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us and the other teams – never.’
    ‘So what’s with Massarella’s diffuser? Why’ve we thought it significant?’
    ‘No idea. And I’d be quite sure it isn’t. If it is , then, what the hell, the FIA stewards in Parc Fermé will pick it up.’
    ‘So why bother write to them at all?’
    Quartano’s lived-in face broke into a contended, mischievous smile. ‘Massarella never stop whingeing, sniping and causing trouble. We use their stupid pact to yank their chain from time to time.’
    Dr Chen returned and was introduced by Quartano to the other guests at their table before a fanfare heralded the Prince’s arrival into the dining room.
     
    S traker’s pang of conscience, over not being able to justify his presence in the luxury of Monaco – let alone his concern about how this assignment could use his particular skills – was about to be shattered.

SIX
    D uring coffee and port Straker was distracted by his phone vibrating. Looking down at the screen he saw a message from Andy Backhouse:
    Can you come to HQ urgently? Something you need to see…
    Straker showed this to Quartano, who, reading the message, encouraged him to go.
    Still wearing black tie, Straker strode round Monte-Carlo harbour in the balmy evening humidity. Soothed by the gentle breeze off the Mediterranean, he made the Ptarmigan headquarters truck down by the waterfront twenty minutes later. Just before midnight.
    From the outside, Straker could see little more than dim light through the smoked-glass windows. Inside, he found the lighting matched by the mood. Backhouse sat alone at the small meeting table. ‘Matt, thanks for coming. I need you to look at this.’
    Backhouse held out his hand to offer Straker a tiny object. ‘Yesterday afternoon – in practice – Remy complained of a crackling radio. Our signal kept breaking up. It seriously affected our ability to make adjustments to Remy’s car. As a result, I went through all her radio circuitry. While I was lifting it all out, I found this.’
    Straker squinted, given its modest size. ‘It looks like some kind of chip?’
    ‘It’s a transponder.’
    ‘Hang on … why do you say found ? It’s not one of ours?’
    ‘Absolutely not.’
    ‘Where was it?’
    ‘Hidden in the foam lining of Remy’s helmet.’
    Backhouse could not miss the change in Straker’s expression. There was suddenly a gleam in the hooded eyes.
    ‘I thought you encrypted your radio traffic,’ said Straker.
    ‘We do. But that wasn’t wired to our system – it wasn’t transmitting from her circuitry.’
    ‘You mean it was picking up her voice independently?’
    ‘Being halfway between her mouth and right earpiece – it would have been able to hear and relay her incoming traffic too.’
    ‘Somebody’s been listening in?’
    ‘But that’s not all,’ said Backhouse. ‘The reason we were looking at the radio circuitry in the first place was because Remy complained of radio crackle. Matt, the radio crackle was not a malfunction.’
    Straker’s eyes widened. ‘You mean it was induced?’
    Backhouse nodded slowly. ‘By that device.’
    ‘She was jammed ?’
    ‘It disrupted her radio signal, yes. Yesterday afternoon we were jammed. Matt, if we are jammed in the race – preventing us from making tactical, ad hoc adjustments – it would be absolutely critical to our chances. It could be catastrophic.’
    ‘You’re saying, then, our communications were sabotaged ?’
    ‘I am.’
    Backhouse went on to say something else but Straker’s mind was whirring. ‘Hang on. Was this blanket jamming?’
    ‘Meaning?’
    ‘Was it constant or intermittent?’
    ‘Intermittent. On and off – come to think of it – whenever I talked.’
    ‘Only when you talked?’
    ‘Yep.’
    ‘So it was being activated deliberately each time.’
    ‘Seemed that way.’
    Straker looked pensive. ‘Do we know if these people – whoever they are – have got other ways to do us harm?’
    Backhouse’s face registered the