Driven (29 page)

C
onfused and dismayed were the only ways to describe the Ptarmigan delegation as they returned to their room in the FIA headquarters.

‘Holy crap,’ said Sabatino the moment they had shut the door behind them and were alone. ‘How the fuck has this – whatever this is – happened?’ she blasted in a more agitated state than Straker had ever seen her before. ‘This is going to cost me the Championship, for fuck’s sake.’ Straker thought she was about to fly at him as she had in Monza.

‘Indeed, what the hell is going on here?’ asked Nazar accusatorily of Brogan and Straker. ‘Where the hell did this Charlie Grant stuff come from? Are we completely out of control?’

Straker spoke calmly, trying to diffuse the tension in the room: ‘Not at all,’ he said with more conviction than he probably felt. ‘Tahm, you’ve seen the work that’s been done. We had no idea there was any contact between Massarella and Ptarmigan. We do
now
. Moreover, we have a name – a name around which to build a proper rebuttal of these ludicrous charges.’

‘But that’s just it,’ Sabatino retorted loudly. ‘We have … a
name
. We have just admitted – and had it confirmed by the claimant – in an FIA hearing – that we
did
have someone in contact with Massarella. How can that do anything for us but scream: “We’re guilty!”?’

Brogan answered calmly. ‘I know it’s not going to seem so, but this is a beneficial development for us.’

Sabatino looked completely incredulous.

‘For there to be a Ptarmigan contact,’ the barrister stated, ‘there had to have been someone who leaked the designs from Massarella. Van Der Vaal, personally, confirmed Charlotte Grant’s identity. That admission, alone, opens up a whole new line of enquiry and defence.’

‘But that’s just it, isn’t it.
Defence
,’ said Sabatino. ‘We’re always on
the damn defensive. And Quartano doesn’t want us to attack – for fear of upsetting Mandarin Telecom.’

Straker looked at Nazar then at Brogan. ‘After this morning, Remy, the sponsorship deal will be long gone. Having looked the Chinese in the eye and said that we were clean, we’ve completely lost face as well as our credibility with them. Quartano’s going to be mad, but at least this’ll remove any reticence about fighting back. We may have lost the sponsors, but we
will
protect your position in the Championship.’

Straker let that comment hang. Its significance was not lost on Sabatino; she began to calm slightly, even before Brogan backed Straker up.

‘The legal argument has been complicated today, but I strongly believe it’s been so in our favour. It’s thrown significant doubt on Massarella’s claims. Matt and I will conduct a wholesale reassessment of our approach to fight this case.’

‘That’s all for another time,’ barked Treadwell. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’

The room finally quietened down.

Sabatino still looked far from happy. ‘Christ, the press are going to kill us on the way out.’

‘How are we going to deal with them?’ asked Treadwell with unresolved tension in his voice.

Straker stepped straight in: ‘We should make a short statement.’

‘Like what? How the hell do you spin this?’ said Sabatino in exasperation.

Straker, looking and sounding like he was making it up on the hoof, said: ‘How about: “We have received new information only today, confirmed by Massarella … The FIA has granted us time to consider this … and has invited us to re-present it at the next Council meeting in London … We are more confident than ever of clearing our name”?’

Brogan nodded. ‘That works.’

Nazar followed with: ‘What do we say to: “Doesn’t this make you guilty?”’

‘“Innocent until proven otherwise”,’ responded Straker. ‘“No one’s proved anything, yet”?’

‘Again, that’s good,’ said Brogan.

Sabatino asked testily, intoning as if she were a journalist: ‘“Who is this Ptarmigan person who received the information?”’

‘“That’s under review”,’ suggested Straker. ‘“Our case will be presented formally to the FIA in London”.’

She came back with: ‘“Now that a contact name
has
been confirmed, doesn’t that make it more likely that Ptarmigan
did
use Massarella’s ideas?”’

‘“First, we haven’t. And, second, not proven”,’ answered Straker.

‘Good,’ said Brogan. ‘All those lines work. I think those are the most obvious questions. Who’s going to do the talking?’

There was a moment’s silence.

‘Shouldn’t it be Oscar?’ suggested Treadwell.

‘Wouldn’t that make it look legal and defensive?’ countered Nazar.

‘I think it would,’ offered Straker.

Nazar said: ‘It should be me.’

There was agreement around the room until Sabatino said quietly: ‘I should do it.’

Straker looked genuinely impressed by the gesture. ‘Remy, that would make a strong impression, but it
would
tie you into the incident – and you had nothing to do with this.’

‘True,’ said Nazar. ‘Remy, it’s big of you: Matt’s right.’

‘He is,’ replied Sabatino. ‘But either I’m in this business, or I’m not. I don’t want to be precious and seem like I need protecting from the manly stuff.’

F
ive minutes later Sabatino and Nazar emerged from 8 Place de la Concorde and faced the music. The moment they exited the FIA headquarters the noise from the hundreds of journalists and camera crews was literally deafening. Far louder than before.

It was immediately obvious that Massarella had already departed from the hearing and briefed the press. The journalists’ questions were informed, accusatory and hostile.

‘How do you feel about Ptarmigan cheating?’

‘Are you only able to win using other people’s ideas?’

‘Are you going to give up some of your points in the Constructors’ or Drivers’ Championships?’

‘Is Ptarmigan going to apologize to Massarella?’

The barrage was relentless.

Sabatino remained extremely calm. She stood there – in front of this baying rabble – without saying anything but looking like she would be ready when they were. Slowly, the pack quietened down.

Without notes, Sabatino began to speak over the still-jostling mêlée, reciting from memory the gist of the statement they had prepared indoors.

‘We were asked to account for the actions of a deceased member of staff,’ she said clearly and firmly. ‘It’s easy to see why we asked for – and were granted – an adjournment. We are more confident, now, than we were before all this started, of clearing our name.’

The hyenas yelled and screamed once again.

Sabatino parried each of their assaults:

‘Nothing’s been proven…’

‘We have faith in the FIA…’

‘
Yes
,’ she said with genuine emphasis, ‘if there has been wrongdoing, we expect there to be punishment …
whichever
side’s found guilty.’

‘No, I want to win the Championship fair and square…’

Finally, she got to: ‘Thank you, gentlemen. I look forward to seeing you all in London,’ with which she tried to break from the press towards a taxi Treadwell had already flagged down, waiting at the kerbside. As she moved, though, the media surged forward as a mob, continuing to shout questions. Sabatino was surrounded – badly jostled. Nazar tried to hold them back. Straker, too, opened his arms to try and give her space to move in the direction of the waiting taxi. The press completely crowded around her. Sabatino could hardly get through the door. Nazar shepherded her into the back seat. Straker was there too, so Nazar shouted at him to get in – and to get her away.

The car door was shut. The taxi started to move off, still surrounded by running paparazzi, firing off shots through the windows on the move.

Finally they were clear.

Rounding the Place de la Concorde, Straker said quietly: ‘Well handled, Remy. That was skilfully done.’

Sabatino didn’t acknowledge the compliment. Dismissively, she said: ‘It won’t have made the slightest fucking difference to tomorrow’s catastrophic headlines.’

S
abatino remained slumped back in the seat of the cab as the collapse of the hearing started to sink in. Her chances of winning the Championship had been completely derailed. Any adverse judgment from the FIA, and all her achievements this year would be for nought.

Straker, not knowing her exact thoughts but having a fair idea of their direction, did not disturb her stare out through the window. Instead, he had to brace himself to call Quartano.

The industrialist was incandescent at the news. ‘$750 million, this is going to cost me. $750 fucking million. That bitch Charlotte Grant,' he bellowed to Straker over the phone. ‘Didn't I tell you it was her? How weren't Ptarmigan able to
stop
her doing this kind of thing?'

Sabatino interrupted her stare as she heard the boom of Quartano's voice through the phone. Straker tried to keep his voice calm. ‘That's what I've got to find out before the resumption of the hearing in London, sir. First, though, I have to try and find
how
she fed any of Massarella's ideas into the design process at the factory. That's the only way to unravel this.'

‘Godamnit,' said Quartano. ‘Let's, for once, get some good news out of this fucking team.'

Q
uartano rang off.

For the first time since leaving the hearing, Sabatino smiled – at the look of obvious relief on Straker's face. The taxi made its way up the Champs-Élysées. Before he could respond, Straker's phone started ringing. Looking at the display, he saw: “Unknown Caller”. He was cautious about who this might be: given the scale of the fallout from the hearing, Straker could only think it would be a journalist. Pressing the green bar, he answered it with a degree of care.

‘Hello – Matt Straker,' he said formally.

There was a silence on the phone and what sounded like the background hum of a crowded place.

‘Hello?' repeated Straker.

‘…I have information that you would want to know regarding Van Der Vaal and Trifecta,' said a very – almost deliberately – muffled voice.

Straker paused, his mind already beginning to whir. He looked at Sabatino. Her face quickly registered his distracted expression. She tried to lean in to hear the voice on the other end. Straker pressed the phone hard against his head and indicated to Sabatino that the signal was poor, pulling a face in apology for her not being able to listen in.

‘Are you interested, or not?' came the voice.

‘I don't think we should even be talking,' answered Straker still not quite sure what he should be doing with this call. He didn't want to embroil himself – or this case – in any further transfer of illegal information, if indeed that had happened already.

‘Do you want the info, or not?'

Straker tried to think how he should best handle this. ‘Could I ring you back?' he asked.

‘No way. Do you have any idea how much of a risk I'm taking?'

‘Could you call me back, then? In about half an hour?'

There was a grunt from the other end of the line.

The line went dead.

Straker breathed deeply several times.

‘Who was
that
?' asked Sabatino, sitting up.

Straker looked at her quizzically, as if trying to think it through; then half-smiling, he said: ‘Erm, I suppose you'd call them some kind of whistle-blower?'

‘Wow, can he help us? What did he say?'

‘Nothing, yet.'

Straker raised his phone. He immediately dialled Quartano's London office. ‘Jean? It's Matt here. We have an urgent situation. Is Mr Q available?'

Without missing a beat she said: ‘Yes, I believe he can be.'

‘Excellent. First, can you try and reach Stacey Krall and get her on this call as well – and then patch us both through to Mr Q?'

Jean could hear the genuine urgency in Straker's voice. ‘Hang on.'

Buttons were pressed.

A number was pulsed out.

‘Stacey Krall,' came the deep voice.

‘Stacey, Jean here. I have Matt Straker on the line. Are you okay to be put through to Mr Quartano?'

‘Sure.'

‘Hold on, please.'

More buttons were pressed. There was a period of silence.

Quartano's rich baritone came through. ‘Matt, Stacey, what's going on?'

Straker breathed deeply. ‘A significant development,' he said. ‘I've just been rung by some kind of whistle-blower.'

‘Good God,' said Quartano. ‘What the hell did he – she – say?'

‘Says he's got some information on Van Der Vaal and Trifecta that he thinks we'd like.'

‘What did
you
say?' asked Krall sharply.

‘Nothing. I asked him to ring back in half an hour.'

‘Good.'

‘Did he demand anything for it?'

‘No.'

‘Good.'

‘Stacey, how do I play this?'

‘First, let me say, I'm not happy about Matt even talking to this guy again. We've no idea whether this is a put-up job by Massarella, a set-up, being recorded, or even some sort of sting operation mounted by a tabloid newspaper. For the sake of the returned call, you must play a straight bat. We do
not
want anything to come to us. Any information that might be offered should only go directly to the President of the FIA.'

‘Good, that'll work,' acknowledged Quartano. ‘Much better to go through the neutrality of the governing body.'

‘Okay. Do I ask him to send us a copy of anything?'

‘Absolutely not. The FIA, I am sure, will inform us anyway. Let anything he offers go through official channels. Only.'

‘Do we know who this guy is?' asked Quartano.

‘What if he
does
ask for something?' responded Straker over the top of his boss's question.

Krall jumped in. ‘Refuse it … outright. Offer him nothing. Tell him he's going out on a limb entirely for reasons of his own conscience.'

‘Fine. Do I make a note of the exchange, or this call?'

‘No, I'll make a file record of both from here.'

‘Okay, thanks. I think I'm clear about what I've got to do.'

Quartano's tone seemed to lighten with curiosity. ‘Do you have any idea
what
this information might be?'

‘No, sir. But it must be considered helpful to us, otherwise why would this guy run such a huge risk of breaching whatever confidence to make an approach?'

S
traker, still sitting next to Sabatino in the back of the now-static cab, rang off as they alighted opposite the Arc de Triomphe.

‘Bloody hell,' she said, manifesting a clear change in her mood at the prospect of supportive information. ‘What on earth do you think's going on?'

Straker smiled broadly. ‘No idea. But it's edgy stuff.'

Thirty minutes later, and there was no sign of the whistle-blower. He hadn't rung back.

A quarter of an hour after that and there was still nothing.

Had he been frightened off?

Had they lost the opportunity?

It was an agonizing hour before Straker's phone rang again. He and Sabatino were still waiting – outside the Hotel Splendid – in the privacy of a public space for the follow-up call. Once again, Straker had to force the phone in hard against his ear, pulling another face at Sabatino by way of apology for the poor quality of the line and her not being able to listen in.

‘Well?' asked the mysterious voice.

‘First,' said Straker, ‘thank you for making contact,' adding rather stiltedly, as if he was being recorded: ‘We cannot accept anything that might be someone else's property.'

‘Fine,' said the reply resignedly and dismissively.

‘…but,' jumped in Straker fearing he might ring off, ‘if you are prepared to do something, whatever you've got should be sent directly to San Marino.'

There was a pause on the phone.

‘Hello?' said Straker hesitantly.

‘It's not a document,' said the voice.

‘What is it then?' Straker asked.

There was silence on the line.

Straker wasn't sure the man was still there. ‘Hello?'

‘Trifecta have fired Michael Lyons,' said the informant. ‘Lyons is pissed off. It's thought he's taken copies of all kinds of documents and emails.'

The phone went dead.

S
traker immediately rang Krall in London. ‘I tried to pass on your advice,' he reported.

‘But?'

‘He didn't offer any documents. It was more of a tip-off.'

Krall listened attentively. ‘Okay. I'll add that to my note. If your phone has stored the number, please do not feel tempted to ring him back.'

‘It hasn't.'

‘Who else knows about your calls with this guy?'

‘Only Remy, who's with me now.'

‘Let's keep it that way, okay?'

S
traker's buzz, though, faded quickly that afternoon.

As a pre-emptive strike, Quartano issued a press release declaring Ptarmigan's regret at the embarrassment it had caused Mandarin
Telecom – apologizing unreservedly – and confirming the team would be withdrawing from any further sponsorship negotiations with the Chinese company.

Straker felt the news of this badly.

Having deduced Van Der Vaal's motivations from the press cuttings – that the Massarella boss sought to remove Ptarmigan as a threat to his ambitions of being the commercial Big Dog of Formula One – Quartano's withdrawal meant that Van Der Vaal had succeeded in exactly what he had set out to do all along: to sabotage or even destroy Ptarmigan's commercial standing and reputation – simply through unsubstantiated insinuation.

In not being able to stop it, Straker took this as a failure in his own assignment. His disappointment was severe.

What crushed his soul was the injustice of it all – that Van Der Vaal had got away with this using such twisted assertions, such despicable tactics – and, worst of all, by lying.

Straker felt his mood turn dark. His mental recovery was stalling. From somewhere deep, though, another emotion grew. Anger.

If only he could find a way to harness it.