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The map app on Billy’s phone tells him the racetrack is only forty minutes from the airport. Unfortunately the Frenchman’s driving is as slow as molasses during ski season so they’ve been on the road for thirty minutes and they’re barely halfway there. Billy doesn’t want to say anything, in the spirit of harmony, so he just stares out at the lush countryside and takes in a vividly green hinterland often hydrated by monsoonal rains. Still, it’s difficult to hold his tongue. The guy has been five klicks under the speed limit the whole way. If they keep travelling at this pace they’re going to miss the qualifying session.

Billy knows pretty well everything about the schedule of a Formula One race weekend. It’s not that hard to remember. They are uniform across all races—except Monaco. Monaco is different, and special, the blue ribbon event of the season, and for good reason. It’s the most watched race, the most talked about and, nowadays, the most tweeted about. It’s also the oldest.

On the Friday of a race weekend there are two practice sessions of an hour and a half each, with a three-hour break between. This is when the teams put their cars through their paces for the first time and test new parts. Very occasionally a reserve driver will get to run in one of the sessions, to be evaluated or for experience behind the wheel of a Formula One car.

On the Saturday there’s a third sixty-minute practice session, during which the teams tweak the setup of their car, everything from ride height to suspension settings to the ratios in the gearbox to the pressure in the tyres. The ability to balance so many different, adjustable elements is the difference between a slow car and a quick car. After the third session there’s a break, then a one-hour qualifying session. This determines where on the grid the cars will start, which is often, but not always, a guide to how well the car will perform in the race. Pole position is the goal, not just for bragging rights but for track position at the beginning of the Grand Prix.

Sunday is race day. In Malaysia it runs late in the afternoon, which always makes it a bit of a lottery as that’s when those monsoonal rains often turn up, though a four o’clock deluge midway through the race can often spice up the action. Rain is a great equaliser in Formula One. The power of the engine and the efficiency of the car’s aerodynamics often mean less when the track is wet and the speeds are lower.

Billy glances at his iPhone again. The map app is open and the blue dot that represents their rental car, a Hyundai i30, pulses on the screen. It has barely moved since the last time he looked. Why did he let this guy drive? Because he’s the senior partner in this endeavour—and he actually rented the car.

Billy steals a look at the Frenchman. The bloke must be, what, fifty if he’s a day? So he’s old
and
slow. And short, at least compared to Billy, who’s six-foot-two. As for his hair, well, he still has it all but it’s grey and worn long in the way European guys who came of age in the seventies wear it because they don’t realise long grey hair looks ridiculous on someone so old.

An old banger zips past, puffing acrid black smoke from its exhaust pipe.

Billy watches it go. ‘We just got passed by a Toyota Crown that was built a decade before I was born. I think we can up the pace a little huh?’

The Frenchman ignores him.

A moment passes.

‘Hello? Are you awake? Why are we doing seventy-five in an eighty zone?’

Silence.

‘Mate, if we were going any slower we’d be in reverse.’

Nothing.

‘Tell me, in any of those four languages do you know the word for
accelerate
?’

Nada.

‘Christ, by the time we reach the track the season will be over.’

‘You don’t want to have an accident before we start the investigation, do you?

‘He speaks!’

‘I’m driving to the conditions.’

Billy looks out the windscreen. The sky is blue and the roadway is clear. ‘The conditions? I could land an A380 on this highway and nobody would notice.’

‘I know what I’m doing.’

‘Really? Like you did in the lobby? Because that was some real great police work right there.’

‘I thought you were carrying a weapon.’

‘Well I wasn’t, so you should apologise.’

‘I’m not going to apologise for securing my workplace.’

‘Oh come on, man, you profiled me and got it wrong. Now you need to own it so we can be friends.’

Claude looks at him like he’s crazy. ‘I have no interest in being your friend.’

Billy exhales wearily. ‘It’s a figure of speech, Einstein. I don’t want to be your friend either but we have to work together so we should clear the air before we start the job.’

‘I did what was right.’

‘And you were still wrong.’ A moment passes. ‘So, are you going to apologise?’

~ * ~

Claude shakes his head. He is not going to apologise, and he hasn’t, to anyone, since he was a boy.

He was eleven when his mother sent him to the corner store to buy a pack of Gitanes. Moments after leaving the house he was cornered by the local teenage hood, Bertrand Le Fincher, who promptly stole the money, then beat him like a dusty rug. When his mother heard the cries of her son she came running, but not for the reason you’d think. She didn’t take retribution on the thief but beat
Claude
for being ‘
veule
’, or ‘spineless’, because he had apologised to Bertrand for not having
more
money to give him to stop the beating. Yes, his mother was a tough old broad, but it did the trick. Claude never apologised for anything again. Ever.

As far as Claude is concerned, what he did in the lobby was absolutely right. Admittedly, he was rusty but his intention was one hundred per cent correct. The thing is, apart from that, he just doesn’t like the Australian. He’s not sure if it’s his confidence or his laid-back, half-mast, antipodean air, but the guy just annoys him.

~ * ~

‘Really? No apology?’

Claude doesn’t look at the Australian. ‘I did what was right.’

‘Nice.’ Billy turns and stares out the window, tries his best to let it go. He’s heard all the cliches about the French, how they’re rude and dismissive and the women sexually liberal. Unfortunately he’s only experiencing the first and second of those cliches today.

They drive on in silence.

~ * ~

They arrive at the Sepang racetrack a full hour after departing the airport and leave the Hyundai in the sprawling car park. The place really is quite something. Billy’s seen it on television many times but that didn’t convey how impressive it is, particularly the enormous sun shades that float above the pit straight grandstands and resemble giant flower petals basking in the light.

They quickly find the pit paddock entry, identify themselves to the security officers manning the gate and are handed passes that allow them to move freely through the restricted area. A young man wearing a gold and red Iron Rhino team uniform, emblazoned with the Iron Rhino logo and
Iron Rhino Gets the Lead Out
slogan, is there to collect them.

Together they walk along the road that runs behind the pits and they pass various Formula One teams’ motorhomes, which resemble multistorey buildings. Billy takes in names he’s known since he was a boy: the front of grid Ferrari, McLaren and Mercedes, the midfield Sauber and Force India, the back of grid Marussia and Evergreen and the defending champions Red Bull.

They soon reach the Iron Rhino motorhome, which looks like a small red and gold ocean liner. ‘This way.’ The young man leads them inside and they enter through a side door. They are ushered along a narrow hallway until they reach a room, into which they are shown and asked to wait.

The walls are plastered with large action photographs of the Iron Rhino cars at speed. The Frenchman takes them in. ‘I’ve never understood the appeal of it.’

Billy looks at him. ‘The appeal of what?’

‘Motor racing. Driving around and around in circles for hours on end. Right turn, right turn, wait, right turn, right turn, wait, oooh left turn, that was a surprise, right turn, right turn, right turn. I mean, jeeze, is it not the most stupid thing you’ve ever heard of?’ He glances at the Australian. ‘If you had all that money, why would you spend it on that?’

‘Because I want to win.’ They turn to Dieter Wolfe as he enters the room. ‘And I want to advance the technology that makes motoring safer and more efficient, and I want to entertain a global audience of five-hundred million as I do it.
That’s
why I spend it on that.’

The Frenchman moves towards Dieter with a hand outstretched, tries hard to cover his embarrassment: ‘Claude Michelle. A pleasure to meet you.’

The strapping German leaves him hanging, fixes him with a steady gaze: ‘You’re French?’

Claude nods.

‘Your country has a magnificent history in Formula One. You have a four-time world champion in Alain Prost and you build Renault engines that not only power my cars but have helped Red Bull win the last four world championships. You should be proud of that motor racing heritage, not belittling a sport that employs thousands of your countrymen and generates hundreds of millions of euros for your economy.’ The German moves past Claude and extends a hand to the Australian. ‘Billy.’

Billy shakes it. Dieter’s blue eyes drill into the Australian, sizing him up, searching him out. The old guy looks ten years younger than his sixty-four years, trim and fit with a full head of cropped silver hair. ‘I had my eye on you for a long time.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh yes, that Formula Ford race when you won the Australasian Championship, I still remember that move on the final corner of the last lap at Phillip Island. You passed on the outside, two wheels on the grass and somehow found the traction to overtake. How old were you then?’

‘Fourteen.’ Billy remembers it clearly, cracks a smile. ‘That was a good day.’ He’s amazed, though not surprised the German remembers it. The old man is well known for favouring motor racing over any of the other sports he sponsors. Along with owning a team he also runs a management company that is involved in the behind-the-scenes horsetrading of drivers within the Formula One universe.

‘I even saw your Bathurst crash live.’

‘So did I.’

The German grins. ‘I’m surprised you don’t walk with a limp.’

‘I limp on the inside.’

Dieter smiles again. In fact Billy does have a limp but he does all he can to hide it. To his surprise, the Australian realises he really wants to impress the old man. Yes he knows he’s here to work a case but still, it’s an odd feeling. Six years ago Billy would have given his eyeteeth to have a conversation with this man, one of the most powerful in international motorsport.

Behind the old man, Billy can see the Frenchman is chastened. Poor old Claude, he really embarrassed himself. Oh well. If he wasn’t such an annoying twat who’d tried to arrest him and if he didn’t drive like a grandma Billy might feel sorry for him.

Dieter nods at Claude. ‘So he’s your
agent?’

‘Yes, we’re working the case together.’

Dieter turns to a metal and glass table and nods at a pair of inch-high documents sit, each with a pen lying on top. ‘Before we go any further you will need to sign those.’

Billy regards them. ‘What are they?’

‘It indemnifies Iron Rhino from, well, everything.’

‘That’s a lot of document.’

‘There’s a lot of risk in F1.’ He grins but there’s no humour behind it. ‘When it comes to my race team I can be a ruthless son of a bitch. Some would say I’m a snake in the grass. I just want us to be clear about that.’

Billy nods. ‘At least you’re honest.’ Marcellus told the Australian about the deal between Interpol and Iron Rhino. They will assist the investigation by letting Billy and Claude operate as undercover agents within the team. The two agents will have full access to the F1 circus without anyone, except Dieter, knowing their true identities. The upside for Iron Rhino is that if or when the case is resolved they will own all the rights to exploit the ‘property’ through Iron Rhino Media. That means anything for film, television or the internet through scripted or reality formats. On top of that, all news interviews with the principles of the investigation will pass through Iron Rhino Media. Essentially the unofficial ‘sponsoring’ of a police investigation, albeit an investigation with all the perquisites of a story that will be compelling to a mass audience—jewellery thieves in the high-speed world of motor racing—is the next step in marketing, and it won’t cost Iron Rhino a cent.

Both men sign the documents, then Dieter turns to Billy. ‘So Marcellus has been over everything with you?’

Billy nods. ‘Yep, I’m up to speed.’

‘Okay then, good. Well that’s it. Please wear the team uniform whenever possible. Use however many sets you need.’ Dieter gestures to a table at the far end of the room stacked with gold-and-red Iron Rhino crew uniforms, everything from shirts, pants, jackets and caps to soft-soled shoes. ‘This will be your room so use it as you will. Here are the keys.’ He passes one to each of them. ‘Obviously nobody knows the real reason you are here except me. You will be left alone to pursue your investigation, but if you need anything just call.’ He passes both of them a simple business card with a mobile phone number on it.