Mr Ecclestone I presume?

Just like your grandad, he wanders in chewing a toffee. But the eyes are utterly alert, lizard-like, darting over the disparate throng of European journalists assembled in his Kensington lair. Then, briefly, he actually seems bewildered - an expression well honed over decades of wheeler-dealing; it's a look calculated to disarm, to charm even - this endearing little old man wouldn't hurt a fly... Surely?

But you're promptly disabused. "I've just started to record all my interviews," he announces as he sits down. "I began to realise that my quotes weren't being written down accurately." He casts a furtive glance around the table: "I know what you bastards are like - you never spoil a good story with the truth."

Nobody dares mention that the 'truth' is something we quite possibly won't be troubling over the next hour or so...

Like some feral hunter, Bernie Ecclestone always pursues his prey silently. The soft whirr of the fax machine is usually the first hint you get that you're being stalked. It's only when the phone rings, catching you completely off-guard, and a sweetly menacing voice utters: "It's Mr Eccle-stone [with firm emphasis on that final syllable] calling" that you realise, too late, that the trap has already been sprung. It's a technique that has made him a fearsome predator.

Yet, given his determination to hug to himself the secrets that make him such an enigma, you're almost surprised to find yourself, finally, face to face with Formula 1's sharpest tack. Bernie is impassive, inscrutable, a figure of diminutive grandeur - one you're resolved to unravel and understand. For me, the situation's made all the worse by the fact that I barely know him and have never before engaged him in verbal combat. All mildly unnerving.

How do you tackle somebody like Bernard Charles Ecclestone? What are the vulnerabilities, the enthusiasms? "Ask him about his days as a racer and team owner," proffers F1 Racing's grand prix editor, Peter Windsor, some days earlier. "He likes movies; he likes art - he loves sculpture; he eats out a lot, he loves fusion food. Why not ask him about that?"

Later, editor in chief Matt Bishop chips in. "Make sure you ask about his legal battle with the banks, the future of the British Grand Prix and the importance of Ferrari," he says earnestly, before offering a final sliver of advice. "Bernie's a hard bastard; every time I've ever interviewed him, I've come away thinking I could have pushed him a little more. He seems to enjoy it, so don't be afraid to go in hard." Hmmm...

A solicitous Ecclestone makes sure everyone's fixed with an espresso or mug of tea ("a cheap round"), then retreats into fragile mode - too frail to push. But that's the point, moron, isn't it? Don't play the game.

We limber up with last December's court hearing, the one that threatened to strip Bernie of his jurisdiction of FOM (Formula One Management) and allow three German banks to assume a greater role in the running of F1. At the time, it seemed a landmark decision, yet Bernie appeared to shrug the matter off. How come?

"It had nothing to do with me," he offers in mock amazement. Already, things don't sound quite right - but we've already raised his hackles to such an extent that further questioning feels difficult. Let's try another route - but the mounting pressure means

I briefly get my facts mixed. It's just the opening Bernie needs. He stares me down before asking with menacing deliberation: "Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Er... I'm asking you."

He looks irritated: "No, no, no; it's got nothing to do with that..." And he's off, casually and cannily throwing in complicated jargon calculated to mislead. I've been caught off-guard and temporarily retire hurt while somebody else foolishly picks up the cudgels.

Bernie erupts: "It's got nothing to do wi..." He pauses to let his anger subside before adopting a more considered, but still irritable, tone: "I'll try once again, and then I'll stop because I don't have the time to waste."

We've been seated for less than five minutes and Bernie has already popped. Everyone in the room now knows their place. The conversation finally ebbs and flows - the British and French Grands Prix are both "one million per cent certain" to happen, we discover. Even if his maths is a little off (although he's more used to dealing in millions than most people), you don't doubt that he's telling the truth. And it just adds credence to the stories you hear that Bernie needs only a handshake to seal a deal.

We move on to the thorny subject of F1 qualifying - nobody seems happy with the current Saturday/Sunday format. Drivers, team bosses, broadcasters and journalists have all expressed their reluctance to accept another confusing gameplan. Bernie, however, has been key to pushing the idea of holding final qualifying on Sunday morning. Does he still think it's a good idea?

"I'm violently opposed to anything other than the old qualifying. We only changed it because nobody went out for the first half-hour and the TV people didn't want to show a Minardi going round and nothing else."

So, does he think, I ask, that qualifying will change again before we get to the end of the season?

"No, we're stuck. It needs everybody to agree to change it and everybody has their own ideas. Anyway, on Saturday, everyone will know who's quickest because they'll be running low tanks. Last year, we didn't know who was quickest until the race. This new format might juggle up the grid, because if a driver is quick on Saturday, he might take a punt and run a lot more fuel on Sunday morning - that was one of the aims."

Hang on, this doesn't add up. Drivers ran low during first qualifying in both 2003 and 2004 and things weren't really any clearer. Anyway, why do we need Sunday morning qualifying to ramp up the excitement - didn't 2003's low-fuel Friday qualifying establish things satisfactorily? Bernie's logic doesn't really make sense - it's just a scattered patchwork of ideas with huge holes.

And, Bernie, surely there's a risk that the spectators won't understand it?

"It's up to the media to make them understand," he insists, and he's back up to full simmer again. "If you do it now and start explaining to the people, hopefully they'll start retaining the knowledge and know what's going on."

But if final qualifying is held on Sunday morning, I insist in turn, then the media will have only about three hours to inform the entire world.

"Stop! Go and print it tomorrow morning," he says, incomprehensibly, losing the logic of the plot. "Those who are interested will understand it, those who aren't won't care anyway. In 2003, the cars would run empty on Friday when nobody was watching and nothing got printed. On Saturday they ran with fuel and nobody was able to report on Saturday what they'd done. Let the TV commentators explain everything on Sunday mornings. It's a nice story..."

Arguing with him, I discover, is pointless. But the dispute encapsulates Bernie's attitude. On the one hand, his interpretation of events is single-minded, relentless and completely driven - all the traits you need to drive a deal home. On the other, he's idiosyncratic, blinkered and non-negotiable - unashamedly showcasing the irascible and trenchant nature that, for better or worse, also helps explain why he refuses to slacken his grip on the sport.

But, slowly, he lowers his defences and the sentences grow longer. "Look," he says, sounding more candid than he has all morning. "I don't need to do what I do to pay the rent; I do what I do because I like doing it. I'm a builder not a destroyer - I like to see things become successful. I got into this [FOM etc] by accident not design; I had a race team and I was organising things and in the end I couldn't do both.

"Some of the old Brabham days were good for me," he continues, almost wistfully. "There were good boys around me like [Nelson] Piquet and [Carlos] Reutemann. But I don't like to talk about the old days; there was a different atmosphere. People weren't at each other's throats or jealous. People like Colin Chapman and Mr Ferrari were racers. That era was good - people were always friendly and helping each other. You can't do that now. We used to share parts or lend other teams our spare gearbox. Can you imagine that happening today?

"I'd rather have a race team - even now," he insists, snapping out of his reverie. Really? "Oh yes, it's instant results, isn't it? On a Sunday afternoon, you know whether you've done it right or wrong. I absolutely miss that buzz."

It seems like a fitting moment to end our conversation. It's nice to know that, for all his financial firepower, Bernie still reckons himself a racer at heart. But before we wrap it up, is there anything else, I ask, that we ought to be hearing about?

He barely pauses: "No, I don't think there's going to be anything important happening before the start of the season..."

Job done, we all pack up. Bernie whooshes out of the room, back to his office, back to business - all very impressive for a man of his age. By contrast, I wearily pack up my belongings and wander out into the crisp winter air.

A day later I'm at home transcribing the interview from my tape recorder when an email that makes my jaw drop pops into my inbox: 'New Concorde Agreement - Ferrari Statement.' In an instant, yesterday's encounter has been rendered almost meaningless, its relevance lost in Formula 1's swirling tides. How could Bernie maintain such a poker-face while nursing such seismic news (Ferrari extending their part of the Concorde Agreement beyond 2008 without consulting the other teams)?

How could he ignore, so effortlessly, the imminence of an event that will change F1 out of sight? How could he treat us so cynically? I decide to push matters with the man himself the following day.

I dial through to Bernie's inner sanctum. The now familiar, inscrutable voice murmurs on the other end. "Er... Bernie, when I asked you whether anything important was going to happen before the start of the season, you said 'no'. You weren't exactly telling the truth, were you?"

You sense straight away that he's smiling. There's a slight pause - enough of a well-timed beat to let you know he's revelling in his reputation for blurring fact and fiction; and not only always to get away with it, but actually to prosper from it, too.

"Yeah," he purrs. "Well, I 'ave to lie sometimes, don't I...?"

What an operator.

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