And the deal to be done — here — was a game changer.
Its significance was energizing Quartano’s bearing — his presence — giving him an aura. Wearing a beautifully cut blue blazer, open-necked pink shirt, white chinos and handmade loafers, his lived-in Mediterranean face radiated conviction and command. Quartano switched his attention to the car’s telemetry on the iPad he was holding. ‘Up point-three in sector one,’ his rounded baritone announced to those around him.
Straker, following the streak of brilliant turquoise, caught glimpses of the Grand Prix car between the rows of yachts as it flashed — right to left — down the slope from the tunnel along the harbour wall. The engine note rose and fell rapidly several times as the car decelerated hard before it flicked between the raised kerbs of the Chicane. Immediately, power was laid down again — in a rising scream — as it hurtled on along the waterfront towards Tabac. Straker didn’t just hear the noise — he felt it. His entire frame seemed to resonate with the sound.
He, too, switched his attention from the car to Quartano’s screen. An on-board camera — mounted above Sabatino’s helmet — showed the road ahead. At death-defying speed, the car was hurtling down the impossibly narrow track between the steel barriers, through the sharp turns around the Swimming Pool complex, juddering sharply over the apex of each corner as the driver clipped the red and white kerbstones, before powering on towards the sharp right-hander of La Rascasse. Overlaying the TV image were columns of data from the car’s telemetry, relayed from the team’s computers in the pit lane; at that moment, they all showed the car to be running well, comfortably within limits.
A matter of a few seconds later the Ptarmigan had completed the lap, crossing the line.
There was excitement all around.
In practice, at least, the car was performing as competitively on the Monte-Carlo street circuit as it had on the very different track in Bahrain a fortnight earlier. During the intervening two weeks, the four hundred-man Ptarmigan team had clearly worked effectively on this very different set-up. So far, their car was fast. Blisteringly fast.
The lined, rugged face of the hard-to-impress Dominic Quartano, the team owner, said it all. Running a hand through his silver hair, his expression exuded a mix of vindication and potential triumph. Ptarmigan had just gone fastest by four tenths of a second.
That promised exciting things for his prospective deal — and for the Monaco Grand Prix in three days’ time.
TWO
A few minutes later a figure approached the Melita, walking along the marina pontoon. Recognized by the burly security man standing guard on the quayside, the new arrival was readily invited aboard. He was soon walking purposefully across the gangplank, and up onto the yacht’s quarterdeck.
‘Ah, Tahm, could I have a quick word?’ said Quartano, holding out an arm behind the visitor to show him into the art deco saloon.
Tahm Nazar, Team Principal of Ptarmigan Formula One, was in his late fifties, but seemed completely unlike the typically determined-looking F1 team boss. More the appearance of a professor, he had a near-white moustache and wispy flyaway hair, both of which contrasted with his mahogany-toned skin.
The two men enjoyed their car’s performance for a few moments.
‘Tahm,’ said Quartano after offering Nazar a drink from the steward. ‘I’m sorry for our loss of Charlotte Grant.’
‘Very sad.’
‘Not for public consumption, but she proved to be a right pain in the arse.’
Nazar looked a little surprised at the tycoon’s unexpected vocabulary.
Quartano nodded his confirmation. ‘We discovered that she had been leaking Quartech blueprints for a state-of-the-art rifle to a rival company; at the same time she was trying to sabotage a defence contract we were negotiating in the Middle East — which nearly cost us billions.’
Nazar took a sip of his drink. ‘You’d never have thought it possible.’
‘No one’s more shocked — and let down — than I. But I am concerned, Tahm. Charlie was doing a lot of sensitive stuff for you — intelligence gathering on the other teams. Just to be on the safe side, I need to be sure she wasn’t doing Ptarmigan any harm.’
Nazar looked unconvinced. ‘Are you sure you want to go to that much trouble and expense?’
Quartano looked at his watch. ‘I’ll know for certain in just over an hour — after our meeting with Mandarin Telecom. Putting that opportunity at risk — because we weren’t prepared to be vigilant — would be insanity. I’m assigning you one of my best people, Matt Straker … I’ll introduce him to you in a moment.’
‘From Charlie’s team?’
‘Competition Intelligence and Security, yes.’
‘An industrial spy, then?’
‘My eyes and ears on our markets and competition.’
‘And you rate him?’
‘Completely. He has one hell of a CV. Colonel in the Royal Marines until a couple of months ago. Quite a guy. Afghanistan, DSO, several tours with Special Forces. He was the one who saved the Buhran deal — and his investigation flushed out Charlie as the traitor. I want him to be your eyes and ears until we’re absolutely sure Charlotte Grant didn’t leave Ptarmigan any nasty legacies.’
‘Okay, Dom.’
‘Make sure you only introduce him around the team as a research resource, though — helping you to keep an outward-looking eye on other teams’ developments and innovations, etc. For morale reasons, best not to mention our internal suspicions.’
Nazar nodded his agreement.
‘Good man. Come and meet him now — we’ve a few minutes before the Mandarin Telecom directors arrive.’
Quartano led Nazar out of the saloon back onto the quarterdeck, walked him over, and introduced Matt Straker.
‘Welcome to Ptarmigan,’ said Nazar, shaking hands.
Straker was in his mid-thirties, six two, medium-to-slim build, with wiry dark hair and eyebrows. Nazar, taking in his face, thought it strong and intense — an intensity reinforced by the bridge of Straker’s nose, which seemed to run in a straight line — almost vertically from his forehead to its tip: Nazar was put in mind of the warrior-on-a-Greek-urn kind of profile. From Quartano’s description of him, at least, the warrior association seemed right enough.
That was all until Straker smiled.
At that point his face lost all its edge and intensity — radiating warmth and a genuine readiness to engage.
‘Thank you,’ said Straker. ‘Given our concerns about what Charlotte might have done here, I hope I end up doing absolutely nothing for you — whatsoever.’
Nazar smiled warmly, moved by the younger man’s modesty.
A Quartech aide appeared from the saloon and politely attracted Quartano’s attention. ‘Sir, the directors from Mandarin Telecom are here.’
The boss nodded and, drawing his team forwards with a series of inclusive hand gestures, bade them all make for the stern of the yacht.
Quartano took a moment.
He inhaled more deeply, his nostrils flaring slightly:
This was it.
This was the meeting.
Several Chinese businessmen were walking somewhat tentatively across the gangway. ‘Dr Chen, thank you for coming,’ said Quartano, with an authentic air of welcome.