Sensing a tone of mischief, he asked, with exaggerated hesitancy: ‘Reaction to what?’
‘The mention of Charlie Grant?’
Straker immediately looked down, somewhere towards his napkin.
‘There’s a personal history there, no?’
Straker dabbed his mouth.
‘It wouldn’t surprise me if there was,’ she said with a verbal shrug in her voice. ‘She was stunning to look at. All the men clustered round her like bees to honey. She knew how to work people; she had everyone eating out of her trousers.’
‘Charlie was a menace,’ Straker said, leaning back in his chair and looking Sabatino in the eye. ‘For various reasons, she was out to do Quartech — and Quartano, personally — serious harm.’
Sabatino, struck by Straker’s expression and tone of voice, was clearly keen to probe further: ‘How?’
Straker reached again for his drink and took a long sip. ‘By leaking company — and potentially national — secrets to a foreign rival. Because of that, Quartano’s convinced she’s behind this sabotage of you, your car — maybe even Helli’s car — and the race.’
Sabatino looked genuinely surprised. ‘How did she die then? I get the feeling it wasn’t anything to do with a road accident?’
Straker shook his head. He paused. ‘She died in Buhran.’
‘Really?’ said Sabatino, indicating that she believed there was a lot more to all this.
Straker shrugged before taking another sip of his drink.
‘How close to her death were you then?’ asked Sabatino, with a strange hint of bloodlust in her voice.
Straker put down his glass and looked her straight in the eye. ‘Too close,’ he said. ‘Now,’ with a clear edge to his voice, ‘can we change the subject, please?’
This time, it was Sabatino’s turn to be taken aback — by the sharpness of his tone. She backed off immediately.
SIXTEEN
The Formula One circus was on the move. Being a double-header, most of the artics and motor homes were making straight for the Ardennes to set up for the Belgian Grand Prix the following weekend.
Quartano, accompanied by Sabatino, flew the Mandarin directors out of Monte-Carlo to Mandelieu Airport by helicopter. After seeing them off from there, Remy flew in her private jet to Malta for a few days, to celebrate her win. Straker made his own way to the Nice airport by road, using the time to consider events and refocus on his task. He found himself motivated by something new. For all the pressures Sabatino had to put up with — technical, racing, physical, performance and media — he was troubled by how personally she was now taking the attempt to sabotage her.
Looking out of the window, as the taxi snaked its way through the rocky scenery of the Côte d’Azur in the early Riviera sun, he returned his mind to what he had by way of leads. Two things. One, a piece of physical evidence — the bug found in Sabatino’s helmet; while the second was a name: Monsieur Michel Lyons — the temporary tenant of Apartment 5 at 25 Rue des Princes. What more could he learn about these? And how could either help him?
Straker had an idea. Pulling his mobile from his pocket he scrolled through his contacts directory and retrieved the telephone number for the porter of the block of flats. He asked himself: When would Michel Lyons be leaving Monte-Carlo? Taking a punt, he gave the number a ring.
‘Could I speak to Michel Lyons, in number 5, please?’
‘Non,’ said the aged porter.
‘Has he gone out?’
‘Non. He has left.’
Excellent, thought Straker, exactly as he hoped. ‘That’s a nuisance,’ he said. ‘I have an important package for him. Do you have an address I could send it on to?’ Straker asked.
There was a grunt from down the line.
‘Please, monsieur, this is very important.’
‘Attendez,’ growled the porter.
Straker heard the receiver hit something hard and then the man’s raised voice echoing in the background. He breathed deeply, hoping he would get lucky and be able to keep this lead alive. After several minutes of uncertainty, the aged porter came back on the line and, although sounding disappointed, he said: ‘I have a home address.’
‘Merci, merci.’
‘Monsieur Michael Lyons, Flax Cottage…’
Straker’s mind was already racing.
‘…Prince Rupert Lane, Gaydon, Warwickshire, Royaume-Uni.’
Straker shook his head as he jotted down the details. ‘Pardonnez-moi,’ he said as apologetically as he could. ‘Did you say Michael, as M — I–C — H — A — E — L?’
‘Oui!’
‘Monsieur, merci bien. Thank you very much. I’ll send the parcel on to him at home.’
Straker ended the call and smiled in satisfaction. ‘Odder and odder,’ he said to himself as he mulled this new information. Dialling his office number in Quartech International’s London headquarters, he spoke to Karen, his department’s research assistant. He could picture her in their office on the ninth floor of Cavendish Square, with its stunning views out over the capital through its floor-to-ceiling, plate-glass windows. He asked the quiet but superbly meticulous Karen to research Michael Lyons, of Gaydon — particularly in respect of any connection he might have with motor racing.
With this additional unexpected piece of the jigsaw puzzle, Straker considered his other potential lead. The physical evidence they had in the form of the jamming device found in Sabatino’s helmet. What could they learn from that, if anything?
Picking up his phone again, Straker rang Andy Backhouse, who had flown out on the red-eye that morning and whom he expected to be back on the ground in England by now.
‘Come up to the factory as soon as you like,’ said Backhouse keenly.
‘How about later today? I want to tackle this scumbag saboteur as soon as possible.’
‘Sure. I’ll be at Shenington within the hour. I’ll be there till whenever.’
‘Great. I’m due to land at Heathrow with DQ around lunchtime.’
‘I’ll send a car to meet you. See you this afternoon.’
Straker arrived at Nice airport, and, this being the wealthy Riviera, was processed airside through the large part of the Mandelieu complex devoted to private aircraft. With barely any delay, he was soon driven out across the apron to the steps of the waiting Quartech Falcon. It proudly boasted the company’s logo on the tail fin: a crimson Maltese Cross within the circular part of a black letter Q — and the company motto, “Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum”, underneath.
Quartano was already on board. The moment Straker appeared the doors were shut, the engines whined into life, and the plane sought clearance for take-off from the tower.
‘I’ve just seen Dr Chen and his colleagues board their plane,’ reported Quartano, spreading a linen napkin across his lap. ‘Mandarin Telecom could not be more engaged, despite the horrors of poor Helli’s crash. Remy’s win seems to have sealed the deal. We’ve clearly exceeded their expectations from a marketing point of view. Hardly surprising. The press and media coverage from the weekend — around the first female winner of a Grand Prix, let alone Monaco — has been astonishing. We’ve agreed to sign a Memorandum of Understanding within two weeks, and the full contract in Shanghai at the Chinese Grand Prix. Mandarin have already offered to introduce Quartech to Chinese government — Ministry of National Defense — officials, no less. Priceless,’ he said with a broad triumphant smile. ‘Thank heavens for Formula One.’