Driven (26 page)

S
traker made it home midway through the following day. He was glad to be back, despite the emptiness of his flat. Collapsing into the bath, he put on ‘Blue Rondo à la Turk’. The dissonant energy of the 9/8 signature was hardly restful. But that’s what he wanted – to help stimulate him. To help him stir up all that was going on.

His mind was soon whirring.

It was buzzing with the FIA letter, the hearing, the effect of all that on Sabatino, Dr Chen, Quartano’s brilliant handling of the meeting with Mandarin, Sabatino, the work needed to prepare for the hearing, what Massarella was playing at, Remy Sabatino – and all the work he still had to do.

Not long afterwards, tiredness got the better of him. He managed to sink into a sleep – deep enough to save him from his troubles. Indeed, he didn’t wake
himself
up the next morning – the first time that had happened in he couldn’t remember how long. Straker slept right through, woken instead by an external factor: the bleep of an incoming text.

And it made an instant difference to his day.

His Morgan had arrived – and would he ring to arrange collection? Needing to be up at the Ptarmigan factory that morning anyway, and Henley being en route, Straker dressed as quickly as he could and left the flat. He took the train, and made it to the showroom by mid-morning.

Straker revelled in the car the moment he saw it – and felt immediately fulfilled in his choice. Connaught Green. Bonnet louvres. Wire wheels. Walnut dash. Pale leather seats and trim. Even the new-car smell inside exceeded his expectations.

On a near-perfect summer morning – with blue skies, no cloud and virtually no wind – Straker drove his brand-new Morgan
Roadster up and out of Henley and headed off through the beech woods of Nettlebed. With the top down, he could not imagine a more engaging way to enjoy The Road. Changing down, he accelerated off a long sweeping left-hander towards Huntercombe, and congratulated himself on the power and torque of his car’s 3.7 litre V6. He popped his Dave Brubeck CD into the player and wallowed in the saxophone of ‘Take Five’ – on repeat – all the way to Shenington. Straker delighted in the temporary escape of his car.

But the effects didn’t last long.

R
eaching the Ptarmigan factory just before lunch, he met Nazar and Treadwell in the team principal’s office immediately upon arrival.

‘I’ve discussed the hearing and our submission to the FIA with Quartech’s counsel,’ Straker explained. ‘I’m sorry about the prospective workload and timeframe we need to follow to prepare for the hearing.’

‘You’re sorry,’ said Treadwell. ‘What a ball-aching amount of work.’

‘It is,’ admitted Straker. ‘What material have you been able to dig out on the development of the Fibonacci Blades?’

‘A fair amount,’ replied Nazar. ‘A design history, and a full log of work in the design studio.’

‘Excellent. I’m going to need several more things. We’d like every member of staff to sign a statement saying they have had no contact with Massarella people. Also, I’m going to need to see all our employees’ email records – particularly any contact with Massarella – and everything sent to us from outside with an attachment.’

‘We can do that.’

‘Thanks, Tahm. Can you send it all down to me in London?’

‘What happens if people have been receiving stuff on home or private emails or numbers?’ asked Treadwell.

‘Quite,’ said Straker. ‘We’ve no guarantee of finding every piece of communication. If we were the police, it’d be different – we’d have investigative powers and the authority to search premises.’

‘Why wouldn’t we
want
to bring the police in?’ asked Treadwell impatiently. ‘Wouldn’t that show we had nothing to hide?’

Straker smiled and shook his head. ‘The feeling is that doing so would be far too media-worthy. It’d kick off a Spygate-all-over-again media circus. There’d be a press feeding frenzy. I should tell you we’ve been out to Shanghai to see Mandarin Telecom – to try and keep them onside. Any full-blown media attention around this would see our $750 million down the pan.’

‘Why not counter it, now –
with
the power of the law?’ asked Treadwell. ‘It’s going to come out anyway, isn’t it – this thing’s going to a hearing?’

‘Not necessarily. Stacey Krall believes that, if we put together a strong enough case, we could apply to the governing body to strike it out before it ever got to a hearing. So long as there’s a chance of handling all this quietly, we should play it straight – for as long as possible.’

‘Okay, Matt. You’re wearing the stress of this,’ said Nazar. ‘You’ve also seen the Chinese reaction first-hand and discussed it all with the lawyers. How long before we’ll have pulled together the first draft of the statement of facts?’

‘About a week.’

S
traker enjoyed his new car all the way back to London. By the time he reached the office in Cavendish Square Karen had pulled off the records of all electronic communication into and out of Ptarmigan during the life of the Fibonacci Blades. Being in spreadsheet form, Straker was able to sort and sift the entries pretty easily. What he found surprised him.

Via email, there were no instances of any electronic communication between Ptarmigan and Massarella. And, by phone, he found exactly the same outcome. Straker challenged and double-checked his findings, even asking for a rerun of all the data. The result – the second time – was exactly the same.

Straker was as sure as he could be. There had been no electronic communication between Ptarmigan and Massarella.

None.

It was baffling. What the hell was Massarella playing at?

They didn’t have a case.

Or did they really
have
something – and he’d just missed it?

F
irst thing on Monday morning Straker and Krall rode in a London taxi east along the north bank of the Thames towards the City. Stopping before Blackfriars Bridge, they alighted on the Victoria Embankment and made their way through the park and across the cobbles to King’s Bench Walk. There, in one of the townhouse-style offices, they climbed the steps under a wrought-iron arch and entered the Temple chambers of Oscar Brogan QC.

As they approached, Krall whispered: ‘For the scale of the cases he does, and their contemporary nature – nearly all about Intellectual Property and I.T. – it’s hilarious his chambers are so antiquated.’

Straker saw exactly what she meant. It was years since the set had spent any money on the building. Its paintwork looked tired, while the carpets and curtains looked decidedly threadbare. It even smelled fusty. An elegant Persian runner led them along the corridor from the front door, but the wooden floor was showing through it in some places. Within the so-called reception area Straker and Krall were asked to take a seat. The upholstery had seen better days, the springs in Straker’s chair giving way substantially as he sat down. Only the pictures and books seemed to have been favoured. There were several attractive landscapes, in oil, while a floor-to-ceiling bookcase was jam-packed with apparently brand-new leather-bound legal volumes.

Brogan’s clerk apologized for the delay and offered them some coffee.

‘So sorry to keep you waiting,’ said Brogan in his powerful, well-enunciated voice as they were shown into his rooms half an hour later. Brogan was six feet two tall – the same as Straker – slim, longish swept-back grey hair, with an upright bearing. Brogan had presence. On a break from a trial in the Royal Courts of Justice, he was still wearing bands, the two white tabs hanging down from the collar.
‘Now Stacey, this is an encouraging piece of work,’ said Brogan as he referred to their statement of facts. ‘Very comprehensive.’

‘Good to hear. Any thoughts at this stage?’

‘Yes,’ he said, his voice sounding ready to reach the back of a courtroom at any moment. ‘With a case like this, the judge – I know this is going to be heard at the World Motor Sports Council, but you know what I mean – has to be sure there was physical contact and that documents were exchanged. With the statements you’ve collated, and the records for telephone and email traffic, there seems to have been no such contact. Your defence, therefore, leaves little to be desired.’

Brogan closed the cover of the document. ‘However,’ he went on with a tone that instantly dampened the mood, ‘in any adversarial hearing, I always advise my clients that, even with a cast-iron case, things can happen in court. There can always be surprises – peripheral issues or evidence can turn a case completely on its head. As a result, I never give the chances of success – in a trial – higher than seventy per cent.’ Brogan paused to look both his visitors in the eye. ‘Please be realistic. Something unexpected could happen.’ Another pause. ‘That said, I do believe your defence is strong.’

Straker absorbed the caveat. ‘If that’s your
realistic
view,’ he said, ‘have we at least strengthened any application we might make to the governing body to strike out the case – before it gets to a hearing?’

Brogan nodded. ‘On the back of these findings and assertions, I’d say, certainly. I’d be happy to draft an application?’

Straker nodded Quartech’s instruction to proceed.

‘While on the subject of next steps,’ said the barrister, ‘can we talk for a moment about the counter-claim?’

‘Mr Quartano is not pursuing this pro tem,’ Straker explained. ‘Ptarmigan has a very promising sponsorship deal with Mandarin Telecom. We’ve just signed an MOU. We have already felt it necessary to postpone signing the contract, because of the FIA hearing. We’d rather not stir things up by complicating this legal distraction – so long as that deal’s still viable.’

‘That’s clearly a business consideration,’ replied Brogan with reluctant understanding. ‘I would be keen to mount the counter-claim, though – given the evidence you’ve amassed. I mean, let’s just think about Mr Backhouse, for a moment – and about going after him. That whole incident with Ms Sabatino’s helmet – the jamming bug mysteriously disappearing as he walked it from the truck to the workshop – is all pretty odd, not to mention his defection to Massarella? I’d love the chance to cross-examine Mr Backhouse.’

‘That’s good to know,’ said Straker, ‘except – for the time being – we’re content to play a straight bat.’

‘We’ll keep the counter-claim in the drawer for now, then,’ said the barrister resignedly.

B
efore even the close of business that day, Oscar Brogan QC sent Straker and Krall his draft application to the FIA to strike out Massarella’s claim of industrial espionage against Ptarmigan. Given its clarity, the affidavit required no amendment. It was readily signed off by Quartech’s in-house counsel.

The application was officially filed by the barrister with the governing body first thing the following morning.

There was no indication, though, of how long the FIA would take to decide and respond.

A
fter Singapore, the Formula One world moved east – to Shanghai.

At the Chinese Grand Prix, Ptarmigan’s mood was soured by the threat to their sponsorship deal. All around Shanghai, and the circuit, Mandarin Telecom hoardings were visible in nearly every direction – a constant reminder of just what was at stake for them. But that opportunity with the Chinese company seemed completely dependent, now, on the case overhanging them with the FIA, its shadow having already caused the signing of the contract to be postponed. There was no escape from the apprehension felt by every member of the team.

Making things worse was Van Der Vaal’s overt gloating in the media. He gave countless interviews, savaging Ptarmigan’s misconduct. His allegations
had
to be valid, he claimed, otherwise why else would the FIA have taken them up and called for a public hearing?

Straker hoped Ptarmigan would find solace out on the track. But that, too, could invite more trouble. If Sabatino and Cunzer showed themselves to be competitive this weekend, wouldn’t that prompt further action from Massarella or Van Der Vaal, given the bullshit they had already had thrown their way? For all these reasons, Straker remained vigilant.

Coming as an added blow, Lambourn had truly hit top form in China. Their upgraded aero package absolutely found its forte on the Jiading circuit. Paddy Aston was eight tenths up in Qualifying Two and, in the top-ten shootout, notched up a lead of nine tenths.

Remy Sabatino found her Ptarmigan hard to fault, and was on song, too. Which made the frustration worse. The Ptarmigan was simply outclassed by Lambourn. There seemed to be nothing more Sabatino could do, however hard she pushed.

Her one consolation was that Massarella were struggling with
tyres. Every time a Massarella came into the pits, the Ptarmigan team focused their CCTV shots on the graining – even blistering – of Massarella’s rubber, and took some comfort from seeing the extent of their problems.

Whatever comfort Ptarmigan might have drawn from that, though, everything changed at the start of the race.

Sabatino’s plans went awry on the very first lap.

S
tarting second on the grid behind Aston, she seemed to get away well, but still found Luciano’s Massarella, Helli Cunzer, and a Mercedes all over her gearbox approaching Turn One. Into that bottleneck, an aggressive move by the Massarella forced Sabatino to take evasive action at the last minute. She jabbed at the brakes to avoid a collision. Was she overreacting – anxious not to repeat her bump with him in Monza? A puff of blue smoke rose from under her front right. Sabatino swore loudly inside her helmet. She held her nerve, position, and onto – she thought – her eight points.

Having set themselves up for a one-stop strategy, she was relieved to have held her position. The plan had been for her to keep up with Aston and, when his two-stop strategy forced him to pit for the second time, she could then hope to take the lead and bring it home.

Except that exiting Turn Four on that first lap, and accelerating into the following long straight, she felt quickly what she dreaded. Having locked-up the front right – and skidded it along the surface of the track into Turn One – she had scrubbed a bad flat spot into the rubber. As she built up speed, that wheel started to vibrate – feeling like a fifty-pence piece – the flat spot juddering with every rotation.

She hoped – desperately – that this abnormality would wear itself out as the race went on.

But it only got worse.

Sabatino found her vision blurring, even at the lower speeds – and that, on the immaculate surface of the Jiading circuit, hardly ever happened.

Ten laps on, she radioed Treadwell in the pit lane: ‘It’s no good,’ she said, her voice clearly sounding vibrato. ‘I’m going to have to pit and change tyres. I can hardly see.’

Sabatino pitted, changed boots. Even though she took on fuel for an additional ten laps, she wasn’t going to be able to complete the remaining three-quarters of the race without stopping again. She would have to stop for a second time – which was going to cost her badly.

Feeding herself back in, down in P10, she built up the car’s temperatures to their optima and then, coming as some consolation, she found her mojo – even managing to keep up with the Lambourn in lap times. Five laps later, as the fuel load lightened and the tyres bedded in, she started recording successive fastest laps.

Into the last fifteen, the cars completed their final pit stops. Sabatino found that, little by little, she had worked her way back into contention. Amazingly, there was a chance, now, even of a podium. Except that to take it, she would have to overtake her teammate, Helli Cunzer, in P3. There were no team orders to have him move over. And the last thing she wanted was to go head-to-head with him and run the risk of having a bump, taking each other off.

Even though her Ptarmigan was running like it was on rails, Sabatino had to settle for fourth. With those five points, though, she would still keep her lead of the Championship on 71. Aston, winning Shanghai and picking up ten points, was now only one point behind her on 70. Luciano, making P2 here and picking up eight points, was up to 66.

All nerve-rackingly tight.

Any one of Sabatino, Aston or Luciano could – mathematically – still win the title. They were all so closely bunched it wasn’t going to be decided at the inaugural London Grand Prix in two weeks’ time, either. This season, as nearly every year, was going to see the Formula One drama played out to the very end. Brazil, as so often before, looked like it would be the final showdown.

But that was on the track.

There was a significant amount going on – off it – which could still ruin everything.

N
ot least as Ptarmigan’s faith in their defence in the case was about to take a serious knock.

Oscar Brogan’s application to the FIA to strike out the claim against them was denied, almost by return.

Straker was now deeply concerned.

How was their evidence and argument not strong enough to succeed?

What
was
Massarella asserting that Ptarmigan didn’t know about?