Quartano smiled and raised an eyebrow, inhaling deeply. ‘This is a funny — and I mean funny-peculiar — sport. It’s best to remember that, in reality, Matt, F1’s more or less — no, I’d say largely — about rules. The interpretation of rules.’
‘Largely?’
‘Without the rules — or the Formula — a Grand Prix car could easily do over three hundred miles an hour and pull so much G-force round the corners that the drivers would actually black out. Modern cars are not primarily limited by physics or the laws of nature. They’re limited by arbitrary, man-made rules. Interpretation of those rules, therefore, is everything.’
‘Doesn’t that make the limits rather subjective?’
‘Oh, completely. Because of this, a number of teams have signed the equivalent of non-aggression pacts. Massarella’s signed one with nearly every team, including Ptarmigan. If either party believes the other is pushing the rules for unfair advantage, these agreements are meant to encourage resolution of a dispute between themselves — bilaterally — before anyone runs off to the FIA to bad mouth the other in public.’
‘Do they do any good?’
‘Hardly. They’re like signing an NDA — they’re more about declaring an intent than a legal bond.’
‘How many times do they get exercised?’
‘Between us and the other teams — never.’
‘So what’s with Massarella’s diffuser? Why’ve we thought it significant?’
‘No idea. And I’d be quite sure it isn’t. If it is, then, what the hell, the FIA stewards in Parc Fermé will pick it up.’
‘So why bother write to them at all?’
Quartano’s lived-in face broke into a contended, mischievous smile. ‘Massarella never stop whingeing, sniping and causing trouble. We use their stupid pact to yank their chain from time to time.’
Dr Chen returned and was introduced by Quartano to the other guests at their table before a fanfare heralded the Prince’s arrival into the dining room.
Straker’s pang of conscience, over not being able to justify his presence in the luxury of Monaco — let alone his concern about how this assignment could use his particular skills — was about to be shattered.
SIX
During coffee and port Straker was distracted by his phone vibrating. Looking down at the screen he saw a message from Andy Backhouse:
Can you come to HQ urgently? Something you need to see…
Straker showed this to Quartano, who, reading the message, encouraged him to go.
Still wearing black tie, Straker strode round Monte-Carlo harbour in the balmy evening humidity. Soothed by the gentle breeze off the Mediterranean, he made the Ptarmigan headquarters truck down by the waterfront twenty minutes later. Just before midnight.
From the outside, Straker could see little more than dim light through the smoked-glass windows. Inside, he found the lighting matched by the mood. Backhouse sat alone at the small meeting table. ‘Matt, thanks for coming. I need you to look at this.’
Backhouse held out his hand to offer Straker a tiny object. ‘Yesterday afternoon — in practice — Remy complained of a crackling radio. Our signal kept breaking up. It seriously affected our ability to make adjustments to Remy’s car. As a result, I went through all her radio circuitry. While I was lifting it all out, I found this.’
Straker squinted, given its modest size. ‘It looks like some kind of chip?’
‘It’s a transponder.’
‘Hang on … why do you say found? It’s not one of ours?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Where was it?’
‘Hidden in the foam lining of Remy’s helmet.’
Backhouse could not miss the change in Straker’s expression. There was suddenly a gleam in the hooded eyes.
‘I thought you encrypted your radio traffic,’ said Straker.
‘We do. But that wasn’t wired to our system — it wasn’t transmitting from her circuitry.’
‘You mean it was picking up her voice independently?’
‘Being halfway between her mouth and right earpiece — it would have been able to hear and relay her incoming traffic too.’
‘Somebody’s been listening in?’
‘But that’s not all,’ said Backhouse. ‘The reason we were looking at the radio circuitry in the first place was because Remy complained of radio crackle. Matt, the radio crackle was not a malfunction.’
Straker’s eyes widened. ‘You mean it was induced?’
Backhouse nodded slowly. ‘By that device.’
‘She was jammed?’
‘It disrupted her radio signal, yes. Yesterday afternoon we were jammed. Matt, if we are jammed in the race — preventing us from making tactical, ad hoc adjustments — it would be absolutely critical to our chances. It could be catastrophic.’
‘You’re saying, then, our communications were sabotaged?’
‘I am.’
Backhouse went on to say something else but Straker’s mind was whirring. ‘Hang on. Was this blanket jamming?’
‘Meaning?’
‘Was it constant or intermittent?’
‘Intermittent. On and off — come to think of it — whenever I talked.’
‘Only when you talked?’
‘Yep.’
‘So it was being activated deliberately each time.’
‘Seemed that way.’
Straker looked pensive. ‘Do we know if these people — whoever they are — have got other ways to do us harm?’
Backhouse’s face registered the sinister implications. He shook his head.
‘Then we’ve no idea if this is our only foreign body on either car,’ said Straker. ‘First off — and absolutely critically — we have got to double-check everything, before Remy or Helli get in them again.’
The Race Engineer nodded at the unpleasant corollary of Straker’s logic. ‘Of course. I’ll bring the guys back in right away.’
‘Don’t tell them why. No one’s to know there’s a sabotage threat. We’ve got to be careful who does know about this — it could cause suspicion and mistrust, and seriously damage team morale. Can you invent some other reason why the cars might need a total examination?’
‘I’ll come up with some paranoia about the FIA.’
‘Good. We’ve no time to lose.’
Backhouse, grabbing his phone, started ringing people, waking them up, calling them in from bars around town — down to the garage — to start going over both cars immediately. When he finished the call-out procedure he returned his attention to Straker. He could see the other was still deep in thought.
‘I take it you have no idea who’s behind this?’ Straker asked distantly, before looking up.
Backhouse shook his head emphatically.
‘Have you found the activation frequency of the bug?’ Straker asked.
‘Of its transmissions? Yes.’
‘No, I mean the frequency that activates the jamming signal.’
Backhouse looked blank. ‘Why would we? Better we’ve found it and got rid of it.’
Straker gently shook his head. ‘Do we know who put this there?’
‘No.’
‘Exactly. We’ve got to find out who’s behind this.’
Backhouse nodded tentatively, knowing he should agree, but he wasn’t quite sure how knowing the jamming frequency was linked to identifying the perpetrators.
‘Okay,’ said Straker, delicately handing the bug back to Backhouse. ‘Here’s what we’re going to do. I want you to find the activation frequency. Then, I want you to put this thing back exactly where you found it.’