‘Does it matter that you’ve not driven an F1 car round here before?’
‘Yes and no — mainly no. I’ve spent a good deal of time in the simulator. The main difference for me, this time, will be Eau Rouge.’
‘Eau Rouge?’
‘The section of any race track in the world. When you drive it in the slower cars, you’re not driving to the limit of the circuit — more to the limit of the cars. For me, this time, the test of nerve will be whether I lift off or not.’
Straker looked slightly puzzled.
‘Whether I go through the compression and the S-shaped corners at full throttle,’ she explained, ‘or whether I chicken out and lift off — lift off the accelerator.’
‘How fast will you be going through this Eau Rouge?’
‘With any luck,’ she said with a flash of a smile, ‘at just over two hundred miles an hour.’
Soon after the helicopter put down Straker and Sabatino made their way to accreditation and were issued with their passes. As they parted company, there was a moment between them — an acknowledgement of the threat from an unknown source. Straker didn’t want to be too upbeat and seem flippant, or too down, so as to be dispiriting. He ended up feeling pleased. He felt the overriding mood at their departure was one of stoicism.
Straker made straight for the pit lane, anxious to meet up with Backhouse and familiarize himself with the lie of the land.
The race engineer declared: ‘I’ve got you a meeting with Spa’s head of security just after lunch.’
‘Good work. That’ll help address our external threats. What happens, though, if we suffer another jamming signal?’
‘Without the transmitting device? Is that likely?’
‘Depends on whether that’s all the saboteurs had,’ replied Straker. ‘We only found that one by chance. It’s perfectly possible there’s something else in the mix that we’ve missed or don’t know about.’
Straker found the offices of the security manager behind the main grandstand. Maurice Beauregard was a middle-aged man with a paunch. But the man’s alert blue eyes suggested to Straker that they didn’t miss much.
Backhouse had done some useful homework and briefed Straker accordingly. Beauregard had been with the Brussels police for ten years, ending up responsible for close protection of key personnel at SHAPE. A gunshot wound, sustained while fending off an attempt on the life of the Turkish Ambassador to NATO, had brought Beauregard’s active service to an early close. His role at the Spa-Francorchamps circuit may have been a bit of a comedown in responsibility — and pay — by comparison, but, rather than be put out to grass, Beauregard preferred to keep active. Besides, it suited him spiritually as he was a fanatical motor racing fan.
Straker entered his office, shook hands, and asked whether he would mind if they held the meeting in private.
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ said Straker after shutting the door. ‘We have a problem and we’re keen to ask your advice. May I speak to you in the strictest confidence?’
Straker didn’t mind sounding a little melodramatic. At least it was working. Beauregard lowered himself into his chair, his eyes fixed intensely on Straker’s face. He had Beauregard’s attention all right.
‘In Monaco,’ Straker went on, ‘one of the radios we used to communicate with our drivers was jammed.’
‘Jamm-ed?’ repeated Beauregard. ‘What is jamm-ed?’
‘Blocked out by another signal. Deliberately interrupted.’
Beauregard looked unmoved.
Anticipating such scepticism, Straker had thought it wise to bring his recordings of the radio traffic in Monte-Carlo. He placed the digital recorder on Beauregard’s desk and pressed play.
Even before he had run it all the way through, Straker was in no doubt he had Beauregard onside.
‘We have removed the device that did this,’ continued Straker not wanting to complicate the issue further, ‘but we’re concerned, of course, that there might be others that we haven’t found.’
Beauregard looked suitably troubled hearing that his beloved sport might be sullied by this sort of thing. Hoping to reinforce the gravity of the situation, Straker said: ‘We’ve made a representation to the FIA about this.’
Beauregard was clearly affected. ‘This is terrible — but why are you telling me now?’
Straker, looking the security man straight in the eye, said: ‘We also lost a car in Monaco — crashing unexpectedly, completely without warning. We are not sure, yet, whether that crash was linked to this sabotage. But with cars and drivers travelling at such high speeds — even faster, here, of course — this is serious. We don’t want to put lives at risk, particularly your spectators.’
Straker ran his eye round the walls of Beauregard’s office and saw the photographs of the security man standing with racing drivers, celebrities, film stars, Belgium’s two famous Van Dam(me)s — José and Jean-Claude — and, in pride of place, was a picture of this former policeman standing with His Majesty Albert II, King of the Belgians. Straker added solemnly: ‘I’d hate for a disaster to occur at the Belgian Grand Prix.’
An hour later Straker came away with the commitment of a doubled security detail on the Ptarmigan Team, a beefed-up screen around their trucks in the paddock, and a cordon round the garage in the pit lane.
At three o’clock that afternoon Remy Sabatino took her Ptarmigan Formula One car out onto the circuit during the first day of practice.
Apprehensively, Straker sat in the headquarters truck as before, listening out on the team radio between Backhouse in the pit lane and the car. On the screen in front of him Straker watched Sabatino via the on-board camera positioned above her helmet.
Day one of practice came to a close, though, with no visible sign of anything untoward.
Technically, the day had gone extremely well for the team. The car was performing well, giving Sabatino an excellent feel with outstanding pace.
Day two began, and Sabatino went out for a further series of practice laps.
With a few minor tweaks to the rear wing, and a couple of adjustments to the brake balance, Sabatino was thrilled with the Ptarmigan’s performance. Everything about the set-up — hugely different from the one they had deployed in Monaco — was near perfect. The tyres were working well, getting quickly up to temperature. Aerodynamically, the Fibonacci Blades were making a material contribution through the slow corners without unduly damaging straight-line speed. All these elements came together, giving her a major confidence boost — indicated by her taking the double apex of Pouhon in seventh gear at full throttle, with no temptation to lift off.
The new aero package was clearly working superbly.
The balance of the car was exceptional.
Straker was pleased the car was performing so well. But he couldn’t calm his mind. The next day was critical — Qualifying — and the ritual of timed laps to determine the places on the grid for the race. But he was getting concerned.
There had been no sign of the saboteur, anywhere.
He hoped to God he hadn’t missed something.
TWENTY-FOUR
Straker had a restless night. Waking early, he left the hotel while it was still dark. He arrived at the track in the gloomy twilight of dawn. There was a crisp chill in the air, intensifying his senses — particularly smell. He became very aware of the forest, the earth, the rotting mulch of long-fallen leaves, and pine resin all around. Such smells brought back vivid memories of exercises during basic training, typically held in national parks and across wind-swept moors — periods of his life that had been hellish at the time but which he now looked back on with a degree of fondness. While they’d been times of great trial, he had ultimately excelled. He wondered if he would look back on this episode of the sabotage threat in the same way.