He was glad to be going away again.
Just before leaving their flat, breathing deeply, he signed the letter, slid it back into its envelope and posted it in a postbox at the end of his street.
This time it was Belgium.
He flew to Liège, timing his arrival to coincide with Remy Sabatino’s flight in by private jet from Malta, she having asked for an update on his dealing with the sabotage threat. By the time they met up, Straker had just about forced himself to regain some equanimity.
They climbed aboard their chartered helicopter and flew in the Bell Jet Ranger up into the mountains of the Ardennes. Several silent minutes into the flight, Sabatino spoke to him over the intercom. ‘You okay?’ she asked provocatively.
Straker turned to face her. ‘Sure.’
‘You seem quiet?’
‘No, no,’ he said defensively, aware he was not being particularly convincing. ‘I was … thinking about the investigation.’
‘Right…’
Straker stepped straight back in before she could say anything else. ‘We’ve made some progress,’ he said.
‘With Helli’s car?’
Straker shook his head. ‘No, not yet — they’re still working on that. It’ll be a few more days before we’ll know any more there.’
‘What then?’
‘We’ve found some links with Michael Lyons — your radio jammer.’
Sabatino looked impressed. ‘Wow — with who?’
‘Trifecta Systems.’
‘No!’
‘We’re pretty sure Lyons works there.’
‘But they supply us, don’t they? Why would they be sabotaging us at the same time?’
Straker’s whole mood seemed to change with his subsequent smile.
Sabatino looked disapproving. ‘What’s so funny? How’s that funny?’
‘Don’t you see?’ he said searchingly. ‘That’s good news. It’s a lead — a clue. Precisely because it doesn’t make any sense.’
Sabatino looked blank.
‘It’s a clear invitation for us to look into this further,’ he explained. ‘If it did make sense, we wouldn’t bother with it — we wouldn’t give it a moment’s thought. We’d move straight on.’
Sabatino’s face registered a partial understanding of what Straker was getting at. ‘Who are the other links with, then?’
‘We’ve found a connection between Trifecta and Avel Obrenovich.’
‘No! How?’
‘Recently — very recently — Obrenovich became the majority shareholder in Trifecta.’
Sabatino looked impressed then somewhat concerned. ‘That’s more good detective work. Wow. Does that mean Massarella are behind this, then?’
‘We’ve got no proof of any direct interaction between any of these people,’ Straker went on. ‘Elsewhere, we do have a different connection — this time one between Michael Lyons and Benbecular — through a man who works for them called Jeremy Barnett.’
Sabatino shook her head to indicate no recognition.
‘At this stage, though, I can’t see any reason to believe that’s anything other than a routine relationship.’
Sabatino’s expression showed a mix of intrigue and anxiousness.
‘But,’ continued Straker calmly, ‘we do have one point of concern.’
Because of his tone, Sabatino looked at him intensely.
‘I know you didn’t approve of my putting the bug back in your helmet — after Qualifying in Monaco — to provide misinformation to the saboteurs?’
Sabatino nodded — and then shook her head, acknowledging that she now did.
‘Well, when your kit was returned to the factory, I asked Andy to have the device taken out and examined, hoping we might learn something from it. But when he went to look for it … the bug was gone.’
‘Fallen out?’
Straker shook his head. ‘No, we’re sure it was removed.’
‘Removed?’
‘We searched everything.’
Sabatino fell silent for a moment. ‘What does that mean?’ she asked. ‘Does it mean we do have a traitor — on the inside of the team?’
‘I’m afraid it appears that way,’ he said firmly.
Sabatino continued to look straight at Straker. Her dark brown eyes and tanned face suddenly looked less striking than they should have done. For all her brilliance as a driver, and her courage and toughness when racing wheel to wheel at breakneck speed, there was a glimmer of vulnerability. ‘What are you doing about it, then?’
Straker smiled inwardly at the change in her attitude — how she would have so readily dismissed this before as spy games, as she first did in Monaco. Having expected this question, and knowing he had to sound convincing to retain her trust, he said: ‘Several things,’ and explained them confidently, without losing eye contact.
‘And none of those will interfere with the workings of the team?’
‘Minimally.’
‘Who are you telling about this threat?’
Straker allowed himself to convey a little uncertainty at his point. ‘I wanted to talk to you about that. This is a sport and you’re the competitor. How would the guys around you react to the idea of a saboteur been in among them?’
Sabatino slowly rocked her head from side to side, as if weighing up the consequences.
‘It’s your call,’ he went on, ‘but making a big song and dance about it could just make people suspicious of each other — and so easily damage team spirit?’
Sabatino, far from looking vulnerable, now looked like she was ready to affect events rather than be prey to them. ‘Given the other measures you’ve described, I’m happier not to advertize the existence of the insider. How many people know about this as of now?’
‘That the bug was removed?’
She nodded.
‘Only Backhouse, Quartano, you and me.’
TWENTY-THREE
The helicopter flew in over the extensive forests of the Ardennes. Sabatino looked out of the window. After cogitating Straker’s news for a few minutes, she turned to face him — and smiled naturally. Then, moving her hand towards him, she laid it briefly on the clothed part of his sleeve, and said: ‘What you’ve done so far with the investigation is impressive. If you do as much here as you did for me in Monaco, I know I’ll be fine.’
Straker nodded his acknowledgment of her trust.
They began a sweeping banked turn. Straker was given a superb view of the magnificent Spa-Francorchamps race track spread out below. In contrast to Monaco, where the circuit was right in the thick of things, here the track was out in the wilds — in the middle of nowhere.
He could see the grey ribbon of road snaking its way through the dense dark green woodland as it rose and fell with the rolling topography of the mountains. The only vaguely similar aspect to Monaco was the short stretch of public highway that Spa — in this, its latest guise — incorporated into the circuit, complete with its everyday white lines and road markings.
‘How does this track compare with the others?’ asked Straker looking to lighten the conversation.
Sabatino’s brown eyes flashed from behind her black-rimmed glasses. ‘I’ve raced here only once, with a GP2 team, but it’s easily my favourite.’