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.
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?’
