8

Tobacco

‘He’ll see us on 16 October,’ said Max Mosley. The news of a meeting with Tony Blair did not particularly excite Ecclestone. Meeting kings, presidents and prime ministers was normal in his life. He knew, however, that his donation had paid for access into Downing Street.

Blair’s agreement to meet Ecclestone, David Ward reassured Mosley, was directly connected to their conversation in his Islington home before the election, linking the donation and tobacco sponsorship. Ward assumed that Michael Levy had told Jonathan Powell about his latest request for annual £1 million donations. Ecclestone had not committed himself but the chance of more money had not harmed Formula One’s influence.

Ecclestone did not intend to rely solely on Blair to prevent an immediate ban on tobacco sponsorship. Helmut Kohl, the German chancellor, was a friend and a Formula One fan. Ecclestone and Mosley had met the politician at the Grand Prix in Nürburgring on 27 July 1997. While walking around the circuit and later in his motorhome, Mosley had mentioned the sponsorship problem. The chancellor had agreed to become involved. Now they needed his help and the two flew to Bonn. During a short meeting in the chancellor’s office, Mosley mentioned that if the EU directive was not dropped, Formula One would move to Asia. He reminded Kohl about the threat to end the French Grand Prix in 1992 after Frank Williams had been fined for French television’s transmission of his cars covered with tobacco advertisements racing in the Japanese Grand Prix. The fine had been squashed by rushed legislation after Ecclestone’s warning. Ecclestone hoped that they were not destined for a repetition of the French experience. Kohl, a big man at least three times Ecclestone’s weight, assured his guests that Germany would repeat its previous veto of the EU directive and he would tell Blair about his position. The chancellor, Ecclestone knew, would be as good as his word. Tony Blair would hear from Bonn before their Downing Street meeting.

The short walk up Downing Street with Max Mosley was familiar to both men. Three days earlier both had been photographed on the same pavement as they headed towards a charity reception. On this occasion, though, no one witnessed their arrival.

Seated in a circle in a small ground-floor room with Powell and Ward listening, Mosley addressed the prime minister, as he would later say, ‘lawyer-to-lawyer’. Eloquent and precise, Mosley’s argument appeared irrefutable. The sponsorship ban, said Mosley, would be pointless because pictures of Grand Prix races transmitted from non-EU countries would display tobacco advertisements. All FIA wanted, explained Mosley, was a global solution. ‘We don’t oppose the end of tobacco advertising but we just want gradual elimination so that alternative sponsors could be found.’ Blair nodded. If phased reduction was denied, Mosley quietly explained, 50,000 British jobs and digital television could easily be relocated outside the EU. Blair looked towards Ecclestone. Personalities at that moment, the businessman knew, were irrelevant, but Ecclestone was annoyed by Frank Dobson’s portrayal of him as a representative of the tobacco industry. He had never smoked, he occasionally drank a single glass of beer and he did not care who sponsored Formula One but, he wanted Blair to know, there was no contest between a left-wing health minister and himself. With the snap of his fingers Britain could lose the Grand Prix and Motor Sport Valley. Those who ignored his warnings were always surprised that he did what he said. But, deliberately, he made his brief contribution unmemorable. He carefully did not mention tobacco or his need for a favour. He allowed Mosley to deliver what he believed to be the killer blow. ‘Under European laws’, said Mosley, ‘the proposed EU directive is illegal.’ On health issues, he explained, Brussels had no powers to impose directives on the UK or any member country. Blair nodded his understanding, and in 2000 Mosley’s interpretation would be endorsed by the European Court of Justice. In conclusion, said Mosley, Formula One did not want an exclusive exemption from the ban, but merely a timetable for phasing out tobacco sponsorship. ‘Let’s keep in touch about this,’ said Blair after thirty-five minutes. The three visitors departed convinced that there was an understanding. Shortly after, Mosley bumped into Peter Mandelson at a reception in Lancaster House. ‘How’s it going?’ Mosley asked. ‘The whole of Whitehall is reverberating to the sound of grinding gears,’ smiled Mandelson, implying that Formula One’s request was being granted.

By the following Monday, Ward heard that Blair had given an order to ‘sort out the Formula One problem’. Jonathan Powell explained that the government was seeking an exemption in Brussels for Formula One from the directive. Shortly after, Tessa Jowell, the junior minister of health, called Mosley. Tony Blair, she said, had directed that Formula One should be given special exemption until October 2006. Mosley was displeased. He did not want special treatment for Formula One. He had argued for the abandonment of an illegal directive. Blair had ordered something he had never requested.

The next day, Ecclestone and Mosley flew to Spain for the European Grand Prix at Jerez, the last race of the season. Once again, the world championship was a cliff-hanger. Schumacher was leading by one point over Jacques Villeneuve driving for Williams. Schumacher could win the championship if Villeneuve did not finish the race. Frank Williams feared a repetition of the 1994 championship when Schumacher had shunted into Damon Hill. The 320 million television viewers who watched the race monitored the tense rivalry. At a corner on the forty-eighth lap, Villeneuve began to overtake Schumacher on the inside. As he eased ahead, Schumacher turned his car into Villeneuve’s. To the German’s surprise, after hitting the Williams his Ferrari bounced off the track into gravel while Villeneuve’s car, damaged but still moving, came third after two McLarens. The stewards declared the incident to be accidental but Mosley disagreed and summoned Schumacher to a formal hearing.

On 6 November, five days before the ‘trial’, Mosley and Ecclestone met for dinner at San Lorenzo in London. ‘Schumi hasn’t done anything he should be punished for,’ Ecclestone told Mosley in the course of a customary pre-trial discussion. ‘He’s innocent.’ Schumacher’s fame, Ecclestone knew, transcended Formula One and magnified the sport’s income. By then, a small patch on the superstar’s overalls cost the sponsor at least £500,000. More than money, Schumacher was ‘magic on another planet’ with ‘remarkable ability to read and pace the race’. As a driver, Ecclestone knew, he was even better than Ayrton Senna but he was also cold-bloodedly ruthless and reckless. Banning or fining him would not expunge his passion to win and the sport needed his presence for the championship. Mosley agreed to reconsider the case.

Ecclestone was feeling particularly emboldened. FIA had just hosted a party in Monaco to celebrate his ‘50 years of service to the motor sport industry’. There had been tributes from Luca Montezemolo, racing drivers, team managers, Prince Albert of Monaco and a clutch of presidents and prime ministers. Flushed with those congratulations, Ecclestone was pleased that an amicable solution had been found to the tobacco sponsorship ban. The success reconfirmed his importance to the teams. On 4 November, Tessa Jowell announced that Britain would require exemption from the EU directive for Formula One and the problem appeared to be terminated.

Two days later, David Hill, Blair’s trusted spokesman in Downing Street, was asked by a journalist if Ecclestone had made a large donation to the Labour party. ‘Good God, I’ve no idea,’ replied the director of communications. Soon after, Hill emphatically denied that Ecclestone had made a donation or that there was a link with Formula One’s exemption. The same question was put to Ecclestone. Ecclestone was agitated. ‘I wanted nothing to do with this,’ he cursed in a mild voice. On his own initiative, he directed Herbert Smith, the City solicitors, to issue a statement that ‘… Mr Ecclestone had not given a donation to the Labour party …’ combined with a threat to start libel proceedings if the allegation was published. Mosley was appalled. ‘That’s a mistake,’ he told Ecclestone. ‘You should have said nothing.’ Some urgent fire-fighting, Mosley decided, was required.

After lunch with Mosley in Chelsea, David Ward rushed to Downing Street to meet Jonathan Powell and Alastair Campbell, the prime minister’s trusted media supremo. His instructions from Mosley were to urge the politicians to remain silent ‘so that the problem goes away’. On his return Ward reported, ‘It’s total chaos.’ Neither official wanted to admit that Hill, on their orders, had made a mistake. ‘They didn’t want to listen to me,’ he told Mosley, sensing that Powell and Campbell, anxious to protect the prime minister, would cast Ecclestone as a villain and encourage Blair, if necessary, to lie. ‘You could be in trouble,’ Mosley told Ecclestone. ‘It’s no one’s business,’ Ecclestone retorted, unaware that funding a political party was a public, not a private, issue.

As his disquiet grew, Ecclestone was relieved that Mosley had discovered a legal escape route. Under the official rules, donations over £5,000 did not need to be listed until the party’s accounts were published the following year. The crux was to refuse any comment. ‘I said to those clowns,’ recalled Ecclestone, ‘if someone puts me up against the wall with a machine gun, I will not confirm or deny anything about the donation. They said, “OK, OK, we’ll do the same.”’ Ward telephoned Powell and again urged that the government stay silent about the donation. In Ecclestone’s confined circle of like-minded businessmen, a conspiracy of silence was effortlessly executed but he had entered into a foreign world. He was playing with Alastair Campbell, criticised by his enemies as an unprincipled thug, and a prime minister preening himself about his pledge to behave ‘whiter than white’ by eradicating sleaze. A conspiracy with Ecclestone to suppress the truth hardly appealed to Blair’s entourage. On the contrary, ignoring Ecclestone’s interests, Blair had already asked Derry Irvine, the Lord Chancellor, to limit the damage.

Britain’s most senior lawyer believed that any confession of the truth was ‘utterly absurd’. Instead, he advised that the government should create a smoke screen, ignoring Ecclestone. Acting on Irvine’s advice, Blair concocted with Gordon Brown, the chancellor of the exchequer, a ruse. They would order Tom Sawyer, the party’s general secretary, to write a letter to Sir Patrick Neill, the commissioner of standards in public life, based on a falsehood. Sawyer’s letter, referring to the new code of conduct for party funding, mentioned that the Labour party had accepted a donation from Ecclestone while in opposition, and that ‘Mr Ecclestone has since the election offered a further donation’. Sawyer expressed his concern to Neill about Ecclestone’s offer of a second donation. So far, wrote Sawyer, the second offer had been refused out of fear of a potential conflict of interest because of the tobacco exemption. Neill was asked whether the party’s concern was justified. Ecclestone would never discover whether Sawyer or Blair knew that he had ignored Levy’s request for a second donation but he did realise that the letter was ‘catastrophic because it was an implicit admission that the original donation was questionable’. Sawyer’s letter was sent on 7 November. Ecclestone sensed the chaos. ‘I’ve dealt with a lot of politicians,’ he told David Ward, amazed by Blair’s naivety, ‘and I’ve never had any problems before. I like to think I can trust people – and he’s the prime minister – but Labour are like boy scouts and the Tories are like hardened criminals. The Tories would have known how to stop this.’ On the same day, David Hill began prevaricating. He discovered the truth but, he would later admit, used evasions and menaces to deflect the journalists’ questions.

The Sunday Telegraph’s scoop on 9 November reported Ecclestone’s donation and the link to the government’s political somersault in Brussels. So far, no one knew the amount Ecclestone had given and in the guessing game, there were estimates between £100,000 and £1.5 million. The money, it was reported, was a crude bribe for help because Ecclestone had always voted Tory and, according to Tory officials, had previously contributed to their party. Overnight Ecclestone’s anonymity evaporated. By breakfast time on Sunday, Ecclestone was equated in the media with buying access. ‘They’ve got me hooking up the government,’ he said in a cool tone to Mosley. ‘There’s nothing I can do and I don’t care. I’m not fazed out.’ Since few facts about Ecclestone were publicly known, the old myths were repeated – the menace, mystery, manipulation and the omnipotent office shredder were all laid bare. His dislike of publicity had bequeathed an image of a sinister businessman who unscrupulously destroyed his competitors while married to a woman twenty-eight years younger and a foot taller. Across the world, he found himself in the middle of a storm, depicted as a villain guilty of bribing the government. To illustrate the ‘corruption’ reports, the television news programmes broadcast pictures of Ecclestone and Mosley walking up Downing Street. Viewers would assume they were watching the historic moment after Formula One had paid cash for access but in reality the images were those recorded earlier in the week at the charity event.

By the end of Sunday, everyone was running for cover. The following morning, 10 November, Gordon Brown appeared on the BBC’s Today radio programme. Asked about the donation, he unconvincingly prevaricated, denying any knowledge about Ecclestone’s money. Events had moved beyond the government’s and Ecclestone’s control. Patrick Neill replied with remarkable speed. Regardless of the truth, he wrote later that day, the appearance of taking Ecclestone’s money had raised questions of honesty and offended the rules. Therefore, he concluded, not only should the second donation be refused but Ecclestone’s first donation should be returned. In Downing Street there was panic. No one had anticipated that interpretation. The so-called ‘spin doctors’ spoke about limiting the damage by admitting some limited truth. So Hill told enquiring journalists that Ecclestone had given the party ‘over £5,000’. Downing Street’s admission contradicted Herbert Smith’s denial and Ecclestone’s position rapidly deteriorated. Another Downing Street spokesman was authorised by Hill to say that during their Downing Street meeting ‘no request was made regarding policy’ by Ecclestone. In synchronisation, Ecclestone issued a statement, drafted by Ward and Mosley, admitting he made a donation but adding, ‘I never sought any favour from New Labour or any member of the government, nor has any been given.’ When he looked at the television news that night and saw the newspapers the following morning, Ecclestone was ‘pissed off’. No one believed any of the denials. The conspiracy to deceive had unravelled. Labour, he moaned, should have stuck to their agreement not to mention his donation.

Ecclestone found himself like flotsam on the high seas – helpless to control his destiny. Adrift from Downing Street, he could only rely on Mosley. ‘What are they up to?’ he asked. ‘Find out what’s happening,’ ordered the man accustomed to controlling rather than reacting to events. Mosley sent Ward back to Downing Street asking the prime minister to exonerate Ecclestone publicly – and put him in the clear. By midday there was no reply and, fatefully, Ecclestone and Mosley were conducting an FIA disciplinary hearing in Colnbrook, Berkshire, about Schumacher’s crash into Villeneuve at Jerez. Until then, Ecclestone had never contemplated drawing comparisons between the simplicity of cheating in Formula One and the contorted dishonesty in Westminster, but the hearing about a simple crash turned out to be enmeshed in conspiracies.

The night before the Schumacher hearing, Ecclestone had met the driver and Jean Todt, the Ferrari team manager, in a London hotel. Over dinner Ecclestone was told that during the Jerez race the Ferrari team had been eavesdropping on the radio conversations between the Williams team managers and Villeneuve. One manager could be heard telling Villeneuve that Mika Hakkinen of McLaren was just behind him and should be allowed to pass. ‘Hakkinen has been very helpful,’ Villeneuve was told. ‘Don’t let me down, Jacques. We discussed this.’ Soon after, Villeneuve allowed Hakkinen to pass and win. There was clear evidence, said Todt, that the Williams team had conspired with McLaren to fix the race. To put pressure on Mosley, the transcript of the conversations had been given to The Times for publication just before the hearing. Ferrari’s argument, presented by the newspaper, was that Schumacher had been provoked to crash to overcome the conspiracy. In reply Frank Williams and Ron Dennis expressed their ‘disappointment’ that Ferrari were secretly listening to their conversations. Some believed Ferrari had concocted the smoke screen to divert attention from Schumacher’s malevolence, while others mentioned a link to Williams’s and McLaren’s dispute about the Concorde agreement. Ecclestone told Todt that the tapes would not influence the outcome of the trial. ‘I’ve told Max that Schumi’s innocent,’ said Ecclestone. ‘I’m sure he’ll agree if Michael says the right things.’ Schumacher nodded his understanding.

During the actual hearing, Schumacher gradually conceded a point to Mosley. ‘I saw him coming past,’ he admitted, ‘and I just thought, “I must stop him.”’ In deliberating his judgement, Mosley changed his position. ‘I must decide what’s in the overall interest of the sport,’ he told Ecclestone, ‘and it’s no use banning Schumacher, or fining him a huge amount. The fans won’t like it.’ Accordingly, Mosley declared that Schumacher’s swerve had been ‘instinctive’ and ‘not made with malice or premeditation. It was just a serious error.’ Instead of a ban he took away Schumacher’s second position, knowing that it was a meaningless gesture, and ordered him to teach road safety for seven days. Villeneuve was confirmed as the world champion. FIA’s justice was completed.

Before leaving the building with Mosley, Ecclestone heard ‘by accident’ that Alastair Campbell, in conversations with selected journalists, was portraying Ecclestone’s donation to the party as an attempt to change Labour policy. ‘Tony Blair has started talking,’ Ecclestone cursed. ‘It’s third-rate behaviour.’ As he emerged from the building, a group of journalists approached. Blair, they exclaimed, had admitted the donation. ‘Well, if Mr Blair said that, he wouldn’t lie, would he?’ Ecclestone replied. ‘How much did you give?’ he was asked. ‘£1 million,’ he said. His sensational disclosure was explosive. On the front pages was Ecclestone’s admission and on the back page was Schumacher’s conviction for a deliberate crash. Ecclestone had become a byword for sleaze in Britain’s political history. Wags dubbed £1 million ‘a Bernie’ and politicians renamed 10 Downing Street ‘Bernie’s Inn’, a reference to the popular restaurants of the 1960s and ’70s. Off-message, Jack Straw, the home secretary, publicly admitted that Blair had ‘been aware of the second offer from Mr Ecclestone when they met at Downing Street’ and then promptly disappeared. To close down the horror, Campbell arranged Blair’s first post-election television interview. The prime minister’s words were carefully rehearsed to place all the blame on Ecclestone. Even ‘before any journalist had been in touch’ with Downing Street, Blair told his audience, the Labour party had notified Ecclestone that, despite his ‘firm commitment’ of paying another £1 million, ‘We couldn’t accept further donations.’ Only then, said Blair, had the government asked Neill about the probity of the first donation and, as a result, it would of course be repaid. To tilt the balance further in his favour against a used-car dealer, Blair concluded, ‘I’m a pretty straight sort of guy.’ The lies saved Blair but left Ecclestone’s reputation damaged.

‘I’ve been hung out to dry,’ he complained. In the past he had not cared what was said about him but now every word risked a fortune. The flotation was jeopardised by his association with sleaze. ‘I’m pissed off that they have been trying to dig up dirt,’ Ecclestone complained about journalists. ‘But people will be buying shares in a company that makes money and that is what counts.’ To restore his reputation, Mosley drafted a letter on his behalf to The Times: ‘I made the donation to the Labour party because I believe Mr Blair to be a person of exceptional ability who, if free to act, would do an outstanding job for our country.’ Explaining that he wanted to free Labour from dependence on trade unions, he continued ‘There were no strings attached.’ He had, he wrote, paid £27 million income tax the previous year ‘for the simple privilege of living in England rather than a tax haven’. In return for paying taxes, Ecclestone insisted that he had the right to ‘enjoy the same rights as everyone else’ and make a donation to ‘any political party I choose. Anything less implies that I have done something wrong and is a gross, insulting and irrational restriction of my freedom.’ In an interview with The Times, Ecclestone explained that Blair was ‘anti-European’ like himself and he had contributed out of anger about the Conservative ‘demon eyes’ advertising campaign in the 1997 election smearing Blair. To others he was more candid. His integrity was in doubt: ‘I just hope that my reputation is of someone who is straightforward and honest, and not of someone who is going to screw people, because I haven’t done that. My reputation is worth more to me than money. I’d like to be remembered as “the handshake guy”, the one who did it all on a handshake.’ In the City of London, a member of the Rothschild family wryly recalled the Square Mile’s traditional assurance, ‘My word is my bond’, and his own response, ‘I’d prefer to take the bond.’ Trusting politicians revealed remarkable naivety.

Ecclestone’s expectation that his explanation would be accepted revealed that he was at best simplistic about the electorate’s genuine cynicism. At worst, few believed his summary of the dilemma: ‘Being nice to people to gain something is not in my nature … I am a deliverer. I like the business to be done fair and square. I am not interested in what other people think of me … I have enough money not to be corrupt … All I’ve done I’ve done honestly. I’m just a bloke doing a job. I’ve never cheated anybody.’ Asserting his honesty was critical to the flotation. The business had never been healthier. Christian Vogt had just concluded a ten-year deal with Canal Plus, the French television station, for about $500 million.

The hope that a letter to The Times would repair Ecclestone’s reputation was dented by Ron Dennis. ‘I don’t believe that Bernie, a cheapskate who counts every penny, gave £1 million out of his own pocket,’ he said. In Dennis’s opinion, the argument showed how Ecclestone was ‘crossing to the dark side’, a reference to the film Star Wars. Later that same day the two met to settle their differences. ‘You know where you are with Bernie,’ Dennis said. ‘You know he’ll do anything to extract money. He won’t feel good tomorrow morning unless he thinks that I’ll wake up and feel screwed by the deal.’ Although the flotation was dead, Ecclestone refused to admit defeat, and repeated his offer of 10 per cent of the shares to the teams and 10 per cent to FIA. ‘Bernie doesn’t give things,’ Dennis reminded himself. ‘You have to fight for them.’ The offer was rejected. Dennis was enjoying Ecclestone’s discomfort and was anticipating that more difficulties would either wreck the flotation or give him a bigger share.

As he emerged from the meeting with Dennis, a stream of telephone messages was waiting. Among them was an anguished summons to call Slavica in Croatia. Clearly upset, his wife revealed that a local newspaper had published an extensive report describing her wild teenage years illustrated by nude photographs. The reporter, Momir Blagojević, a former boyfriend and the photographer, described how Slavica, working as a prostitute, had been employed by the local secret service to target Ecclestone. Ecclestone was convinced that these allegations were outrageous and untrue. He had known she had posed in the nude and accepted her vehement denials. He repeated his mantra: ‘I never worry about what people were, I care only what people are.’

Blagojević’s blackmail and Ron Dennis’s obduracy, Ecclestone realised, were linked to the notoriety of the £1 million donation. ‘I wish to God Labour had accepted the £1 million I gave them,’ he told the Sunday Mirror, ‘because since they returned it every nutter in the world wants a piece.’ As the storm passed, Ecclestone realised that Blair was a better dealer than himself, and Westminster was infinitely tougher than Warren Street. ‘Blair played with chips,’ he thought, ‘I played with money. Blair played a crooked hand. These people did the best they can for themselves and then tried to bury me.’ On reflection, if anyone was to blame, it was Mosley and he was more upset than Ecclestone. His partner’s trust in Labour had exploded in his face. ‘I’d done it to help Max and he felt bad,’ Ecclestone lamented. The Establishment, both agreed, could not be trusted. Ecclestone had not broken the law or done anything wrong while the politicians had lied and reneged on their promises. He refused to be questioned by Sir Patrick Neill’s inquiry about what he expected for £1 million. ‘If you appear you get yourself involved,’ he explained. Except that the dust never quite settled. His name and Formula One became a metaphor among politicians and the media for buying influence. To Slavica’s distress, at their daughters’ school, one pupil read out an essay at assembly about Ecclestone’s apparent corruption of the Labour party. ‘Blair is hateful,’ said his wife. A cheque for £1 million was sent to Ecclestone who kept it until the last day before cashing it. Over the next five years, he cancelled races because of bans on tobacco advertising and threatened others unless proposed bans were dropped.

Ecclestone’s embarrassment in London galvanised the bureaucrats in Brussels. After scrutinising Formula One’s documents, van Miert’s lawyers discovered an interlocking web of agreements facilitating Ecclestone’s control of a business which excluded competitors. In his formal letter to Ecclestone, van Miert asserted that Formula One Holdings was ‘abusing its dominant position to favour Formula One’. The company’s restrictive clauses in its contracts with the circuits prevented any non-Formula One races and limited the televising of other events. Lacking any transparency, the arrangement was criticised as a stitch-up made worse by the Concorde agreement, damned as ‘a serious restriction of competition’. The most offensive document in the EU bureaucrat’s opinion was the ‘excessive’ fifteen-year contract with FIA. Under EU rules, any agreement lasting more than five years was ‘a serious infringement of EU competition rules’ which could be punished by fines. In summary, wrote van Miert, FOH did not qualify for flotation nor, fatally, could it even continue in business without change.

Looking for an explanation for van Miert’s prejudice, Ecclestone alighted on the row about the Belgian Grand Prix at Spa-Francorchamps. On 1 December 1997 Belgium’s national government, ruled by the Flemish socialists, had banned tobacco sponsorship of Formula One. Ecclestone retaliated by cancelling the 1998 Grand Prix located in the French-speaking part of Belgium. His decision, said Ecclestone, would only be revoked if the tobacco ban was lifted. Appalled by the risk of losing $27 million income, the local French government pledged to repeal the law. Van Miert, a Flemish Belgian, retaliated. Breaking the confidentiality rules, he listed his criticisms of Formula One to the Wall Street Journal and divulged his confidential letters to Mosley and Ecclestone. By exposing his bias, the commissioner undermined the EU’s credibility. Delighting in the chance of a fight, Mosley filed a complaint in the European court for an apology and costs, describing van Miert’s formal letter as riddled with ‘errors of fact’.

Negotiating a resolution, Ecclestone knew, could take years. To force the pace, he and Mosley deployed what they anticipated would coerce the Commission in the same manner as they had originally persuaded Tony Blair. Mosley revealed that if the European commission sought to dictate how Formula One conducted its business, then Formula One would leave Europe. The ‘Exit Option’, Mosley believed, was reinforced by statistics. Only fifteen out of FIA’s 113 member countries were in the EU and only one-fifth of the television audience was in the EU. Moving the headquarters of the sport would cause more damage to Europe than to the organisers, said Mosley. In public Ecclestone supported his friend but was unsure about the cost and the teams’ support. Most doubted his ability to arrange races in South Korea, Malaysia and China. ‘The Asian dream’, an insider told newspapers, ‘has been scuppered by the financial crisis.’ Ecclestone’s influence, he speculated, ‘will never be the same again’. Ron Dennis was particularly caustic. Jubilant that he had pocketed $200 million in 1998 from Mercedes for a 40 per cent share of McLaren, he was convinced that he would receive more cash once van Miert compelled Ecclestone and Mosley to release their grip over Formula One.

Unaccustomed to surrender, even Ecclestone sensed it was time for compromises. Knowing that the flotation was dead, he could painlessly offer the teams 10 per cent of the proposed public company – each team would get 1 per cent – and sugar his offer with 50 per cent of the television revenue. But in return he insisted the 1997 Concorde agreement, finally signed in May 1998 in Monaco by ten out of the eleven team principals, should be extended to ten years, despite the EU Commission. Only Ecclestone did not sign the thirty-sixth and final draft. Dealing with van Miert, he knew, would be harder. Removing Eisele’s complaint would be a beginning. ‘Some people you can’t reason with,’ said Ecclestone. ‘We’ll just have to get on and settle with him.’

Ecclestone had met Eisele through an intermediary in July 1997 in Germany. If Eisele withdrew his complaint, said Ecclestone, they could form a partnership in a television programme covering all non-Formula One motor sports. Eisele refused. ‘Do you think you’re going to win against me?’ asked Ecclestone. Eisele nodded. One month later, in his hotel in Gstaad, the two met again. In the course of their conversation the two agreed that the German would withdraw his complaint if Ecclestone paid him $5 million. Ecclestone set out the terms. To ensure he got value for his money, Ecclestone said the payments should be staggered. He would pay $500,000 immediately and the remainder in two payments: the first after Eisele withdrew his complaint, and the second after Formula One’s flotation. Ecclestone also wanted the names of those financing Eisele’s lawyers. Eisele refused to divulge the names but agreed to the rest and wrote down the account where the money should be deposited. Ecclestone noted that the money was destined for a private account in Switzerland. ‘He should pick on someone his own size,’ he told his lawyer. Eisele received the first payment and thereafter, in Ecclestone’s opinion, was in trouble.

By then, Ecclestone’s vulnerability was spotted by others. Patrick Peter, a French race organiser, wanted the television rights to GT car races and lodged complaints in Brussels that he was being locked out of circuits. Privately he approached Ecclestone for damages of about £14 million to be paid to a Panamanian corporation. Another vulture emerged from the European Commission. Panayotis ‘Panos’ Adamopoulos, a Greek official describing himself as ‘a spear-carrier for van Miert’, warned Mosley, ‘You don’t know what you’re up against.’ Formula One’s case, he explained, would be improved if he could personally visit the Monaco Grand Prix. Mosley agreed. Adamopoulos added that his family should also receive tickets. Four people received the $16,000 hospitality package but Mosley had not calculated that Adamopoulos would leave the town without paying any bill. ‘He’s a man who can be bought,’ said Ecclestone about an official who would in 2006 be accused in Greece of blackmail and subsequently imprisoned. Van Miert, Ecclestone suspected, was equally dishonest for helping the production of a BBC Panorama television programme denouncing Ecclestone for murky finances and his £1 million donation to Labour. Mosley wanted to sue the BBC. ‘Don’t bother,’ said Ecclestone who no longer cared about criticism. His focus was on business and finding an alternative to flotation.

In his search for cash, Karl Essig, a Morgan Stanley banker, offered a solution. Instead of flotation, said Essig, ‘You could do a debt deal.’ Formula One Group would sell $2 billion in bonds to banks, giving Ecclestone the cash while the business, Formula One Administration, repaid the loan from its earnings. The major hurdle was to reassure potential investors that Formula One was sound. By any measure, there was no safer business. In 1998 Ecclestone’s companies reported £122 million profits on sales of £244 million. Supporting that extraordinary revenue annually were 4.9 billion viewers in 131 countries. Ecclestone’s earnings were guaranteed by the television contracts, some lasting ten years. The only twist was Essig’s pitch to Ecclestone that the bonds would be repaid out of a future flotation, a scheme which required the banks to take a lot on trust. Salomon Brothers, the world’s biggest bond dealer, said Christian Purslow, would refuse to participate. ‘Tobacco and the EU make it tough sledding,’ he warned, not mentioning that mutual disdain between himself and some team owners was an insuperable obstacle.

To convince investors, Ecclestone appealed to Mosley for help. FIA’s president was chaffing. He wanted to help Ecclestone but also feared that ‘the entrepreneurial side of racing has almost been taken to the limit’. Everyone in Formula One had become seriously rich, including even Eddie Jordan. The Irish businessman had persuaded a director from Warburg Pincus, the investment fund, whom he had met in the directors’ box at Coventry City football club, to invest in his faltering team. ‘The banker didn’t seem to have a clue,’ said Jordan after pocketing £40 million. Jordan would laugh again when he repurchased the 40 per cent share from the bank for a fraction of its original price, and resold the team to another bank. He would be less amused in May 2001 when Mr Justice Langley, hearing Jordan’s suit against Vodafone for allegedly breaking a three-year sponsorship agreement worth $150 million, stated, ‘It is readily apparent from the documents that [Mr Jordan’s] evidence was untrue’ and that Jordan’s written statements submitted to the court were ‘known to Mr Jordan to be false’. Despite their wealth, Mosley cursed, the teams constantly argued. No one irritated him more than Ron Dennis whom he regarded as a self-important money-grabber renowned for paying contractors to wash the gravel outside his home every six months. Dennis’s ambition for the teams to run Formula One was, in Mosley’s opinion, nonsensical. Nevertheless, to help Ecclestone, he invited Dennis for dinner to the Poissonnerie, a traditional fish restaurant in South Kensington. Dennis accepted, though he considered Mosley effeminate and untrustworthy even if sharply intellectual.

To seduce his guest, Mosley praised McLaren’s success as a championship team. ‘You should relax,’ said Mosley. ‘You’re rich and married to a beautiful woman. There’s no need to continuously fight.’ Mosley’s sermon irritated Dennis. ‘I was being lectured about how lucky I was to receive everything, and I thought, I’ve got it all because of my hard work. And it benefited all the teams.’ As Mosley continued, Dennis recalled how his host and Ecclestone had in the past laughed at him, challenging his dignity. ‘I couldn’t understand Mosley’s motives. He was head of FIA and yet he was supporting Formula One’s threat to leave Europe. I suspected collusion between Mosley and Ecclestone.’ Dennis wanted the teams to control Formula One, or at least receive a far greater share of the profits. Nothing less would satisfy him. At first he replied to Mosley in strangulated sentences, which Mosley attributed to his struggling to assert his importance, but eventually Dennis cut through the fog. ‘I scuppered Bernie’s float,’ he boasted, delighted to have prevented Ecclestone from reaping a windfall. Mosley was mindful of Ecclestone’s quip, ‘If I gave the teams 1 per cent of the business they would be angry that someone else has 99 per cent.’ The dinner ended on a sour note. Mosley wondered if Dennis required psychiatric help. ‘I feel sorry for him,’ Mosley told Ecclestone without conviction. Dennis was equally uncharitable towards Mosley. Nevertheless, Mosley and Ecclestone persuaded Dennis that the flotation would eventually be rejuvenated and he would finally receive his reward. To secure those extra millions, said Ecclestone, he needed Dennis’s support for Morgan Stanley’s £2 million bond.

On 16 November 1998 Ecclestone, flanked by Dennis, Luca Montezemolo and Marco Piccinini, appeared at Essig’s first road show in London. Dennis agreed to be present because ‘Bernie gave me assurances that the teams would benefit from the bond.’

‘I asked Ron for a favour,’ Ecclestone would say. ‘He did a better job than I did.’ Montezemolo was present because ‘Bernie promised us a share in the cake.’ All four pledged that they were working together in a sound business. The banker himself hoped to overcome ‘the ill-informed and misleading background noise’. The worst part was van Miert’s complaints. Normally, the Commission sought to resolve issues by private negotiation and on that basis Ecclestone issued a statement at the meeting to the City professionals pledging that ‘all concerns raised by the Commission have now been, or can be, dealt with’. He was repeating Stephen Mullens’s assurances to the Financial Times about ‘just a few minor issues to resolve’. Ecclestone’s guarantee annoyed van Miert. The commissioner, wanting a public fight, told enquiring journalists with some relish that Ecclestone was mistaken. There were unresolved issues, said van Miert, knowing that his declaration would trigger the London Stock Exchange’s refusal to approve the bonds. In the same week as Long Term Capital Management, a New York hedge fund, lost a record $1.6 billion, the rating agencies also refused to bless the bond. The City’s verdict was delivered to Ecclestone in his office by Robin Saunders, an attractive American banker employed by the Westdeutsche Landesbank, a state-owned German bank, who had been asked by Essig to subscribe to the bonds. ‘This deal will never happen,’ declared Saunders. Ecclestone’s credibility was damaged. His advisers, criticised for poor housekeeping, had failed to persuade the City that Formula One was a sound business worth $2 billion. Days later, Morgan Stanley’s salesmen reported, ‘There’s been too much noise. It’s too hot.’ Essig admitted defeat.

Ecclestone was flummoxed. Bankers’ promises were repeatedly broken. ‘It seems to be difficult for them’, he reflected, ‘to understand all the businesses they get involved in. The strange thing is that they seem to want to see how a business works, to find out what a company is really like and then the first thing they want to do is change it.’ Ron Walker suggested that Ecclestone contact Brian Powers, the chairman of John Fairfax, an Australian media corporation, and a director of Hellman & Friedman, an investment fund in San Francisco. ‘Powers is known as “The Vulture”,’ Walker added to convince Ecclestone he was dealing with a serious player. Powers, Ecclestone discovered, understood Formula One’s virtues. It was a simple business with fixed sources of income – the circuit races, McNally’s Allsport, sponsorship and television – producing about $400 million profit every year. The complication was relying on Ecclestone to juggle the conflicts among the erratic teams. ‘What sort of investor are you looking for?’ Powers asked in early 1999. ‘Deaf, dumb and blind,’ replied Ecclestone. ‘Well,’ replied Powers somewhat nonplussed, ‘would two out of three be OK?’ ‘We could do business,’ replied Ecclestone. Eight meetings with Powers proved Ecclestone’s mastery of the details but equally the absence of a budget or a reliable prediction of profits. After ‘arm-twisting’ about the price, Powers told Ecclestone that the $1.4 billion he required was ‘too high, and we’re spooked about the EU investigation’. Reluctantly, Ecclestone returned to the bankers, pleased at least that Morgan Stanley was trapped. Before committing itself, Ecclestone had extracted a written undertaking from the bank to find $2 billion. Without a clean exit from its liability, the bank needed a saviour. The lifebelt was offered by Robin Saunders. Finally, Ecclestone had found a banker who believed in his business. ‘Can we get rid of Morgan Stanley?’ Ecclestone asked. ‘No,’ replied Saunders. ‘They’ve done one year’s work. You won’t want to go through all that again.’ Ecclestone’s refusal – unusual at that time – to allow any documents to be taken from Princes Gate, or even copied, was an added burden for the bankers.

As she trawled through the accounts of Formula One Administration Ltd, Saunders noted that FOA had received about $150 million a year from the circuits and $219 million in 1997 from television revenues. Mosley had just released viewing figures for 1996 showing that 40.99 billion people in 202 countries had watched part of Formula One’s races, more than watched football and the Olympic Games. In 1999 FOA would earn $241 million and the company was anticipated to receive a further $1.5 billion by 2004. More than half of that money went directly to Ecclestone. Beyond that period FOA’s gross revenues for the following five years, 2005 to 2010, could be guessed at around $2.3 billion. In Saunders’s opinion, the first tranche was ‘watertight’. The stumbling block was Ecclestone’s credibility. No City investor could believe he was earning such huge profits without concealed glitches. To reassure herself, Saunders needed to check Ecclestone’s contracts with broadcasters, circuits, sponsors and the teams. Each contract needed to be vetted to ensure that the rights did belong to Ecclestone and not to FIA, and that Mosley formally agreed to Ecclestone’s ownership. Whenever there were doubts, Mosley’s signature was needed to confirm Ecclestone’s ownership. ‘Max has been extremely helpful,’ she told Ecclestone.

To secure City approval and limit her risk, Saunders reduced the loan to $1.4 billion and guaranteed that the Westdeutsche Landesbank and Morgan Stanley would repay the bond holders. Ecclestone agreed to immediately repay $400 million to the bankers and pay 8 per cent interest on the remaining $1 billion until the loan was completely repaid in November 2010. The high interest rates would stimulate Ecclestone to repay the debt swiftly. For the bond issue Formula One Administration Ltd was renamed Formula One Management (FOM). The bankers’ signatures finalised the deal on 28 May 1999 and they celebrated at a London restaurant but without Ecclestone. Impatient throughout the process, he nevertheless praised Saunders: ‘She was the one kicking arse all down the line and making things happen.’ She did more. She bestowed financial credibility on the ex-Warren Street dealer. It was his breakthrough.

The following morning, Ecclestone telephoned Saunders. ‘I’ve been a naughty boy,’ he told the banker. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘I have to have a triple heart bypass,’ he said. ‘When?’ ‘Today,’ he replied. ‘I want to jump out of the window,’ she exclaimed, later admitting that it was the ‘worst day of my life’. Despite the exhaustive financial diligence, she had assumed that the ‘key man insurance’ had scrutinised whether the sixty-nine-year-old was healthy. If his operation failed, someone would be legally liable.

Coincidentally, on the same morning Ecclestone received an unexpected call from Tuana Tan, the first for many months. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, sensing fear in the voice of the man she still loved. After explaining his predicament and his apprehension of death at the very moment he had realised real wealth, she promised ‘I’ll pray for you.’ In the afternoon, Saunders was reassured that the operation was a success but she would be unaware of the internal bleeding he suffered during the night. ‘I’ll only stop working,’ he would say three weeks later, ‘when they’re lowering me into the ground, and that’s a long way off.’

Ecclestone was recovering from the surgery when, on 30 June 1999, van Miert formally issued his judgement: ‘We have found evidence of serious infringements of EU competition rules which could result in substantial fines.’ FIA and Ecclestone were accused of creating a monopoly which excluded others in order to pocket unreasonable profits. FIA, said van Miert, was ‘abusing its power’ in favour of Ecclestone and could no longer assign the television rights of any international motor event to Ecclestone. On the contrary, all the rights which Ecclestone had obtained by agreement with FIA, declared van Miert, were worthless. The investors who had pledged $1.4 billion had good reason to be concerned that the Ecclestone’s ‘few minor issues’ could wreck Formula One. Ecclestone was consoled by Mosley’s scathing riposte that the Commission’s ‘hopelessly flawed’ judgement was ‘riddled with errors and mistaken assumptions’. Mosley was in his element. He loved a fight and the Commission, he believed, was vulnerable. His first victory was van Miert’s apology for leaking documents to the Wall Street Journal.

More eager than ever to raise cash before the end of the tax year, Ecclestone asked Saunders, ‘Do you want to buy 50 per cent of Formula One?’ ‘No,’ she replied, ‘but I know someone who does.’ Her candidate was Robert Tchenguiz, a London entrepreneur. The two met. Ecclestone’s price was high. He valued Formula One at $3.5 billion and wanted $1.1 billion for 50 per cent of the shares plus the buyer’s liability to repay the $1.4 billion bond. Tchenguiz bowed out but Saunders offered a replacement – Scott Lanphere of Morgan Grenfell Private Equity.

Lanphere was a Formula One fan. He had already met Ecclestone while considering whether to invest in Tom Walkinshaw’s Formula One team. ‘He does whatever he can get away with,’ Ecclestone had commented about Walkinshaw, describing an inspired team manager. ‘The trouble with Tom is that he cheats and gets caught,’ continued Ecclestone who respected bankers much less. Trusting Ecclestone’s judgement, Lanphere bought 12.5 per cent of Formula One in October 1999 for $325 million (£275 million) with an option to buy a further 37.5 per cent share for $975 million by 1 February 2000. At those prices, Formula One was worth $2.6 billion.

Although he negotiated the deal with Ecclestone, Lanphere formally negotiated the purchase from Stephen Mullens. To fulfil his ambition to raise sufficient finance to buy the 37.5 per cent stake, Lanphere arranged a weekend summit in Mustique to entice potential partners. His guests included the Bronfmans, the American drinks family, Leo Kirch, the German television tycoon, Mansour Ojjeh, a part-owner of TAG Heuer, the Swiss watch company, and a shareholder in McLaren, a director of Lehman Brothers and Tommy Hilfiger, the clothing designer. In Lanphere’s opinion, they were ‘all rich, flaky and wanted to get into the deal without letting Bernie get the best of the deal’. Before flying to the Caribbean, Lanphere demanded more information ‘for my lawyers’ from Ecclestone and Mullens, representing the family trusts. Ecclestone was, as usual, resistant. He hated giving away secrets, especially about the contracts and the Concorde agreements. The banker’s request was irritating, especially his demand for a comfort letter that Ecclestone’s submissions to van Miert were true. ‘You don’t know who you’re playing with, boy,’ Ecclestone told Lanphere, who was seen standing outside Harvey Nichols, the Knightsbridge store, arguing with Ecclestone on his mobile telephone. ‘You’re playing me,’ shouted Lanphere. Eventually Ecclestone agreed to disclose some information and Lanphere flew to what he called ‘the rich atmosphere of Mustique’ to ‘bait and switch’ the potential investors, which translated as ‘hooking them into something different to what they expected’. Lanphere’s scheme was to sell the 37.5 per cent stake but personally keep control of Formula One. He returned to London empty-handed.

Ecclestone began to doubt Lanphere’s judgement. After buying the Formula One stake, Morgan Grenfell had paid £40 million for a 25 per cent stake in the Arrows team owned by Tom Walkinshaw in collaboration with an obscure Nigerian ‘prince’. Unknown to Ecclestone and Lanphere, the Arrows finances soon after rapidly declined as the ‘prince’ remained invisible and Walkinshaw diverted funds to his private company in the British Virgin Islands. Eventually Walkinshaw would be sued by Morgan Grenfell and the businessman would be called ‘downright dishonest’ by Mr Justice Lightman. So long as he did not lose personally, Ecclestone was tolerant of skulduggery, so he bailed out Walkinshaw for about £3.2 million, albeit backed by securities – but he judged all players by their deals and Lanphere was failing the test.

Fearful of not selling the 37.5 per cent stake before the end of the tax year, Ecclestone suggested to Lanphere that he could find a partnership for the $975 million purchase with Thomas Haffa, the forty-seven-year-old chief executive of EM.TV, a fast expanding German media company with close links to Leo Kirch. ‘But your option will expire at 5 p.m. Geneva time on 9 February 2000,’ Ecclestone warned.

In legal terms, Lanphere was negotiating with Mullens as the representative of the family trusts. The tax lawyer had early on become sceptical of Lanphere after Morgan Grenfell had bought outright only 12.5 per cent of the shares rather than 37.5 per cent. Mullens was ‘disappointed’ and to protect his interests had included a clause in the contract with the bank empowering the family trusts to issue new shares to sell to another buyer if Lanphere failed to meet the deadline. Mullens wondered whether he or his advisers fully understood the implications of that clause.

As the deadline approached, Lanphere and Haffa were still arguing but Lanphere was convinced that the closing date would be extended. Normally, Ecclestone assumed he could get on with anyone and was indifferent about relationships unless he was deceived, but as the deadline neared, he exclaimed, ‘Lanphere’s an idiot. He’s a madman.’ Lanphere understandably resented the criticism. In the banker’s opinion, he was blamed for conflicts created by Ecclestone himself but was sanguine about the deadline. The banker and Haffa believed Ecclestone would be flexible. Neither had yet learnt to remember Robin Saunders’s observation, ‘Bernie always does what he says.’

Without Lanphere’s knowledge, Mullens had been simultaneously negotiating to sell the newly issued shares to Brian Powers. Early on 9 February 2000, the day Lanphere’s option would expire at 5 p.m., Ecclestone telephoned Powers. Ecclestone chortled that Lanphere and Haffa were in his office disputing the final terms. ‘Out of my office,’ Ecclestone ordered. After the door was closed, Ecclestone told Powers, ‘They’ve messed up a bit. They’re pushing the envelope a little too far.’ Then he told Powers, ‘If they don’t meet the deadline the stake’s yours for $712 million.’ This was less than Lanphere because Powers was not charged for a proportion of the debt. At one minute past five, Lanphere and Haffa were still bickering. Ecclestone telephoned Powers, ‘I’ve got bad news for you,’ he said, ‘we’re partners.’ While they spoke, Lanphere entered Ecclestone’s office to declare that he had a deal with Haffa. ‘You’re too late,’ said Ecclestone who, although the family trusts had lost about $263 million, would stick to the deal with Powers. Lanphere was shocked. Ecclestone, he believed, had been ‘unethical’ to muddy the ownership between himself and the trusts. ‘You know what you did was wrong,’ Lanphere told Mullens, but recriminations were pointless. More bewildering was the remarkable deal Powers sealed. Only about $400 million was paid by his fund and the remainder was borrowed from Ecclestone’s family trust. Formula One was valued at £1.7 billion and Ecclestone still held 50 per cent of the shares. The sale was a relief. Out of the carnage, Ecclestone had pocketed about $2 billion. He could now look in the eye those City slickers who had simultaneously chastised him while pouring money into suspect dot.com businesses sold by goofy nobodies, and those of the same breed who had compelled him, after a failed court case, to buy the Formula One.com website for $10 million from a California company that had registered the domain before he understood the internet. To many, Ecclestone appeared to be cashing in and getting out. He proclaimed the opposite: ‘Money doesn’t drive me. Money is the by-product, not my ambition, although my success is judged by money.’

Brian Powers was hungry for more. He wanted to buy Allsport. Patrick McNally’s mobile telephone rang just as a covey of partridges was heading in his direction while he was shooting with Guy Sangster, the racehorse owner. The birds flew unthreatened overhead as McNally heard a voice say, ‘I want to make you a very rich man.’ Three days later Luca Montezemolo mentioned that many of the Formula One teams were displeased by Ecclestone’s sell-off and would break away from Formula One. Powers took fright and abandoned any interest to expand his investment.

On reflection, Ecclestone was unhappy about the sale. Powers’s deal was unattractive but there seemed to be no alternative. If he died, the company’s value would immediately drop and the trustees could be vulnerable. ‘Think about this for two minutes,’ he told an enquirer. ‘I’m gone, Slavica marries a strapping young guy who can do all the things I can no longer do … he comes along and says, “Darling, what’s happened with Formula One? The value’s fallen. It’s completely mad. You should sue the trustees.” And if she’s passionately in love, and it’s no aggravation to her, he would go to a lawyer and they’d sue the trust.’ Distinguishing between fiction and facts about trustees was irrelevant to Powers and Lanphere who together still owned 50 per cent of Formula One. Neither had yet understood that ownership of the shares did not mean control of Formula One.

In Ecclestone’s mind, ‘Their 50 per cent is like 5 per cent. The trust, not the shareholders, controls Formula One.’ In the small print of his agreement with Lanphere and Powers, Ecclestone had added a seemingly benign clause which in reality was financial dynamite, namely, that regardless of the profits – and the Formula One cash machine would spew out about $400 million that year – no money would be paid to the shareholders unless Bambino’s trustees agreed. In normal companies, directors would always approve a dividend to reward the shareholders but Ecclestone had other plans. Bambino was allowed to withhold dividends so long as the $1.4 billion bond had not been repaid. Quite legally, he anticipated using the ‘Dividend Clause’ to avoid paying any dividends to the shareholders until the bond was repaid.

Powers was not concerned by that clause. His own shareholder’s agreement with Ecclestone, he believed, gave him sufficient influence, but he had no time to exercise it. Just one month after his purchase of the shares, Powers was told by Ecclestone that Haffa would pay ‘a good price’ for his stake. Haffa, a former car dealer who had been introduced into the media world by Leo Kirch, bore some similarities to Ecclestone but their differences were the German’s fatal flaws. Driven by his love of publicity and ambition to create the Disney of Europe, the deal junkie yearned to strut in Formula One’s spotlight but, like the others, he never realised that the shares entitled him only to Formula One’s merchandising rights but not to control of the company itself. Notoriously, Haffa rarely scrutinised contracts. His filing cabinets were full of completed contracts for the purchase of films and other artistic ventures which he had never quite understood. Exploiting that chaos, Powers persuaded Haffa in March 2000 to pay in cash and EM.TV shares three times more for the shares than he had paid Ecclestone one month earlier. Lanphere also agreed to sell 12.5 per cent of his stake to Haffa but only in exchange for EM.TV shares. In total Haffa paid $712.5 million in cash and $880 million in shares for his 50 per cent stake. Overnight, Formula One increased in value from $2.6 billion to $3.4 billion. In the lightly regulated Neuer Markt, Germany’s new alternative stock market, EM.TV’s share price also soared to 3,000 per cent higher than when it was launched. In his lackadaisical manner, Haffa failed to commission lawyers to scrutinise the conditions of his ownership of the 50 per cent stake. Instead, he assumed that he could rely on the due diligence executed by Powers and Lanphere.

Spotting that folly, Ecclestone offered Haffa more shares from the half of the company still owned by the family trusts. Ecclestone’s price was based on the increased value negotiated by Powers. Excitedly, Haffa accepted Ecclestone’s offer and committed himself to buy an option on a 25 per cent stake for just under $1 billion. Ecclestone naturally did not celebrate his success but the wodge of folded £50 notes permanently in his pocket represented his established status as a billionaire. His new wealth refuelled his anger about the snobs managing the British Grand Prix race at Silverstone.

*

Ecclestone had little affection for Silverstone, an 800-acre plot owned by the British Racing Drivers Club (BRDC) where Grands Prix have been held since the first competition year, 1950, and every year since 1987. The dilapidated buildings, the shabby environment and the poor road access were in Ecclestone’s opinion an indictment of the club’s management, but his relations with Silverstone were amicable until Tom Walkinshaw was elected the club’s chairman in 1992. Walkinshaw’s bid to revolutionise the club’s finances was opposed by the majority of members, led by Ken Tyrrell. After shrugging off accusations of misconduct for persuading the board to invest £5.3 million of the BRDC’s money in his own failing business, Walkinshaw was deposed along with the entire committee. Ecclestone was disappointed by Walkinshaw’s demise, which ended the chance to rebuild Silverstone, and never fully understood the reasons behind Walkinshaw’s removal. ‘I don’t ask questions where I don’t want to know the answers,’ he said. ‘In Formula One people make promises and do things to keep their teams running and think, “Tomorrow it’ll be fine.” But they don’t keep their promises. Their eyes get in the way of reality.’

The committee’s replacements were rich enthusiasts unsympathetic to Ecclestone’s transformation of their amateur sport into a global business and unwilling to remedy his intolerance of Silverstone’s shoddiness because of the club’s poverty. Unlike other Grand Prix circuits across the world, Silverstone received no government finance and Ecclestone’s success had killed any prospect of British politicians approving a subsidy which would ultimately enrich Ecclestone even more. Those excuses were of no interest to Ecclestone. The BRDC managers were expected to raise more money to pay Ecclestone and the teams, and to improve their facilities regardless of their income. He had little truck with win–win scenarios, just the maximum win for himself. The endless argument between the two sides ended with an abrupt refusal by the BRDC and RAC to upgrade Silverstone to international standards. Ecclestone’s threat was heartfelt: ‘If you don’t want to play, I can take the Grand Prix somewhere else.’ 

One target of his anger was Jackie Stewart, the British champion embraced by the BRDC as the trusted ambassador of British motor car racing. Their frosty relationship since the mid-1960s had deteriorated with Ecclestone’s success. Undoubtedly influenced by Ken Tyrrell, Stewart resented Ecclestone earning from the sport more than anyone else in the world. Stewart was especially sore because he believed he had contributed to Ecclestone’s prosperity by introducing him to the ruler of Malaysia who wanted to host a Grand Prix. Then, in the early 1990s, Stewart had introduced Ecclestone to the Crown Prince of Bahrain, which also led to a Grand Prix in that country. Stewart’s expectation of gratitude was mistaken. ‘Bernie’s deals are his deals and no one else’s,’ rued Stewart. The personal animosity was incurable. When Max Mosley spoke of Jackie Stewart as ‘a twit in a flat cap’, Ecclestone was less charitable. Their mutual dislike had been aggravated in 1997 after Ecclestone arranged for Jackie Stewart’s team in Monaco to be parked inconveniently on the fringes of the Paddock. ‘I just thought he would like to be a little a bit nearer the palace,’ said Ecclestone in a slight to remind the Scotsman who was boss. ‘He’d like to be a prince,’ added Ecclestone. ‘What’s there to like about him?’ Stewart had also not enjoyed Ecclestone’s prank introducing John Bloom under a pseudonym as a potential sponsor offering $35 million. For several weeks, Stewart had negotiated with the supposed billionaire, who frustratingly cancelled their ‘final’ meetings to sign the sponsorship contract to fulfil another ‘unexpected’ obligation required for an orthodox Jew. Stewart may have felt he had evened the score when he made some ungenerous comments, both during the Labour donation scandal and after

Ecclestone threatened to terminate the British Grand Prix. Their mutual antagonism aggravated the fate of the British Grand Prix. Ecclestone’s hostility to the BRDC and Silverstone, he insisted, was purely commercial. Foreign governments were pleading to host a Grand Prix despite the certainty that in return for paying Ecclestone up to $30 million annually for a ten-year contract they could lose millions of dollars. On those terms Malaysia bought into Formula One because no other international event could similarly promote the country across the world. The Singapore government wanted the same deal and other countries were lining up to pay to become famous. All were required to meet Ecclestone’s expectations precisely. Dubai failed to host a Grand Prix because, after Ecclestone arrived as agreed at the Carlton Tower Hotel in London, he was kept waiting for many hours by the Maktoums, the ruling family. Ecclestone only travelled to complete the deal and not to waste his time, and their eventual offer that he should finance the construction of a circuit was, he replied, nonsensical. Formula One’s popularity was his message to the BRDC. The context, as Jackie Stewart knew, was that the teams would only race sixteen times in one year and one fixture would be dropped to accommodate a new Asian venue. The French Grand Prix, Ecclestone announced, was to be cancelled (although in 1999 he had bought the Paul Ricard circuit) and the next to disappear might be Silverstone.

Although the BRDC’s membership was classless, a few dismissed Ecclestone as a mere working-class boy. In public someone close to Lord Hesketh, its president, had openly cursed the ‘second-hand-car dealers running the sport’ and at a packed meeting when the club was financially strapped after the Walkinshaw era, Ecclestone’s offer of help was publicly rejected by snipes from the back of the hall, ‘We don’t want your money, you dirty little sod,’ and, ‘Stand up, dwarf.’ Ecclestone walked out trying to feign disinterest but dismissed some of their leaders as rotten, lazy, greedy, incompetent, self-important snobs obsessed by their traditions. Instead of praising his creation of Formula One as Britain’s success, they delighted in back-stabbing feuds in a public goldfish bowl. ‘The people running Silverstone are “old school tie” and not businessmen,’ he said, complaining about their inability to build a decent race circuit. ‘If Silverstone does not match up, it should not be on the calendar.’

Ever since his first five-year agreement in May 1986 to hold the British Grand Prix at Silverstone, there had been constant discussions about whether the Grand Prix should be permanently relocated to a reconstructed site at Donnington or Brands Hatch. In 1999 the argument was resurrected. Twenty-three-year-old Nicola Foulston had inherited Brands Hatch and was plotting to transfer the Grand Prix to her modernised circuit after buying and closing down Silverstone. After being thwarted by the BRDC, she approached Ecclestone. In his view, it was the annual ‘let’s play games with someone’ and if Silverstone was the plaything, he would fight to score a better deal, not least because Jackie Stewart opposed Foulston’s plan. In return for her paying $10 million a year for ten years to stage the Grand Prix, Ecclestone agreed to move the race from Silverstone to Brands Hatch in 2002. And the price would rise by 5 per cent every year. Foulston had no intention of spending $60 million to rebuild the circuit. Instead, she found a buyer. Octagon, a sports marketing group based in New York, was headed by Sir Frank Lowe, a keen Formula One supporter. Foulston’s company was worth $13.2 million and produced annual profits of $9 million but with the prospect of staging the Grand Prix, she wanted $192 million. Notwithstanding the fact that Foulston had loaded her company with unenforceable contracts, Lowe expressed his interest if Ecclestone supported the move and if planning permission was granted to rebuild Brands Hatch.

Before Ecclestone signed the deal, he was visited by Sir Tommy Sopwith, the BRDC’s chairman, and Denys Rohan, Silverstone’s chief executive. Both urged Ecclestone against the move to Brands Hatch. ‘I’ll stay at Silverstone,’ replied Ecclestone, ‘if you pay me the same – $10 million plus 5 per cent.’ ‘But that’s double what we’re paying now,’ replied Rohan. ‘Well, that’s the deal,’ stated Ecclestone. ‘That’s too rich for us,’ they said. On 14 May 1999 Ecclestone signed a contract with Foulston to switch to Brands Hatch in July 2002. ‘It was an offer I could not refuse,’ he explained. The British motor racing establishment was outraged. Kent council approved the redevelopment and early in December 1999 Lowe bought Brands Hatch for £120 million giving Foulston a clear £50 million profit.

Nature added another twist. The British Grand Prix was normally held in July but Ecclestone had changed the date to 23 April 2000. Predictably, the circuit was drenched by continuous rain. After the first cars arrived, the whole area became a soggy mud field. Thousands of spectators were stranded ankle deep in mud and their cars were immobilised. The disaster confirmed Ecclestone’s criticisms about the BRDC’s incompetence. ‘He fitted us up with mischievous intent,’ complained a club official. Ecclestone was still celebrating the BRDC’s embarrassment when he flew five weeks later to the sunlit race in Monaco.

Thomas Haffa invited Ecclestone and Slavica to a party on his yacht moored near the Paddock. The German was in an expansive mood. His share price, he said, would double in the near future – they were €120 that week – and he would soon rival Disney. There was something endearing to Ecclestone about a German seeking to dominate the world’s entertainment industry. ‘He’s flash, a lovely guy,’ decided Ecclestone. Looking at the Grand Prix course snaking around Monaco harbour Haffa confided to Ecclestone, ‘I’ve got the most expensive seat here.’ Ecclestone smiled. Haffa was clearly on a roll. ‘All he wants to do’, thought Ecclestone, ‘is to walk down to the pit with me. Nothing wrong with him.’ Powers suspected the worst and quickly cashed in the EM.TV shares he owned, accepting that he had recouped only 100 per cent profit on his investment rather than a notional 300 per cent. Lanphere, trusting Haffa’s prediction about EM.TV’s share price doubling, decided to stay for the ride. The experience was brief. Shortly after the Monaco weekend, Haffa was accused of falsifying EM.TV’s accounts and the share price collapsed. He was investigated but not prosecuted. Lanphere’s $325 million investment shrank in value to $6 million. Just one year after being hailed ‘private-equity house of the year’, Morgan Grenfell Private Equity imploded. Lanphere was among the casualties. Ecclestone was surprised by Haffa’s self-destruction and the fallout. Financial markets were beyond his experience and he did not foresee that Haffa’s meltdown would cast doubt on Formula One’s ownership, justifying the teams’ dislike of Ecclestone selling off the shares. When an unexpected saviour appeared, their fears were substantiated.

Leo Kirch had always wanted to own Formula One. Like so many others, he was attracted by the profits, the glamour and the opportunities for his television empire. To get control, he paid $550 million for EM.TV’s shares and overnight owned 50 per cent of Formula One. Ron Dennis and Luca Montezemolo were outraged. Both had been angered by Ecclestone’s original sale without consultation. Dennis’s hostility had not been new but Montezemolo had been converted to the opposition after meeting Thomas Haffa in Maranello. ‘I thought he was only good to buy a car from the showroom but not Formula One,’ Montezemolo said about his turning point. ‘I could not take him seriously. He was a joke.’ The amusement disappeared once the shares were transferred to Kirch whose intention to switch Formula One entirely from free television to pay-television was alarming. Even Ecclestone became rattled by the prospect of the taciturn and partially blind non-English-speaking recluse deterring sponsors by broadcasting to smaller audiences.

His concern grew after the introduction of Dieter Hahn as Kirch’s representative to run the sport. ‘He has a steamroller approach to get what he wants,’ noted one of Ecclestone’s lawyers, ‘so Bernie won’t give him what he wants, especially anywhere near the business.’ ‘You should visit the teams,’ Ecclestone told Hahn as a prank. ‘Let them meet you.’ Hahn telephoned the team principals. ‘I’m the owner of 50 per cent of the business,’ he introduced himself, ‘and I’d like to tell you my plans.’ Ecclestone was amused to hear that Hahn’s calls were met with a common reply, ‘Call back in six months.’ Hahn suggested that his brother Wolfgang become involved in the sport’s management. ‘Formula One looks like fun,’ Wolfgang told Ecclestone, ‘and I’m a fun sort of guy.’ Believing that the German wanted a job without doing any work, Ecclestone remained silent. He would manage the business, ignore the flak and not return the Hahns’ telephone calls. He agreed, however, that Alexander Ritvay, a lawyer employed by Kirch, could move into Princes Gate to monitor his investment, but he would languish in the building, frustrated by Ecclestone’s reluctance to cooperate. Montezemolo also succumbed to the Hahn brothers’ insistence on meeting him in Lugano. The Ferrari chief was horrified. ‘When I realised that they are part of the business,’ Montezemolo later told Ecclestone, ‘I became upset. You are doing very well but it’s our business too. It’s time to open a new page, discuss the management and cutting the cake.’ Other team principals complained that their investment was unsafe in the hands of a sick old man. And Ecclestone was younger and less sick than Kirch. Negotiating the ownership and management of Formula One between the fractious interests became hectic. ‘I’ll find a solution,’ Ecclestone replied, ‘let me do it.’ Off the top of his head, he suggested that Formula One should be owned 45 per cent by manufacturers, 45 per cent by Kirch and 10 per cent by him. ‘I don’t care who owns the shares. It would make no difference to what I do,’ he said. The glibness challenged his credibility.

One complication had been removed. Amid accusations of financial misappropriation in March 1999, van Miert and all the EU Commissioners resigned. Mario Monti, a serious Italian professor of economics, succeeded the Flemish nationalist. Mosley already knew that Monti was a fan of Formula One. As a nine-year-old child, Monti had previously told Mosley, he had been taken by his parents to watch the Grand Prix at Monza. The great Juan Fangio had won and his parents had driven the legendary Argentinian in their car to Milan with Mario Monti in the back seat holding the winner’s trophy. Relieved, and encouraged by that pedigree, Mosley approached Monti on 25 January 2000 to consider a settlement. He was helped by Alan Donnelly, a Labour MEP, who would become a highly paid FIA official. Together they persuaded Monti that if he dared to defend his predecessor’s prejudices he would be humiliated by a catalogue of van Miert’s transgressions. Unwilling to engage in the public brawl, Monti was amenable to retreat, leaving Ecclestone’s and FIA’s empire largely untouched. Among the conditions was that Ecclestone should negotiate a settlement with Patrick Peter, the French race organiser. Ecclestone paid Peter under £2 million. Mosley’s success barely registered amid the eruption of a bitter argument about the ownership of Formula One.

Kirch’s ownership of 50 per cent of the shares triggered a dispute between Ecclestone and the teams whether FIA, Ecclestone, the teams or Kirch was Formula One’s legal owner. Having failed to foresee how 50 per cent of the shares could drift into the hands of a stranger, Ecclestone could not offer a palatable solution. At that moment, Paolo Cantarella, the chief executive of Fiat and owner of Ferrari, announced a breakaway to counter Kirch’s involvement. Since the manufacturers financed Formula One, explained Cantarella, they, rather than Kirch, would organise their own season of races and pocket the profits. Terrified that he might lose his investment when Ecclestone’s agreement with FIA expired in 2010, Kirch awaited Ecclestone’s move, while Ecclestone held back to see how Mosley reacted.

For his part Mosley feared that FIA was losing control over the sport and met Ecclestone in Paris to discuss Formula One’s ownership. The sport, Mosley believed, belonged either to FIA or to Ecclestone but certainly not to the teams or to Kirch. Unusually, his conversation with Ecclestone ended in a heated argument. ‘I took all the risks,’ said Ecclestone, ‘I built the business up and I own it.’ He denied that FIA had any rights other than to designate an event as official. ‘You must allow me to buy Formula One outright.’ ‘No,’ replied Mosley, ‘that’s our Crown Jewels. It will never be approved by the members.’ Ecclestone packed his papers and prepared to leave. ‘If anyone tries to grab Formula One,’ he warned, ‘I’ll do a “scorched earth”. I’ll make sure there’s nothing left after I’ve gone.’ Mosley had every reason to believe Ecclestone’s threat. ‘Even the EU commission agrees that we own the Formula One licence,’ Mosley replied in a quiet voice. ‘But I agree we need certainty.’ Ecclestone nodded. He wanted the same.

Mosley could not persuade FIA’s members to sell the trade mark to Ecclestone but after brain-storming he produced a novel solution. Just as the freehold owners of property in Britain frequently leased their buildings for 100 years, he proposed that FIA extend the fifteen-year contract with Ecclestone to a licence of rights for 100 years. Ecclestone refused. ‘We’ve got enough cards,’ he impulsively replied but then reconsidered. As the owner of a 100-year licence, he realised, he could more easily fight the Association des Constructeurs Européens d’Automobiles (ACEA), Cantarella’s breakaway group, and with Mosley’s help he could out-face the teams. He relented. ‘It’ll need Monti’s approval,’ said Mosley. The EU commissioner was intrigued. ‘A lease is not an infringement of the competition laws,’ explained Mosley, ‘and the alternative risks FIA losing control over Formula One.’ Monti adopted Mosley’s suggestion that the idea was justified to protect the ‘very high-risk and expensive investment’ for new technologies. In return the purchaser of the 100-year lease would have to recognise FIA as the sport’s regulator. ‘You’ll have to pay,’ Mosley told Ecclestone. ‘You’re trying to sell me my own business,’ Ecclestone countered, calculating that others including Kirch would seize the opportunity to buy the 100-year licence. ‘It’s worth $500 million,’ said Mosley. ‘Then sell it for that,’ said Ecclestone offering in April 2000 just $50 million and some additional payments, grumbling that Mosley only helped when it suited him.

To distance himself from the negotiations, Mosley appointed a four-man team to meet Ecclestone, who finally agreed on 11 May to pay $360 million. ‘I’d pay $360 million just to get rid of FIA,’ said Ecclestone in another burst of anger. ‘I really don’t need to buy this.’ ‘Well, I’ll find someone else,’ replied Mosley. On 20 June 2000 Paolo Cantarella told Mosley that ACEA was about to send a rival bid. Displeased, because any deal with Cantarella would lead to endless litigation with Ecclestone, Mosley replied that ACEA’s bid would have to be received by 28 June and match Ecclestone’s $360 million. ‘Max has done us no favours as president,’ complained Ecclestone. That view was not shared by Cantarella: ‘Mosley has been Ecclestone’s ally ever since they both owned a team.’ His own bluff was called. He did not bid.

On 28 June Ecclestone was in Warsaw to watch FIA’s members unanimously approve the sale of a 100-year licence to Bambino Holdings, confirming FOM’s exclusive right to negotiate and collect fees from organisers and sell the television rights to broadcasters. ‘Nice to have but not worth the money,’ said Ecclestone. To comply with the EU’s requirements, he also agreed to resign as FIA’s promotional director, to sell the television rights of other motor races to Dave Richards, a successful Formula One investor, and to limit future television contracts to five years. Despite their arguments, Ecclestone and Mosley had spoken the same language to produce a mutually satisfying decision.

The turbulence and the agreement reawakened the teams’ suspicions about Mosley’s relationship with Ecclestone. ‘We thought a 100-year deal was very naughty,’ said Frank Williams. The critics compared Sky TV’s purchase in 1997 of a four-year contract with the British Premier League for $743 million to Formula One’s deal of $3.6 million for each year. At best, thought one team principal, Mosley was akin to the Provisional wing of the IRA, always running an organisation parallel to the formal FIA. At worst there were unfounded rumours about an undefined dishonest relationship with Ecclestone for which there was absolutely no evidence and which was vehemently denied by both men. Accustomed to criticism, Mosley brushed aside the ridiculous idea of taking back-handers from a former second-hand-car salesman. ‘We need a Don King clause,’ Mosley told his critics, meaning that the long ‘lease’ would prevent the sport falling into the wrong hands. Pleasing the teams, he sighed, was always difficult because, having spent so much money, they resented his indifference to ruffling feathers and the unanimous approval he received from FIA’s members. Ron Dennis particularly disliked Mosley’s condescending comment when he also mentioned the possibility of a breakaway. ‘Ron’, said Mosley, ‘has no role in the FIA Formula One world championship apart from that granted to him in common with other teams by the Concorde agreement. Unfortunately he finds all this rather difficult to understand.’ But Mosley’s fluent vilification could not smother Dennis or Montezemolo.

*

The rapid changes in ownership, Ecclestone’s £1 million donation to Labour, the battle about Silverstone and the secrecy of Formula One’s finances prompted The Economist magazine to assign an investigative journalist to delve into Ecclestone’s reputation. The known facts appeared at first to justify their concerns. The City had rejected the flotation; the $1.4 billion bond arranged by Saunders had been rejected by the City leaving her bank (the Westdeutsche Landesbank) with most of the debt; half of FOM’s shares were owned by an unfriendly German; and van Miert’s criticism had not been assuaged. By June the sport’s internal critics had provided the magazine with sufficient evidence to justify doubts about the constant metamorphosis of Ecclestone’s network of private offshore companies. Denied Ecclestone’s guidance, the magazine in particular picked on APM, an Irish company whose directors included McNally, Stephen Mullens, Luc Argand and unknown nominees, considering it mysterious and enormously important. Subsequently Ecclestone would say that APM was McNally’s agency used to negotiate the rights to Formula One’s trade marks on umbrellas, T-shirts and other unimportant merchandise with Disney, and was by 1998 a commercial and legal mess. Only then, Ecclestone explained, did he realise the importance of registering himself as the licensed owner of the ‘Formula One’ trade mark and, after buying APM from McNally, his lawyers began to register the Formula One trade mark across the world. In 2000, in Ecclestone’s opinion, that manoeuvre was too sensitive to reveal to outsiders. His secrecy aroused suspicion. Focusing on the consequences of it, the magazine highlighted three damning court judgements. In December 1971 Mr Justice Goff had criticised Ecclestone’s tax affairs in his early career which ‘showed a talent for financial trickery’. A later judge described Ecclestone’s control of Formula One from his motorhome as ‘similar to a tent of a medieval king in the battlefield. There are the equivalent of courtiers who control access to the presence.’ Worst was Mr Justice Longmore’s criticism in 2000 about Ecclestone’s business methods involving a Korean corporation contracted to create a Formula One circuit: ‘He conducts his business by way of meetings without making notes and his memory of what occurred at such meetings is somewhat hazy.’ More critically, the judge declared, ‘I do have to record that Mr Ecclestone has not been a man of his word … [and] … I have some reservations about any evidence from him that is not supported by other evidence in the case.’ In his defence Ecclestone said that he had successfully defended the case and was relieved when the Koreans were eventually prosecuted in Korea.

The Economist’s conclusion, published on 15 July 2000, claimed to have ‘uncovered several disturbing features’ about the ‘secrecy’ of Formula One finances, Ecclestone’s close relationship with Mosley and his conflicts of interest between his own companies and FIA: ‘Nearly all of Formula One’s affairs are shrouded in secrecy; not only are the terms of all agreements “commercially confidential” but even the existence of some agreements is a secret. Nobody inside Formula One is seriously able to question how it is run. That is what happens when one man is allowed to establish such a financial stranglehold on a sport.’ The Economist judged that politicians, the sponsors and the world’s major car manufacturers risked being ‘tainted’ by Formula One’s ‘murkiness’. The editorial concluded, ‘When the odour that surrounds a sport becomes too overpowering the worst danger of all looms: that it will switch off the interest of the general public.’

Others in London would have been outraged by the damnation and considered an action for defamation but Ecclestone had become immune to criticism. He shrugged off the demand for ‘greater transparency and accountability’. Stubbornly he decided, ‘I have a position which I think is right and I’ll defend. I won’t run away from a fight.’ Eventually, he knew, every attacker fell by the wayside. Wolfgang Eisele was the latest. Although he had failed to recover his $500,000 from Eisele, the German’s threat had evaporated and in victory Ecclestone was magnanimous. Eisele was given a pass to the German Grand Prix and entertained for lunch. ‘Another Redskin bites the dust,’ Ecclestone sang. Ecclestone’s artfulness was to head off potential defeats by playing for time, dividing his opponents, or singly emerging from an impenetrable morass with a profitable deal. He grasped that opportunity over the fate of the Grand Prix at Silverstone.

Ecclestone’s commitment to stage the British Grand Prix at Brands Hatch in 2002 was opposed by Jackie Stewart, newly elected as the BRDC’s president. To prevent the transfer from Silverstone, the former world champion lobbied John Prescott, the minister responsible for the environment and transport. To Stewart’s delight, on 8 September 2000 the government withdrew Kent council’s power to grant planning permission for Brands Hatch’s redevelopment. Frank Lowe, the founder and chief executive of Octagon, the company that had bought Brands Hatch, was shocked. Stewart’s finesse threatened his company with huge losses from its irrevocable ten-year commitment to Ecclestone to stage the Grand Prix. Nor could he escape financial disaster by declaring Octagon, a British subsidiary, bankrupt. Shrewdly, Ecclestone and Foulston had extracted a guarantee from Interpublic, the American advertising conglomerate and Octagon’s parent company, for any debts. Lowe could only hope that Stewart’s victory would still be stymied if Ecclestone abandoned the British Grand Prix. Ecclestone was willing to play the game. Once again Stewart and Ecclestone were head-to-head about Silverstone’s shabbiness and snobs. ‘Bernie,’ said Stewart, ‘I get $100,000 for a speech but if it’s for a good cause I do it for much less. So you should also cut your cloth if necessary. You should cut the fees for England. Think of the national interest, the good of the industry and the outrage if you pull out.’

‘You can talk,’ countered Ecclestone. ‘I pay taxes in Britain and you’ve lived for twenty years in Switzerland to avoid taxes. I don’t owe Britain anything. I don’t care about a British Grand Prix and I don’t care if the media go after me.’ There was a price to be paid, in Stewart’s opinion, for such outspokenness, not least burying Ecclestone’s chances of receiving a British honour. The rulers of many other countries had showered Ecclestone with praise and awards but his own government was silent. Ecclestone cared about that snub, but not enough to stop seeking the best deal long after others would have stopped. Sir Tommy Sopwith’s old-money brigade fuelled his aggression. ‘All they do is send down toffee-nosed public school types to see me, and I don’t want to deal with them,’ he said. Ecclestone’s anger about the snobs, the condescending upper classes, was inflamed. The memory of the mockery in the Dartford school playground sixty years earlier remained fresh, as were his forlorn attempts to overcome social barriers. Regardless of his fortune, appearances, especially size and class, always seemed to be pertinent. Sopwith acted the part. ‘I would not underestimate the little man,’ Sopwith commented later. ‘I think Bernie only wants one thing. Bernie wants to be richer than he is. I can’t imagine anyone being richer than he is, but Bernie can.’ The club’s secretary agreed: ‘The BRDC is being arguably bled dry to keep a slot on the manic merry-go-round of the Formula One calendar.’

Frank Lowe knew nothing about racing or British honours but was concerned that his company’s financial state was precarious. Ecclestone offered a solution but to allay suspicions arranged for Ron Dennis to propose the plan at a meeting in Princes Gate in October 2000 to Lowe and Martin Brundle, the former racing driver and ITV commentator, who would become the BRDC’s chairman.

Ecclestone’s relationship with Brundle was prickly. As a contemporary of Ayrton Senna, the driver had clearly failed to make a serious impression on the sport but since most of his contemporaries were dead, he wielded authority as a survivor and television commentator. Naturally, he had only secured the job with Ecclestone’s approval and on occasion, Brundle relied on Ecclestone to provide the celebrities to appear on his programme. His fame had secured his election to the BRDC’s committee but that, in Ecclestone’s judgement, did not prove his qualifications to deliver the promises which they had negotiated.

Ecclestone proposed that Lowe abandon Brands Hatch and buy the rights to stage the Grand Prix in Silverstone for fifteen years. In turn, the BRDC would be committed to spend $100 million to improve the circuit. To finance the redevelopment, Ecclestone would contribute $7 million a year and would commit Formula One to remain at Silverstone for ten years starting in 2001 for a payment of $1 million annually with a 10 per cent annual uplift. To offset his costs he would still receive the annual $10 million payment from Lowe who would also be liable to pay $14 million annually to the BRDC and towards Silverstone’s reconstruction. In total Silverstone was receiving a windfall of $21 million a year. Before agreeing, Lowe asked Ecclestone to step outside. ‘Bernie, I don’t know much about motor racing, but is this the right deal? Do you think we could make money? Do you recommend it?’ Ecclestone replied, ‘Yes.’ After its formal agreement, Ecclestone would say that the contract was ‘a joke and uncommercial’ and that he recommended Lowe not to go ahead. The deal was announced on 2 December 2000. Although Brundle was delighted by Silverstone’s windfall, he criticised Ecclestone: ‘It’s clear for anyone to see that Bernie seems to have been trying hard to destabilise the British Grand Prix, Silverstone and the BRDC.’ ‘They still don’t get it,’ retorted Ecclestone.