Reaching the edge of Place de la Concorde, they saw what they were in for — even at some distance away. Already parked, two or three deep around the northern edge of the square, were media and TV vans with enormous satellite dishes on their roofs pointing to the heavens. There was a police cordon, holding back a public throng — all trying to snatch a glimpse of some of the world’s best known and glamorous sports personalities. Inside the police cordon was a jostling pack of journalists, TV cameras and sound recordists, with a copse of furry microphones held aloft on the end of long poles.
Hyenas. The media pack looked and sounded like a bunch of hyenas.
The Ptarmigan team began their approach towards the mêlée gathered in front of 8 Place de la Concorde. The headquarters of the International Automobile Federation was in an imposing building. Above them stretched the magnificent Palladian Trouard façade, its honey-coloured stone catching the early morning sun. It radiated grandeur: two portico-like ends were each supported by four columns. Twelve Corinthian columns were ranged in between. Eye-catching pilasters, ballustrading and baroque detail rose above a plinth-like, street-level arcade. Sabatino’s face registered heightened unease, almost induced by the building alone.
Approaching the media-surrounded entrance, the noise began in earnest. Straker stood to the outside of Sabatino, shielding — but not hiding — her from the throng.
‘REMY! REMY! REMY!’
Flash guns were fired off like a fusillade. The noise seemed to become a roar as everyone shouted — demanding that she look their way.
At the appropriate moment, Straker looked over to Sabatino, asked if she was ready, and, seeing her nod, turned her and Nazar round slowly to face the wall of media.
Their senses were almost overwhelmed — virtually blinded by the flashes, and nearly deafened by the crescendo of shouting.
Sabatino took a couple of deep breaths. Then, as planned, she smiled broadly, waved, and began slowly panning through the arc of three hundred-odd journalists, giving each one of them a head-on shot for their still cameras and B-roll VT. Extraordinarily, it seemed to work. The frenzied yelling seemed to abate. Giving the journalists something of what they wanted just about turned the mood.
It might be an altogether different story on the way out.
Sabatino, facing such a wall of people, cameras and noise, would have been forgiven for looking concerned or defensive. Calmly, without cockiness, she managed to convey a powerful sense of dignified composure.
After thirty or forty seconds, which seemed an age, Sabatino turned away and walked towards the entrance of the FIA. Once through the blue doors with their elegant panels of leaded lights, they found relative privacy inside the building.
‘Well played,’ Straker said. ‘That was utterly composed. Don’t know how you do it,’ he added reassuringly.
Without saying anything she merely touched him on the arm in thanks.
The Ptarmigan party was greeted by an FIA official. They were soon led through to a waiting room. ‘You’ll be called in at around ten o’clock,’ the member of staff declared. ‘Please help yourself to refreshments.’
The waiting proved agony, despite the considerable calm provided from time to time by Brogan.
Ten o’clock came and went.
Ten-thirty.
Eleven.
When the hell were they going to be called in?
Finally, at a quarter to twelve, the door opened and another official asked them politely to come through.
As they walked into the Council Chamber their level of apprehension and stress increased markedly. Entering midway down the long wall of the long thin room, they were confronted by a sea of faces around the huge rectangular table arrangement. While there was a sizeable hollow area in the middle of the tables, there was very little space around the outside, reduced further by a row of people sitting on chairs against one of the long walls.
Directly opposite them as they entered was Bo San Marino, the President of the FIA, flanked by the Deputy President on one side and the former President of the FIA, currently President of the Senate, on the other.
Further away from the President, on either side, were five of the seven Vice-Presidents and thirteen of the seventeen other members of the Council.
At the right-hand end of the table Straker spotted Joss MacRae, head of the commercial rights holder.
San Marino, at least, had the courtesy to stand as the Ptarmigan party entered the room. He welcomed them and indicated three seats at the table directly opposite him. These, it was explained, were for the team boss, a driver, and their counsel. He asked that other members of the contingent take a seat behind them, against the back wall.
Straker was amazed there was still chatter around the room. It came as no surprise that MacRae was in full voice.
Now sitting with Treadwell beside him, Straker looked over to his left and down the length of the stark unadorned room to one of the short ends. There, he could see a plate-glass partition. Through its greenish tint Straker observed a small room beyond, packed full of what he supposed were journalists. The press gallery? More like les tricoteuses, he thought.
Straker took in the rest of the room.
It was austere. There were no pictures hanging anywhere. The only objects to break the large expanse of white wall were two plasma screens, one mounted opposite him, above San Marino’s head, and the second above his own. These appeared to be hooked up to some form of video-conferencing facility. Several grainy faces appeared jerkily in their own little windows.
Straker could not help but wonder who all these people were around the table. They were all of a fairly obvious stamp — elderly, portly and male. Indeed, he could only see one woman among them. In his sweep of the Chamber, Straker spotted the backs of the Massarella contingent, already seated at the table; they were over to Straker’s left, down towards the press gallery: Eugene Van Der Vaal was flanked by one of the team’s drivers, Simi Luciano, and an Italian-looking man in a suit.
San Marino quietly called for order. ‘Gentlemen, and lady member of the Council. We are now ready to begin this Extraordinary Meeting of the World Motor Sport Council. Can I ask you, Tahm, to introduce your companions here today?’
‘Certainly, Mr President. I am joined by Ms Remy Sabatino, Ptarmigan’s number one driver, and Mr Oscar Brogan QC, Ptarmigan’s legal counsel. Behind me we have Mr Oliver Treadwell, Strategy Director for the racing team and currently Ms Sabatino’s race engineer, and Colonel Matt Straker, a representative from Quartech International, Ptarmigan’s owner.’
‘Thank you, Tahm. You have had our letter and you understand our reasons for calling this meeting? May I start by stating this Council’s jurisdiction in these matters? This hearing is conducted under Article 27 of the FIA Statutes which empowers the World Motor Sport Council to assess and, where appropriate, directly impose sanctions provided for under the International Sporting Code.’
San Marino paused and looked up at Tahm Nazar over his half-moon spectacles, as if to invite a response.
‘Mr President, Ptarmigan accepts the jurisdiction of this hearing.’
‘Thank you, Tahm. On to our business. This hearing relates to the allegation levelled at Ptarmigan by the Massarella Formula One Team that Ptarmigan benefited, unlawfully, from Massarella’s intellectual property.’
‘We are aware of these allegations, Mr President,’ replied Brogan, taking over as the front man for Ptarmigan. ‘My client is of course here to deny vigorously — and refute — any such assertion. I trust that you, sir, and the Council have received our statement of facts?’