Free Driven by Toby Vintcent Page B

again with the opportunity to shoot round and quicklyrejoin the back of the pack. If the safety car was then deployed, she would have stolen a march on her rivals – Race Control would close the pit lane for stops once the safety car was out. Her rivals could then only pit when the race was restarted and the field was back up to full race pace, costing the stoppers, then, considerably more speed, distance, possibly even track position.
    On the other hand, if they called Sabatino in and the safety car was not deployed, they would have destroyed their planned strategy for the race.
    Treadwell watched the CCTV screens showing the crash scene at Tabac. Two marshals, leaning over the Armco, were clearly checking for debris on the circuit as cars continued to hurtle past. Arms and fingers were being pointed at the middle of the track. One of them was speaking animatedly into a radio.
    A camera zoomed in on the surface of the road.
    It was clear that there was oil among the razor-sharp splinters of carbon fibre scattered across the road.
    The team made its decision.
    ‘Remy, Remy…’ said Backhouse over the air, ‘Boccrrgghh…’ but the saboteur returned – jamming the radio – obliterating the message with white noise. There was total mush over the air – the message was completely blanked out.
    This was critical. A spontaneous adjustment to race tactics was going to be thwarted if they couldn’t co-ordinate things right now over the radio.
    Another message was transmitted by the Ptarmigan pit wall. At precisely the same moment the jammer blasted them again with crackle. Sabatino’s radio could be heard in reply. But only as static.
    The CCTV showed more commotion at the trackside down by Tabac.
    The Race Director wasted no time. The safety car was ordered to deploy.
    Very soon the field started to slow down. The cars all began to bunch up. The crocodile started to form.
    The pit lane was closed for stops.
    Straker, though, heaved a massive sigh of relief. Despite the jamming, Sabatino had got the message – and had pulled in to pit. Ptarmigan had just pulled off a stunningly opportunistic stop and had got her back out – just in time. Straker’s insurance policy had proved inspired.
    Advising the team to fit second radios and setting the original radios to transmit only, meant the driver and pit wall were not hearing any of the white noise. Straker may have been. But the critical discussion about tactics and the call to “Box” had proceeded without interference – all conducted over the second radio net on a completely separate frequency.
    Despite the enthralling drama on the track, and over the air, Straker had to pull himself away. He now had work to do.
    Looking down at his screen, he saw that three of his dishes had actively vectored the saboteur’s jamming transmission and plotted the direction of their signal.
    He had a multiple fix.
    Triangulation.
    Straker had got him.

TWELVE
    T his time, Straker’s radio fix seemed to be a location in the town, only three roads back from the circuit. “Got you, you bastard,” he shouted to himself as he grabbed the printout and his digital camera, and set off on foot.
    Running out of the paddock, Straker belted along the Avenue du Port, finding his way down Rue Saige, to reach Rue de la Princesse Caroline. He sprinted flat out. Because of race day, the streets were relatively free of cars, but were now full of pedestrians taking advantage of their short-lived freedom. Straker ran athletically, nimbly weaving his way between the ambling crowds, before turning right into Rue Louis Notari to reach Rue des Princes.
    A few blocks later, he was there.
    He reached the triangulation point, his chest heaving for breath. Pulling the printout from his pocket, he orientated himself as before, looking left and right to identify the exact grid reference.
    It turned out to be a pinkish-beige, four-storey townhouse, built as a small apartment block. Trying to calm his breathing, he