Crash, p.3
CRASH, page 3
Their helicopter began to lose height, hovering in towards the helipad in the middle of the complex. Looking out through the window, Sabatino was struck by the large expanses of woodland preserved from the ancient park now incorporated into the circuit.
‘Forests are a big thing in Russia, having a truly mystical place in Russian folklore,’ Callom observed. ‘As you’ll be able to see, the architect has more than achieved his stated aim of melding the track with the landscape.’
They were just about to see the best example of this.
Touching down in the early evening sun, Sabatino and Callom were helped to alight. Moments later the Kamov Ka-62 lifted off again, leaving the visitors – after the receding noise and force of the helicopter's downdraft – to enjoy the setting in relative peace.
Extensive woodland and the Autodrom's buildings were now all around them. They saw immediately how the architect had managed to blend the new with the old. A Capability-Brownski avenue led off from the middle of the complex. Irresistibly, it lured the eye out from the modern – across the river to a vision that, for the rest of the world, would embody a romantic view of Russia: a golden, onion-shaped dome atop the brilliant-white walls of an Orthodox church. A statement of eastern mysticism was there in the Church of Alexander Nevsky. Ancient woodland and this majestic avenue – framing the Orthodox church at the end of it – were all designed to whisk the visitor away to a historical Russia: to the Russia of Anna Karenina … Carl Fabergé … Tchaikovsky … Dr Zhivago … even the imperial splendour of the Tsars.
FOUR
Walking down the pit lane, Sabatino breathed deeply as she reached the open bay at the front of the Ptarmigan garage. She was anxious about encountering her teammate, Yegor Baryshnikov; not about meeting him, but about doubting whether she’d succeed in controlling herself after his attack on her at the FIA. A public bust-up in front of the team would not be a clever move. She wasn’t much looking forward to meeting Tahm Nazar, either; Sabatino was still brooding over the team boss's decision to take her race engineer away from her for this crucial race.
The Ptarmigan bay was immaculate with glossy white-painted walls and a shiny white-painted concrete floor, more reminiscent of an operating theatre than a garage. Casting an eye round inside, Sabatino found it all relatively quiet. Both turquoise Ptarmigan Formula One cars were up on tall jack stands, with every wheel removed. Numerous mechanics attended different parts of each car; the tool most of them carried, though, was a laptop – typically wedged in the crook of an arm. A series of readings were being taken.
Andy Backhouse spotted Sabatino's arrival and made his way over. Her race engineer, a squat British man in his forties with dark thinning hair, hairy arms, and heavy glasses, was keen to break the ice. In his tenor-pitched Birmingham accent he said: ‘So sorry to hear about the FIA ruling, Rems.’
Sabatino shrugged. ‘It was seriously unjust. I’m going to appeal. I’m far more pissed off knowing that whole investigation was kicked off by Yegor.’
Backhouse replied: ‘What?’
She turned to look at him. ‘You didn’t know that Baryshnikov was behind it?’
‘I’ve been travelling – from Canada last weekend – working all hours to help Yegor's engineers rebuild his car. I haven’t been talking to anyone, not plugged in at all.’
Sabatino couldn’t work out what to make of this. Bizarrely, it made her feel better. Why should that be? Why should hearing that Backhouse didn’t know about Baryshnikov's activities with the governing body be in any way comforting? Did it, somehow, bolster her feeling of the underhandedness of it all? Her sense of conspiracy?
‘Considering your impending new relationship with him, I’d better not ask you whether you approve of what he did, then,’ she said looking at him knowingly.
‘What new relationship?’
‘You and Baryshnikov.’
Backhouse looked blank.
‘Tahm hasn’t told you?’
‘Told me what?’
‘You’re going to be looking after Baryshnikov – here, in Moscow – as his race engineer?’
Sabatino could now see Backhouse's own shock at this news: what pleased her was that Backhouse did not look happy about it either.
‘I’d better have a word with Tahm,’ replied Backhouse, ‘but not now – we don’t have time. I’ve arranged for a buggy to take us round the circuit.’ And, as though to put all this unexpected news out of his mind, he held out his arm to indicate the way.
Five minutes later, sitting in the electric golf cart, Sabatino was being driven across the start/finish line as they set out on a recce round the circuit. Even their gentle speed created something of a breeze, which Sabatino found refreshing.
‘This place may be located in the middle of a city,’ said Backhouse as they headed for Turn One, ‘but it's absolutely no street circuit.’
Sabatino had gained the same clear impression from her time on the simulator. She knew the track to be one of huge contrasts. Speeds were going to be high, with three flat-out 210 mile-an-hour straights. But that was where their challenge lay: to capitalize on those, they would need to set very low wing – to minimize the drag. Except, of course, doing that would drastically reduce the down-force through the undulating, twisty sections – where they’d want maximum grip.
At the end of the half-mile Hermitage Straight, Sabatino and her race engineer drew their buggy to a stop. Behind them, a lowering sun was reddening the sky and coating the landscape with a haunting glow. In front of them was a clear view into one of the key sculpted corners; they were a hundred metres from the entry point of Turn Eleven, a long sweeping left-hander.
This corner, now directly in front of them, was set in a clearing among the trees. They could see the apex of the bend away to the left; the track, there, straightening out before it fell away slightly for a short distance into a tighter right-hander, Turn Twelve. After that, the circuit disappeared again, off into the ancient forest.
Compared with the simulator, this corner was looking very different as she studied it in three-dimensional reality.
Sabatino felt a buzz of anticipation.
She definitely felt there was a possibility here. Plan A, of course, would see her on pole after Qualifying with her being able to leave the rest of the field trailing behind her after the exit of Turn One. But should that not materialize, she would need a Plan B – requiring her to have as many overtaking strategies in her armoury as possible.
It occurred to Sabatino that there could be an unexpected tactical overtaking ploy. She might just be able to create the element of surprise that could seriously wrong-foot an intended victim.
‘The track's pretty wide,’ Backhouse observed, indicating the approach to the turn, ‘but it's not much of a place to overtake; there's barely anything of a braking zone into the corner. Going round the outside wouldn’t be advisable, either; very early on you might be all right, but after any number of laps we’re likely to see a nasty buildup of dirt and marbles over there.’
Sabatino was listening, but she wasn’t agreeing.
Despite her respect for Backhouse, she was not prepared to say anything given his impending transfer to Baryshnikov. Instead, she was studying the topography like a golfer reads a green before a tricky putt. She looked at the surface of the track – its width – its limited braking zone; then she tried to imagine the G-force through here, what effect that would have on the car – on her – on the aerodynamics, on the car's balance front-to-rear; then she took into account the environment around the corner, trying to gauge any effects it might have on wind speed and, most importantly, on temperatures. Mature trees around this section of the track formed something of an organic canyon, which could well induce a microclimate – trapping the air and any warmth here. Sabatino wanted to understand if any of these factors would have a material effect on the working of the aerodynamics, the tyres and the handling of the car through these corners.
Turns Eleven and Twelve, now though, were taking shape in her mind in a completely new way – as an unplanned opportunity: a stunning place in which to launch an unexpected strike, should she need to try and get past a defensive car. It pained her, but she still didn’t feel comfortable discussing any of this with Backhouse ahead of his switch to her teammate.
‘You have to give the Russkies credit,’ said Backhouse, finally distracting her as he pressed the accelerator to continue their recce. Over the whine of the buggy's electric motor he said: ‘I take it you’ve noticed the number of seating and spectator areas they’ve built?’
Subliminally she had. It had even struck her as a clear distinction of the circuit. Viewing opportunities had been created all the way round. There were the to-be-expected commercial locations, of course – such as the half-mile-long horseshoe-shaped grandstand on the outside of the hairpin and the vast set of stands along the pit straight – but it was the mini-grandstands sited on the outside of nearly every corner that made this circuit unusual. The Zharptitsa Autodrom offered no less than twenty-two such vantage points for a total capacity of a quarter of a million people. It was projecting something very clear about the venue's inclusive attitude to spectators.
‘And particularly strange for the commercial world of Formula One,’ offered Backhouse, ‘they’ve even got ungated – unticketed – access for the public into some sections.’
‘Non-paying, you’re kidding?’
‘Nope. It's an amazingly generous gesture to attract the people of the host city to come and enjoy the Grand Prix. That's one of them up there,’ he said pointing to the outside of Turn Eleven, ‘that whole bank is one of these communal stands.’
Her eye looked across the large sand-coloured gravel trap on the outside of the corner, over the brightness of the chunky red-and-white tyre wall, then up and over the concrete wall and wire mesh fence, to see – on the far side of the perimeter – a wide staircase of turf terraces cut into a grassy bank, rising to a height level with the tree tops.
‘You’re saying that all the viewing space over there is free?’
Sabatino's passage back through the Zhar-ptitsa Autodrom complex did not end as orderly as she hoped. Backhouse brought the buggy to stop outside the Ptarmigan garage in the pit lane at the precise moment her teammate, Yegor Baryshnikov, happened to emerge from inside. There were several people gathered around the tall slim Russian driver. Before Sabatino could dismount, Baryshnikov's face broke into a challenging but slightly nervous smile. In his pronounced accent, he said loudly:
‘At least you could not bump off other driver in buggy.’
His entourage was soon chortling.
‘There was no “bumping off” in Canada, Yegor,’ she replied. ‘When you’ve learned to drive wheel to wheel, you might get to understand what you did … what actually happened.’
‘Not what FIA believe. FIA say you force me out – deliberately.’
‘It's really not my problem if you run away every time someone shows you a wheel, Yegor. I win and beat other male drivers, but they don’t seem to take my wins as a diminution of their virility.’
Backhouse quickly put a hand on Sabatino's arm.
Baryshnikov suddenly looked exposed. A ready response, though, eluded him.
Sabatino knew she had scored.
The Russian driver took a step forwards.
Backhouse quickly intervened, this time ordering both of them to cool it.
Turning to face him, Sabatino said sternly: ‘No, Andy, it's just as well you’ve seen this,’ she said cocking a thumb in Baryshnikov's direction. ‘You’d better start to embrace the attitude and loyalty you’re about to be working for.’
Baryshnikov added more loudly than before: ‘Moscow is my race. Ptarmigan will be looked after – best – by me winning Russian Grand Prix.’
‘Then you better had win it, Yegor,’ said Sabatino as she climbed from the buggy. ‘You’re in the best car and you’re about to have the best race engineer in the pit lane as well. Which means that you will have no excuses,’ she said and smiled directly into his face.
FIVE
Sabatino woke early the following morning. Despite the detour via Paris from Montreal her body clock was still on Canadian time. She had slept fitfully. She continued to seethe at the outcome of the FIA hearing. Her mind had also been going over the other events of the day before – her various encounters, and, most curiously, her realization that two significant chunks of information had been withheld from a key member of the team.
What on earth was going on?
She felt she needed some air.
Naked, she crossed the splendour of the Kremlin Suite of the Hotel Baltschug Kempinski and drew back the curtains, to look out on the beginnings of the day. She opened the window and let in air that was cool and refreshing. A gentle hum of traffic could be heard rising from the streets below. Four storeys up, she was looking at the gloomy, overcast light that filled the sky. Moscow was doing its best to look grey, moody and brooding in an early morning twilight. It would have succeeded but for the lurid colours of Saint Basil's Cathedral directly opposite – on the far side of the river. To the left of this was the start of the reddish Kremlin Wall and its numerous blocky towers. Then came the copse of gold domes of the various Kremlin churches, which at that angle and distance all seemed to meld into one another. Finally, over to the far left – running away from her – was the long and imposing facade of the Grand Kremlin Palace; its blend of white, cream, gold leaf – and long verdigris roof – emerging through the murky light. For a view of Moscow and a sense of Russia this one window seemed to offer most of what might be needed.
There was a knock on the door. Sabatino picked up a white hotel gown from one of the chairs and pulled it on. She let a liveried room-service waiter into the suite; he was carrying a silver tray and a stack of newspapers.
Once her privacy was restored, Sabatino shed the robe. Naked once more, she sat down at a small table to eat an early breakfast and scan the papers. Her priority was to gauge the fallout from the ruling by the FIA. Like all sports figures, her reputation was her currency. Only on the back of it would she secure and retain sizeable sponsorship and endorsement deals. She was anxious to judge whether – and how badly – her brand might have been damaged by the Montreal incident and yesterday's ruling.
She was relieved. The media's reaction to the judgment turned out to be milder than she feared. There were numerous references to the growing rivalry between her and Baryshnikov, although at this stage no one seemed to be taking sides. In the international press, the slight negativity to the incident was limited to the “inside baseball” constituency, most likely represented by that group of journalists she’d heard at the airport. Any such negativity, though, was more than outweighed by the populist journals, all of which focused on the positive – drawing on the public mood indicated by the huge crowds that had greeted her when she landed.
Sabatino even scanned the Russian papers. Not being able to read Cyrillic script, they weren’t that informative. She gained a feeling from the numerous pictures of her, though: the inference was of a general anticipation and excitement ahead of the Russian Grand Prix.
Just as its patron intended.
It was, perhaps, a shame that Sabatino had been unable to read the Russian papers; she might have felt better. Their coverage was predominantly about her. Most articles celebrated that, in only the season before, she had broken the twenty-two-year absence of female drivers in Formula One – and that, in fewer than twelve months, she had become extraordinarily close to becoming a motor racing icon. They also pointed out that it hadn’t been easy for her.
On Sabatino's arrival in F1, countless commentators and senior motor racing figures had dismissed her presence as a marketing stunt by the Ptarmigan Grand Prix Team. Many considered Sabatino's appointment as a form of politically correct tokenism – affirmative action – positive discrimination. Everything about her credibility was questioned: Whether a woman was up to it. Whether she was physically strong enough. Whether she would have the stamina, car control or technical understanding. A number of tabloids had used barely veiled puns to ask whether Sabatino, as a woman, would even have the balls to compete.
Twelve months on and it was hard for anyone to deny Remy Sabatino's talent. From her first appearance on the grid, she had proved herself to be competitive. And then she started winning, momentously at the Monaco Grand Prix – even as a rookie. That didn’t mean the knives weren’t still out. It now appeared, though, that some in Formula One felt demeaned by being beaten by a woman. This season, Sabatino's overriding sense was that her new teammate, Yegor Baryshnikov – in the same car and therefore the driver most easily and directly compared with her – was feeling this the most.
Worldwide, spectators were loving the presence of a competitive woman. Across all metrics interest in F1 was up: TV audiences, attendance at races, readership of related periodicals, advertising revenues and sponsorship. A competitive woman seemed to have revitalized an F1 format that had recently been showing some signs of tiredness.
Nowhere had this excitement been more keenly felt – among a whole new breed of Grand Prix fanatics – than here in Moscow. Muscovites were being presented with a quadruple whammy: the prospect of a Grand Prix on their doorstep for the first time; the prospect of seeing the now-iconic female driver Remy Sabatino in the flesh; the prospect of seeing the first of their own countrymen, Yegor Baryshnikov, as a viable contender for the Driver's Championship, currently even leading the rankings; as well as the prospect of seeing the rivalry for the title between these two first-of-their-kind drivers being played out right in front of them.
There was significant excitement ahead of the first Russian Grand Prix to be hosted here in Moscow.
Just as its patron intended.
SIX
Race day came upon the city.
On the grid, a mass of people, equipment and bright colours seemed to smother the twenty-two cars. Either side of the pit straight, the half-mile grandstands were jam-packed. Genuine Formula One fans – as well as the locals swept up by the carnival of the Grand Prix – were in anticipatory mood. There were constant roars from the spectators, surging whenever anyone recognizable appeared.
