She asked: ‘What the hell’s Andy doing talking to that bastard?’
An hour later, Straker kicked himself. With all the other distractions, the showdown with Van Der Vaal, setting up and monitoring the new countermeasures, and the race itself, he’d completely forgotten to tell Backhouse about his surprising discovery, earlier, on the grid: he’d seen an exact copy of Ptarmigan’s Fibonacci Blades — on the front wing of the Massarella.
And when he finally did remember, it was too late.
By the time Straker tried to catch up with Remy Sabatino’s race engineer, he was out of reach.
Not just from Spa.
Andy Backhouse had had enough.
He had resigned from the team.
PART THREE
LA PARABOLICA
TWENTY-NINE
‘What do you mean he’s defected?’ barked Quartano over the phone. ‘I knew he’d resigned. How’s he defected?’
‘You won’t believe it,’ replied Straker. ‘He’s gone over to Massarella.’
Quartano exploded. ‘What? How could that even be possible? What on earth would’ve possessed him to do that? The Judas, the fucking Judas. Makes him as big a bastard as they are. Hang on, doesn’t that prove once and for all that he was the insider saboteur?’
Straker stayed silent.
‘He’s under contract, for Christ’s sake,’ bawled Quartano. ‘Non-compete. Matt, get onto legal and have them nail this.’ Quartano just seemed to grunt for a moment. ‘Damnit, this has to make him the bastard insider,’ he repeated. ‘All the more reason to slap an injunction on him,’ he little-less-than bellowed. ‘Straker, I want you to stop that arsehole getting anywhere near Massarella!’
Straker decided to stay on in Spa, over Sunday night — after the rest of the team had left — to try to handle the fallout from Backhouse’s departure. Taking a walk through the race complex as the place started to empty, he looked out over the valleys of the Ardennes in the last of the evening sun, trying to visualize and rationalize the whole sabotage situation.
He thought through each of the elements he had encountered so far: Michael Lyons. Radio jamming. Jeremy Barnett. Benbecular engines. Adi Barrantes. Massarella. The strange fob-like device. Trifecta. The engine management system.
Every time he thought of a new incident or person to add to the web of influences in his mind’s eye, he realized an association of some kind could be made straight back to a common denominator: Trifecta Systems. Visualizing all these elements together helped make the circumstances all the clearer.
But why were these people all involved? It didn’t seem to make any sense.
How could he set about rationalizing this? Then he thought of something else. Could there not be something — or someone — behind it all? A controlling mind? That got him thinking.
What about this Avel Obrenovich?
Wasn’t he something of a connection between these parties? He was majority shareholder of Trifecta and the principal sponsor of Massarella. Might he be the one empowering all this?
What on earth, though, was the motivation to launch these malicious assaults on Ptarmigan and Remy Sabatino? This was “just” a competitive sport. It was completely beyond Straker’s comprehension that anyone should go to such lengths — particularly being so invasive, let alone demonstrating contempt for rules, law, fair play, even to the point of risking human life.
Such malicious intent had to be about more than just winning a few races.
The following morning Straker was ready to act on his theories. Standing on the platform under Calatrava’s magnificent canopy at Liège-Guillemins station, he called Karen in London. Looking round him on the platform to make sure he couldn’t be overheard, he asked: ‘How’s the research on Charlotte Grant’s iPhone going?’
‘Not bad, Matt, but it has been the weekend since you asked.’
Straker smiled, having lost track of time. ‘Sure, sorry. Any idea how long it’s all going to take, though?’
‘I.T. said it should be done by close of business today.’
‘Okay, Karen,’ he conceded, and checked the privacy around him again. In slightly hushed tones, he said: ‘I need something else. Can you do me an all-sources search on those involved with Avel Obrenovich: Obrenovich Oil & Gas, the Massarella Formula One team, and its boss Eugene Van Der Vaal? Could you print off the top fifty stories for each, and put them into one of your binders for me?’
‘You want cuttings too?’
‘You’re one step ahead of me, as always. International, as well as domestic, please.’
‘No problem.’
Straker felt that his research into the other side’s emotional starting point was now under way. His immediate priority, though, was protection. ‘Karen, who’s our head of legal?’
‘Stacey Krall,’ she replied.
‘Can you put me through?’
‘Sure, hang on.’
A deep voice soon said: ‘Stacey Krall.’
‘Hello Stacey, Matt Straker. We’ve not met. I’m a director of Quartech’s Competition Intelligence and Security — CIS. I’m on assignment with Ptarmigan.’
‘Yes, hello. I’ve just been processing your directorship papers with Companies House.’
‘Sorry I can’t come and see you — I’m on my way back from Belgium.’ Once again Straker looked around him to be sure no one was in earshot. ‘We’ve got an issue with a member of staff. Mr Quartano’s asked me to take out an injunction on him.’
‘Mr Backhouse — yes, I know — Mr Quartano’s already been on to me.’
‘That was quick.’
‘He doesn’t hang around on many things, least of all with breaches of trust.’
‘And?’
‘I’ve been through the Backhouse file. Unfortunately — and this didn’t go down well with Mr Quartano — his contract with Ptarmigan isn’t one of ours.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s an original — a pre-Quartech one. It’s not as robust as ours would be.’
‘Does that mean we can serve him or not?’
‘Afraid not.’
Straker found himself smiling. ‘So we’ve no way of stopping him going to Massarella?’
‘Not legitimately, no. We can threaten him with legal action — and put the frighteners on him.’
‘But in the meantime, we can’t stop him working for Massarella?’
‘No.’
Straker could only pull a face at his luck.
Once back in Britain, Straker went directly to the Ptarmigan factory in Oxfordshire. On arrival, he met Tahm Nazar who led him straight to the loading bay, serving as the examination space for the crash investigation of Helli Cunzer’s car.
Right across the polished white-painted floor were the recovered components of the wreckage, placed more or less in the same relational position to each other as on the original chassis. It reminded Straker of a technical illustration where bits of an object are expanded out and cut away to show its innards and workings. ‘To think there was a human being right in the middle of all this as it disintegrated,’ said Straker almost dreading the thought.
‘Amazing, yes,’ said the professorial-looking Nazar. ‘It’s a testament to modern design and safety standards that he lived. He suffered a serious wound to his thigh, and a couple of broken ribs — but that’s about it. He’s already back in part-time training.’