At the end of the account, Bo San Marino looked at the photograph of Michel Lyons and sat back in his chair. The distinguished face — which had appeared so contented only fifteen minutes before — now looked decidedly troubled.
‘Gentlemen, thank you for bringing this to my attention. I’m grateful to know what you’ve told me. Races, championships even — on which tens of millions of dollars ride — are won or lost by fractions of seconds. This jamming could quite clearly have had a material influence on the outcome of the race. If a team is involved in this, and is found guilty, they will face the most severe sanctions.
‘However,’ San Marino went on, ‘as you have had the grace to state yourselves, this,’ he said with a wave of his hand at Straker’s material, ‘while very impressive is not conclusive. You don’t know who’s behind this. There’s not enough, now, for me to act on.’
Both men nodded. ‘That’s agreed, Bo,’ answered Quartano calmly. ‘We were just anxious that you be aware of what’s going on.’
‘Thank you. Can I urge you, at this stage, to be extra vigilant and make sure, for all our sakes, that nothing happens in Spa? You must let me know, immediately, if you detect any further sabotage attempts, or anything intended to thwart Ptarmigan’s or Remy’s performance.’
FIFTEEN
Straker rejoined the senior Ptarmigan officials on the quarterdeck of Quartano’s yacht where, in the peachy light of the evening Mediterranean sun, the celebrations were ongoing. A television crew from a major international channel was granted permission to film an in-depth interview with Sabatino on board. As part of the arrangement, Quartano persuaded the producer to include an interview with Dr Chen — so as to offer a perspective on this unprecedented sporting win from a different culture. That it happened to demonstrate the platform Ptarmigan was in a position to offer the CEO of Mandarin Telecom to broadcast to the English-speaking world at the same time was, of course, entirely incidental.
Straker, armed with a fresh glass of champagne, found his way onto the more-secluded upper deck where the interview with Sabatino was taking place. The Mediterranean, the harbour, marina, and hillsides of Monaco provided a luxurious and exotic backdrop. He watched Sabatino — under the lights and surrounded by paraphernalia and numerous technicians — conduct herself with characteristic flair and media savvy.
When it ended, and she emerged from the semicircular cluster of television equipment, Straker was surprised that she made straight for him. ‘How did it go with San Marino?’
‘As well as we might have hoped, I think. He’s appalled, and completely onside. But, as we suspected, we haven’t got enough for him to act on.’
Sabatino paused and looked up into Straker’s eyes. ‘Listen, I meant what I said earlier,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know what you had been getting up to. But what you did helped directly with my win today. Without it, I would have lost radio contact — completely — at the critical moment of the safety car. It would have been catastrophic,’ and, with that, she raised her glass in apologetic concession. ‘I would not have won. I would not — we would not — now be leading both Championships.’
Straker said nothing but very gently chinked her glass and smiled in acknowledgment of her surprising change of heart.
‘I’m afraid,’ she said more dismissively than apologetically, ‘that I thought you were yet another one of those good-looking bullshitters, you see — trying desperately to make a role for themselves around here. Believe me, there are plenty of them in Formula One. Now, though — seeing your skills in action — I get why DQ rates you so highly. He says you were quite a soldier.’
Straker looked uncomfortable. ‘Hey, this is your day and evening. We should be talking exclusively about you. How many more interviews like that have you got?’ he said jerking his thumb in the direction of the cameras.
‘One more, for the Yanks. Americans don’t get Formula One — probably because they didn’t invent it. My win seems to have caused quite a stir over there, though, so it ought to be good for me commercially. Good enough, at any rate, to buy you dinner. You hungry?’
Straker found himself again taken by surprise. From Sabatino’s initial resistance to his counter-espionage measures, to the surprising change of tone as she learnt of his success in identifying the jammer, to her acknowledgment of his helping her win, to this invitation to dinner, Straker was learning to be never quite sure what was coming next with her.
‘Famished,’ he said. ‘Are you serious? I mean — on this evening, of all evenings? Haven’t you got princes and moguls to schmooze?’
Her smile fell before she added: ‘Yeah, probably — but you helped me win today. You’re going to keep me safe, aren’t you? I’m the Championship leader, now, and I want to hear how you’re going to get rid of this bastard saboteur before Spa.’
After her interview on US television, Sabatino and Straker went ashore in the increasingly orange glow of the setting sun. They walked along the pontoons in the harbour, leaving the celebrations aboard the Melita still in full swing. Street lamps and lights in shop-fronts were starting to come on along the waterfront. She led him straight to her chosen restaurant, Miguel’s in Rue de Grimaldi, which was not what he expected at all. No Michelin star chef, no glitz, no glamour and no one in the place he would recognize. Miguel’s was a small family-run affair with elegant décor, gentle lighting, white tablecloths and simple table-top decorations. On first seeing the place, Straker wondered whether Sabatino might have brought him here because she didn’t want to be seen with him in public. After her win today, she was definitely media worthy. Any companion would likely prompt all kinds of press interest and speculation.
‘I love this place,’ she declared with such genuineness as she sat in the chair held for her by the maître d’.
‘Mademoiselle Sabatino. A pleasure to see you again. And many congratulations.’
She nodded her thanks and smiled warmly. ‘I’ve been coming here since my GP2 days,’ she explained.
‘No Monte-Carlo razzmatazz, then? I would’ve thought you’d be hanging out with all the F1 boys?’
The maitre d’ unfurled her napkin and laid it gracefully across her lap.
She smiled coyly. ‘That’s the thing, though, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘Boys. F1 is a lot of boys. Boys and their toys — and the size of their penises.’
Straker gave a reactive laugh. ‘What?’
‘Formula One is so testosterone-laden. Ridiculously competitive. Even socially, you can’t talk about anything — say anything — without someone trying to top it or turn it into a competition. Every story gets trumped. Every claim gets wilder. Every drink gets bigger — and more of a test.’
Straker frowned. ‘Isn’t that just the way they are?’
‘Probably,’ she said with an unconvinced shrug. ‘Except I can’t help feeling it’s because I’m a woman.’
‘There are loads of women around these people, aren’t there — wives, girlfriends?’
‘There are, but they all seemed resigned to being spectators. More hangers-on or fawning groupies. They don’t seem to be competed with.’
‘You’re different?’
‘I’m supposed to be on their level.’
‘A threat, then?’
‘Shouldn’t be. No more than anyone else around those tables and bars, at any rate. I sense a woman doing their thing unnerves them, though. Makes them insecure. Somehow diminishes their masculinity.’