The pint-sized German with his fine boyish features and close-cropped blond hair manoeuvred himself deftly onto one of the turquoise leather benches and stacked his crutches on the floor beside him.
Sabatino looked into her teammate’s face with genuine interest and feeling. ‘I still can’t believe you didn’t break anything major.’
‘Amazing, isn’t it? Several cuts — one big gash from a piece of carbon fibre through my thigh. But otherwise, no. I was extremely fortunate. What a car … What safety!’
‘When will you be able to drive again?’ Sabatino asked.
‘Monza,’ he said with a confident grin.
‘Wow! That soon?’
Straker felt he needed to step in. Time was tight. Both drivers were expected to appear at the Festival at lunchtime. ‘I’ve got us all together,’ he said severely, ‘because I’m anxious you’re made fully aware of the sabotage threat we still face. It’s more serious than we thought.’ Bending down, Straker reached into a holdall and lifted the two key components from Cunzer’s car — the wishbone and the exhaust section — which he placed on the table between them. This was Treadwell’s cue to give an account of the conclusions drawn from the crash investigation.
Cunzer and Sabatino looked increasingly shattered.
They ended up studying the flexure on the wishbone, and inevitably rubbed a finger over the hole in the exhaust.
‘Someone did this to me,’ said Cunzer, the shock of the realization all too clear in his face and voice. ‘Someone made me crash.’ Looking directly at Straker, he said: ‘Who did this? Who could possibly do this — who could be putting my life in danger?’
Straker realized he needed to sound authoritative and yet remain genuine, knowing all too well that he didn’t have enough of the answers. ‘This had to have been done by someone in the team — an insider,’ he stated.
The drivers fell silent.
The mood was eerie.
‘It must be the same person who planted the bug in my helmet,’ offered Sabatino to the room rather than to Straker directly.
‘Highly likely, but not known for sure,’ he replied. ‘Both interventions — the bug and this,’ said Straker with a sweep of his hand over the damaged components, ‘were done some time ago — in the build-up to Monaco — and nothing like this has happened since. They could simply be historic acts, nothing more than a legacy from Charlie Grant.’
‘What about my engine limiter in Spa — and, particularly, the removal of the bug from my helmet after Monaco?’ Sabatino asked. ‘Don’t they indicate more recent evidence of an insider?’
Treadwell stepped in: ‘Possibly, Remy. Certainly Andy Backhouse handled your helmet, and he’s since defected. He, too, is a suspect. With Charlie and Backhouse now both out of the picture, though, we’re clearly hoping the saboteurs have lost their insider, if it was in fact either of them.’
Sabatino looked far from convinced or settled. She picked up one of the components, and drew attention to the wishbone by waving it. ‘This shows real intent to do Helli and the team harm. My high-speed loss of control at Spa, and now knowing about this from Monaco, means that Helli and I have been at serious risk.’
Straker made himself meet her eye, despite the awkwardness he felt — anxious to maintain his professional credibility. ‘I wish I could say that wasn’t the case.’
Cunzer looked back and forth between the others around the table. ‘Do you think we are still at risk from an insider, Colonel?’
This time Straker looked Cunzer in the eye: ‘I can’t guarantee that you aren’t.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
Water. Cold water, smashing down into his face. And the panic of not being able to move. He was struggling — violently struggling, straining against the straps. But he couldn’t breathe. The contraction of his diaphragm — as he fought not to breathe — was unbearable. How much longer could he hold out? Now the cramp. The pain. The pain in his leg was agony. Bastards! These people were allies. Allies, for fuck’s sake! Straker fought on against the straps, thrashing from left to right. Something warm: he felt something warm. That wasn’t right! It didn’t fit.
Straker’s brain began to compute. Why was it warm?
He struggled again and then, finally, broke from his sleep. Dripping with sweat — his head spinning — he regained consciousness. The bedroom light in Fulham was still on. Angrily, he ripped away the duvet.
Straker pulled himself up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and sat there, his chest heaving and heart racing, trying to calm down. It took several minutes for him to register his immediate surroundings. Looking at his alarm clock he recognized all too clearly the return of his affliction. It was three-forty a.m.
What the hell had triggered such a relapse? He thought through recent events, but didn’t have to for long. His meeting with Sabatino loomed large. His disappointment with her behaviour. That was undoubtedly the cause of this disturbance. That — and the intensity with which he had conjured up memories of his troubles to get him through that meeting with her.
Oh Christ, Straker thought. Now setbacks in parts of his new life were pulling him straight back — down — even deeper into the dark.
Knowing the rest of the night was now lost for sleep, he climbed into his running kit. He pounded the streets of Fulham, through the darkness, until the sun came up.
All manner of thoughts swirled around Straker’s head for several days. He would have to shut Sabatino out of his mind, at least in the way that might have been. He decided to fill the days before Monza with activity and distractions.
He resolved to throw himself into anything, however small, to take his mind off her. An early necessity was his car. He rang Treadwell for the number of the recovery shop, but learned he was away — and that his office didn’t have it. Straker tried to remember what Treadwell had said: Morgan of Kineton — or something — wasn’t it?
To get a contact number, Straker threw some guesses into Google. Scores of results were displayed — including the one he was after. Attracting his attention, though, were several to do with a different Morgan altogether — the Morgan of Morgan sports cars.
Out of curiosity he clicked on their website. He was captivated. Their latest design was prominently displayed, which didn’t do it for Straker at all. Much to his delight, though, the British design icon — the Morgan Roadster — was still there, portrayed in an eye-catching and fresh electronic brochure. Evidently, the classic Morgan was still very much in production.
Forcing himself to concentrate on the job in hand, he returned to his search for the intended Morgans and found the name of the recovery shop in Kineton. When he got through, the news on his Honda was not good. It was terminal. It had basically had it. Little more than scrap. Straker cursed. He couldn’t do without a car.
Then he had a flippant thought.
After the downer of his divorce, and the unwanted complexity of his involvement with Sabatino, didn’t he deserve to give himself a lift? Following Quartano’s offer on the completion of his last assignment — which included a directorship on the Quartech main board and a substantial bump in salary — wasn’t he in a position to indulge himself? If so — why the hell not?
He could only resist the idea for so long.
Logging back on to the earlier Google pages he looked up a list of local Morgan dealers and emailed a showroom in Henley-on-Thames.