With all that in hand, Straker worked until daybreak — moving back and forth between the garage and the headquarters truck — to set up his own counter-espionage measures. The jamming device had been replaced in Sabatino’s helmet, and confirmed to be still serviceable. The same went for the team’s original radio circuitry. Now, though, Straker had advised for a second radio to be installed in both cars, but set on very different frequencies.
To establish the team’s other defences, a number of people were woken at godforsaken hours. Some of Quartech’s specialist military surveillance equipment, along with the necessary operating teams, was even flown out by chartered plane from England.
As all this was assembled and deployed, Straker was increasingly sure they were ready to fight back.
But he needed something more.
He felt he needed some bait.
Backhouse warned him, though, that this could be a difficult conversation.
EIGHT
‘What do you mean — you’ve put it back?’ snapped Sabatino. ‘How can it be as serious as you’re trying to make it out to be, if you’re not getting rid of it?’
Straker and Backhouse were meeting her, in private, first thing the next morning in the cabin of the motor home. ‘And what do you mean, you want some bait? I’ve got a car to drive — I don’t need the distraction of this sort of spy-game crap.’
Because of Backhouse’s advance warning, Straker was not fazed by her reaction. Speaking noticeably softly, he said: ‘Doing this is the only chance we’ve got of identifying the people who are trying to sabotage you.’
Sabatino shook her head. ‘You’ve made a massive leap from the crackle of a defective radio to sabotage. You might be ex-army, but don’t think there’s an enemy under every bush. I won’t be distracted by your need for self-justification.’
Straker smiled tolerantly and simply let the jibe pass. ‘The last thing I want is to cause you any distraction. All I need is one ploy — which I’ve discussed with Andy — and which, in any case, might only be needed when you’re coasting, and certainly not when you’re racing.’
Backhouse said nothing but looked at Sabatino. Very gently, he nodded, simultaneously indicating his assent and assurance.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Backhouse to Straker after the meeting broke up. ‘Drivers are notoriously focused people. They don’t like anything that can possibly distract them.’
Straker patted Backhouse on the shoulder, and went straight back to work.
By mid-morning, nifty negotiation had resulted in two rooftops in different parts of Monte-Carlo being rented, on which a number of direction-finding dishes were quickly erected and tuned to the activation frequency of the bug. Two more dishes were installed on the superstructure of Quartano’s yacht, out in the marina.
An hour before the start of Qualifying, Straker was checking his network of equipment. Sitting in the Intel area of the Ptarmigan headquarters truck, he was wearing a pair of headphones, with Sabatino’s radio net in one ear, and Helli Cunzer’s in the other. In front of him was a computer screen displaying the networked output from the dishes. This showed a wire diagram of the principality — outlines of the buildings in line-of-sight of the Grand Prix circuit, as well as all the boats berthed in the harbour.
Straker’s set-up meant that any transmission to activate the bug in Sabatino’s helmet ought to be picked up by one or more of his direction-finding receivers. Each detection would then be vectored and instantly shown as a line on his display. Where any two or more such lines triangulated — crossed — that would give him the location, to within a few square metres, of any signal trying to jam their radios. Straker would then be able to plot out, and print off that location on his wire diagram of Monte-Carlo.
At one o’clock that afternoon, Qualifying started.
Straker felt he was ready.
His trap was set.
NINE
Immediately after Qualifying started, there was a surprising lack of activity. For all the anticipation, it felt like an anticlimax. Few cars were in a hurry to get out, and only a handful were even out of their garages. Everyone seemed to be waiting to see what the others would do. This was not unexpected, though. Q1 was not the high-pressure session. For this first round of Qualifying, the drivers only needed to finish in the top sixteen.
Eight minutes in and the level of activity was a very different story. Most of the cars were then out on the track or ready to leave the pit lane. England’s Paddy Aston in one of the Lambourns, the current Championship leader on 44 points, set a challenging time. Simi Luciano from Italy, Massarella’s number one driver, soon went six tenths faster, while the Argentinean Adi Barrantes in the other Massarella was clearly struggling with a poor set-up. Straker, watching the main TV broadcast pictures, saw a fleeting shot from a camera zooming in for a close-up of team boss Eugene Van Der Vaal’s face. The Afrikaner was clearly not impressed by the way one of his cars was performing.
Midway into the qualifying session Remy Sabatino headed out onto the circuit. The air was warm and humid. She put on a burst of acceleration up through Beau Rivage to bring the car up to temperature, and felt content. Aerodynamically, the car was performing well. And by the time she rounded the corner at Mirabeau, she was reassured their adjustments of yesterday afternoon were mitigating the understeer. It hadn’t gone completely, though.
Straker switched his TV channel to the on-board camera above Sabatino’s helmet. As she coaxed the car round the out-lap, he saw her rolling her head gently, flexing her neck and relaxing her shoulders. The car accelerated and braked in rapid succession; he then saw Sabatino weave extra violently left and right through the Chicane — trying to work temperature into her tyres and brakes.
As Sabatino approached Tabac in the middle of the harbour complex, Backhouse’s voice came up over the radio: ‘You’ve got a window in thirty seconds. There’s traffic around Loews, but by the time you’re hot they’ll be long gone.’
Straker began to feel himself drawn into the live picture of the road ahead as Sabatino cranked up the pace around the Swimming Pool. Pulling up the hill after La Rascasse, she shot past a Ferrari and a Lambourn peeling off into the pits. Through Anthony Noghès, into the pit straight, she floored the throttle and let the Ptarmigan go.
Because of the suspected sabotage, Straker couldn’t help but feel apprehensive. He watched the TV picture even more closely, listening out intently over the radio for any kind of trouble.
The car was clearly on top of its game.
Sabatino went two tenths up in the first sector, four tenths up in the second and, even with a minor lift to pass a Red Bull around La Rascasse, still clocked up the fastest time of the weekend so far.
At the end of Q1 Sabatino was comfortably through to the next round; Helli Cunzer in the second Ptarmigan was also through, as were the two Lambourns and both Massarellas.
Straker sat back in his chair and squinted at the screen. This was not good.
Nothing. No sign of the saboteur. At all.
He stepped out of the motor home and, making sure he was not able to be overheard, telephoned Backhouse in the pit lane. ‘No sign, Andy, I’m afraid.’
‘That was only Q1, Matt. No one would expect our cars to fall out this early.’