Driven (39 page)

D
ominic Quartano stood on the apron of Aeroporto de Congonhas, in the midst of the urban sprawl of São Paulo. With him on the ground were Tahm Nazar, Matt Straker, Remy Sabatino and Andy Backhouse. They were there formally to meet the passengers off a special flight.

Dr Chen, members of his Mandarin Telecom board and guests of the company had just landed – invited to attend the Brazilian Grand Prix.

Mandarin Telecom’s CEO appeared at the cabin door and smiled genuinely as he saw the Ptarmigan party waiting to greet him at the foot of the steps.

‘Dr Chen, welcome,’ said Quartano. ‘Excellent to see you again. You might remember some of my team?’

‘Of course, Madam, Mr Nazar, Colonel.’

‘I don’t think you’ve met Andy Backhouse, though? Andy was instrumental in clarifying – at the FIA – the recent incident with one of our rather unsporting rivals.’

‘No, I haven’t. Mr Backhouse, how do you do? I have to say that I didn’t much take to Mr Van Der Vaal, either.’

Backhouse smiled. ‘Thank you, sir. We all take comfort that his garden will be well tended for the foreseeable future.’

Dr Chen, once again, found himself not quite understanding the English, but his expression didn’t betray it. Instead he replied with: ‘I am delighted that Ptarmigan has been well served by the process of law and justice under the sport of motor racing. The letter from the President of the FIA explaining everything was very reassuring. I and my board are thrilled that our sponsorship is still to proceed.’

‘Likewise, Dr Chen,’ answered Quartano. ‘Now, permit us to
show you to your hotel. Then, we would very much like to introduce you to some of our friends and, afterwards, invite you all to dinner.’

S
traker looked out on the five hundred guests who had congregated for the Ptarmigan reception in the large hospitality area within the Interlagos race track. He, Sabatino and Nazar were standing in the Ptarmigan receiving line by the main doors.

‘This turnout is amazing,’ said Straker. ‘Are all these people really here to celebrate our Mandarin sponsorship deal?’

Nazar had to smile. ‘We’ve got the Earl of Lambourn to thank for this,’ he explained. ‘Massarella’s actions, and the complications with MacRae, incensed him so much that he took it upon himself to whip people here as a show of moral solidarity – to reassert the sport’s integrity.’

‘No man is an island,’ suggested Sabatino mischievously as she raised a glass of orange juice in salute to the dashing Earl.

‘Perhaps they aren’t all piranhas? Maybe there are one or two dolphins around here – after all,’ said Straker with a smile that acknowledged the line was corny.

A few minutes later Quartano appeared through the main entrance of the room. His upright bearing, mane of silver hair swept back off his forehead and handmade blue suit projected quite a presence. He was accompanying their guest of honour, Dr Chen of Mandarin Telecom. Although shorter, the Chinese CEO’s dark hair, heavy-rimmed glasses and double-breasted charcoal grey suit gave him a powerful – but perhaps more of an understated – charisma. There was a warm round of applause as the two business leaders made their way through the guests to the Ptarmigan-branded stage arranged at the far end of the room.

The house lights dimmed and a spotlight fell on Dominic Quartano. Standing at a small lectern, the brightness of the lighting accentuated his rugged Mediterranean-seasoned skin and pale-blue miss-nothing eyes.

‘Friends of Formula One,’ he said, his rounded baritone
immediately holding everyone’s attention. ‘I am flattered that you should all have graced us with your company this evening. I am immensely proud to reintroduce you to F1’s new friend and partner, Mandarin Telecom.’

There was another burst of applause.

The lights dimmed further and the spotlight was extinguished. Over the audio system, a dramatic voice-over to a new spectacular five-minute video extolled the virtues of Formula One and the might of Mandarin Telecom. As well as a crisp, logical message for the allegiance of these two brands, Bernie Callom’s visual imagery was intoxicating – even managing to impress the grizzled old campaigners in the room.

As the video ended, the stage started to move. A sloping trapezoid panel above the screen, apparently there to channel the eye, started to lower, hinged along the top of the screen. As it descended, a concealed display mounted on top of it came strikingly into view. Resting above it, slowly rotating down into sight, was next year’s Ptarmigan Formula One car, dressed in the team’s new Mandarin Telecom livery and markings. Its unusual colour became a talking point – introduced as qing. Mandarin Telecom explained this as the Chinese colour of renewal – the colour of vigour and vitality. Being a bluish-green, it wasn’t that much of a transition from Ptarmigan’s turquoise. High-intensity spotlights made it and the car seem to sparkle and gleam, while, underneath it, wafting dry ice cascaded down onto the stage.

As the display panel came to rest, showing the car off to the room, Quartano returned to the lectern and announced: ‘Today marks the start of a new sponsorship partnership which, we believe, will benefit the Chinese business community as well as our beloved sport of Formula One. Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to introduce you to Ptarmigan’s new partner, Mandarin Telecom, and their Chief Executive Officer, Dr Chen.’

A
fter a sumptuous dinner and only a modest amount of alcohol, the
Ptarmigan party bade the Mandarin Telecom directors good night. Quartano said his good nights, too, leaving Straker and Sabatino alone.

‘It’s getting late,’ he said. ‘We need to have you on song for practice tomorrow.’

‘What are you, my Mama?’ said Sabatino.

Straker shook his head.

‘Don’t go all coy on me,’ she admonished.

Straker couldn’t help but grin at the directness, there being nothing equivocal about her meaning and lascivious tone. ‘Are you going to tie
me
up this time?’

Sabatino smirked. ‘Now, there’s an idea.’

T
he excitement going into the Brazilian Grand Prix – the final round of the season – was that for the first time ever a woman was leading and could be about to win the World Drivers’ Championship.

Sabatino’s lead, though, was only three points – being on 81 to Paddy Aston’s 78. The narrowness of that margin added another dimension of excitement to the build-up of this race.

With ten points for the winner, tapering down to one point in eighth, there was, under the then-format of the FIA scoring system, a matrix of outcomes for Sabatino to win the World Championship.

The clear-cut one was easy: for her to win the Championship outright, she needed to finish at least second in Brazil.

If, God forbid, she failed to score – through being lower than eighth, or being forced to retire – Aston would need to finish fifth or better to win the title himself.

Most people expected both drivers to score points. In which case, to be safe, Sabatino needed to finish the race – anywhere – better than Aston.

Whether the nuances or complexities of the scoring system fully registered with everyone or not, the motor racing audience was nevertheless hooked. They were content enough to be focusing on the drama of the Drivers’ Championship going down to the wire. There was going to be excitement, whichever way it went.

Everyone was buzzing.

Particularly as the climax of this season’s Championship was spilling over into the mainstream media around the world. The chance of a woman winning the Drivers’ title saw estimates of the expected global TV audience doubling for this race – up to a staggering 800 million viewers.

It was a safe bet to assume that no one was going to be disappointed with the theatre of this event.

S
traker, though, was finding it difficult to join in the excitement. Van Der Vaal’s rejection of the FIA’s findings – and apparent lack of remorse – meant he continued to brood over that secret email from Michael Lyons’s laptop.

Walking into the Ptarmigan garage on the morning of Friday practice made Straker’s unease all the more intense. Gangs of turquoise-liveried mechanics were working energetically around the two Ptarmigan cars. There was such a sense of purpose – an air of confidence among them that he had not seen since Monaco. Everyone was showing their relief at the lifting of the sabotage threat. Ptarmigan was clearly channelling that relief from their recent troubles into a focus on winning the Drivers’ Championship for Sabatino.

How could he, Straker, now do anything to damage this potentially Championship-winning
esprit de corps
?

And yet what if something did happen – along the lines threatened in Van Der Vaal’s email – and he had done nothing about it? How could he live with himself after that?

Despite the inspiring sight of the team at work, therefore, Straker had to pull himself away.

He resolved that he needed to talk to someone about his unnerving information.

He needed reassurance that concealing it
was
the right thing to do. Otherwise, the pressure of harbouring this snippet of threatening communication would continue to eat him up.

‘O
h crap,’ said Tahm Nazar when Straker finally told him and showed him the email. He and the Ptarmigan team boss were sitting in the private closed-off section of the motor home.

Nazar reread the key section of it from Van Der Vaal to Michael Lyons.

‘Tahm, the mood of the team is so highly charged, I couldn’t bear to dent it.’

‘Particularly if this threat doesn’t materialize.’

Straker then produced the front page of the
London Evening Standard
, with the key quotes from Van Der Vaal highlighted, and slid that across the table.

‘Oh crap,’ repeated Nazar. ‘I wouldn’t give him a snowball’s chance … of overturning that judgment on appeal. But, as you say, what if he
is
that spiteful?’

Straker shook his head. ‘What kind of team boss could instruct a driver to crash their car, anyway? Let alone given the danger involved?’

‘Oh, you’d be surprised in this game – there’s a very well documented F1 case from 2008,’ said Nazar with a surprisingly resigned tone. He refolded the email and newspaper cutting and slid them both back across the top of the rosewood table.

‘I feel a weight off just telling you,’ said Straker. ‘What would you prefer to do with this knowledge?’

‘I completely agree with your reluctance to tell the team,’ said the professorial Indian in his immaculately precise accent. ‘It would inevitably put a dent in their collective spirit.’

Straker nodded, relieved he might have done the right thing to have kept it quiet thus far. ‘What if something happens and precautions weren’t taken?’

‘Quite.’

‘I’ve been trying to think this through,’ offered Straker. His face seemed more determined than usual. ‘When’s a collision going to be the most effective?’ he reflected almost rhetorically. ‘Massarella would only get one shot at it – as any attempt is likely to take Adi Barrantes out at the same time. Wouldn’t that mean it had to be
in
the race, when there’s no chance of our making a repair – rather than in practice or Qualifying, when we could?’

‘That’s logical.’

‘In which case, we probably wouldn’t need to deploy any countermeasures until Sunday.’

‘Okay. I can live with that. But,’ said the team boss, ‘you and I can’t take any chances. I need you, Matt – without making any kind of show – to provide full comfort in the meantime. Call it extra team scrutiny for next year’s car, or some such. But I’ll need you to remain just as vigilant as you have been hitherto.’

S
traker went straight to work. As well as his usual surveillance, his focus, this time, was shown in the bank of screens in front of him. He arranged a feed from every camera that covered Adi Barrantes. But – just in case the threat didn’t come solely from Barrantes – he arranged similar coverage of the Simi Luciano Massarella, as well. Also, with Straker’s primary concern being the relative positions of the two Ptarmigans and the two Massarellas, he set up a screen showing a graphic representation of the real-time positions of all cars on the track.

Quite clearly, the collision threat was only real when the turquoise and black cars were close together. That’s when it could get really ugly.

Straker’s biggest fear, therefore, was “proximity”.

Sabatino’s proximity to any Massarella was going to be the moment of highest danger.

Q
ualifying One began on Saturday morning. The public, commentators, and audience were all focused on the fight between the two Championship contenders – Paddy Aston and Remy Sabatino.

Both drivers went through the first round of Qualifying without a hitch.

Q2 saw Aston make a mistake, while Sabatino lost the back end to a spin in Pinheirinho, Turn Nine – but both made it through easily to the top-ten shootout.

Then everything changed.

Thick grey clouds started forming over the lakes – the wind got up and rain was on the way. Everyone started agonizing. Would the weather change enough, or would they get away with it? And what of tomorrow? If it was going to rain for the race, should the teams rig the cars for Qualifying in a wet set-up, just in case?

To Sabatino, the choice was all the more heightened, given her standings in the Championship. In some ways, though, her decision-making was perversely easier. She was, in effect, only driving against one other competitor now. All she had to do was stay competitive relative to Paddy Aston and his Lambourn.

Backhouse and the whole team devoted their efforts to trying to work out what Aston and the Lambourn team were planning to do.

Qualifying Three started.

Grey clouds loomed.

The last ten cars set out on their out-laps in the final shootout.

By the time flying laps were attempted, the heavens opened. On drys, the teams were completely thrown. Inevitably, they were sliding about all over the place. Lap times were ludicrously high and completely unrepresentative of anything.

Aston tried to snake his way round, and slid wide in the middle of
the Senna S. Sabatino fared only marginally better, tottering round while completely holding her breath.

Qualifying Three came to an end.

The Championship decider could not have been tighter. On much slower lap times than normally expected, because of the weather, Aston and Sabatino had ended up side by side – on the second row.

Sabatino P3, Aston P4.

Thankfully from Straker’s point of view – and his threat of proximity – Adi Barrantes in his Massarella was well back behind her, down in P6. On their starting positions on the grid, therefore, Sabatino was well out of harm’s way.

But then the order and the Championship were all about to be turned upside-down.

E
verything 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.’

H
alf 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?

S
abatino 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.’