Straker, not knowing her exact thoughts but having a fair idea of their direction, did not disturb her stare out through the window. Instead, he had to brace himself to call Quartano.
The industrialist was incandescent at the news. ‘$750 million, this is going to cost me. $750 fucking million. That bitch Charlotte Grant,’ he bellowed to Straker over the phone. ‘Didn’t I tell you it was her? How weren’t Ptarmigan able to stop her doing this kind of thing?’
Sabatino interrupted her stare as she heard the boom of Quartano’s voice through the phone. Straker tried to keep his voice calm. ‘That’s what I’ve got to find out before the resumption of the hearing in London, sir. First, though, I have to try and find how she fed any of Massarella’s ideas into the design process at the factory. That’s the only way to unravel this.’
‘Godamnit,’ said Quartano. ‘Let’s, for once, get some good news out of this fucking team.’
Quartano rang off.
For the first time since leaving the hearing, Sabatino smiled — at the look of obvious relief on Straker’s face. The taxi made its way up the Champs-Élysées. Before he could respond, Straker’s phone started ringing. Looking at the display, he saw: “Unknown Caller”. He was cautious about who this might be: given the scale of the fallout from the hearing, Straker could only think it would be a journalist. Pressing the green bar, he answered it with a degree of care.
‘Hello — Matt Straker,’ he said formally.
There was a silence on the phone and what sounded like the background hum of a crowded place.
‘Hello?’ repeated Straker.
‘…I have information that you would want to know regarding Van Der Vaal and Trifecta,’ said a very — almost deliberately — muffled voice.
Straker paused, his mind already beginning to whir. He looked at Sabatino. Her face quickly registered his distracted expression. She tried to lean in to hear the voice on the other end. Straker pressed the phone hard against his head and indicated to Sabatino that the signal was poor, pulling a face in apology for her not being able to listen in.
‘Are you interested, or not?’ came the voice.
‘I don’t think we should even be talking,’ answered Straker still not quite sure what he should be doing with this call. He didn’t want to embroil himself — or this case — in any further transfer of illegal information, if indeed that had happened already.
‘Do you want the info, or not?’
Straker tried to think how he should best handle this. ‘Could I ring you back?’ he asked.
‘No way. Do you have any idea how much of a risk I’m taking?’
‘Could you call me back, then? In about half an hour?’
There was a grunt from the other end of the line.
The line went dead.
Straker breathed deeply several times.
‘Who was that?’ asked Sabatino, sitting up.
Straker looked at her quizzically, as if trying to think it through; then half-smiling, he said: ‘Erm, I suppose you’d call them some kind of whistle-blower?’
‘Wow, can he help us? What did he say?’
‘Nothing, yet.’
Straker raised his phone. He immediately dialled Quartano’s London office. ‘Jean? It’s Matt here. We have an urgent situation. Is Mr Q available?’
Without missing a beat she said: ‘Yes, I believe he can be.’
‘Excellent. First, can you try and reach Stacey Krall and get her on this call as well — and then patch us both through to Mr Q?’
Jean could hear the genuine urgency in Straker’s voice. ‘Hang on.’
Buttons were pressed.
A number was pulsed out.
‘Stacey Krall,’ came the deep voice.
‘Stacey, Jean here. I have Matt Straker on the line. Are you okay to be put through to Mr Quartano?’
‘Sure.’
‘Hold on, please.’
More buttons were pressed. There was a period of silence.
Quartano’s rich baritone came through. ‘Matt, Stacey, what’s going on?’
Straker breathed deeply. ‘A significant development,’ he said. ‘I’ve just been rung by some kind of whistle-blower.’
‘Good God,’ said Quartano. ‘What the hell did he — she — say?’
‘Says he’s got some information on Van Der Vaal and Trifecta that he thinks we’d like.’
‘What did you say?’ asked Krall sharply.
‘Nothing. I asked him to ring back in half an hour.’
‘Good.’
‘Did he demand anything for it?’
‘No.’
‘Good.’
‘Stacey, how do I play this?’
‘First, let me say, I’m not happy about Matt even talking to this guy again. We’ve no idea whether this is a put-up job by Massarella, a set-up, being recorded, or even some sort of sting operation mounted by a tabloid newspaper. For the sake of the returned call, you must play a straight bat. We do not want anything to come to us. Any information that might be offered should only go directly to the President of the FIA.’
‘Good, that’ll work,’ acknowledged Quartano. ‘Much better to go through the neutrality of the governing body.’
‘Okay. Do I ask him to send us a copy of anything?’
‘Absolutely not. The FIA, I am sure, will inform us anyway. Let anything he offers go through official channels. Only.’
‘Do we know who this guy is?’ asked Quartano.
‘What if he does ask for something?’ responded Straker over the top of his boss’s question.
Krall jumped in. ‘Refuse it … outright. Offer him nothing. Tell him he’s going out on a limb entirely for reasons of his own conscience.’
‘Fine. Do I make a note of the exchange, or this call?’
‘No, I’ll make a file record of both from here.’
‘Okay, thanks. I think I’m clear about what I’ve got to do.’
Quartano’s tone seemed to lighten with curiosity. ‘Do you have any idea what this information might be?’
‘No, sir. But it must be considered helpful to us, otherwise why would this guy run such a huge risk of breaching whatever confidence to make an approach?’
Straker, still sitting next to Sabatino in the back of the now-static cab, rang off as they alighted opposite the Arc de Triomphe.
‘Bloody hell,’ she said, manifesting a clear change in her mood at the prospect of supportive information. ‘What on earth do you think’s going on?’
Straker smiled broadly. ‘No idea. But it’s edgy stuff.’
Thirty minutes later, and there was no sign of the whistle-blower. He hadn’t rung back.
A quarter of an hour after that and there was still nothing.
Had he been frightened off?
Had they lost the opportunity?
It was an agonizing hour before Straker’s phone rang again. He and Sabatino were still waiting — outside the Hotel Splendid — in the privacy of a public space for the follow-up call. Once again, Straker had to force the phone in hard against his ear, pulling another face at Sabatino by way of apology for the poor quality of the line and her not being able to listen in.
‘Well?’ asked the mysterious voice.
‘First,’ said Straker, ‘thank you for making contact,’ adding rather stiltedly, as if he was being recorded: ‘We cannot accept anything that might be someone else’s property.’
‘Fine,’ said the reply resignedly and dismissively.
‘…but,’ jumped in Straker fearing he might ring off, ‘if you are prepared to do something, whatever you’ve got should be sent directly to San Marino.’