‘The stuff you produced for the President in Monaco — some crackle on a radio — hardly warrants serious consideration. And, as for this afternoon, when a driver makes a clear error — dropping their car under braking — what facts are needed? If you don’t have any proof, shut the fuck up.’
Straker turned to look at Backhouse, who appeared fit to burst.
‘Is that it?’ asked the race engineer. ‘You’re not prepared even to listen to our findings?’
MacRae leant forwards and looked Backhouse straight in the eye. It was an intimidating stare, one that MacRae was known to have used to devastating effect during his career. ‘This is what I know, Mr Backhouse. This is a business. Billions of dollars are at stake, as are many thousands of jobs. The last thing Formula One needs, right now, is another scandal. You make a sanctimonious song and dance, based on unsubstantiated allegations, about an obvious rival of yours for the Championship — and you know what sponsors will say? Sour grapes. No thanks. And how would that look to your new benefactors and the vastly inflated sum of money you’re hoping to fleece them for? I say grow up, and grow a pair,’ he said, which, after a few moments, seemed to amuse him.
Backhouse’s face changed colour several times while MacRae had been speaking.
Straker looked across at San Marino, trying to judge his reaction to this unexpected line. Straker was disappointed to discern no real reaction from him to MacRae’s comments. But San Marino was a dignified man, and might be being old-fashioned, Straker hoped. Wasn’t he remaining silent for the sake of presenting a collective front from the leadership of F1?
‘Can I ask you a question, Joss?’ said Straker.
MacRae, slightly surprised by such a reasonable response to his provocative tirade and Straker’s tutoiement, looked a little off balance.
‘Just suppose that there is some validity to our findings?’ said Straker. ‘And what if,’ Straker went on deliberately ignoring MacRae’s grunts, ‘someone were to be killed, because of this — which could so easily have happened this afternoon. Your first death since 1994. What would that do to your business?’
MacRae shook his head in a particularly dismissive way. ‘It would make for great spectacle, great TV, and great news coverage. Cunzer’s spectacular balls-up in Monaco — shown in countless news bulletins around the world — easily added ten points to our ratings.’
Straker weighed up the situation and reached a clear conclusion. This exchange was getting them nowhere. Rising slowly to his feet, he said: ‘I can only thank you both for your time,’ and looked across at Backhouse, inviting him to follow his lead out of the room.
‘Fuck me,’ said the race engineer as they exited the President’s suite onto the corridor. ‘What the hell was that?’
Straker, suffering the after-effects of suppressing his own reaction, felt his heart rate and body temperature rise. ‘We may not have a cast-iron case, but any reasonable mind would remain curious, surely — at least until it had been completely disproven.’
Stomping down through the grandstand complex they reached the Ptarmigan garage in the pit lane. Once ensured of some privacy, Straker pulled out his iPhone and rang Quartano in London. He invited Backhouse to lean in to hear the conversation.
‘He said that?’ replied Quartano. ‘“Ten points to our ratings”?’
‘Verbatim.’
‘“Don’t rock the boat”. Don’t upset this multi-billion-dollars-a-year business. MacRae’s attitude — complacency, let alone callousness — is staggering.’
Quartano was enraged but realized quickly he had to rationalize the situation. ‘What’s your response to all this, Matt?’ he asked, restoring his equilibrium.
‘We need to get over the offence of this and try to understand MacRae’s response. The man’s behaviour was completely disproportionate. My starting point, whenever faced with someone behaving so unreasonably — in any circumstance — is to try and identify their emotional starting point.’
Quartano grunted. ‘Sorry? Don’t know what that means.’
‘That there is clearly more to this than meets the eye. I’ll wager something’s going on between the people involved in this — or is happening behind the scenes — for MacRae to have had such an exaggerated and unreasonable reaction.’
‘Like what?’
‘I’ve no idea. But, somehow — inadvertently — we must have touched an already-open sore. If I could find any indication as to what that is, we might understand this a little better.’
‘I like that.’
‘Good, but obviously it isn’t going to happen this afternoon. For now, we’ve got to focus on protecting Remy.’
‘What can you do?’
‘A fair amount. We’re already reconfiguring the engine limiter system — changing its frequencies and computer code. Nobody will be able to interfere with that anymore. Also, we’re adding second frequencies to the data links now — as we did, before, to the radio net. That means we’ll be transmitting over parallel channels — so we can be sure of maintaining contact, even if there are further attempts to disrupt any one of our communications.’
‘Matt, that’s good work. But don’t let up on exposing these people. I want us to bring Massarella to book for what they did there this afternoon.’
‘Right, sir. Further accusations without proof, though, will simply look like sour grapes. We’d have to build a cast-iron case, if we’re to have any hope of nailing them properly.’
‘Do whatever you have to do, Matt. And, now, of course, for the added satisfaction of exposing that odious little arsehole MacRae.’
That evening, just before midnight, Straker found Backhouse in the bar at Ptarmigan’s hotel in Malmedy. The room was fairly dark, lit by spotlights here and there, but with most of the illumination coming from behind the display of bottles against the back wall. Backhouse was sitting on a bar stool on his own, and had clearly been there for some time, his mood unimproved since their distressing meeting with San Marino and MacRae earlier that day.
‘How can they behave like that?’ he asked Straker. ‘They were no help — and we need help against Massarella’s … devi-us-ness.’
Straker could only nod his agreement. He caught the eye of the barman and ordered a drink for them both.
Backhouse swayed slightly as Straker climbed onto a bar stool beside him: ‘But can you be sure, Matt, that you can stop them?’
‘We need evidence, Andy, particularly if they go on being as devious as they have been.’
‘And they will be — they will. It’s the FIA penalties that are forcing them to be so underhand. If they got caught, they’d be fined tens of millions of dollars.’
The barman reappeared with their drinks, placing Straker’s whisky down on a napkin in front of him. ‘Indeed, Andy. Worse, they could end up killing someone.’
A hint of panic flashed across Backhouse’s face. ‘That could be catastrophic,’ he said. ‘I dread sending Remy out again — after today — knowing she might be hurt.’
Straker took a sip of his whisky and looked at Backhouse over the rim of his glass.
‘It’s wrong, Matt, it’s wrong. They shouldn’t be getting away with this. How do we show the world what they’re doing,’ Backhouse asked almost forlornly. ‘How?’