Crash, p.2
CRASH, page 2
Before Callom could respond, Sabatino's phone rang. Seeing the Caller ID, he quickly passed it back. ‘It's Tahm,’ he announced.
Swiping the screen to answer it, Sabatino took the call from her team boss. Callom could only hear Sabatino's end of the conversation.
Sabatino listened for a few seconds and then said: ‘Did you know he was going to do this, Tahm?’
There was a pause.
‘You’re telling me you didn’t know he was going to the FIA?’
Silence.
‘Are you happy he did it? … Are you?’
Another pause.
‘What? … You’re not serious.’
Sabatino's face turned the darkest yet. ‘That's really clear, Tahm,’ she said with a hint of exasperation in her voice. ‘That's perfectly clear – you’re so clearly rewarding Baryshnikov's treachery…’
Sabatino's face flushed. ‘I’m still second in the Championship, for God's sake. If it hadn’t been for Baryshnikov's bullshit in Montreal, I would be leading the rankings right now. The Russian Grand Prix is crucial to me too…’
Callom saw Sabatino's expression set harder. She challenged: ‘Tahm, Tahm … do you think I sound happy?’ before she rang off.
She stood up. Glaring down at Callom she said: ‘Tahm's taking Backhouse away from me. Baryshnikov's race engineer has had to go home, for some reason – not now going to be in Moscow. Nazar's giving him Andy – to make sure “the championship-leading Russian driver has every support in the Russian Grand Prix”.’
Callom's eyes conveyed sympathy as well as mild incredulity.
‘Baryshnikov attacks me in public. He lodges an objection with the governing body. He testifies against me at an FIA hearing – and then he's rewarded with my race engineer. What kind of fucking team is this? You think these are just “tensions”, Bernie?’
Callom was about to speak when Sabatino launched off again: ‘If Baryshnikov thinks he can beat me – throw me off – with this sort of bullshit interference, he had better be ready.’
Turning away from Callom, she stormed off through the aircraft to the for’ard cabin, yanked open the rosewood door and slammed it behind her.
TWO
An hour on and the Quartech Falcon was entering Russian airspace, crossing the border from Belarus. Callom chose that moment to knock and ask for a word with Sabatino. She would still only communicate with him through the closed door.
‘I need you to be ready when we land, Rems,’ he said. ‘There's quite a reception for you at the terminal.’
They felt the aircraft begin its descent and approach into Vnukovo International Airport, to the south-west of Moscow.
At ground level, a fine haze hung over the airfield, diffusing the light of the afternoon sun; everything was tinted with a soft orange hue. With the humidity around Vnukovo, vapour trails soon appeared from the wing tips of the sleek, brilliant-white Quartech Falcon as Sabatino's plane made its final approach to land. With effortless grace – and seemingly executed as a single manoeuvre – the plane descended, performed a balletic round-out, and lowered itself down onto the runway with the smoothness of a sigh. Once slowed to taxiing speed, the corporate jet made its way to the VIP terminal.
The Quartech Falcon rolled towards the facility that had recently been extended for the president of Russia. Coming to a halt, Sabatino's plane pulled up alongside several other corporate jets already parked there; among them were those of Arno Ravilious, the chief executive of Motor Racing Promotions Limited – the commercial rights holder and therefore the financial powerhouse of Formula One; Ba-Ba Bengeo, the car-mad US rap star who had scheduled a major tour of Russia to coincide with the Russian Grand Prix; and an Ilyushin Il-96-PU, the president of Russia's personal plane – liveried simply with a white, blue and red swoosh of the Russian flag down the side of the fuselage and the single word “POCCИЯ” – so understated and yet, at the same time, so grandiose.
At Callom's insistence, Sabatino had changed her clothes. She was now wearing a brilliant-turquoise Ptarmigan jacket with a Nehru collar, white chinos and knee-high boots. Sabatino had stuck with her dark glasses, implying a clear lack of interest in engaging with the world. The moment she appeared at the cabin door, though, everything changed.
There was an immediate crescendo of shrieks and screams.
She couldn’t help but look up.
She was overwhelmed.
Above her were huge crowds. Along the front of the nearby passenger terminal, people were two … three … four deep in places. They were stretched out along the roof, along the lengths of several balconies, and pressed up against every inch of the plate-glass windows. Sabatino struggled to take it in. She was confused. Turquoise flags were everywhere – the distinctive colour of her team. Baryshnikov had left Paris earlier and was already in Moscow, she knew that. Flags of this colour, therefore, had to be for her. She couldn’t help but feel this override her mood. She found herself unable to resist a wave up to the crowds.
Their response was deafening.
Sabatino couldn’t understand it. This sort of reception never happened in motor racing, with the rare exception perhaps of Ayrton Senna in Brazil at the height of his popularity. Being the first woman Formula One driver in twenty-odd years, and unarguably the most competitive the sport had ever seen, might be having an effect. A key credential was surely lending some weight: Sabatino had got tantalizingly close to taking the Championship the season before, even in her rookie year. In an edge-of-the-seat showdown in Brazil, she’d missed the title by a solitary point – the equivalent of being 10th rather than 9th in one race across a season of twenty Grands Prix. Despite demonstrating such credibility, though, Remy Sabatino had no presumption of being an accepted part of the F1 landscape; she still felt her presence on the Formula One grid to be very much a novelty.
Except here today – in Moscow – it was the reception that was the novelty. She couldn’t believe it: this was more like the Beatles arriving at JFK in 1964.
Followed by Callom, she stepped down the stairs from the plane. As she reached the tarmac she saw an elegant figure walking gracefully towards them. Callom, raising his voice to be heard over the background noise, leant across and discreetly explained: ‘This is Oksana Ivanovna Pavlova, the mayor of Moscow.’
Mayor Pavlova, a striking middle-aged woman with short black hair, large brown eyes and a narrow full-lipped mouth, was wearing what looked like a leather flying jacket, along with a mauve scarf, a knee-length skirt and ankle boots.
Needing to raise his voice to be heard, Callom then announced: ‘Madam Mayor, may I present Ms Remy Sabatino, the Ptarmigan Formula One Team's number one driver.’
Sabatino smiled and even removed her dark glasses.
‘Ms Sabatino?’ said Pavlova shaking Sabatino's hand with both of hers. ‘Welcome to Moscow. We are delighted to have you here.’
Their handshake was celebrated by another deafening roar from the crowds; it echoed around the airport, reverberating off the buildings. Callom was buzzing with anticipation; the PR possibilities of such a reception were enormous.
Mayor Pavlova invited Sabatino to accompany her. When they emerged on the other side of the terminal, the reception was even more astonishing. Pavlova invited Sabatino to climb some improvised steps, up onto the back of a low-loader. A lorry had been turned into a makeshift speaking platform. As she walked up onto its deck, there was another roar hailing her appearance. With the extra height this provided, Sabatino could now look out on an extraordinary sight. Across what should have been a working car park were thousands of people. Mainly young, many of them carried portrait banners of Oksana Pavlova, while most were wearing the turquoise of the Ptarmigan team.
Up on the platform, Pavlova offered Sabatino a generous smile of welcome. She turned to address the crowd using the microphone, amplifier and sizeable bank of loudspeakers rigged up on the back of the lorry.
In Russian, the mayor said: ‘Ladies, Gentlemen … Muscovites,’ and was immediately drowned out. She had to wait nearly a minute before it was worth her even trying to speak again. Then she continued in Russian: ‘We – you and I, our city – have brought the Russian Grand Prix to Moscow.’
In time the sound abated and she was able to say: ‘Our livelihood has been hammered by the sanctions imposed on Russia by the grown-up countries of the world. We are paying for the recklessness of the Crimea land grab, the intervention in Ukraine, and the propping up of the monster Assad in Syria. This Grand Prix will at least show one thing – that Muscovite Russians are capable of interacting harmoniously with the rest of the world.’
Sabatino couldn’t follow the specifics of the message but could easily see its effects: the crowd's reaction was unambiguous.
‘Politically, our standing – as a free country – was savaged by the-then president's homophobia at the time of the Sochi Winter Olympics, and the clampdown on political criticism. Our city – this Grand Prix – will showcase the real Russia. Through it, we will demonstrate Russia's desire to see social freedom, diversity and the unlimited tolerance of our human rights.’
The response from the crowd was emphatic.
Oksana Pavlova chose that moment to turn around and, with an outstretched arm, encouraged Sabatino to step forward. As she did so, Pavlova took her hand and raised their hands together high into the air.
In heavily accented English, the mayor said: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you … Remy Sabatino,’ prompting another roar of applause.
Reverting to Russian, the mayor continued: ‘This remarkable woman is going to teach this country a great lesson about equality – about the power of merit. I am proud to know a woman showing herself to be at the vanguard of proving that women can compete on an equal footing with men … and that a woman can win.’
There was another blast of noise and excitement from the thousands in front of them.
‘Women are going to show this country,’ added Mayor Pavlova, ‘that change in Russia is demanded.’
The crowd began to chant:
‘Zhar-ptitsa! Zhar-ptitsa! Zhar-ptitsa!’
Sabatino had her hand held aloft again by the mayor – to yet another roar of approval.
Bringing the reception to a close, Mayor Pavlova turned and made to give Remy Sabatino a genuine hug, which prompted the biggest reaction so far.
Whatever uplift Sabatino may have felt from the crowd was powerfully tested shortly afterwards.
No more than twenty feet across the tarmac from the low-loader was a very different constituency indeed. A small aluminium barrier had been erected to corral fifty or so members of the press corps. It was plain they were aware of the judgment from the FIA. These journalists bellowed, some of them with thick Russian or at least eastern European accents.
‘What's your response to the ruling from the FIA?’
‘Are you going to apologize to your teammate?’
‘How bad is the rivalry now between you?’
‘Do you have anything to say to the Russian people for the way you treated their national hero?’
Bernie Callom hurried forwards to position himself between Sabatino and the press. He declared authoritatively: ‘Ms Sabatino won’t be giving any interviews, nor will she be responding to the FIA judgment until she's had the chance to discuss things with her teammate, team boss and the team owner.’
The moment Sabatino was back on the ground, Callom graciously but firmly wheeled her round to face the mayor, to whom they paid their respects, before he walked Sabatino straight off to a courtesy car, waiting for them only a short distance away.
THREE
Before Sabatino had time to respond, they were arriving at the VIP helipad. Standing ready on the apron, a sleek executive helicopter was surrounded by a posse of mechanics and ground staff.
Five minutes later, with its rotors at optimum revolutions, the pilot pulled up on the collective to lift the stylish Kamov Ka-62 off the ground. He hovered for a few seconds, as clearance was confirmed from the tower, before he pushed forward on the cyclic, pulled more pitch, and guided the helicopter forwards and up into the air. Sabatino, looking down through the window at the receding airport buildings, saw the huge crowds still milling around them, waiting to wave her off. Masochistically, she couldn’t stop herself glancing over towards the press pen, even though most of the journalists had now dispersed. Sabatino dreaded what bile they were about to discharge in their articles.
Callom glanced at his client. ‘You haven’t seen this circuit yet, have you, Rems?’
Sabatino didn’t respond immediately.
She then mumbled: ‘Only on the simulator.’
The helicopter continued to gain height into their short flight over the south of Moscow. Callom suddenly saw an opportunity – to provide a bit of a distraction from her thoughts: ‘Look down there,’ he said indicating through the window, ‘you see that brilliant-white cube by the river – the one with the central gold-leaf dome and the four smaller gold domes around it – that's the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour.’
Against Callom's expectations, Sabatino did look out of the window. Seeing her respond, he was quickly encouraged to keep going: ‘And that, of course – with the red-bricked walls and the gaudy-coloured onion-shaped domes – is the famous Saint Basil's Cathedral, right next to the Kremlin. And that's Red Square behind it,’ he added, indicating the rectangular area stretching away from them. ‘Just the name sounds so sinister, doesn’t it – let alone how bleak the place looks. Why are Russian governments, of whatever colour, unable to resist using it for their own bit of military willy-waggling.’
Still flying eastwards, they could see the Moskva River's well-pronounced meander through the capital.
‘And there, on its own peninsular in the river,’ announced Callom, ‘is the Zhar-ptitsa Autodrom.’
Sabatino looked down and caught her first glimpse of Moscow's brand-new race track, laid out in the heart of the city. Lit at that moment by its own shaft of sunlight, it made a spectacular sight.
Sabatino studied the complex intently. ‘You know, Bernie, I really don’t understand this. Russia waits a hundred years, since 1914, for a Grand Prix to come back to this country – which it did to Sochi in 2014; and then, in no more than a matter of months later, they’ve got a second purpose-built Grand Prix circuit, here in Moscow?’
‘I guess some of that could be attributed to Russia's ambition, although much of it seems to have been motivated by politics.’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘I am,’ replied Callom. ‘The Sochi Grand Prix you mentioned turned out to be a political triumph in Russia.’
‘How?’
‘Don’t you remember President Tarkovsky's extraordinary behaviour last year? At the end of that race? He was even in the pre-podium holding room – he was in there with the drivers. That never happens – you never have hangers-on in there. Then he went out onto the podium and presented every one of the prizes. He looked stiff … awkward. So completely out of place.’
Sabatino just shrugged.
‘The president was milking the Grand Prix for all it was worth. He seemed to be saying: “Look how involved in this thing I am.”’
‘And you think that makes it political?’
‘Oh, absolutely. Within Russia, that Grand Prix has triumphed as a “fuck-the-West” event. Russia's annexation of the Crimea, its intervention in the Ukraine, the shooting down of MH17 – all isolated the country. Badly. The resultant sanctions hit the country hard. Amazingly, the Sochi GP – known here as Tarkovsky's personal project – hasn’t been boycotted by F1. So he was revelling in the attendance of the numerous F1 countries – showing that, for all its disapproval of Russia's conduct, the West couldn’t stay away – couldn’t do without Russia. The president was projecting the international success of that Grand Prix as proof to the Russian people that his stewardship of the Motherland was winning against the outside world!’
‘But if Sochi was so successful, why's the race been transferred to Moscow?’
‘Because of Mayor Pavlova.’
Sabatino's nod seemed to acknowledge the honour of having been welcomed by her, personally, at the airport. ‘Didn’t that put some noses out of joint?’
Callom chuckled.
‘Whatever did it cost Moscow to get the Grand Prix here, then?’ she asked.
The PR man smiled. ‘That depends on how you measure it, I suppose – and what you want to get out of it. Financially, it's cost a mint. Commercially, the Grand Prix being in Moscow is seen as a massive boost to the city, because Formula One is recognized as such a prestigious thing to host. While politically, the switch from Sochi – to here – has undoubtedly been a significant coup for Mayor Pavlova.’
Their helicopter flew a banked loop around the circuit.
Sabatino studied the brand-new complex. It was hard to see the Zhar-ptitsa Autodrom as anything other than a stunning addition to the Formula One family. Its location was truly magnificent: Nagatinskaya Poyma, a public park, was bounded on three sides by the Moskva River. Other Formula One circuits – Sepang, Bahrain, Abu Dhabi – may have had the grandiosity, but this latest cathedral to motor racing boasted everything expected of a modern F1 venue. The Zhar-ptitsa wasn’t just a generic concrete monstrosity either, as so many of the other new circuits seemed to be. Sabatino could see that most of its elements were designed to say: “Russia”. Its buildings – along the pit lane, the balconied hospitality suites above the garages and the massive grandstand along the main straight – all featured distinctive architecture, making each unmistakably Russian. Pastel-coloured walls were offset by white quoin stones, baroque flourishes and mini onion-shaped domes. Sabatino could see that any visual representation of the Zhar-ptitsa Autodrom – from any angle – was meant to render it instantly recognizable as Russian.
