‘All very sportsmanlike.’
‘Yeah!’ said Treadwell with an exaggerated tone of Australian. ‘Everyone does it, though, so I guess it’s a level playing field.’
‘Anything interesting come up recently?’
‘Kind of. We think Massarella’s diffuser is non-compliant. We’ve written to them about it this morning — and are waiting to hear back.’
That evening Straker was invited by Quartano to join the Ptarmigan Team in hosting Dr Chen of Mandarin Telecom at a gala dinner held in the Casino in Monte-Carlo. Although not officially connected with motor racing, this was now the annual charity fixture of the Monaco Grand Prix weekend, attended by everyone who was anyone in Formula One.
Dressed in black tie, the Quartech party alighted in front of the institution which first put the principality on the map. What greeted them outside the Casino seemed more like a night of film-industry awards than a fund-raiser. Red carpet ran from the kerb to the main entrance. Banks of photographers were corralled down one side, while television cameras and glamorous TV presenters were gushing down the other.
Once inside, and between the marble columns of the baroque atrium, they were met by the official receiving line and presented to His Serene Highness. Quartano conversed with the Prince and introduced Dr Chen, Nazar and Straker. After a polite but formal welcome, they moved on down the line.
Quartano then introduced his party to the President of the Fédération Internationale de l’Automobile — FIA — the international governing body of motor sport and the organization that set the “Formula”. Straker thought Bo Mirabelli, the Marquis of San Marino, one of the most patrician and distinguished looking men he had ever met. Mid-sixties with wise, piercing blue eyes, and swept-back hair off his round forehead, he had the appearance of a 1950s Hollywood star. But looks weren’t Bo San Marino’s only appeal. Famed for his charm, he greeted Dr Chen and Straker as if they were long-lost friends, investing their conversation with that rare gift of making it seem the most important moment of the evening.
After Bo San Marino, Quartano introduced them to the other power axis in motor racing — the boss of the commercial rights holder and, therefore, the controller of the multi-billion-dollars-a-year Formula One revenues. As head of the recently formed Motor Racing Promotions Limited, Joss MacRae was, indirectly, the successor to the legendary Bernie Ecclestone. By way of a briefing beforehand, Nazar told Straker that MacRae had been a former PR director with two of the teams in the paddock. He had taken over as the Tsar of Formula One, having been lauded for breaking the key Asian markets — India and China — in the early noughties. Nazar was not so generous in crediting MacRae with such achievement. He attributed the breakthrough in Asia to have been more down to necessity — down to Formula One’s desperation at losing the bulk of its revenue from the then impending Europe-wide ban on tobacco advertizing.
Straker was also told that MacRae had been involved with a Finnish rally driver. Nobody knew he was gay until news broke over the internet, despite — but probably because of — the superinjunction MacRae had taken out in the UK. Straker did not take to him at all. MacRae was all over Dr Chen and Nazar to the point of being obsequious, but there was none of the genuine warmth of San Marino, while, he, Straker — an unknown — was barely acknowledged.
Twenty minutes later the five hundred guests were invited through into the majestic setting for dinner — the Salon de l’Europe. There, they were surrounded by onyx columns, endless gilding, and were dazzled by the eight — vast — Bohemian crystal chandeliers.
On the way to their table, the Quartech party encountered the bosses of two other teams. The first was the Earl of Lambourn, owner of Lambourn Grand Prix.
‘Dom, my dear fellow,’ said Lambourn to Quartano genuinely. ‘Wonderful to see you.’
Straker instantly warmed to Lambourn — and detected an authentic friendship between him, Quartano and Nazar.
Straker had read countless articles on Lord Lambourn over the years. The British press seemed obsessed with him, probably because he was the very last of a dying breed — the dashing, playboy aristocrat — able, through the good luck of birth, to indulge his passion for cars, speed and women. He was tall, slim, with a full head of well-groomed hair and had the easy manner and effortless conversation of a natural host. Suave was definitely the word. Lambourn offered his hand with a gentle bow, saying: ‘Dr Chen, I’m delighted to meet you. Thank you, sir, for gracing our sport, should you decide to do so. Ptarmigan is one of the finest marques in motor racing. I hope you enjoy a successful association, and that Formula One serves to grow your brand around the world.’
Dr Chen, somewhat thrown by Lambourn’s lack of competitiveness — particularly as one of his drivers was leading the Drivers’ Championship — gave a slightly confused smile indicating, perhaps, that he did not quite understand the English.
Moving on through the dining room Quartano encountered another team principal. He introduced his party to the Afrikaner Eugene Van Der Vaal, team boss of Massarella.
Dr Chen shook hands.
‘You don’t want to be wasting your money on Ptarmigan,’ said Van Der Vaal without levity, his guttural Boerish accent giving his comments a barbed and abrasive edge.
Straker likened Van Der Vaal, with his closely-shaved head and broad physique, to a rugby prop forward. His brutish expression added to the look. Word had it that he never smiled — let alone laughed — unless it was at someone else’s expense.
‘Britain is old world,’ said Van Der Vaal. ‘Tired, complacent and of the past.’
Straker was getting a first-hand feel for why the team bosses might have been referred to en masse as “the Piranha Club”. Quartano’s composure, however, did not waver for a second. ‘That’s very interesting,’ he said to the Massarella man. Turning to his guest, he said: ‘And yet, Dr Chen, isn’t it strange that all of Mr Van Der Vaal’s key team members — Massarella’s COO, designer, and both race engineers — happen to be British.’
Dr Chen’s face broke into a smile. This, perhaps, was a bit more like it. ‘We Chinese, Mr Valley, have an old saying for someone who says one thing … and does another…’
It was Quartano’s, Nazar’s, and Straker’s turn to smile.
Reaching their table, Straker and Quartano were left alone for a moment while Nazar escorted Dr Chen to find a lavatory. The tycoon, certain they could not be overheard, turned and asked discreetly: ‘How are you holding up, Matt?’
Straker shook his head. ‘Fine,’ he said dismissively.
Quartano looked at him carefully, almost intently.
Straker found himself turning away. ‘Incidentally,’ he said, looking back towards one of their encounters on the way in, ‘talking of Massarella — Ollie Treadwell said he had written to them this morning about their diffuser. What does writing to mean, exactly?’