Straker helped Krall work up a supporting application to the High Court. In it, she set out Ptarmigan’s charges of sabotage against Massarella F1.
Once filed with the Court, Straker saw Krall’s stress levels go stratospheric — as she waited anxiously for the judgment.
Straker had been involved in many intelligence-gathering operations in the Royal Marines, but these had typically involved concealment and stealth. This was to be his first civilian, up-front, and intrusive experience.
Moving out of London to base themselves at the Ptarmigan factory, Straker helped Krall pull together the finishing touches and details of their plan.
At three o’clock in the afternoon, Straker and Krall drove into Gaydon, behind a police car and a civilian saloon. Parking the three cars on the verge outside Flax Cottage, there was a moment’s huddle in the single-track country lane before Ptarmigan’s court-appointed solicitor turned with two colleagues and, accompanied by a uniformed policeman, walked through the gate and across the gravel to Michael Lyons’s front door.
The doorbell was rung.
Straker and Krall stood back in the driveway.
The door was answered.
Hesitantly, and looking more than a little alarmed, Michael Lyons peered out and saw three men in suits standing in front of him, along with the uniformed policeman.
‘Mr Lyons?’
‘Yes?’
‘I am Arnold Close, a solicitor with Grumman & Phipps. I have here a Search Order issued by the High Court under the Civil Procedure Act 1997. This order states that as the Supervising Solicitor I have been given the power to search your house for intellectual property, technical documents, and any postal, email, or SMS correspondence relating to the Ptarmigan and Massarella Formula One teams.’
Michael Lyons suddenly looked like he had seen a ghost.
‘Do you understand the situation, Mr Lyons?’
The man stared at the solicitor. Then he looked at the policeman, then at Krall and Straker, whom he seemed to recognize, standing at a distance. Finally, he looked back to the solicitor again.
Lyons seemed to be processing this information. ‘What’s all this about?’
The solicitor handed him the Search Order. ‘It’s all set out in here, Mr Lyons. Ptarmigan and Massarella are accusing each other of industrial espionage. Ptarmigan assert that their cars have suffered from certain acts of sabotage on the race track, while Massarella allege that some of their secrets have been stolen. Ptarmigan believe you have documents or information that could clarify the situation.’
Lyons looked down at the order. His face registered shock.
Straker could see the man’s eyes flit across the document, but Lyon’s stare indicated that he was soon deep in thought. Was he weighing up his adjusted loyalties — now that he’d been sacked? Straker wondered. Somehow, though, the man looked resigned.
After a pregnant pause, Lyons looked back at the policeman as if for confirmation and reassurance.
‘Okay,’ he said flatly. ‘Maybe the truth should come out,’ with which he stood back and let the Supervising Solicitor and his colleagues into his house.
An hour later a computer, a laptop, several boxes of files, a small credenza, and a handful of rolled-up tubes of paper from Lyons’s house were loaded into the back of the solicitor’s car.
As Straker and Krall walked out of the drive, Straker snatched a glance back at Michael Lyons standing on the doorstep of his quintessential English cottage.
He was bemused by the man’s expression.
If he had to describe it, Straker would have said Lyons showed, of all things, relief — an odd emotion given that his privacy and possessions had just been so unceremoniously violated.
An hour later Straker and Krall were in a similar convoy, this time pulling up outside the entrance of Trifecta Systems on an industrial estate on the outskirts of Leamington Spa. They alighted and walked as a group up to the glass front doors, and through them into the main reception area. Arnold Close approached the reception desk and addressed the elder of the two women sitting behind it.
‘I’d like to see Justin Greening, the legal officer of the company,’ he said firmly. ‘Please explain that I have a Search Order from the High Court — please make sure you say that: a Search Order.’
The receptionist looked at the solicitor, and then across at the uniformed police officer standing a few feet back. Straker could see the woman was taking the request seriously. Sheepishly, she picked up her phone. When it was answered, she equally sheepishly passed the message on to the legal officer.
It was just as well the police officer was with them this time.
A few moments later a man burst through a pair of inner doors and strode aggressively into the reception area.
‘What the hell is this?’ he shouted as he cast his eyes across the six strangers. ‘What the hell are you people doing here?’
Arnold Close turned to face him. ‘Are you Trifecta’s legal officer?’ he asked.
‘What if I am — what the hell’s it got to do with you?’ the man bawled and moved uncomfortably close to the visitor asking the question.
‘Mr Greening — I’m assuming that’s who you are — I have a Search Order, here, issued by the High Court on behalf of the Ptarmigan Formula One Team. We have the authority to search your premises,’ and offered the order up for inspection.
Greening flicked the document away with the back of his hand.
Sensing trouble, the policeman stepped forward — extending an arm out in front of him, as if to separate the two men: ‘Excuse me, sir, if you’d like to take a step back.’
‘No, I fucking well don’t like — not in my own fucking offices.’
Arnold Close realized this wasn’t going to get anywhere. Turning to the policeman, he said: ‘Perhaps Mr Greening would like to call Trifecta’s own solicitors — in case he’s not familiar with the Search Order process?’
That could so easily have been taken as a professional insult by Greening. Looking at the policeman as Arnold Close said it, though — and, with the policeman nodding his agreement to the idea, Greening seemed to calm a fraction. Turning to the receptionist, he barked: ‘Get me Rafe Cushing at Cushing & Partners.’
There were several moments of silent standoff, until, cowing slightly, the receptionist declared curtly: ‘I have Mr Cushing for you,’ and tentatively offered up the handset.
Greening grabbed the phone and conducted a conversation in hushed tones, shielding himself from the visitors. Handing back the receiver he said defiantly: ‘Mr Cushing will be here within five minutes. Then we’ll kick you all off these premises. In the meantime, you are prohibited from setting foot beyond this area,’ and stormed away, back through the inner doors of the reception hall.
Five minutes later, through the glass windows of the entrance hall, Straker could see a car swing wildly into the Trifecta parking area, and, sweeping round at some speed, screech to a halt on the neat asphalt surface. A short man with red hair and brown-rimmed glasses jumped out. Leaving the car — with its door open and engine running — the man ran towards the glass doors and barged through them into the reception area. At the same time, Greening reappeared from inside the building. The two men converged in the middle of the hall, with Greening saying — and pointing: ‘These are the people, Rafe, to be thrown off the premises.’
Arnold Close turned and, calmly addressing the new arrival, said: ‘This is a High Court Search Order, and I am the Supervising Solicitor — here to enforce it on behalf of the Ptarmigan Formula One Team,’ and handed the document over.