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.’
