THIRTY-FIVE
Straker felt this new evidence intensely. He had to get outside, to take some fresh air. Needing to be alone, he stood on the terrace to the north of the factory, and looked out over the rolling Oxfordshire countryside — trying to calm himself down. Even the soothing breeze and hazy summer sunshine had little effect on him.
Straker was motivated, anyway, by his professional duty to complete this assignment — and honour the responsibility he had been given to counter the sabotage risk to Ptarmigan. But now, he clearly had to defend the team against a very real life-threatening danger. And that, in the light of his intimacy with Sabatino, prompted a powerful urge in him to defend her personally. How dare these people be out to threaten the life of anyone, let alone someone he was close to.
Straker wanted to fight back — to retaliate in some way. He was angry that these people, whoever they were, were able to do all that they were doing with impunity. Even so, he fought to rationalize his response, very aware that it was largely driven by emotion, which he fought to control. That emotional tussle, though, ended up helping him. It prompted him to think of ways to fire a shot back at these arseholes, even if it might be indirectly.
An idea he had been toying with finally took hold.
Going back inside, he found the Strategy Director in his office. ‘Ollie, have you and Tahm thought any more about the switch away from Trifecta?’
‘Yes,’ replied Treadwell, clearly not happy with the idea.
‘I take it, then, we’re transferring to Cohens,’ Straker concluded. ‘Have we told Trifecta?’
‘Not yet.’
Straker offered him a sideways smile. ‘Let me, would you?’ he said with a clear edge to his voice.
Treadwell looked a little surprised. ‘Why, who are you going to tell?’
‘Someone whose resultant discomfort might do us some good.’
An hour later Straker had managed to photograph the wishbone, the hole in the exhaust system, and download his pictures to a Ptarmigan iPad — along with a sequence of photographs of Helli Cunzer’s spectacular crash in Monaco, including the horrific moment when his car was completely engulfed in flame. Driving away from the factory in his Honda, Straker headed for Leamington Spa.
He drove onto the now-familiar industrial estate and pulled up a discreet distance away from, but with a clear view of, the main entrance of Trifecta Systems. He was instantly relieved. The Peugeot he hoped to see was parked out front. His quarry, therefore, ought to be inside. Straker killed the engine.
He readied himself to wait.
He willed his quarry to emerge.
Nothing happened for quite a while. A stream of people came and went from the office building, more exiting it with the onset of lunchtime. None of them, though — as far as Straker could tell — was his man.
Suddenly Straker sat up.
There he was.
Michael Lyons — balding, middle-aged, and slightly overweight, wearing an ill-fitting suit — appeared through the glass front doors of the Trifecta building. Straker immediately felt relieved again — not only that he had spotted his man, but also that Lyons was alone and didn’t seem to be walking with any degree of urgency or purpose. Nor was he carrying anything — briefcase, laptop, files — so it didn’t look like he was heading off to an appointment.
He watched Michael Lyons walk through the business park. Straker climbed out of his car and, after a considered interval, started to follow him on foot.
Straker was able to keep up.
From a distance, he kept Lyons in view.
The man ambled down a narrow footpath out of the complex, and turned left at the far end. Straker needed to jog briefly to maintain visual contact. Lyons — and then Straker — soon emerged onto a street with shops, bustling with shoppers. Looking left, Straker caught sight of his man — some way along the pavement — as he disappeared into a watering hole.
Straker quickened down the street to follow him inside.
It turned out to be a chichi bar occupying a redundant branch office, hived off by a high street bank. Straker entered in time to see Lyons make his way across the crowded room, between groups of chattering people, towards a free table and set of chairs against the back wall.
Straker picked his moment to pounce.
Moving swiftly across the room himself, he headed towards Lyons’s table. In one movement, Straker pulled out the opposite chair, dropped himself onto it, and said: ‘Michael, you should take a look at this,’ swinging the iPad round to face him. ‘After you jammed Sabatino’s radio in Monte-Carlo, and that psychotic crash you caused in Spa, this is the latest evidence of your sabotage — damage to Helli Cunzer’s exhaust and wishbone, and the cause of his crash in Monaco.’
Such an invasion of space was so unexpected — and so rapid. Moreover, a stranger had addressed Lyons directly by name. Then he was confronted with the series of images, the latter ones showing Cunzer’s horrific crash, the wreckage of his car, and an arresting one of the fireball that engulfed him. Lyons was completely thrown. The man looked up, an expression of concerned bemusement on his face. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he spluttered.
‘Someone who knows precisely what you and your scumbag friends are up to. You don’t have to be part of this, you know, Michael. Jamming may just be a bit of technical fun, even if it is still a violation of decency. But threatening lives is something very different. Always remember this,’ he said tapping the frame of the iPad on the table, ‘we can prove, now, that you’ve all got form. If you and your friends do go on to cause a death,’ said Straker with considerable menace, ‘it … will … be … murder. You will be named as an accessory. Do you understand? Do the right thing, man — shop these arseholes, before it’s too late … too late — for you.’
Lyons’s equilibrium started to return, fuelled by a growing sense of intrusion at this confrontation. He tried to smile, but did so lamely. ‘You quite clearly don’t have the faintest idea of who you’re dealing with.’
Straker paused, saying nothing — deliberately for effect; he simply looked the other man straight in the eye. ‘The real question, Michael,’ he said, his voice quietening significantly, ‘is: do you?’
Straker paused again.
‘Do you trust them, Michael? Have you thought about that? Have you thought about what they might do — the moment they think you know too much? Have you ever thought they might even be setting you up as the fall guy?’
Straker was pleased.
The unexpected angle of this last comment clearly threw Lyons anew. ‘Here’s what I’m going to do, Michaeclass="underline" I’m going to give you a week — to do the decent thing and expose these people. If I’ve not heard from you by then, Ptarmigan is going to sack Trifecta — and we are going to cite your unethical conduct as the reason. You know, Apartment 5 at 25 Rue des Princes?’
Lyons suddenly looked genuinely startled.
‘We will make it perfectly clear that it was you — Michael — that lost Trifecta its business with us. You will then have to tell your scumbag friends that you lost them their opportunity to do Ptarmigan any more harm.’
Straker stared intently into the man’s face. ‘You’ve got a week to put this right,’ he said, placing a business card with his contact details down on the table. Standing up, Straker retrieved his iPad, and walked out of the bar.
Making his way back to the Ptarmigan factory, Straker turned this ploy over in his mind. Had he even gone far enough? Should he not have terminated the link with Trifecta, then and there? Straker was soon smiling, though, pleased with what he had done. His gambit — and deadline — had to put Lyons under some sort of pressure.