Treadwell watched the CCTV screens showing the crash scene at Tabac. Two marshals, leaning over the Armco, were clearly checking for debris on the circuit as cars continued to hurtle past. Arms and fingers were being pointed at the middle of the track. One of them was speaking animatedly into a radio.
A camera zoomed in on the surface of the road.
It was clear that there was oil among the razor-sharp splinters of carbon fibre scattered across the road.
The team made its decision.
‘Remy, Remy…’ said Backhouse over the air, ‘Boccrrgghh…’ but the saboteur returned — jamming the radio — obliterating the message with white noise. There was total mush over the air — the message was completely blanked out.
This was critical. A spontaneous adjustment to race tactics was going to be thwarted if they couldn’t co-ordinate things right now over the radio.
Another message was transmitted by the Ptarmigan pit wall. At precisely the same moment the jammer blasted them again with crackle. Sabatino’s radio could be heard in reply. But only as static.
The CCTV showed more commotion at the trackside down by Tabac.
The Race Director wasted no time. The safety car was ordered to deploy.
Very soon the field started to slow down. The cars all began to bunch up. The crocodile started to form.
The pit lane was closed for stops.
Straker, though, heaved a massive sigh of relief. Despite the jamming, Sabatino had got the message — and had pulled in to pit. Ptarmigan had just pulled off a stunningly opportunistic stop and had got her back out — just in time. Straker’s insurance policy had proved inspired.
Advising the team to fit second radios and setting the original radios to transmit only, meant the driver and pit wall were not hearing any of the white noise. Straker may have been. But the critical discussion about tactics and the call to “Box” had proceeded without interference — all conducted over the second radio net on a completely separate frequency.
Despite the enthralling drama on the track, and over the air, Straker had to pull himself away. He now had work to do.
Looking down at his screen, he saw that three of his dishes had actively vectored the saboteur’s jamming transmission and plotted the direction of their signal.
He had a multiple fix.
Triangulation.
Straker had got him.
TWELVE
This 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.