‘So what’s your game plan for the two levels?’ asked Straker with a curious smile.
‘Very simple. I’m going to imagine I am Dr Chen. How would I want this to be handled if I were him?’
Quartano, Straker and Krall made it through Shanghai to Pudong and pulled up in front of the headquarters of Mandarin Telecom. Registering at reception, the Quartech party was escorted to the lifts and up to the office of Dr Chen, the CEO. On the forty-eighth floor, his office was as remarkable as the first time they had seen it, with its astonishing views out over Shanghai. There was another haze hanging over the city, this time in the early evening sun.
‘Dr Chen,’ said Quartano deferentially, as he was shown into his office. ‘Thank you for seeing me. I was anxious to inform you personally, and immediately, of a development with Ptarmigan and to apologize for the embarrassment this may cause you.’
Dr Chen, retaking his seat behind his desk, held his expression more inscrutably than usual.
‘Ptarmigan has been accused of something — of which we are not guilty — and we have been asked to account for ourselves in a public hearing. I am here to offer you our unconditional withdrawal from our negotiations and to make a public apology to you, your board, and employees for the difficulties we might cause you.’
Dr Chen, very quietly, asked what the allegations involved.
Quartano asked Straker to explain.
At the end, Dr Chen said: ‘And you believe that Ptarmigan is blameless?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Quartano.
‘And that you can successfully defend this?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Krall.
Dr Chen sat still and mulled this for a moment. ‘Who is the party making the allegation?’
‘The Massarella Formula One Team, sir.’
‘That’s Mr Van Der Vaal, isn’t it — the man from South Africa?’ asked Dr Chen.
‘Yes sir.’
‘I believe you introduced me to him in Monaco.’
Quartano nodded.
For the first time Dr Chen smiled. It transformed his face. ‘I remember him well. A charming man, as I recall.’
Dominic Quartano was relieved by Dr Chen’s philosophical and pragmatic approach to the FIA hearing, and that everything with Mandarin could still be on track. But he wanted to make one final gesture.
‘Dr Chen,’ said Quartano, ‘I am concerned — for you, sir — about the PR consequences of our timing. If we announce our contract, immediately ahead of a key public hearing, it could prompt adverse and damaging press coverage for Mandarin Telecom.’
Dr Chen acknowledged Quartano’s sensitivity with a small inclination of his head. ‘What do you propose?’
‘I would feel happier, for you and your team, if we postponed the signing ceremony, previously scheduled to be held here in Shanghai during the weekend of the Chinese Grand Prix.’
Quartano was well aware that this gesture, which he intended to be magnanimous, was also a huge gamble.
If the deal was postponed once, how much easier would it be to postpone it again — if not then permanently — should the FIA hearing go the wrong way?
FORTY-SIX
Straker made it home midway through the following day. He was glad to be back, despite the emptiness of his flat. Collapsing into the bath, he put on ‘Blue Rondo à la Turk’. The dissonant energy of the 9/8 signature was hardly restful. But that’s what he wanted — to help stimulate him. To help him stir up all that was going on.
His mind was soon whirring.
It was buzzing with the FIA letter, the hearing, the effect of all that on Sabatino, Dr Chen, Quartano’s brilliant handling of the meeting with Mandarin, Sabatino, the work needed to prepare for the hearing, what Massarella was playing at, Remy Sabatino — and all the work he still had to do.
Not long afterwards, tiredness got the better of him. He managed to sink into a sleep — deep enough to save him from his troubles. Indeed, he didn’t wake himself up the next morning — the first time that had happened in he couldn’t remember how long. Straker slept right through, woken instead by an external factor: the bleep of an incoming text.
And it made an instant difference to his day.
His Morgan had arrived — and would he ring to arrange collection? Needing to be up at the Ptarmigan factory that morning anyway, and Henley being en route, Straker dressed as quickly as he could and left the flat. He took the train, and made it to the showroom by mid-morning.
Straker revelled in the car the moment he saw it — and felt immediately fulfilled in his choice. Connaught Green. Bonnet louvres. Wire wheels. Walnut dash. Pale leather seats and trim. Even the new-car smell inside exceeded his expectations.
On a near-perfect summer morning — with blue skies, no cloud and virtually no wind — Straker drove his brand-new Morgan Roadster up and out of Henley and headed off through the beech woods of Nettlebed. With the top down, he could not imagine a more engaging way to enjoy The Road. Changing down, he accelerated off a long sweeping left-hander towards Huntercombe, and congratulated himself on the power and torque of his car’s 3.7 litre V6. He popped his Dave Brubeck CD into the player and wallowed in the saxophone of ‘Take Five’ — on repeat — all the way to Shenington. Straker delighted in the temporary escape of his car.
But the effects didn’t last long.
Reaching the Ptarmigan factory just before lunch, he met Nazar and Treadwell in the team principal’s office immediately upon arrival.
‘I’ve discussed the hearing and our submission to the FIA with Quartech’s counsel,’ Straker explained. ‘I’m sorry about the prospective workload and timeframe we need to follow to prepare for the hearing.’
‘You’re sorry,’ said Treadwell. ‘What a ball-aching amount of work.’
‘It is,’ admitted Straker. ‘What material have you been able to dig out on the development of the Fibonacci Blades?’
‘A fair amount,’ replied Nazar. ‘A design history, and a full log of work in the design studio.’
‘Excellent. I’m going to need several more things. We’d like every member of staff to sign a statement saying they have had no contact with Massarella people. Also, I’m going to need to see all our employees’ email records — particularly any contact with Massarella — and everything sent to us from outside with an attachment.’
‘We can do that.’
‘Thanks, Tahm. Can you send it all down to me in London?’
‘What happens if people have been receiving stuff on home or private emails or numbers?’ asked Treadwell.
‘Quite,’ said Straker. ‘We’ve no guarantee of finding every piece of communication. If we were the police, it’d be different — we’d have investigative powers and the authority to search premises.’
‘Why wouldn’t we want to bring the police in?’ asked Treadwell impatiently. ‘Wouldn’t that show we had nothing to hide?’
Straker smiled and shook his head. ‘The feeling is that doing so would be far too media-worthy. It’d kick off a Spygate-all-over-again media circus. There’d be a press feeding frenzy. I should tell you we’ve been out to Shanghai to see Mandarin Telecom — to try and keep them onside. Any full-blown media attention around this would see our $750 million down the pan.’
‘Why not counter it, now — with the power of the law?’ asked Treadwell. ‘It’s going to come out anyway, isn’t it — this thing’s going to a hearing?’