Quartano would not have been able to capitalize on any opportunity Ptarmigan might create had the car and team not been competitive. That made the biggest decision he had taken even more rewarding.
His choice of leading driver.
A few moments later, even at the modest limiter-speed of eighty kilometres per hour, the bright turquoise Ptarmigan Formula One car seemed to hurtle down the pit lane towards them. Its noise was overwhelming. Sabatino swerved deftly into the bay — as in a racing pit stop — but instead of the crew diving in around the car, the engine was soon cut. The driver unfastened the steering wheel, and started to climb out.
Sabatino released the elastic straps of the HANS device on either side of the helmet, took it off, then undid the Velcro at the top of the turquoise tunic to pull the fire-retardant balaclava up and over the head. Straker watched the striking features of Remy Sabatino appear — before she ran a hand through her short, nut-brown hair, set her black-rimmed glasses squarely on her face, tugged out her earplugs, turned to face Quartano and acknowledged his presence with a nod of her head and a flash of her dark brown eyes. She signalled politely with a hand gesture that she would be with him shortly before pointing rapidly back and forth between herself and her race engineer. Half-turning away, she spoke with Andy Backhouse, a squat British man in his forties with dark thinning hair, hairy arms, and heavy glasses — who had just joined her from the pit wall.
‘I’m getting understeer into Mirabeau and Rascasse,’ she stated. ‘Hoped it was just a dirty surface, and would rubber up. That’s not happening. The track’s still pretty green.’
Backhouse nodded and then squinted badly against the head-splitting screech of a car flying down the straight on the other side of the pits behind them. ‘The fronts were cooler than we thought. That’s why we suggested the brake trim,’ he said in his pronounced Birmingham accent. ‘Why didn’t you make the adjustment?’
Sabatino looked surprised. ‘What trim?’
‘I radioed you down into Mirabeau.’
‘Never heard a word of it. All I got was static. You kept cutting out. Interference.’
‘That’s weird,’ said Backhouse. ‘That radio’s brand-new — we’ve only just replaced all its circuitry — since Bahrain.’
Sabatino noticed the unexpected expression on her race engineer’s face. ‘Can we check it over, then? We don’t want that happening again.’
‘Sure…’ he said, regaining his focus, ‘…and, on the tyres, we’re already checking the temperatures with the manufacturer.’
‘If they’re going to stay that cool, can we warm them by dropping a PSI or two — and try a click on the front wing?’
Sabatino smiled her thanks to Backhouse before breaking away to meet Quartano and his guests, now standing in front of the team’s garage. ‘Sorry about that, Mr Q — nearly always better to be debriefed immediately afterwards, while it’s still fresh.’
Quartano gave her a that’s-no-problem smile — before saying proudly to his visitors: ‘Gentlemen, may I present Ms Remy Sabatino of Malta, Ptarmigan’s number one driver, currently lying second in the Drivers’ Championship.’
Most of the Chinese directors smiled coyly and bowed even more politely than usual. Sabatino, at five feet two, was easily absorbed into the gaggle of Chinese businessmen as she shook hands and acknowledged them all individually.
‘Remy, we’ve had a promising discussion with our friends about Mandarin Telecom sponsoring Ptarmigan.’
Sabatino nodded and smiled directly at each man in turn. Dr Chen and his colleagues smiled back.
‘They have asked that Mr Li, here, a freelance journalist, might record an interview with you to be evaluated by their marketeers back home?’
Sabatino nodded immediately. ‘Sure. How about now? Would now be good?’
‘Excellent,’ replied Quartano. ‘Tahm, can we find them space somewhere inside the garage?’
Five minutes later Mr Li had set up his camera, tripod and cameraman ready to begin the recording. Sabatino, perching on a stack of her tyres, faced the group of businessmen who were semicircled around her.
‘Miss Sabatino,’ said Mr Li somewhat formally, in heavily accented English. ‘How are you coping as the first woman driver in Formula One?’
Sabatino smiled broadly. ‘Actually, Mr Li, I’m not the first. There have been several. Italy had two — Maria Teresa de Filippis in the 1950s and Lella Lombardi in the 1970s. Divina Galica, British, was also on the scene in the mid-70s, around the same time that South Africa’s Desiré Wilson competed at her home Grand Prix. More recently, Giovanna Amati drove for Brabham in the early 1990s.’
‘But how many of them won any races?’ asked Mr Li dismissively.
‘None.’
The journalist seemed to sneer: ‘Doesn’t that prove you’re at a disadvantage — being a lady driver?’
With a dazzle of her trademark smile, Sabatino said: ‘I’m lying second in the Championships — you tell me, Mr Li,’ and gave him a wink. Then, a little more seriously, she added: ‘As with most things, it comes down to technique, feel and judgement. I have a degree in engineering, so I understand the car. I’ve won races in everything from karts to GP2, so am comfortable with my car control. And judgement? Well, I negotiated myself into the best seat on the grid, so I’m pretty happy with that too, Mr Li.’
Straker revelled in the way Sabatino handled herself. He had seen her sparkle many times on TV but it was clear that her charisma wasn’t some kind of media affectation or any sort of favouritism the camera bestowed on some people. Her televisual and media personality — a major component of any prospective sponsorship package and, therefore, a significant part of its overall value — was completely authentic.
‘And what about physical strength?’ continued the Chinese journalist, sounding slightly irritated at her nonchalant, unforgiving answers.
Sabatino maintained her smile while a little forced patience crept into her voice. ‘There’s a physical difference between men and women, sure. Strength, of course. Stamina, perhaps. With semi-automatic gearboxes these days — worked by fingers on the steering wheel — we don’t need heavy foot-operated clutches anymore. For the steering and brakes, the car has to carry a certain amount of hydraulics, anyway — even to help the men — so we tweak them a little. As for increasing stamina and resistance to G-force, etc., methodical preparation can condition anyone. After all, it’s women who have the strength to give birth, Mr Li — not men.’
Sabatino gave the interviewer a thanks-for-asking-and-enjoy-the-rest-of-your-day kind of smile; she looked up to see the enthralled faces of the Chinese directors who had been listening attentively.
Quartano smiled with barely-contained pride.
Behind them another figure approached, also wearing the striking turquoise livery of the Ptarmigan Team. ‘Ah, Helli!’ said Quartano warmly, offering his hand. ‘Let me introduce you to some of our friends?’ and turning to the group of Chinese businessmen, Quartano added: ‘May I present Herr Helmut Cunzer, from the Republic of Germany — Ptarmigan’s esteemed number two driver.’
Helli Cunzer, a pint-sized man in his twenties with fine facial features, bronzed skin, and close-cropped blond hair, gave their guests a boyish smile. ‘Helli came to the team having been runner-up in the GP2 Championship last year. We have great hopes for his phenomenal talent.’
Cunzer, yet to be spoiled by the attention and praise of Formula One success, smiled again, not quite sure how to take the compliment. ‘Thank you, Mr Quartano.’