The noise of the Grand Prix continued to reverberate through the air.
From across the road, Straker watched the newsagent approach the apartment block and ring the bell several times before getting any response. From what Straker could see, he was soon engaged in a fairly protracted discussion over the intercom, with the florist leaning in close to the loudspeaker grille. Finally, it seemed, the temporary occupant of Madame Larochelle’s apartment had relented and was ready to receive the delivery.
A few minutes later the front door was opened. Straker waited to confirm that it was the person who had come down to collect the flowers rather than someone else who just happened to be leaving the building, and then took several photographs of the recipient. The telephoto lens pulled him in nice and close. He didn’t know what to think. The man was in his forties, balding, slightly overweight and dressed in casual clothes. Did he look like a saboteur? Was this really their jammer?
As the door was closed on the delivered flowers, and the newsagent turned to leave, Straker walked down the pavement on his side of the road to meet him as he crossed over.
‘Here you are, monsieur,’ said the newsagent handing him the receipt. ‘He is Monsieur Michel Lyons, and that’s his signature.’
THIRTEEN
Straker, with his freshly-garnered intelligence, sprinted back to the Ptarmigan motor home in the paddock. Having missed all the goings-on in the race since the deployment of the safety car, he was anxious to be briefed by Oliver Treadwell, Ptarmigan’s Strategy Director, who was supervizing the bank of team members monitoring the race.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked.
‘You’ve missed some drama,’ Treadwell said. ‘Remy was in the Swimming Pool section when the safety car was called, so she hadn’t crossed the start line. That meant Backhouse could call her in for a pit stop immediately. We got her in and out again, with a new set of boots, in just over nine seconds. Then Race Control closed the pits. Remy emerged from the pit lane as the field was backing up behind the safety car. She was obliged to pass it, circle round and form up at the back.’
‘Hell, what place did that drop her down to?’
‘Nineteenth.’
‘Shit!’
‘But no one else on a two-stopper had been able to pit by then. Our timing was immaculate.’
‘How many laps under the safety car?’
‘Six.’
Straker whistled. ‘Any blow-ups?’
‘Only the Championship leader.’
‘Paddy Aston?’
‘Overheated on lap twenty-one.’
‘What then?’
‘By lap twenty-three, the marshals had cleared the oil and shards of carbon fibre off the track. Race Control opened the pits and called in the safety car. There was mayhem over the next few laps, as everyone tried to pit before they ran out of fuel. Two cars even bumped in the entrance to the pit lane.’
‘Where was Remy when they started racing again?’
‘Twelfth, but because of the backing-up behind the safety car, there was less than eight seconds between her and Simi Luciano. Apart from him — on his three-stop strategy — everyone between the two of them had to pit as soon as possible.’
‘What a bummer I missed all this.’
‘Three laps later, everyone had made their first stop, putting Remy right up behind Simi.’
‘In second?’
‘Yep.’
‘When did Luciano pit again?’
‘Lap thirty-five.’
‘And what kind of lead had he built up?’
‘Being lighter, of course, he should’ve run away with it, but Remy was able to stay in touch. Eight seconds was all he could manage. The moment he was in, Remy had the road to herself — with lots of clear air — and off she romped.’
‘Where did Luciano feed back in?’
‘Best he could do was seventh.’
‘And the order now?’
‘Remy, Ferrari, Red Bull, Mercedes, Simi.’
Straker’s face broke into a broad smile. ‘How many more laps to go?’
‘Ten.’
‘Stops?’
‘All done. Provided we don’t pick up any residual splinters from Barrantes’s car, we’re looking good. Remy’s running A-Okay. Anyway,’ he said in hushed tones, ‘how did you get on? Did you get anywhere?’
Straker nodded.
‘You did?’ To be discreet, Treadwell moved over to Straker’s console. ‘Any idea who’s doing this?’
Straker nodded again.
‘You got names?’ he asked with impressed enthusiasm. ‘Who?’
Straker whispered, ‘Michel Lyons?’
Treadwell looked blank.
‘You don’t know him?’ said Straker sounding a little disappointed.
‘Nope.’
‘Perhaps you’ll recognize him,’ answered Straker as he leant down to connect his camera to one of the computer’s USB ports. Straker soon put the face of Michel Lyons on the screen. ‘Do you know him?’
The Strategy Director shook his head. ‘Afraid not.’
‘He’s taken an apartment on the top floor of 25 Rue des Princes for the week of the race, which was the source of the signal jamming Remy’s radio.’
Treadwell suggested, ‘He could be attached to one of the teams, or be a freelance brought in from outside to do the dirty work?’
Lap seventy-seven, with only one to go.
Straker, still in the headquarters truck, was listening out on the radio, watching the race on one of the screens in front of him.
Desperate to spot any further sabotage interference, he called up the on-board shot from the camera above Sabatino’s helmet.
She was crossing the start line. They all hoped she would be crossing it again in one minute and fifteen seconds — for the last time.
She reached one hundred and sixty miles an hour down the start/finish straight, before decelerating hard into Turn One. She glanced down at the lights on the steering wheel, willing the car to stay normal and reliable for just one more lap. Everything seemed to be operating within limits. Three laps earlier she had leaned off the fuel mix.
Her closest rival, in one of the Ferraris, was seven seconds down the road behind her.
The Championship leader, Paddy Aston, was out and going to score no points to her prospective ten. She was trying desperately not to think about it, trying to shut the significance of this afternoon out of her mind. But it wasn’t easy.
She was on the verge of winning here in Monaco — the ultimate race in Formula One — and being the first woman to do so. Not only that, she was about to go six points clear at the top of the Drivers’ Championship.
Sabatino forced herself to disregard these thoughts. Don’t blow it for a moment’s lack of concentration, she screamed to herself.
Backhouse came up on the air. ‘All’s good, Remy. Just bring it home.’
Straker smiled as the jammer blocked out her message on her original radio frequency. Thankfully, the second radio was still clear and unaffected.
Sabatino went through Portier, Turn Eight, reaching the waterfront. Heading under the tunnel, the race track was plunged into darkness. Seconds later, she appeared into the harbour and was bathed again in the glorious afternoon sun.
And that’s when it started.
It was completely unexpected.
She felt it first, she could feel the noise.
Even over the engine, even through her helmet. She could hear the crowds. They were roaring.
Sabatino couldn’t believe it. They were cheering her home.
Flicking through the Chicane, she powered on, down towards the narrow Tabac where Barrantes had earlier come to grief in the Armco. Once round there, the scene was quite extraordinary. Everyone in the stands — bang next to the track on either side — was on their feet. The circuit felt even more overhung than ever. Banners flew. Flags were waved above a sea of waving people. Air-horns blared. The Monégasque crowd was cheering the winner. They were saluting the winner of their race. Whoever won their race deserved to be saluted. But being a woman — the first woman — seemed to have captured the crowd’s emotion even more than usual.