“He works in Race Control. He’s not high enough to make big decisions, but he has his ear to the ground. I get good tips from him from time to time.”
“Great. Where would I find him?”
“Right now, he’ll be in the control room, but when the current practice session finishes he’ll be on the paddock somewhere getting lunch, I expect.”
“You’re a star, thanks. What does he look like?”
Caroline laughed, pulled out her phone and pulled up a picture of him.
A couple of hours later, armed with a mental snapshot of Jimmy Styles—mid-thirties, floppy hair, slight overbite, polo shirt tucked into jeans like he’d never left the early 2000s—I made my way out of the media centre and back into the blinding midday sun.
The Seoul paddock was buzzing post-practice. Drivers in branded polos strode between hospitality suites and media stations. Team personnel hauled gear or hovered around data displays, and a handful of VIPs in oversized sunglasses pretended they belonged. It smelled like burnt rubber and ambition.
I weaved through the crowd, scanning faces until I spotted him.
Jimmy was seated at one of the shaded outdoor tables near the hospitality row, picking at a plate of noodles with chopsticks and deep in conversation with two other FIA staffers—both older, both in navy shirts bearing the official crest. He laughed atsomething one of them said, then gestured animatedly with his chopsticks, nearly flinging a mushroom across the table.
I slowed my pace, hovering just beyond their table, pretending to check my messages while I waited for an opening.
That’s when I felt it—that tingle between my shoulder blades. Not just being watched. Tracked.
I glanced up.
Across the paddock, near the entrance to the FIA media centre, stood a tall blonde woman. Pale hair slicked into a severe bun, dark sunglasses hiding half her face. But it was her stillness that made my stomach clench. Everyone else was in motion—walking, talking, working. She stood stock-still, facing me.
Recognition shot through me. She’d been keeping an eye on me in Suzuka too.
I turned away fast, heart spiking. Could she tell I’d recognised her? Probably. I wasn’t subtle. Idiot. Maybe it wasn’t even her. Maybe I was just being paranoid.
But paranoia was starting to feel more like self-preservation. I should walk away, but this was my best lead. I hated to follow it while under scrutiny. But my moment was fast approaching.
I edged closer to Jimmy’s table, timing it so I reached him just as the others got up—one off to a meeting, the other muttering something about comms checks. Jimmy slurped up the last of his noodles and dropped the chopsticks into the empty bowl, then wiped his mouth on a paper napkin.
“Jimmy Styles?” I asked, stepping into the shade of the table umbrella.
He squinted up at me. “That’s me. You’re…?”
“Elena Archer. I write for IMR.”
“Oh, right.” He gave a sheepish smile and gestured to the empty seat across from him. “Heard of it. You guys don’t pull punches.”
“I try not to,” I said, taking the seat. “Mind if I steal five minutes?”
“Sure. As long as you don’t ask me anything that’ll get me fired.”
I leaned in slightly. “I’m chasing a background thread. Nothing on the record—just… off-the-books curiosity.”
He tilted his head, intrigued but cautious. “That sounds like a trap.”
“It’s not.” I smiled. “I’m looking into FIA enforcement habits—more specifically, parc fermé.”
He raised a brow. “I’m not a scrutineer.”
“I know. But Caroline said you know everyone who is.”
He chuckled. “She’s not wrong. I’ve been in Race Control since 2014. You stick around long enough, you see who plays by the book and who keeps the eraser handy.”
“Exactly,” I said. “I’m not asking you to name names. Just… does anyone have a reputation for looking the other way?”
