Driven (7 page)

T
his time, Straker’s radio fix seemed to be a location in the town, only three roads back from the circuit. “Got you, you bastard,” he shouted to himself as he grabbed the printout and his digital camera, and set off on foot.

Running out of the paddock, Straker belted along the Avenue du Port, finding his way down Rue Saige, to reach Rue de la Princesse Caroline. He sprinted flat out. Because of race day, the streets were relatively free of cars, but were now full of pedestrians taking advantage of their short-lived freedom. Straker ran athletically, nimbly weaving his way between the ambling crowds, before turning right into Rue Louis Notari to reach Rue des Princes.

A few blocks later, he was there.

He reached the triangulation point, his chest heaving for breath. Pulling the printout from his pocket, he orientated himself as before, looking left and right to identify the exact grid reference.

It turned out to be a pinkish-beige, four-storey townhouse, built as a small apartment block. Trying to calm his breathing, he quickly looked it up and down.

Although its basic shape was box-like, it had some elegant baroque touches. An ornate overhang around the roof resembled a plaster architrave. Each floor level was distinguished with horizontal white moulding, which stood out from its flesh-coloured walls. A similar flourish surrounded the well-proportioned windows and their white shutters, and each floor had its own semicircular balcony edged with decorative wrought-iron railings, all of which were covered with a mass of flowers. Could this chic townhouse really be the place he was looking for?

Straker, now standing on the opposite side of the road, took a photograph of the building, unable to ignore the screaming sound of
the Grand Prix cars only a few blocks away to the south and realizing that the safety car must be in and the race was back on.

If this house
was
the location, though, which floor was hiding his quarry? How on earth was he going to find out?

Straker moved across the road through some light traffic – dodging a scooter and a taxi – and trotted up the steps to the front door. To one side of the entrance, a brass panel of buttons to each flat was set in the wall. There were five in total, with a printed name for each – none of which meant anything to him. A sixth button offered the porter along with a telephone number.

Hang on, Straker thought, would a resident be involved in the Grand Prix?

Not that likely. Then he had an idea.

Entering the telephone number into his phone, and then jotting down the names of all the occupants on the back of a business card, he dialled the number for the porter. Luckily, the call was answered. An aged man came on the line who, thankfully, could at least speak some form of pidgin English.

‘Hello, I’ve been told that you have apartments to let?’ Straker said.

There was a grunt from the other end. ‘
Non
.’

‘Oh, I heard that one of them was available for the Grand Prix?’

‘
Non
.’

Straker thought quickly. ‘I’m sorry. I thought someone had rented one this week?’

‘Yes. That’s why we don’t have one now.’

Aha, thought Straker. ‘And was that…’ he said looking down through the list and picking a name at random, ‘…Monsieur De Lancy’s apartment?’

‘
Non
. For the race – this week – it is Madame Larochelle. Number 5.’

Straker grimaced as he made ready to try his luck: ‘Thank you. And could you tell me who has rented it, please?’

‘
Non!
’ barked the porter, adding: ‘
Privé!
’ and hung up immediately.

Straker shrugged, hardly surprised. At least he now knew that Apartment 5 – on the top floor – was occupied by a temporary visitor who seemed to have rented it for the Grand Prix. How was he going to get this person’s name, or even identify him?

Straker soon thought of something.

He walked back up the street to a corner shop he had passed that had a large display of flowers on the pavement out front. He walked in and ordered a bouquet.

While it was being put together, Straker wrote out a small card to Madame Larochelle, the owner of Apartment 5 in his target block. Then, for a large-denomination euro note, he managed to engage the shop keeper’s help.

Having thought through as many of the permutations of his wheeze as he could, Straker asked the newsagent to deliver in person the bouquet to the front door of the townhouse – straight away. He was clear in his instructions: The newsagent was to ring the bell and insist that the occupant come down to the front door to sign for the flowers. If the occupant referred the delivery to the porter, he was to say it must be signed for personally. And if the shopkeeper was asked to bring the delivery up the stairs, he was to refuse – complaining of a bad back. Finally, if the occupant did sign for the flowers, the shopkeeper was to ask for a printed name, to make sure he’d got it absolutely clear. To Straker’s relief, the shopkeeper seemed taken with this charade and readily set off up Rue des Princes with the bouquet.

Straker, meanwhile, hurried up the road behind him, looking for a vantage point on the opposite side of the street.

The noise of the Grand Prix continued to reverberate through the air.

From across the road, Straker watched the newsagent approach the apartment block and ring the bell several times before getting any response. From what Straker could see, he was soon engaged in a fairly protracted discussion over the intercom, with the florist leaning in close to the loudspeaker grille. Finally, it seemed, the temporary
occupant of Madame Larochelle’s apartment had relented and was ready to receive the delivery.

A few minutes later the front door was opened. Straker waited to confirm that it was the person who had come down to collect the flowers rather than someone else who just happened to be leaving the building, and then took several photographs of the recipient. The telephoto lens pulled him in nice and close. He didn’t know what to think. The man was in his forties, balding, slightly overweight and dressed in casual clothes. Did he look like a saboteur? Was this really their jammer?

As the door was closed on the delivered flowers, and the newsagent turned to leave, Straker walked down the pavement on his side of the road to meet him as he crossed over.

‘Here you are, monsieur,’ said the newsagent handing him the receipt. ‘He is Monsieur Michel Lyons, and that’s his signature.’

S
traker, with his freshly-garnered intelligence, sprinted back to the Ptarmigan motor home in the paddock. Having missed all the goings-on in the race since the deployment of the safety car, he was anxious to be briefed by Oliver Treadwell, Ptarmigan’s Strategy Director, who was supervizing the bank of team members monitoring the race.

‘What’s happening?’ he asked.

‘You’ve missed some drama,’ Treadwell said. ‘Remy was in the Swimming Pool section when the safety car was called, so she hadn’t crossed the start line. That meant Backhouse
could
call her in for a pit stop immediately. We got her in and out again, with a new set of boots, in just over nine seconds. Then Race Control closed the pits. Remy emerged from the pit lane as the field was backing up behind the safety car. She was obliged to pass it, circle round and form up at the back.’

‘Hell, what place did that drop her down to?’

‘Nineteenth.’

‘Shit!’

‘But no one else on a two-stopper had been able to pit by then. Our timing was immaculate.’

‘How many laps under the safety car?’

‘Six.’

Straker whistled. ‘Any blow-ups?’

‘Only the Championship leader.’

‘Paddy Aston?’

‘Overheated on lap twenty-one.’

‘What then?’

‘By lap twenty-three, the marshals had cleared the oil and shards of carbon fibre off the track. Race Control opened the pits and called
in the safety car. There was mayhem over the next few laps, as everyone tried to pit before they ran out of fuel. Two cars even bumped in the entrance to the pit lane.’

‘Where was Remy when they started racing again?’

‘Twelfth, but because of the backing-up behind the safety car, there was less than eight seconds between her and Simi Luciano. Apart from him – on his three-stop strategy – everyone between the two of them had to pit as soon as possible.’

‘What a bummer I missed all this.’

‘Three laps later, everyone had made their first stop, putting Remy right up behind Simi.’

‘In second?’

‘Yep.’

‘When did Luciano pit again?’

‘Lap thirty-five.’

‘And what kind of lead had he built up?’

‘Being lighter, of course, he should’ve run away with it, but Remy was able to stay in touch. Eight seconds was all he could manage. The moment he was in, Remy had the road to herself – with lots of clear air – and off she romped.’

‘Where did Luciano feed back in?’

‘Best he could do was seventh.’

‘And the order now?’

‘Remy, Ferrari, Red Bull, Mercedes, Simi.’

Straker’s face broke into a broad smile. ‘How many more laps to go?’

‘Ten.’

‘Stops?’

‘All done. Provided we don’t pick up any residual splinters from Barrantes’s car, we’re looking good. Remy’s running A-Okay. Anyway,’ he said in hushed tones, ‘how did you get on? Did you get anywhere?’

Straker nodded.

‘You did?’ To be discreet, Treadwell moved over to Straker’s console. ‘Any idea who’s doing this?’

Straker nodded again.

‘You got names?’ he asked with impressed enthusiasm. ‘Who?’

Straker whispered, ‘Michel Lyons?’

Treadwell looked blank.

‘You don’t know him?’ said Straker sounding a little disappointed.

‘Nope.’

‘Perhaps you’ll recognize him,’ answered Straker as he leant down to connect his camera to one of the computer’s USB ports. Straker soon put the face of Michel Lyons on the screen. ‘
Do
you know him?’

The Strategy Director shook his head. ‘Afraid not.’

‘He’s taken an apartment on the top floor of 25 Rue des Princes for the week of the race, which was the source of the signal jamming Remy’s radio.’

Treadwell suggested, ‘He could be attached to one of the teams, or be a freelance brought in from outside to do the dirty work?’

L
ap seventy-seven, with only one to go.

Straker, still in the headquarters truck, was listening out on the radio, watching the race on one of the screens in front of him.

Desperate to spot any further sabotage interference, he called up the on-board shot from the camera above Sabatino’s helmet.

S
he was crossing the start line. They all hoped she would be crossing it again in one minute and fifteen seconds – for the last time.

She reached one hundred and sixty miles an hour down the start/finish straight, before decelerating hard into Turn One. She glanced down at the lights on the steering wheel, willing the car to stay normal and reliable for just one more lap. Everything seemed to be operating within limits. Three laps earlier she had leaned off the fuel mix.

Her closest rival, in one of the Ferraris, was seven seconds down the road behind her.

The Championship leader, Paddy Aston, was out and going to
score no points to her prospective ten. She was trying desperately not to think about it, trying to shut the significance of this afternoon out of her mind. But it wasn’t easy.

She was on the verge of winning here in Monaco – the ultimate race in Formula One – and being the first woman to do so. Not only that, she was about to go six points clear at the top of the Drivers’ Championship.

Sabatino forced herself to disregard these thoughts. Don’t blow it for a moment’s lack of concentration, she screamed to herself.

Backhouse came up on the air. ‘All’s good, Remy. Just bring it home.’

Straker smiled as the jammer blocked out her message on her original radio frequency. Thankfully, the second radio was still clear and unaffected.

Sabatino went through Portier, Turn Eight, reaching the waterfront. Heading under the tunnel, the race track was plunged into darkness. Seconds later, she appeared into the harbour and was bathed again in the glorious afternoon sun.

And that’s when it started.

It was completely unexpected.

She felt it first, she could
feel
the noise.

Even over the engine, even through her helmet. She could hear the crowds. They were roaring.

Sabatino couldn’t believe it. They were cheering her home.

Flicking through the Chicane, she powered on, down towards the narrow Tabac where Barrantes had earlier come to grief in the Armco. Once round there, the scene was quite extraordinary. Everyone in the stands – bang next to the track on either side – was on their feet. The circuit felt even more overhung than ever. Banners flew. Flags were waved above a sea of waving people. Air-horns blared. The Monégasque crowd was cheering the winner. They were saluting the winner of their race. Whoever won
their
race deserved to be saluted. But being a woman – the first woman – seemed to have captured the crowd’s emotion even more than usual.

Sabatino, still moving at considerable speed, weaved effortlessly through the kinked turns of the Swimming Pool complex and on along the harbour towards La Rascasse. She accelerated up the hill towards Turn Nineteen, Anthony Noghès, the last on the circuit.

Then the significance of her drive suddenly struck her.

Sabatino’s eyes welled up as she accelerated down the pit straight towards the line.

There it was.

The most prized sight in Formula One – the chequered flag of the Monaco Grand Prix.

And it was being waved in her honour.

She crossed the line.

She had won.

Tears flooded down her cheeks.

Straker was listening out on the radio. ‘Fantastic,’ he heard a choked-up Backhouse say over the air, the excitement broadening his Birmingham accent. ‘Well done, Remy. Well driven.
Brilliant
.’

Straker could hear the emotion from the hard-bitten race engineer.

‘Thank you, Andy,’ she replied, with a clear catch in her voice. ‘To you – and all the guys.’

Five minutes later Remy Sabatino brought her turquoise Ptarmigan to a stop in Parc Fermé, right in front of the Royal Box. As she killed the engine, the noise of the crowds hit her for real. There was jubilation – celebrating this unprecedented win.

She climbed out and stood up on the nose of her car before turning to face her team and punching the air with both hands. Everywhere around her the crowds were in raptures. Flags waved, banners swirled, air-horns sounded, and the cheers were deafening. Although she was still wearing her helmet and no one could see her face, her body language indicated that she was completely overcome.

Pulling off the elastic straps of the HANS device, she removed her helmet to a fusillade of camera shutters. She pulled off the balaclava to another rattle of shutters, giving the public and the world’s media
the expression on the face of the first woman ever to win the most male of races, the Monaco Grand Prix.

They were not disappointed.

The scene had everything for a modern media story. High emotion, tears, a striking face, cheering crowds, and the radiance of someone delighting in the moment.

Sabatino’s mood was infectious. Photographers saw the euphoria as well as the significance of this story; working excitedly, they expected to see their images splashed across the front pages of the world’s newspapers the next morning.

Andy Backhouse broke through the cordon and rushed over to congratulate her, lifting her off the ground in a hug. She was overcome once again as they shared the moment together. Cameras zoomed in for a close-up.

A minute later Remy Sabatino, wearing a baseball cap with a sponsor’s name emblazoned across the front, walked up the short flight of red-carpeted steps into the Royal Box. His Serene Highness looked as pleased as she did. A court official gently indicated to Sabatino where she should stand as the Maltese national anthem started to play and the island’s flag rose up the middle – and winner’s – flag pole.

But Sabatino could hardly take any of it in.

The British national anthem then played, acknowledging the nationality of the winning constructor. As it finished, the crowds roared once more.

Sabatino was congratulated by the Prince who handed her the most prized trophy in Formula One. After receiving a few words of congratulation, she turned and held it aloft to show the crowd and the world’s television cameras; there was an even bigger crescendo of noise.

Sabatino soon swapped the trophy for a jeroboam of champagne, which almost dwarfed her. Taking a hesitant sip, because of the weight of the bottle, she soon broke off. The Ferrari and Red Bull drivers – second and third – were bearing down on her, spraying her with champagne.

Hundreds of camera shutters clicked.

Sabatino ducked. One image caught
the
moment.

In glorious sunshine, with a huge smile across her face, Remy Sabatino had hunched her shoulders, trying to prevent torrents of fizz going down the back of her neck.

In an instant, that image became one of the most iconic sporting pictures of all time.