make a preliminary announcement, looking to sign the contract itself at the Chinese Grand Prix, here in Shanghai, two weeks after that.’

‘That would be most fitting, Dr Chen.’

At which point the Chinese CEO was handed a Montblanc fountain pen by his female assistant. Through his thick black-rimmed spectacles Dr Chen looked down and signed the Memorandum of Understanding on the largest sponsorship deal in Formula One history.

Seven hundred and fifty million dollars over three years.

The deal was done.

Almost.