Sabatino, still moving at considerable speed, weaved effortlessly through the kinked turns of the Swimming Pool complex and on along the harbour towards La Rascasse. She accelerated up the hill towards Turn Nineteen, Anthony Noghès, the last on the circuit.
Then the significance of her drive suddenly struck her.
Sabatino’s eyes welled up as she accelerated down the pit straight towards the line.
There it was.
The most prized sight in Formula One — the chequered flag of the Monaco Grand Prix.
And it was being waved in her honour.
She crossed the line.
She had won.
Tears flooded down her cheeks.
Straker was listening out on the radio. ‘Fantastic,’ he heard a choked-up Backhouse say over the air, the excitement broadening his Birmingham accent. ‘Well done, Remy. Well driven. Brilliant.’
Straker could hear the emotion from the hard-bitten race engineer.
‘Thank you, Andy,’ she replied, with a clear catch in her voice. ‘To you — and all the guys.’
Five minutes later Remy Sabatino brought her turquoise Ptarmigan to a stop in Parc Fermé, right in front of the Royal Box. As she killed the engine, the noise of the crowds hit her for real. There was jubilation — celebrating this unprecedented win.
She climbed out and stood up on the nose of her car before turning to face her team and punching the air with both hands. Everywhere around her the crowds were in raptures. Flags waved, banners swirled, air-horns sounded, and the cheers were deafening. Although she was still wearing her helmet and no one could see her face, her body language indicated that she was completely overcome.
Pulling off the elastic straps of the HANS device, she removed her helmet to a fusillade of camera shutters. She pulled off the balaclava to another rattle of shutters, giving the public and the world’s media the expression on the face of the first woman ever to win the most male of races, the Monaco Grand Prix.
They were not disappointed.
The scene had everything for a modern media story. High emotion, tears, a striking face, cheering crowds, and the radiance of someone delighting in the moment.
Sabatino’s mood was infectious. Photographers saw the euphoria as well as the significance of this story; working excitedly, they expected to see their images splashed across the front pages of the world’s newspapers the next morning.
Andy Backhouse broke through the cordon and rushed over to congratulate her, lifting her off the ground in a hug. She was overcome once again as they shared the moment together. Cameras zoomed in for a close-up.
A minute later Remy Sabatino, wearing a baseball cap with a sponsor’s name emblazoned across the front, walked up the short flight of red-carpeted steps into the Royal Box. His Serene Highness looked as pleased as she did. A court official gently indicated to Sabatino where she should stand as the Maltese national anthem started to play and the island’s flag rose up the middle — and winner’s — flag pole.
But Sabatino could hardly take any of it in.
The British national anthem then played, acknowledging the nationality of the winning constructor. As it finished, the crowds roared once more.
Sabatino was congratulated by the Prince who handed her the most prized trophy in Formula One. After receiving a few words of congratulation, she turned and held it aloft to show the crowd and the world’s television cameras; there was an even bigger crescendo of noise.
Sabatino soon swapped the trophy for a jeroboam of champagne, which almost dwarfed her. Taking a hesitant sip, because of the weight of the bottle, she soon broke off. The Ferrari and Red Bull drivers — second and third — were bearing down on her, spraying her with champagne.
Hundreds of camera shutters clicked.
Sabatino ducked. One image caught the moment.
In glorious sunshine, with a huge smile across her face, Remy Sabatino had hunched her shoulders, trying to prevent torrents of fizz going down the back of her neck.
In an instant, that image became one of the most iconic sporting pictures of all time.
FOURTEEN
With Sabatino’s win, the Ptarmigan Team was in a state of delirium. Corks popped in the headquarters truck as Straker and that contingent of the team were swept up in the moment. A win was always a win, and sparked celebrations. But Treadwell told Straker that this was very different. Remy’s win, here, meant a whole lot more.
She was now the leader of the Drivers’ Championship, six points clear of Paddy Aston — and, in the Constructors’ Championship, Ptarmigan had pushed five points past Massarella to lead it, too, for the first time.
Straker put his various intelligence material, a digital recorder, and other findings into a large envelope, on the outside chance that anyone would want to talk about them that day, and made to join the pilgrimage towards the pits.
However, as he walked along the Monte-Carlo waterfront, he soon realized he was to enjoy no time off. His mobile rang.
‘Matt?’
‘Mr Quartano,’ replied Straker. ‘Congratulations. What a phenomenal result.’
‘It certainly is. Come on board Melita when you’re free, will you? I hear you’ve found something.’
There was clearly going to be no rest for the ambitious.
Straker met up with Backhouse in the Ptarmigan garage. It was jam-packed with people from up and down the pit lane. Champagne was flowing and the buzz was extraordinary.
‘Congratulations, Andy,’ said Straker, bawling above the noise.
Backhouse, already several large gulps of champagne into his celebrations, was almost too overcome to speak.
The noise got louder as Sabatino appeared through the doors from the pit lane, having just finished her post-race TV interview. Straker watched as the victorious driver was enveloped by the Ptarmigan Team and other well-wishers.
Emerging a few minutes later, Sabatino walked over and gave Backhouse another hug, which lasted for several seconds. Then, turning to Straker, she held out her hand and gave his a perfunctory shake. ‘Not too much sabotage to worry about in the end, then,’ she said in an I-told-you-so kind of tone.
Straker just smiled and said, ‘Congratulations, Remy. What a great result.’
Not long afterwards, the celebrations were transferred to the quarterdeck of Quartano’s yacht, but Straker did not have long to enjoy them. He was approached by Tahm Nazar, the Ptarmigan Team Principaclass="underline" ‘Matt, DQ would like us to go through what you’ve got on the saboteur?’
‘Sure,’ he said putting his glass down and picking up the envelope he had left on one of the white leather benches.
He followed Nazar into the art deco saloon. Already inside were Quartano, Backhouse and Sabatino. One of the yacht’s white-tunicked stewards was laying out some food and drink. He was thanked and asked to shut the door behind him as he left.
They all moved to sit at the dining table.
‘What did you find?’ asked Quartano with no time given over to revelling in the win.
Straker opened his envelope. ‘Immediately after the Adi Barrantes crash,’ he said, ‘we were jammed. An attempt was made to sabotage our communications at a critical moment in the race.’