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.
