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conversation of a natural host. Suave was definitely the word. Lambourn offeredhis hand with a gentle bow, saying: ‘Dr Chen, I’m delighted to meet you. Thank you, sir, for gracing our sport, should you decide to do so. Ptarmigan is one of the finest marques in motor racing. I hope you enjoy a successful association, and that Formula One serves to grow your brand around the world.’
    Dr Chen, somewhat thrown by Lambourn’s lack of competitiveness – particularly as one of his drivers was leading the Drivers’ Championship – gave a slightly confused smile indicating, perhaps, that he did not quite understand the English.
    Moving on through the dining room Quartano encountered another team principal. He introduced his party to the Afrikaner Eugene Van Der Vaal, team boss of Massarella.
    Dr Chen shook hands.
    ‘You don’t want to be wasting your money on Ptarmigan,’ said Van Der Vaal without levity, his guttural Boerish accent giving his comments a barbed and abrasive edge.
    Straker likened Van Der Vaal, with his closely-shaved head and broad physique, to a rugby prop forward. His brutish expression added to the look. Word had it that he never smiled – let alone laughed – unless it was at someone else’s expense.
    ‘Britain is old world,’ said Van Der Vaal. ‘Tired, complacent and of the past.’
    Straker was getting a first-hand feel for why the team bosses might have been referred to en masse as “the Piranha Club”. Quartano’s composure, however, did not waver for a second. ‘That’s very interesting,’ he said to the Massarella man. Turning to his guest, he said: ‘And yet, Dr Chen, isn’t it strange that all of Mr Van Der Vaal’s key team members – Massarella’s COO, designer, and both race engineers – happen to be British.’
    Dr Chen’s face broke into a smile. This, perhaps, was a bit more like it. ‘We Chinese, Mr Valley, have an old saying for someone who says one thing … and does another…’
    It was Quartano’s, Nazar’s, and Straker’s turn to smile.
     
    R eaching their table, Straker and Quartano were left alone for a moment while Nazar escorted Dr Chen to find a lavatory. The tycoon, certain they could not be overheard, turned and asked discreetly: ‘How are you holding up, Matt?’
    Straker shook his head. ‘Fine,’ he said dismissively.
    Quartano looked at him carefully, almost intently.
    Straker found himself turning away. ‘Incidentally,’ he said, looking back towards one of their encounters on the way in, ‘talking of Massarella – Ollie Treadwell said he had written to them this morning about their diffuser. What does writing to mean, exactly?’
    Quartano smiled and raised an eyebrow, inhaling deeply. ‘This is a funny – and I mean funny-peculiar – sport. It’s best to remember that, in reality, Matt, F1’s more or less – no, I’d say largely – about rules. The interpretation of rules.’
    ‘Largely?’
    ‘Without the rules – or the Formula – a Grand Prix car could easily do over three hundred miles an hour and pull so much G-force round the corners that the drivers would actually black out. Modern cars are not primarily limited by physics or the laws of nature. They’re limited by arbitrary, man-made rules. Interpretation of those rules, therefore, is everything.’
    ‘Doesn’t that make the limits rather subjective?’
    ‘Oh, completely. Because of this, a number of teams have signed the equivalent of non-aggression pacts. Massarella’s signed one with nearly every team, including Ptarmigan. If either party believes the other is pushing the rules for unfair advantage, these agreements are meant to encourage resolution of a dispute between themselves – bilaterally – before anyone runs off to the FIA to bad mouth the other in public.’
    ‘Do they do any good?’
    ‘Hardly. They’re like signing an NDA – they’re more about declaring an intent than a legal bond.’
    ‘How many times do they get exercised?’
    ‘Between