Driven (27 page)

T
he FIA hearing was upon them.

The night before, the Ptarmigan team travelled to Paris and checked into the Hotel Splendid Etoile, looking directly out on the Arc de Triomphe. Were it not for the spectre that hung over them all, they might have enjoyed the majesty of where they were – the setting, the location, the views.

Straker remained agitated. Unnerved. He – they, Ptarmigan – had been able to demonstrate to the FIA that they had not been able to find any evidence of wrongdoing to substantiate Massarella’s claim of industrial espionage. At all.

On the face of it they were clean.

And yet their affidavit to that effect had achieved no traction: the FIA still held that Ptarmigan had a case to answer.

Didn’t that mean, then, that Massarella
had
presented substantial evidence of their own?

What was it?

T
he Ptarmigan party met for breakfast.

‘As discussed on the train coming over,’ said the Team’s silk, Oscar Brogan QC, ‘I’ll act as our chairman in the hearing. This is not a courtroom – so none of us should feel under that kind of pressure.’

‘No,’ said Nazar, ‘but we are, to coin a phrase, in the courtroom of public opinion. The charge shouts louder than the verdict.’

‘We’re as certain as we can be that we’re in the clear,’ said Straker. ‘There’s a lot we can gain by making ourselves look reasonable and measured – rising above the bullshit.’

‘Precisely,’ said Brogan. ‘Talking of public opinion, a key part of today is how we handle the inevitable media onslaught. The press loves this kind of bun-fight. Remy’s involvement will make it all the
more intense. There will no doubt be an unedifying media scrum outside the FIA building.’

‘We shouldn’t scurry in,’ offered Straker. ‘We should wait for the right moment for Remy and Tahm to turn and face the bank of cameras – looking as calm as possible. The press are going to want to publish pictures, whatever they manage to shoot. Much better to give them some with body language that indicates a little dignity and poise, and that we’ve got nothing to hide.’

T
he party, to settle itself and freshen up for the hearing, walked down the Champs-Élysées. On any other occasion they would have savoured the experience – the view down the length of the boulevard and avenue of clipped horse chestnut trees towards the Louvre – and enjoyed the sunshine that was already hinting at a perfect summer’s morning.

Reaching the edge of Place de la Concorde, they saw what they were in for – even at some distance away. Already parked, two or three deep around the northern edge of the square, were media and TV vans with enormous satellite dishes on their roofs pointing to the heavens. There was a police cordon, holding back a public throng – all trying to snatch a glimpse of some of the world’s best known and glamorous sports personalities. Inside the police cordon was a jostling pack of journalists, TV cameras and sound recordists, with a copse of furry microphones held aloft on the end of long poles.

Hyenas. The media pack looked and sounded like a bunch of hyenas.

The Ptarmigan team began their approach towards the mêlée gathered in front of 8 Place de la Concorde. The headquarters of the International Automobile Federation was in an imposing building. Above them stretched the magnificent Palladian Trouard façade, its honey-coloured stone catching the early morning sun. It radiated grandeur: two portico-like ends were each supported by four columns. Twelve Corinthian columns were ranged in between. Eye-catching pilasters, ballustrading and baroque detail rose above a
plinth-like, street-level arcade. Sabatino’s face registered heightened unease, almost induced by the building alone.

Approaching the media-surrounded entrance, the noise began in earnest. Straker stood to the outside of Sabatino, shielding – but not hiding – her from the throng.

‘REMY! REMY! REMY!’

Flash guns were fired off like a fusillade. The noise seemed to become a roar as everyone shouted – demanding that she look their way.

At the appropriate moment, Straker looked over to Sabatino, asked if she was ready, and, seeing her nod, turned her and Nazar round slowly to face the wall of media.

Their senses were almost overwhelmed – virtually blinded by the flashes, and nearly deafened by the crescendo of shouting.

Sabatino took a couple of deep breaths. Then, as planned, she smiled broadly, waved, and began slowly panning through the arc of three hundred-odd journalists, giving each one of them a head-on shot for their still cameras and B-roll VT. Extraordinarily, it seemed to work. The frenzied yelling seemed to abate. Giving the journalists something of what they wanted just about turned the mood.

It might be an altogether different story on the way out.

Sabatino, facing such a wall of people, cameras and noise, would have been forgiven for looking concerned or defensive. Calmly, without cockiness, she managed to convey a powerful sense of dignified composure.

After thirty or forty seconds, which seemed an age, Sabatino turned away and walked towards the entrance of the FIA. Once through the blue doors with their elegant panels of leaded lights, they found relative privacy inside the building.

‘Well played,’ Straker said. ‘That was utterly composed. Don’t know how you do it,’ he added reassuringly.

Without saying anything she merely touched him on the arm in thanks.

The Ptarmigan party was greeted by an FIA official. They were soon led through to a waiting room. ‘You’ll be called in at around
ten o’clock,’ the member of staff declared. ‘Please help yourself to refreshments.’

The waiting proved agony, despite the considerable calm provided from time to time by Brogan.

Ten o’clock came and went.

Ten-thirty.

Eleven.

When the hell were they going to be called in?

Finally, at a quarter to twelve, the door opened and another official asked them politely to come through.

As they walked into the Council Chamber their level of apprehension and stress increased markedly. Entering midway down the long wall of the long thin room, they were confronted by a sea of faces around the huge rectangular table arrangement. While there was a sizeable hollow area in the middle of the tables, there was very little space around the outside, reduced further by a row of people sitting on chairs against one of the long walls.

Directly opposite them as they entered was Bo San Marino, the President of the FIA, flanked by the Deputy President on one side and the former President of the FIA, currently President of the Senate, on the other.

Further away from the President, on either side, were five of the seven Vice-Presidents and thirteen of the seventeen other members of the Council.

At the right-hand end of the table Straker spotted Joss MacRae, head of the commercial rights holder.

San Marino, at least, had the courtesy to stand as the Ptarmigan party entered the room. He welcomed them and indicated three seats at the table directly opposite him. These, it was explained, were for the team boss, a driver, and their counsel. He asked that other members of the contingent take a seat behind them, against the back wall.

Straker was amazed there was still chatter around the room. It came as no surprise that MacRae was in full voice.

Now sitting with Treadwell beside him, Straker looked over to his left and down the length of the stark unadorned room to one of the short ends. There, he could see a plate-glass partition. Through its greenish tint Straker observed a small room beyond, packed full of what he supposed were journalists. The press gallery? More like
les tricoteuses
, he thought.

Straker took in the rest of the room.

It was austere. There were no pictures hanging anywhere. The only objects to break the large expanse of white wall were two plasma screens, one mounted opposite him, above San Marino’s head, and the second above his own. These appeared to be hooked up to some form of video-conferencing facility. Several grainy faces appeared jerkily in their own little windows.

Straker could not help but wonder who all these people were around the table. They were all of a fairly obvious stamp – elderly, portly and male. Indeed, he could only see one woman among them. In his sweep of the Chamber, Straker spotted the backs of the Massarella contingent, already seated at the table; they were over to Straker’s left, down towards the press gallery: Eugene Van Der Vaal was flanked by one of the team’s drivers, Simi Luciano, and an Italian-looking man in a suit.

San Marino quietly called for order. ‘Gentlemen, and lady member of the Council. We are now ready to begin this Extraordinary Meeting of the World Motor Sport Council. Can I ask you, Tahm, to introduce your companions here today?’

‘Certainly, Mr President. I am joined by Ms Remy Sabatino, Ptarmigan’s number one driver, and Mr Oscar Brogan QC, Ptarmigan’s legal counsel. Behind me we have Mr Oliver Treadwell, Strategy Director for the racing team and currently Ms Sabatino’s race engineer, and Colonel Matt Straker, a representative from Quartech International, Ptarmigan’s owner.’

‘Thank you, Tahm. You have had our letter and you understand our reasons for calling this meeting? May I start by stating this Council’s jurisdiction in these matters? This hearing is conducted under
Article 27 of the FIA Statutes which empowers the World Motor Sport Council to assess and, where appropriate, directly impose sanctions provided for under the International Sporting Code.’

San Marino paused and looked up at Tahm Nazar over his half-moon spectacles, as if to invite a response.

‘Mr President, Ptarmigan accepts the jurisdiction of this hearing.’

‘Thank you, Tahm. On to our business. This hearing relates to the allegation levelled at Ptarmigan by the Massarella Formula One Team that Ptarmigan benefited, unlawfully, from Massarella’s intellectual property.’

‘We are aware of these allegations, Mr President,’ replied Brogan, taking over as the front man for Ptarmigan. ‘My client is of course here to deny vigorously – and refute – any such assertion. I trust that you, sir, and the Council have received our statement of facts?’

‘Indeed.’

‘We have also prepared a counter-claim, here,’ said Brogan holding up a document.

San Marino looked a little surprised. ‘Mr Brogan,’ he said slowly and courteously, ‘we have had no prior warning or submission of such a response from your client. I regret the Council cannot receive or acknowledge such a document without due notice.’

Brogan didn’t sound surprised by the response. ‘I understand, Mr President. I will, nevertheless, draw from elements of my client’s counter-claim in our repudiation of Massarella’s gratuitous allegations.’

‘I am sure you will…’

‘…at the very least, Mr President,’ said Brogan quickly before San Marino was able to cut him off, ‘it should be declared to the Council that my client has approached yourself on two separate occasions so far this season, sir, with concerns of sabotage they believe to have been perpetrated by the Massarella team. The Ptarmigan team, including Mr Straker, who is here today, presented you with their concerns in both Monaco and Spa.’

This was clearly new news to most of the Council members around the table.

‘At the Spa meeting,’ Brogan went on, ‘those assertions were presented to you in the presence of Mr Joss MacRae.’

Again there were murmurings around the table at this disclosure.

Straker recognized the canny game their barrister was playing. Brogan wasn’t answering the charges, yet – but was trying to throw up enough dust to show that this was not a clear-cut, one-sided situation.

San Marino levelled his attention at Brogan. ‘I thank you for bringing that to the attention of the meeting,’ he said. ‘Can we revert to the business of our agreed agenda – your client’s statement of facts and the answers to the FIA’s questions?’ This time, it was San Marino who kept talking – to retain control of the floor: ‘In addressing Massarella’s allegations, I would like to refer to your client’s answer to Question 1: that Ptarmigan first came up with the design for the spiral surfaces – or the Fibonacci Blades, as I believe your client calls them, on the Monday after the Bahrain Grand Prix, May 25th?’

‘That is correct, Mr President. We have, in the statement of facts under Tab 1, set out a schedule of our development of this device from inception to its presence on the car in Belgium.’

There was a theatrical grunt from Van Der Vaal. Without an invitation to speak, the Massarella boss growled: ‘We have proof of development of this device as long ago as March 12th.’

There were mutterings around the table – both at the intervention and the information imparted.

San Marino looked mildly irritated. ‘Eugene, please, let us conduct this meeting with some order. I will call for comments at the appropriate time.’ He paused, looked at Van Der Vaal, and waited – as if to receive some form of acknowledgement of his point. None came.

‘Mr President,’ said Brogan very quietly. ‘May we see some evidence to this claim by Mr Van Der Vaal of 12th March?’

There was a flurry of papers from the Massarella section of the table before a document was passed all the way round – between the council members – to reach San Marino. Repositioning his
half-moon glasses, the patrician-looking President read the page indicated by Massarella.

For the first time the room remained quiet while this evidence was assessed. San Marino looked up. ‘Mr Brogan, it would appear that Massarella are correct. They do seem to have an earlier start date for their development of these spiral surfaces than Ptarmigan’s. Would you like to comment?’

Straker watched Brogan intently to see how he would react to this.

‘Certainly, Mr President. The surfaces, we admit, look vaguely similar. However, is it not possible for two people or two organizations to come up with the same idea concurrently but independently? Let us remember that
all
cars are faced with the exact same challenges. The exact same Formula, no less. Are not the exact same problems likely to inspire hugely similar solutions? After all, the way the teams deal with their braking, cooling, aerodynamics, etc., are all remarkably similar, are they not?’