sign of a saboteur anywhere.
S traker made it back to the pit lane as Q3 finished. Simi Luciano in the Massarella had qualified on pole by a considerable margin – point-six of a second. A Ferrari was next to him on the front row in P2. Remy Sabatino was third, on the second row, while the Championship leader, Paddy Aston in the Lambourn, was alongside her in fourth. Adi Barrantes, the Argentinian in the other Massarella, was down in P7.
Straker walked back into the garage. Sabatino accosted him: ‘Well? Any developments with the so-called saboteur?’
Straker forced a smile – despite the edge in her voice. ‘Yes and no.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Somebody was active. I got a fix. When I got to the location, there was no one there.’
Sabatino screwed up her face. ‘What a surprise.’
Straker responded with a neutral expression and a shrug, realizing he wasn’t going to get any support from her on the sabotage issue. ‘Well done in Qualifying, then,’ he said. ‘Pretty impressive, given the circumstances and the scare with Helli. You pleased?’
‘Sort of,’ grunted Sabatino. ‘Be warned,’ she added with a pointed smile, ‘if I get any grief from the Big Man about not being on the front row, I’ll blame you and the distraction of chasing your non-existent spy.’
S traker, Quartano and Backhouse were in conference five minutes later.
‘How’s Helli?’
Backhouse looked shattered. ‘Tahm’s up at the hospital waiting for news.’
‘I want to know immediately of any development,’ said Quartano.
‘Of course, sir.’
Quartano changed the subject, saying to Straker: ‘What about the saboteur? Are you sure this bastard’s still out there?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘What more can we do?’
‘Nothing different, at least for the time being,’ answered Straker confidently, despite not offering any new ideas.
‘Remy remains unconvinced by any of this,’ Backhouse reported, ‘and is sorely irritated by the distraction of our countermeasures.’
Quartano shrugged his tolerance. ‘We certainly don’t want to affect her or the team’s concentration in the race.’
Straker said quietly: ‘I’m pretty sure I can do what’s needed without interrupting her normal routine.’
‘Okay, let’s not disturb her race tomorrow,’ summarized Quartano. ‘Do all you can – but try and keep everything as passive as possible.’
T hat was all fine in principle. Straker had a feeling the saboteur was going to be anything but passive.
ELEVEN
R ace day of the Monaco Grand Prix.
At five minutes to two the next afternoon, following a procession of carnival-like entertainment for the crowds – including the drivers being paraded round the circuit on an open-top bus, and the staging of the Formula Renault and GP2 support races – the long build-up to the most glamorous Grand Prix of the season neared its climax.
At the sound of the hooter, the chaotic-looking grid, teeming with brightly coloured overalls in each team’s livery and their trolley-borne equipment, suddenly started to clear. Blankets were pulled off tyres. Umbrellas providing shade from the Mediterranean sun were lowered. Pit lizards, the scantily dressed dolly-birds carrying signs with the name and nationality of each driver, trooped off in procession. The mass presence of the media, TV camera crews and presenters withdrew. And the plethora of international A-Listers from rock, pop, film and the arts, drawn to the glamour of Monte-Carlo, Formula One and, above all, the Monaco Grand Prix, was escorted off the hallowed tarmac to their fiendishly expensive but highly prized hospitality suites and boxes overlooking the circuit.
In no time at all only the cars were left on the grid.
Then, as an ever-growing roar, twenty-one high-performance engines started to growl. Fifteen thousand horsepower – screaming – ready to do battle.
The lights on the race gantry went on, indicating the start of the slow formation lap
S traker made it back to the pit lane as Q3 finished. Simi Luciano in the Massarella had qualified on pole by a considerable margin – point-six of a second. A Ferrari was next to him on the front row in P2. Remy Sabatino was third, on the second row, while the Championship leader, Paddy Aston in the Lambourn, was alongside her in fourth. Adi Barrantes, the Argentinian in the other Massarella, was down in P7.
Straker walked back into the garage. Sabatino accosted him: ‘Well? Any developments with the so-called saboteur?’
Straker forced a smile – despite the edge in her voice. ‘Yes and no.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Somebody was active. I got a fix. When I got to the location, there was no one there.’
Sabatino screwed up her face. ‘What a surprise.’
Straker responded with a neutral expression and a shrug, realizing he wasn’t going to get any support from her on the sabotage issue. ‘Well done in Qualifying, then,’ he said. ‘Pretty impressive, given the circumstances and the scare with Helli. You pleased?’
‘Sort of,’ grunted Sabatino. ‘Be warned,’ she added with a pointed smile, ‘if I get any grief from the Big Man about not being on the front row, I’ll blame you and the distraction of chasing your non-existent spy.’
S traker, Quartano and Backhouse were in conference five minutes later.
‘How’s Helli?’
Backhouse looked shattered. ‘Tahm’s up at the hospital waiting for news.’
‘I want to know immediately of any development,’ said Quartano.
‘Of course, sir.’
Quartano changed the subject, saying to Straker: ‘What about the saboteur? Are you sure this bastard’s still out there?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘What more can we do?’
‘Nothing different, at least for the time being,’ answered Straker confidently, despite not offering any new ideas.
‘Remy remains unconvinced by any of this,’ Backhouse reported, ‘and is sorely irritated by the distraction of our countermeasures.’
Quartano shrugged his tolerance. ‘We certainly don’t want to affect her or the team’s concentration in the race.’
Straker said quietly: ‘I’m pretty sure I can do what’s needed without interrupting her normal routine.’
‘Okay, let’s not disturb her race tomorrow,’ summarized Quartano. ‘Do all you can – but try and keep everything as passive as possible.’
T hat was all fine in principle. Straker had a feeling the saboteur was going to be anything but passive.
ELEVEN
R ace day of the Monaco Grand Prix.
At five minutes to two the next afternoon, following a procession of carnival-like entertainment for the crowds – including the drivers being paraded round the circuit on an open-top bus, and the staging of the Formula Renault and GP2 support races – the long build-up to the most glamorous Grand Prix of the season neared its climax.
At the sound of the hooter, the chaotic-looking grid, teeming with brightly coloured overalls in each team’s livery and their trolley-borne equipment, suddenly started to clear. Blankets were pulled off tyres. Umbrellas providing shade from the Mediterranean sun were lowered. Pit lizards, the scantily dressed dolly-birds carrying signs with the name and nationality of each driver, trooped off in procession. The mass presence of the media, TV camera crews and presenters withdrew. And the plethora of international A-Listers from rock, pop, film and the arts, drawn to the glamour of Monte-Carlo, Formula One and, above all, the Monaco Grand Prix, was escorted off the hallowed tarmac to their fiendishly expensive but highly prized hospitality suites and boxes overlooking the circuit.
In no time at all only the cars were left on the grid.
Then, as an ever-growing roar, twenty-one high-performance engines started to growl. Fifteen thousand horsepower – screaming – ready to do battle.
The lights on the race gantry went on, indicating the start of the slow formation lap
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