Didn’t this channel of communication have to be the basis of the allegation?
He had to find out more, fast, to have any chance of countering it.
The other end of this text message was that Italian mobile phone number which the researchers in London had tried multiple ways, unsuccessfully, to identify.
How, though, could he identify the other end of this “connection”? And quickly? Being in the very hearing to pass judgment on this matter, they were quite obviously running out of time.
Suddenly Straker had a mischievous thought. Was this really the time to try it?
What the hell! They had little else to go on to defend themselves. And nothing to lose.
Opening up the text message on Charlie’s iPhone that referred to ASD, Straker hit Reply. In the space below he typed in his message:
I’M RIGHT BEHIND YOU!
He read it several times as if to make sure he should be doing this.
Four seconds later he pressed Send.
The phone did its thing, pulsing several times before reluctantly dispatching the message.
Straker could now only wait.
His mind whirred. What if the Italian mobile was switched off? Or not manned? Or what if his assumptions were wrong — and this had come from somebody else?
Any of these outcomes would leave Straker none the wiser.
But he hoped for something more.
If the message did “get home”, it would have a double effect. The recipient would see a completely unexpected Caller ID, which, under the circumstances, would be a shock — and the message itself might carry a metaphorical meaning all of its own.
Straker waited.
How long would this take?
Then he sensed rather than watched the room intently. Nothing happened. Damn! This wasn’t going how he thought it would.
But then — Bingo!
In the row along the table, one of the figures — to the left — suddenly started fidgeting and moving awkwardly in his chair — clearly looking for something in his pocket. After a short wrestle with the layers of his clothing, the figure pulled out his mobile phone.
The Massarella team boss looked down.
Straker, from the side, saw something to behold. Van Der Vaal’s eyes widened dramatically.
And then, in almost cartoon-like panic, Van Der Vaal spun round to look down the row of chairs behind him along the back wall. The brutish South African panned along the faces. Straker, holding the phone out of sight below the level of his thigh, was quick enough to have looked away towards the centre of the room before he felt Van Der Vaal’s stare wash over him. Through his peripheral vision, Straker soon saw the Massarella boss return his attention to his mobile phone.
Straker had made a connection. A solid connection. Not just from Massarella — but from Van Der Vaal himself — to Charlie Grant. What now, though? What the hell could this mean? This completely unexpected revelation showed that there had been electronic communication between the teams. Didn’t that blow their whole defence wide open?
Straker was beside himself.
Grabbing a piece of paper, he leant across and whispered a request to borrow Treadwell’s pen. Straker soon started scribbling out a note.
Van Der Vaal, refocusing on the room, was soon back in full flow: ‘Mr President, I have a claim — a good claim against Ptarmigan. Our technology, which we have proved we started developing before Ptarmigan, has ended up on their car. Their components aren’t just similar to ours,’ he said. Then, dripping with Afrikaans pronunciation, he grunted: ‘They … are … identical. How did this happen without Ptarmigan stealing our ideas? That’s what this Council should be asking. We are one hundred per cent the victims here. It is unconscionable to think that Ptarmigan should not be held to account for this blatant infringement.’
Straker finished scribbling his note. He folded the piece of paper, leant forward, and tapped Brogan on the shoulder. Somewhat taken by surprise, the barrister turned round. He saw Straker offering up the folded paper. Brogan took it. Opening it up the legal counsel read:
Oscar, I’ve JUST worked out who the Massarella and Ptarmigan contacts were.
Brogan looked round to meet Straker’s eye. His face registered surprise, then seemed to search Straker’s — as if to verify that he was sure.
Straker nodded and held up Charlie Grant’s iPhone as if to provide some form of physical proof.
Turning back round to face the room, Brogan said commandingly: ‘Mr President? I am sorry to interrupt. May I ask Council’s indulgence to confer with my client for a moment?’
‘This is highly irregular, Mr Brogan.’
‘I accept that, sir. But a five-minute conversation, in private, might help us all to speed this process along.’
San Marino seemed to sigh. ‘Very well. Let us all take a ten-minute recess.’
In the noise of the meeting being adjourned, Brogan stood up and left the table, indicating that the Ptarmigan contingent should follow Straker out of the chamber. They made it back to their waiting room, filed in, and Straker closed the door behind them.
FIFTY
Fifteen minutes later Oscar Brogan was ready to address the hearing of the World Motor Sport Council once again. San Marino called the meeting to order and asked him whether, in the light of his conference with colleagues, Brogan had anything to say.
‘Thank you, Mr President, I do. I am not sure how to explain this, sir, but as bizarre as it may sound my client has, during the course of this very hearing, come into new information.’
Oscar Brogan QC, ever the master of controlling a room’s attention after thirty years of practice in court, was sure he had the FIA hanging on every word. ‘Without prejudicing my client’s position, I am prepared to acknowledge a contact within Ptarmigan who might — I say again who might — have been in contact with someone at Massarella. But only,’ he said quickly and loudly to pre-empt the expected hubbub from the Council members, ‘if, Mr President, the Council will accept a request to grant my client extra time to re-examine its submission to this Council and prepare to account for itself more fully at a follow-up hearing.’
Brogan conspicuously stopped talking to yield the floor. He had fired his shot — his conditional shot — and believed his statement and request were complex enough to avoid a reflex or snap answer from the governing body.
The room was in uproar. None of this was expected. Few Council meetings — if any — had ever had such a googly bowled at them.
Only one person seemed unfazed by the commotion and complexity of the moment. The 7th Marquis of San Marino retained his gravitas and composure throughout. Calling the meeting to order, the President waited for quiet before he spoke directly to Oscar Brogan.
‘I dare say all of us are a little bemused by a claim that your client has come by evidence — if we might call it that — during this very meeting. Whatever the trigger, though, your acknowledgement — I’m sorry, your provisional acknowledgement — of a Ptarmigan name in contact with Massarella would certainly move this case along and, from the sound of it, give us some much-needed fact on which to base any judgment or action.’
‘Thank you, Mr President,’ said Brogan in response to the statesman-like summing up. ‘So, would the Council be prepared to grant my client additional time to re-present its submission to the FIA under the current allegations?’