The message arrives at dawn: the Agera has landed. Koenigsegg's 910bhp, 250mph warhead is on Chinese soil... but we have no idea where. Really. Shipping an ultra-rare hypercar into one of the world's most bureaucratic, secretive nations isn't a case of phoning Parcelforce and arranging a mutually convenient delivery time. The rest of our Awards cars have been deposited safely at TopGear's temporary Beijing HQ, but the Agera has entered the country under the radar. All we have is the name of a road, somewhere on the scrubby outskirts of the city. We plug it into Google Maps. "Looks like a... military base," says boss Turner.
This article was originally published in the Awards issue of Top Gear magazine
It is a military base. A big one. Thirty miles later, and we are parked up at the security checkpoint of a barbed-wire-fringed airbase, as Huan - editor of TopGear's China edition and our unofficial fixer - conducts a frenzied Mandarin conversation with a pair of jackbooted, gun-laden guards.
Boss Turner, photographer Joe and I sit silently in the car, looking as innocuous and diplomatic as it's possible to look when attempting to gain illicit entry to a major military facility. The guards wave us through. Christ, what have we got ourselves into? Past the barbed wire, we trundle down a mile-long runway lined with dozens and dozens of Soviet-era fighter jets - MiG 15s mainly, relics of China's involvement in the Korean War, on the side of the baddies - and heavy artillery
The Agera's keeper, a giant Viking called Bard, emerges from a hut by the side of the runway. We have no idea how long he has been there. We are fairly sure he has no idea how long he has been there. He ambles over, grinning broadly. "Er, guys," he grins, patting his pockets cheerily. "I forgot the keys."
Honestly. An Agera, the Agera, has made it over 4,000 miles from Sweden to China without suffering a scratch. And the man entrusted with its safe passage has forgotten the keys. If ever a single moment encapsulated TopGear's ‘ambitious but rubbish' approach to life, here it is. As Bard scurries off - insomuch as a six-foot-five Viking is capable of scurrying - to find another set or fashion a new key from riveted Cold War aluminium or something, we take a moment to look over Sweden's latest weapon of mass destruction.
It looks lethal: all slippery functionality and huge diffuser and looming menace. Hunkered down alongside the fleet of MiGs, it shares the same singularity of purpose: a tiny cockpit bolted to a big engine, and bugger-all else.
And what an engine. Low down in the Agera's chassis, right behind the driver's back, is a twin-turbo V8 of Koenigsegg's own construction, firing out a devastating 910bhp through the fat rear tyres. Veyron power, half the driven wheels. Right now, Koenigsegg reckons this late pre-prod version will devour 60mph in under three seconds and top out somewhere north of 250mph. Potentially far enough north of 250mph to snatch the production speed record from the Veyron Super Sport. This is, quite simply, one of the most devastating road cars ever built. The Koenigsegg CCX - the car that nearly assassinated the Stig before the addition of the patented TopGear wing - developed 805bhp. This car has 105bhp more.
A flash of light, and the Agera's windows slide down a fraction. The scissor-style doors hinge gracefully forward in tandem. Bard, it seems, has located the keys. Or got his hands on some Tool of Ultimate Power from within the military base. Either way, we're in.
Over the carbon sills and into the grey-blue interior. Koenigsegg's own display-screens churn out delicious LED data. Hit the starter button, and the Agera fires with a wail, waves of sonic V8 shrapnel reverberating off the surrounding military metalwork. It is the sound of a race car, all mechanical chatter and clatter, a coarse contrast with the plush, futuristic surroundings of the cabin. Clunk the left-hand paddle to shift the sequential box into first gear, squeeze the throttle, and the Agera pulls away with the civility of a hot hatch.
press the accelerator hard and have a demi-second to register one clear, naive thought. "910bhp? This doesn't feel like 910bhp. What the hell was all th--" Then the V8 grabs 3,000rpm and the twin turbos fire, and the Agera takes off like a fighter jet on full afterburner. It is savage, physically shocking acceleration that leaves me mute, gurning, as the numbers on the digital display spool up quicker than Japan's national debt. Second engages with a thump and still the acceleration is fearsome. Third, and the jets lining the runway fuse into a grey blur. If the fat tyres let go now, several dozen MiG 15s will be decommissioned in the most emphatic manner possible. I slam on the brakes, and some divine being hauls back the Agera on a mighty chain. W˘ode tiān!
Last month, I drove the Zonda Tricolore, the latest and greatest of the current generation of Paganis. Koenigsegg regards the similarly youthful Italian firm as its closest rival, but the Zonda and the Agera are as different as chalk and, say, Mickey Rourke with toothache and a severe hangover. Where the Zonda releases its 670bhp in a smooth, even flow, the naturally aspirated Merc V12 pulling through the revs without surprises, the Agera detonates like a 3,000lb bomb. The first half-dozen times it wallops its power down onto the runway, I am physically unable to keep pressing down with my right foot, to unleash the full power.
But, as I start to acclimatise to the magnitude of the experience, it becomes apparent the Agera is more than a simple warhead. The steering, oddly light at low speeds, is quick and intuitive at pace, imbuing the Agera with surprising nimbleness for a two-metre wide hypercar. The chassis set-up couldn't ever be described as forgiving, but the near-race-spec suspension soaks up the hideous cracks in the runway concrete with astonishing ease. No, the Agera can't match the Zonda - or, indeed, the Veyron - for the sheer ease and usability of its power. It doesn't try to: the Koenigsegg experience is far more visceral than that. But it is also much more sophisticated than its fission-spec powertrain initially suggests.
Our gentle test runs attract the attention of the military. As I spin the Agera at the end of the runway, I spot a squadron of uniformed Chinese marching towards us, blocking any progress. This probably won't end well. Ever experienced that prickly sensation of squirming in the driver's seat as a policeman walks from his car towards yours? Multiply that sensation by half a million, and that's the feeling you get as a crack team of Chinese soldiers bear down on a hypercar. On their airbase. I debate, for a second, the wisdom of either a) slamming the Agera into reverse and attempting to outrun them backwards or b) charging straight at them. Noticing they have many guns, I plump for option c): sitting still and smiling like a simpleton.
The lead officer makes his way to the driver's door and gestures me from the car. I pop the door and attempt to exit in a dignified, diplomatic manner. The Agera's side sills are a solid foot across, rendering a dignified, diplomatic exit impossible. I wriggle for a while like an asphyxiated fish and eventually deposit my limbs in a crumpled heap by his feet. The officer steps over me and slides into the driver's seat. As he blips the throttle, I regret not removing the keys. It seems very likely that the world's only Agera is shortly to disappear into a Chinese military compound, never to be seen again. Given the lax attitude of the Chinese towards intellectual property laws, this will inevitably result in a familiar-looking but crudely built ‘Konsigeggs Agura' hitting showrooms early next year.
The lead officer is pressing buttons now, twiddling the Agera's bespoke knobs with interest. I glance over at photographer Joe, who shrugs. I cross my fingers the officer doesn't know how to operate a flappy-paddle gearbox. Do planes have flappy-paddle gearboxes? I'm fairly sure planes don't have flappy-paddle gearboxes. After a couple more minutes of pressing, clicking and failing to engage any gear, he harrumphs and extricates himself from the car with rather more elegance than I managed. He gestures to his squad, who follow him off down the runway in quicktime. When you have your pick of a few hundred jets, maybe a 250mph Agera looks a bit boring.
Still, it's a clear sign that we've outstayed our welcome - if, indeed, we were ever welcome in the first place. We probably weren't. First gear, and this time, my right foot is flat to the floor. The Agera bucks for a second and launches with the scream of a thousand angry banshees.
We blast past the security checkpoint and down a dusty lane lined with thousands of corn cobs drying in the sun. Onto the packed, open roads of Beijing, where rickshaws dawdle past teetering bicycles and the phrase ‘lane discipline' has yet to be translated. Beijing, in a million-quid, one-in-a-million hypercar. Welcome to the start of TopGear's incredible journey...
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