Straker frowned. ‘Where, then, do you reckon we are most vulnerable to interference?’
‘If these saboteurs have someone on the inside, Matt, it could be anywhere. I wouldn’t know where to begin.’
Straker was surprised by such resignation. He hadn’t expected Backhouse to be quite so fatalistic. ‘What about external interference, then?’
‘We have a number of external suppliers — not many — who we accredit at the factory visit by visit. There, though, I think the opportunities are more limited — as the risks are enormous. If the saboteurs are connected with another team, and they got caught, the fines they’d suffer from the FIA would pretty much put them out of business. So if it is another team, they have got to be extraordinarily careful, clever and discreet.’
‘I think we need to face up to this being a very real and devious threat.’
Backhouse almost shrugged. ‘What do you want from us then?’
‘Enhanced awareness,’ replied Straker. ‘You have good security in the factory, which seemed to work well as we walked around this morning. We need everyone to stick to your existing rules, to the letter; it might be an inconvenience, but that will make it harder for any rogue insider. Also, at races, let’s cut out all visits to the pits for non-team members. Let’s set up our own internal checks into and out of our garage in the pit lane.’
Backhouse raised his eyebrows. ‘You do realize there’s an incompatibility between the spontaneity of a tactical racing team and the rigid processes of a security system.’
‘Look what happened to Helli. Do we really want to take any chance with machines that go this fast? It’s not just the lives of our drivers. It could be the crowds around the track. Next time the saboteurs strike, they could actually kill people.’
‘Of course I understand that,’ said Backhouse testily.
‘So we’ll tighten everything up?’
The race engineer nodded unenthusiastically. ‘So what are you doing — about all this?’ he said with just a hint of a challenge.
Ignoring Backhouse’s frustrated tone, he said: ‘Sabotage research. I want to learn more from the bug, which I’m hoping will tell us something. I also want us to go over what’s left of Helli’s car — to convince ourselves that his crash wasn’t caused by anything sinister.’
Backhouse took another bite of his sandwich. ‘The Monaco kit should be here by lunchtime tomorrow. We can examine the bug and begin the crash investigation then.’
‘Okay.’ Straker went on: ‘In the meantime, I want to chase down every lead — particularly Michael Lyons. How far are we from Gaydon?’
‘Ten or so miles.’
Straker looked at his watch. ‘In that case I’d like to borrow two things?’ Straker explained what he wanted to do. ‘The first, therefore, is a version of whatever system you use to track the cars round a circuit?’
‘A GPS tag. We can fix up some bits and pieces normally attached to an MES logger. What’s the other?’
‘A car?’
‘We’ve got Ptarmigan courtesy cars. You can have one of those.’
‘Are they liveried?’
‘Turquoise, brand name, the works.’
Straker smiled apologetically. ‘I’m looking for something inconspicuous — not flashy. Unmarked.’
‘Not really, then. You can take mine, if you like?’
‘What’ve you got?’
‘A six-year-old Ford Focus.’
‘Perfect.’
Later that afternoon, having spent some time with a Ptarmigan technician, Straker drove the nondescript Ford down the Edgehill escarpment, making his way to Gaydon. To his delight he saw four Aston Martins — being driven under trade plates — go by in the other direction.
He reached the edge of the village and started looking for the address elicited from the porter of that apartment block in Monte-Carlo.
A few minutes later Straker found himself driving down a very rural single-track road. Several hundred yards further along he saw a patch of mown verge and several white-painted stones marking the entrance to a driveway. “Flax Cottage” was painted, in an Old English typeface, on a plaque fixed to the gate.
Straker had reached his target.
Slowing to a walking pace, he crawled by — looking through the driveway to take in the small cottage, its thatched roof, neatly gravelled drive and wealth of colourful plants and flowers in the garden. There were no cars parked out front.
Straker found another house a few hundred yards further on, meaning that Lyons’s home was isolated and fairly private.
Turning round, but hanging some way back from Flax Cottage — on a bend in the road — Straker pulled up onto the verge and positioned himself to have a partial view back along the lane towards Michael Lyons’s driveway. This spot would allow him discreetly to observe anyone who came or went. He looked at his watch. It was nearing five-thirty in the afternoon.
So now he was sitting there, watching the house that he believed belonged to the Monte-Carlo saboteur. This address was all he had to go on to trace the people trying to do Ptarmigan harm. Straker had to smile to himself. How could this sleepy single-track road, and the modesty of this quintessentially English cottage, be so directly linked to the glamour, pace and wealth of the global Formula One industry? But it was — through an unknown I.T. specialist from Gaydon in Warwickshire.
Who was Michael Lyons? Who did he work for? And why the hell had he been trying to sabotage Remy Sabatino in Monaco?
Straker settled back in to his seat and waited for him to appear down this lonely country lane.
NINETEEN
It wasn’t until seven o’clock that evening that anything happened. A Peugeot hatchback appeared, coming down the road towards him.
Straker sat up.
The car indicated left and shortly afterwards pulled in through the gate of Flax Cottage. Was this Michael Lyons returning home?
The evening was still bright, although with the cloud thickening to the west, the sun was long obscured and the light levels were fading fast.
Wanting to take a closer look, Straker climbed out of his car and walked along the lane towards Flax Cottage. He reached the gate and cautiously peered into the driveway. The small Peugeot was parked out on the gravel. Lights had come on in the house. Each window, Straker saw, had a curtain drawn across it. The occupant had clearly withdrawn for the day.
Straker walked in through the gate. Ghost-walking across the gravel — careful not to make a noise — he reached the back of the Peugeot. Bending down, he slipped a small magnetic container — the tag — up under the rear spoiler. But as he stood up, twisting slightly, his shoe made a crunching noise on the gravel.
Immediately a dog started barking from behind Michael Lyons’s front door.
Straker froze.
He held his breath.
It kept barking.
For several minutes.
Would the dog never relent? Straker daren’t make any more noise, in case of further alerting the dog. If he was quiet, surely the owner would dismiss the commotion from the animal as a false alarm. Straker remained crouching down, out of the sight of the windows, directly behind the car. He seemed to be there, motionless, for an age. The barking continued, but at last he heard a raised voice from the inside, shouting the dog down.
Finally, it shut up.
Straker, still in a crouch, slipped off his shoes. Easing himself up to full height again, he ghost-walked in his socks across the uncomfortable gravel to the grass beside the driveway. He made for the gate post. Nipping round the corner, he made it onto the verge, walked briskly to the end of the mown strip, put his shoes back on, and sauntered away slowly, back to his car.