Eye of the Cobra (25 page)

‘Wyatt, would you stop being so cynical.’

‘Call it professional pride. Jack tells me the TV commercial is a winner.’

‘Congratulations, Wyatt,’ said Mickey.

‘I want to win races, not cigarette sales.’

‘This year you’ll do both.’

Suddenly, Phelps’s American accent boomed out behind them.

Shit, thought de Villiers, the bastard’s arrived early. They all turned, and there stood their sponsor, perfectly dressed in a double-breasted suit.

‘Everything A-OK, Bruce?’

‘Yes, Jack. We’re confident of good times today.’

‘Aito arrives tomorrow. It’ll be a nice surprise for him if both cars are in the front-runners.

‘That’s the idea.’

Bruce glanced over at the dozen Japanese mechanics in the pits, all looking very determined.

‘How are the Shensu crowd?’ Jack asked, following his gaze. ‘Are they any good?’

‘To be honest, Jack, I’ve never had a better team. Discipline definitely has its rewards.’

Bruce watched Wyatt climbing into the Shensu Shadow. This was the moment of truth. Further away, Ricardo strutted out towards his machine, a number of dark-skinned Brazilian women with autograph-books chasing after him. He stopped and signed them, giving each of the women an affectionate kiss.

Bruce turned slightly and saw Debbie watching Ricardo. The look said it all. He chuckled. He wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of Debbie. If Ricardo didn’t behave himself, he’d have to look out.

There was a mechanical scream as Wyatt’s engine erupted into life. Bruce raised his hand and Wyatt shot out of the pits onto the track. The Japanese mechanics weren’t smiling, and Bruce knew why. This was the acid test.

Ricardo had an ugly sneer on his face. He had followed Wyatt’s progress out of the pits and was now settling down into his own car. This tension between Wyatt and Ricardo was exactly what Bruce had wanted. Now all he had to pray for was that they both performed.

Two front-runners, that’s what he wanted. The way it had been at McCabe - except he wanted it even better. The press were complaining that Formula One had lost its excitement, that drivers like De Rosner dominated the races. Bruce sensed that Wyatt would be the one to challenge them.

It was hotter inside the Shensu Shadow than Wyatt had imagined it would be. He would have to get used to that, forget about it. Eighty laps in this heat - he was going to sweat a lot. A helluva lot.

The other cars were grouped close by him. In front of him was the Ferrari driven by Hoexter, and behind him, De Rosner in the McCabe: the two greats of the sport. Some
where in the distance would be Ricardo, hungry for his blood.

Only now did the excitement really grip him. The engine was stronger than ever before; he had marvelled at the expertise of the Japanese mechanics as he watched them tuning it. These men were in a class of their own. The intricacies of the telemetry - the electronic tuning and moni
toring equipment - were beyond his comprehension; but all that mattered was that they could extract from the engine the kind of performance he needed.

On the main straight he followed the rest of the cars as they weaved from side to side, bedding in their tyres, getting them warm. This was fine. He could still think. But after this it would just be reaction and concentration.

As he turned the corner into the main straight, for some unaccountable reason Suzie’s face came into his mind. Then it faded as he saw the rest of the field accelerating hard, ready for the first timed lap.

He would prove himself today or he would kill himself.

He pushed his foot down hard, and the Shadow leapt forward.

All around him the noise was deafening. The other machines were a blur.

The first corner was fine, not too sharp.

Easy to keep the speed high. The automatic gearbox allowed him to concentrate totally on driving. He was aware of the other machines surrounding him. Everyone was vying for a place high up on the starting-grid in two days’ time.

A succession of curves, and then came the really sharp 180- degree curve before the main straight.

He cut the line of the corner and wove his way through a succession of machines, barely keeping control. Then he was into the main straight, the engine running flat out as he passed over 200 mph, thundering down towards the next corner, more gentle than the entry to the straight.

He passed another five machines. The signage of the corner came up as though it were blocking his way, but he took a good line and passed easily round the corner.

The Shadow was going beautifully. She was responding well to the track, almost relishing the challenge.

He was in a trance. Every second counted in this practice. He was setting up the Shadow for the main event. He could make mistakes now which he could not make on Sunday.

No one had passed him. He was faintly surprised. He knew he was going quickly, perhaps faster than before. But what really mattered was the number of cars he was passing - cars that were disappearing behind him in a blur.

The engine’s reserves in the corners appeared to be limitless - he knew he was going over 13500 rpm and that there was more to come. He was discovering new depths to the car’s responsiveness. It was just a question of getting a good balance between the output power of the engine and the outer limits of adhesion of the Carvalho tyres.

The laps went by with gruelling regularity. When his headphones finally crackled into life he resented the intrusion, as if his private world had been invaded by some alien force.

‘Come in - great drive.’

De Villiers’ enigmatic tones did nothing to reassure him. All he wanted to know was how his times compared with those of the rest of the field. He did not relax his pace until he came up to the 180-degree curve before the pits.

He drove in, and people converged on the machine. He pulled off the steering-wheel and then levered himself out of the cockpit. The helmet felt like an immense load, and he was glad to pull it off.

Everyone was clapping. He stared round, uncomprehending. Bruce came up to him and shook his hand warmly.

‘Your best lap time was one minute twenty-six seconds on the dot.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Well, it’s officially recorded. No one else has come close. You’ll be first off the grid, I bet.’

Suzie kissed him on the cheek. He gradually felt he was coming back to reality.

He went over to Mickey. ‘She’s wonderful - and I still believe there’s more in reserve. At the edge she handles magnificently.’

‘It’s the race, Wyatt . . . the race that counts.’

‘Yes. But this is a great start.’

‘That it is.’

Suddenly he felt drained. Jack Phelps loomed up in front of him and pumped his hand.

‘Great driving, Wyatt. The Carvalho tyres are delivering.’

Wyatt kept quiet. He didn’t want to get involved in Phelps’s private battles. If Bruce and Mickey were happy with the Carvalhos, then he was.

Phelps turned his back on him and walked across to the stands. A mass of press photographers seethed past him and headed for Wyatt. Now Wyatt was blinded by an avalanche of flash-bulbs, and then the shutters fell like rain.

‘Can we predict a win on Sunday?’ An eager reporter stared at him, pen poised above notebook. Wyatt knew this was where he had to prove his mettle to his sponsors.

‘I’ll do my best,’ he said. ‘Calibre-Shensu is right behind me. As a team, we aim for victory. That’s what we’re in this sport for.’

A woman reporter moved forwards. She looked familiar, and she had dark eyes that he found strangely alluring.

She said: ‘Are you scared of dying?’

It was too much. It was too close to home. He turned his back on her and stormed into the workshops. Who the hell was she?

He sat down on a bench in the shadows and stared for no particular reason at a wheel-spanner hanging on the wall. Someone sat down next to him. He didn’t have to look to see who it was; he smelled the fragrance, and was grateful.

‘It was a stupid question. She’s a big bitch,’ Suzie said softly. He thought how different she was from the hard-nosed British reporter.

‘You can’t know what it’s like,’ he said. ‘To be . . .’

‘Hush,’ she said. ‘I do know.’ He felt her hand on his. ‘That’s Vanessa Tyson,’ she said. ‘She was the one who went for Bruce after Kyalami.’

But he didn’t care who she was. He took Suzie’s hand and walked out with her into the sunshine.

Flying to the hotel in the helicopter, Wyatt took over the controls from the pilot. He needed to clock-in hours and experience before he could get his licence and buy his own chopper. Suzie was with him. She was looking particularly lovely, he thought; her blonde hair bleached by the sun and her skin more tanned than usual. She wore a light shade of lipstick that gave her lips a lustrous quality. He leaned over and kissed her.

‘You know that Debbie’s attracted to you, Wyatt? Mmmm, I think I’ll have to watch out.’

‘She’s just playing around.’

‘She should keep her eye on Ricardo. From what I hear, he’s still having affairs.’

‘The lecherous Italian.’

‘Do you ever think of me when you’re driving?’

‘Yes.’

He felt more relaxed by the time they got back to the hotel, but the image of the circuit would not disappear from his mind.

Suzie undressed in front of him, and he started by licking her nipples, then worked his way to the lustrous blonde hairs, crisp and curling, lower down. Now he was rock-hard and he could restrain himself no more.

She shuddered as he thrust into her wetness, feeling the tension released from his body. It was frightening - knowing that she was more in love with him than he was with her - knowing the power he had to hurt her. But she needed him, there was no escape for her.

She would not let him go. Everything he did turned her on - it almost scared Wyatt, the power he had over her body.

‘Wyatt, please, please . . .’

Her orgasms went on and on, and he felt aroused again. This was the part about Suzie he loved. Earlier, there’d been a barrier within him that prevented him from getting close to her, but now, through the sheer joy of sex, he had managed to break through that barrier. She was a woman who loved to take risks, but who needed constant physical attention.

‘Just hold me, Wyatt. Hold me tight.’

He held her - but already his mind was far away, thinking of Sunday and of the challenge.

Debbie had never seen Ricardo so angry. Now she would get her revenge.

‘But you did well,’ she said, watching his distraught face.

‘Don’t you understand? “Well” is not enough.’ He looked menacingly around the pits.

‘There’s another practice tomorrow,’ she said. ‘You’ve still got a chance to show Wyatt you’re faster. After all, Bruce says your cars are identical.’

His eyes burned like hot coals in the darkness. ‘I will put him in his place. He has a cheek.’

‘What, the cheek of being better?’

He glared at her, ignoring the people around them. Then Bruce stepped between them, and she smiled.

‘Relax, man. You did bloody well. Wyatt’s just got more to prove than you have.’

Bruce tried to seem concerned when in fact he was overjoyed. Wyatt’s performance had destroyed Ricardo’s complacency.

‘He has a better car than I have,’ Ricardo said in a low voice.

Debbie could see the vein that ran across Bruce’s forehead, bulging with irritation. Bruce had the build of a street-fighter - a short, stocky body with strong arms. Even though there was grey in his hair, he had the physique of a young man. Now he said roughly: ‘You’re talking bullshit, Ricardo.’

‘You’ve set me up.’

‘You’ve lost your nerve.’

It was cruel but effective. Bruce was the one in control. He had Ricardo and Wyatt worked out - he was doing everything he could to get them at each other’s throats on the track. He knew he would get faster times out of them both that way.

Ricardo squared up in front of Bruce, his perfectly honed body rigid with anger. The curly black hair on the imperious head was wet with sweat. ‘Now you insult me,’ he spat out. He’d always proved himself with his fists - that was still the best way.

‘If you were the fastest there’d be nothing to insult. You’re the best driver in the world? Prove it.’

Ricardo backed down. Bruce had called his bluff.

‘I will prove it where it counts,’ he said gruffly. ‘In the Grand Prix.’

He turned his back on Bruce and took Debbie’s hand.

But Bruce hadn’t finished with him.

‘To win, Ricardo, you’ll have to go faster than Wyatt. And you can’t walk away from that.’

Ricardo stormed away from the pits, scowling at some reporters who tried to speak to him. He turned to Debbie.

‘Who does he think he is?’ he said, casting a contemptuous glance back at de Villiers.