Eye of the Cobra (30 page)

‘Of course.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce watched Aito Shensu examine the engine of Wyatt’s Shadow with his mechanics. Aito had changed out of his suit into an immaculate overall.

Ricardo stepped up closer to Jack Phelps. ‘Wyatt is always getting more attention from the mechanics.’

Phelps slapped him on the back good-humouredly.

‘For God’s sake, Ricardo, you know that isn’t true.’

Bruce felt his nerves were frayed, and did nothing to disguise the irritation in his voice.

‘Cut the bullshit, Ricardo.’

Phelps came to the rescue.

‘Ricardo, cool down. We’re paying you a small fortune - Wyatt’s earning peanuts. You’ve got the better car, by Bruce’s own admission, and you don’t have the advertising commitments that keep Wyatt busy between races. I should think it’s obvious who we consider to be the front-runner.’

‘Keep talking, Jack, I like your direction. Perhaps you should consider managing the team.’ It was a direct dig at Bruce.

Bruce ignored it. He was pleased that Jack had got Ricardo into better spirits, that was all that mattered. He’d sort Ricardo out later, when they didn’t have an audience.

Suzie felt uncomfortable in the constructors’ tower - she wanted to be involved in what was happening in the pits. Instead she had to listen to some half-drunk Brazilian industri
alist who was drinking in her body and not listening to a word she said. Wyatt would not have tolerated the man or his behaviour.

‘If you don’t mind,
senor.
I’d like to be by myself.’

The industrialist walked off reluctantly, and Suzie looked out of the huge windows and down to the pits. She could see Jack, Ricardo and Bruce in earnest discussion. She guessed Wyatt was in the motorvan.

The tension excited her. She made her way down the steps and then across the tarmac behind the pits to the Calibre- Shensu motorvan. She punched in the entry code, and hydraulics operated soundlessly, opening the door. She took off her shoes and walked along the carpeted interior in her stockinged feet.

The masseuse was working Wyatt’s shoulders on the bed at the rear of the van. She looked up at Suzie, who held her fingers to her lips. Then Suzie gestured for the masseuse to leave, and she noiselessly took over working Wyatt’s neck muscles. Once the masseuse had gone, she worked her hands down Wyatt’s back and then over his buttocks. Her hand gently stroked the area between his legs.

‘Hey, that’s enough,’ he muttered.

She continued, and he pivoted round and gripped her by the waist. The anger on his face turned to surprise, then satisfaction, as his eyes took her in.

She eased down his underpants and caressed him with her lips.

‘Suzie,’ he whispered.

Her name on his lips aroused her, and she felt his leg come between hers. She couldn’t control herself, she came before she even realised what was happening.

‘Wyatt, please, please . . .’

He pulled her forward, his hands firmly around her waist, under her skirt. She had nothing on underneath except her suspender-belt, and she felt him penetrating. Her head arched back and her thighs pressed hard against his torso. She felt him thrusting, and the passion swept through her so that she lost control and screamed out again and again in ecstasy.

Then she felt the hotness as he burst within her, and she subsided into his arms.

‘Oh my God, Wyatt, this is crazy.’

He held her tightly as the tears ran from her eyes.

‘Oh Wyatt, I’m so in love with you. I’m so scared.’

Then there was the noise of the intercom. Someone wanted to come in.

‘I love you. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone,’ he said softly.

Suzie rose, and smoothed down her dress. She picked up the intercom phone.

‘Yes, he’s here.’ She held her hand over the phone.

‘A Mrs Ramirez?’

‘Let her in.’

She activated the door, and Mrs Ramirez walked into the lounge. Immediately, Suzie was conscious of the aquamarine eyes watching her. There was something in that look, in those eye-movements, that reminded her of Wyatt.

‘I see you ’ave company.’

The accent was faintly French. Suzie was confused. Who was this very attractive older woman - a lover she did not know about?

Wyatt got up, pulling on his jumpsuit.

‘Suzie, this is my mother, Estelle Ramirez,’ he said stiffly.

A thousand thoughts shot through Suzie’s mind as she turned and kissed Wyatt hard on the lips.

‘You win. I know you can do it.’

Then she was gone, and Wyatt was left staring at his mother, who sat down beside him.

‘She is a very beautiful woman, very sophisticated. She is also in love with you. My God, Wyatt, you are like your father.’

He stared hard at his mother, seeing the emptiness and the bitterness in her eyes, still the same after ten years. Why had she come? He had hoped the bitterness might have been wiped out, but no, not even Carlos had achieved that much.

Then, of course, there was Danny’s suicide - she blamed him for that as well. Maybe she was right.

‘I want to win, just like he did.’

‘Oh, Wyatt, what has happened to us?’

Everything he had done since his father’s death - all the time in Japan - had been an attempt to cope with this. He would not let her upset him now.

‘Is Carlos here?’ he asked.

‘Wyatt, listen to me.’

He felt the tears running from his eyes, he couldn’t control them. The words she’d said so long ago echoed in his mind, the words that had driven him away from her, away from England, to the
dojo
and the discipline that had helped him to survive.

You killed him. You killed him.

Then another voice broke the spell and brought him back to the present.

‘Estelle, leave him.’

Wyatt looked up as he saw his stepfather fold his arms around Estelle. Carlos almost lifted her up as he guided her from the motorvan. Wyatt stared emptily through the window into the heat-haze.

Carlos’s hand on his shoulder broke his reverie.

‘Wyatt. I am sorry.’

He turned to Carlos, whom he both loved and respected. The deeply tanned face, the dark hair in its long pony-tail, the suggestion of great moral and physical strength, gave the Argentinian a magnetic presence.

‘Wyatt, she came to tell you she wanted you to win - that in spite of everything, she loves you.’

Wyatt got up and stretched.

‘After all this time . . . Carlos, I loved my father.’

Carlos shook his hand and held it, his other hand pressing Wyatt’s forearm.

‘This is your race. Forget about the past - but remember that she cares about you very much. And Wyatt . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Your lady, I like her.’

Suzie felt better back in the crowded atmosphere of the constructors’ tower. Wyatt had never spoken about his mother. That was something she would have to come to terms with, but what really mattered was that he’d said he loved her.

Jack Phelps came over, and was very friendly. His company was fine, it was just that everything he did was calculated. She also knew he was one of the wealthiest men in the world - his yachts, planes, cars and houses bore witness to it. But what was extraordinary was his ability with people. He had an almost hypnotic effect on her. She was drawn to him despite the fact that she didn’t feel at all relaxed in his presence.

Suzie almost did a double-take as Wyatt’s mother walked into the room. For a moment, all conversation ceased. With her was a striking-looking man with a dark complexion and a pony-tail.

Phelps glided across the floor and kissed Estelle on both cheeks. ‘Jack,’ Suzie heard her say, ‘it’s been such a long time.’

Suzie backed away, seeking anonymity in the crowd. The next moment Vanessa Tyson closed in on her, along with a burly cameraman. Suzie felt the video-camera zooming in on her face.

‘Suzie, how do you feel about your lover, about to risk his life in today’s race?’

Suzie tried to remain calm.

‘I think he will win.’

‘But what if he dies?’

Carlos Ramirez shot forward almost imperceptibly - Suzie sensed movement though she didn’t see it. The next moment, the video-camera crashed to the floor and the cameraman was bent double, wheezing. Carlos was holding Vanessa’s wrist tightly, staring into her eyes.

‘You have no manners. Get out.’

The journalist walked out of the room, red-faced, her cameraman limping after her.

Estelle came up and spoke softly to Suzie.

‘Journalists, they come from the gutter and they drag one’s life down into it.’

Suzie thought of the articles she’d read over the years. She remembered pictures of James Chase in his Formula One days - James in his car, James winning. James dying in a car accident in Monaco; then the society gossip when Estelle married the captain of the Argentinian polo side only months after her famous husband died. There had been rumours of a long-standing affair . . .

Carlos took her hand and kissed it.

‘You are in love with Wyatt?’ he asked directly.

‘Yes.’ As she spoke, Suzie watched Estelle, fascinated because now she knew where Wyatt got his courage and his looks from.

‘He was born to compete,’ Estelle said with a faraway smile, hardly registering what Suzie had just said. Then she seemed to come to herself.

‘Please,’ she offered, ‘join us for lunch.’

Suzie accepted - there was nothing for her to do now. Wyatt was on his own, and that was the way he would want to stay till the end of the race.

She felt fear gnawing at her stomach. Yes, she did love him.

Wyatt felt good as he climbed back into the Shadow, ready for the race. He was at the front of the grid, his car was handling beautifully, perfectly set up, and he was in peak physical form. One of the mechanics held an umbrella over his head while Reg Tillson checked the blankets that were wrapped round the tyres to warm them up before the start. Even in this intense heat the blankets were still necessary to bring the tyres up to the correct operating temperature.

Bruce leant down beside Wyatt.

‘Wyatt. Now it’s up to you. I think, with the new compound we’ve been testing, your tyres should last you the race. The decision to change to fresh rubber will be yours. Good luck. I want you to win.’

Then he was gone. Wyatt felt the adrenalin pumping through him, the engine screaming behind his head. Strung out behind him were all the other cars, their drivers just as eager as he was to reach the chequered flag.

Wyatt, leading the pack, could just see Ricardo’s car in his tiny rear-view mirrors. The Italian was placed seventh on the grid, but Wyatt knew that he would catch up and be breathing down his neck the whole race.

He kept the engine running smoothly. A stall at the start would destroy all the hard work of the practice sessions. He ignored the heat - it was his greatest enemy. The danger would come near the end of the race, when sheer exhaustion combined with heat-fatigue might cause him to make stupid mistakes.

Twenty-three cars sat poised on the grid. Of those, Wyatt estimated only five had a fair chance of finishing up front.

Suddenly the umbrella was gone. He put his foot down on the accelerator and the engine revved up with an ear-shattering crescendo. He shot forward for the warm-up lap.

He felt comfortable with the track - a fast anti-clockwise circuit with a long main straight. Tracking quickly round the first curve called Norte, he concentrated on bedding in the tyres, getting them up to the right temperature and making sure he was comfortable.

Just over three miles later, he was back at the start, in pole position. In front of him was the red light that was the focus of every driver’s attention. In his tiny rear-view mirror he noted that there was one car at the side of the grid, the pit crew desperately trying to get it started. For someone, the race was over before it had begun.

It seemed like an eternity before the light changed to green. He was unconscious of the deafening roar of all the other engines around him. Round the first bend, and he was aware of someone trying unsuccessfully to pass him. There was no way anyone was going to get in front of him now.

Ricardo pulled off the steering-wheel and flung himself from the cockpit. Hoexter’s car was just in front of him, smoke billowing from the engine. Hoexter, the young German ace, was the number two driver for McCabe and had finished third in the previous season after a neck-and-neck contest with Ricardo for second place. They were bitter rivals. They had tangled on the Carlos Pace bend and had gone spinning off the track.

Ricardo ran over to Hoexter, who had just staggered from his car and was pulling off his helmet to reveal his close- cropped blond hair. Ricardo smashed his fist into Hoexter’s stomach and the German toppled forward, fighting for air.

Ricardo was about to hit Hoexter again when two marshals grabbed Ricardo, pulling him away.

‘Fucking kraut!’

Hoexter was doubled up on the ground, gasping for breath. He gradually regained it and got up, spitting at Ricardo.

‘It was your fault, my friend! I am sure FISA will not approve of your hot-blooded behaviour.’

‘Fuck you, you fucking kraut!’

There were press photographers and video-cameras everywhere. Around the world, some ninety million viewers were treated to a close-up of the former world champion behaving like a common thug.

Hoexter still did not retaliate.

Bruce de Villiers felt curiously detached from reality. All around him people were talking, but he wasn’t listening to what they were saying.

Ricardo must have miscalculated on the fourth bend - he was out of the race before it had really begun. Bruce wanted to cry. He was desperate to get the constructor’s trophy, and in his first race he’d had a major setback in the first minute. Now everything depended on Wyatt, and the worst part of it was that Wyatt’s car carried a last-minute modification. Maybe that modification would fail and destroy Wyatt’s chances of winning. Or maybe, just maybe, it would give him the edge.

‘Bruce . . .’ Reg said nervously. ‘It’s Halliday.’

He turned round to see himself looking at Ronnie Halliday. The ‘King of Formula One’ had an ugly expression on his face. There were few people Bruce respected and feared as much as this man.

‘Bruce. Do you know what Sartori’s just done?’

‘No. He’s out of the race, that’s all I know.’

A sinking feeling descended on him. What was wrong? They never watched the TV coverage in the pits, they didn’t need the distraction.

‘Ricardo hit Hoexter in front of ninety million TV viewers!’

Now Bruce realised why Ronnie had come to see him. No man had worked harder at trying to improve and revamp the image of Formula One.

‘Surely people understand?’ Bruce said.

‘It was Ricardo’s fault - he cut Hoexter off.’

Bruce saw Reg gesturing for him to come over to the monitor.

‘Please, can we discuss this after the race?’

Halliday shook his head. ‘No. I’m suspending Ricardo. You know what this sort of thing does to a sport. It happened with tennis. It’s the same with soccer violence.’

Bruce was ashen-faced. He would not find another driver of Ricardo’s stature for the season, he knew it.

‘Ronnie,’ he said. ‘I’m going to have to fight you on this.’

‘It’s my decision. And wait till you deal with Alain Hugo - you could be facing a big fine as well.’

Alain Hugo was the head of FISA, the world governing body of Formula One, a much tougher nut altogether than Ronnie’s. Often he and Ronnie were at loggerheads - but it was clear to Bruce that on this issue they wouldn’t be.

Ronnie left. He didn’t have to say any more; in his place, Bruce would have made the same decision. Ronnie had put an enormous amount of work into making the sport more com
petitive and more glamorous; he saw Ricardo’s unspeakable behaviour as a disaster. Yes, it was a disaster for all of them, Bruce thought.

Suzie left the constructors’ box, white with anger. How could Ricardo have behaved like such an animal? She must find Don Morrison and discuss how he would handle the press after the race. It was incredibly bad publicity for Calibre-Shensu in their first outing.

Then she caught sight of Ricardo walking out from behind the pits, looking like a wild man. He was getting into his car.

‘Ricardo!’

He ignored her and started the engine. She wrenched open the door and he stared up at her.

‘Leave me alone.’

‘What do you mean? How can you behave like such a bastard?’

He was out of the car in a second, and facing her.

‘Don’t
you
tell me how to behave! You’re just another fucking kraut!’

She held back her anger. ‘You have the manners of the gutter. ’

‘Get out of my way, you German bitch.’

He got into the car and drove away, tyres squealing. Suzie felt the tears running from her eyes, her face aching from shouting so hard.

She heard a noise behind her, and turned to see the TV cameraman who had been with Vanessa Tyson earlier, smiling sweetly. He’d got his revenge. He’d obviously captured the whole shouting-match.

She turned and walked away, her head held high. How was she going to handle this? Somehow she found her way into the workshop that Calibre-Shensu had been using at the back of the circuit. She let herself in through a side-door and sat down behind a huge container, trying to regain her composure.

She was about to get up when she was startled to hear the main door to the workshop being rolled up. Now she felt embarrassed, she didn’t want anyone to see her. She shrank behind the container and waited for whoever it was to go away. No doubt a mechanic, collecting a few spares.

She was wrong.

A big truck reversed into the garage and Suzie saw a lean, fair-haired man leap out of the passenger-seat. He started shouting commands in English, and five other men jumped out of the back of the truck, all dressed the same way in jeans and T-shirts. And they all carried guns.

‘Move it!’ As he spoke the fair-haired man pulled a stop
watch from his pocket.

Suzie shivered as she saw the driver get out of the cab and move in a semi-circle in front of the others. There was a sub
machine-gun in his hands. What type it was, she didn’t know, but she could tell from his manner that he was quite prepared to use it.

They opened up the container and hauled out the tyres. She could see into the back of the truck. One of the men started lifting tyres into the back of the truck.

They were swopping tyres, she realised.

It must be some sort of sabotage. She thought of Wyatt and Ricardo. A blow-out at high speed could kill them.

The air was filled with the scream of Formula One engines.

Suzie summoned up all her courage and moved quickly towards the open doors of the garage, her heart thumping.

The blond man immediately stopped what he was doing and leapt down onto the concrete in one fluid movement. The submachine-gun was trained on her.

He will kill me, she thought, stopping dead in her tracks.

The man strode up to her and grabbed her. His grip was like a steel clamp on her arms.

She stared into his intensely green eyes. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

He bared his teeth in a thin-lipped smile and firmed his grip. Then, before she could react, he had turned her round and twisted her arms behind her back.

She screamed.

His hand clamped across her mouth, and she bit it. He let out a groan and slammed his other hand into her kidneys. She fell, and almost blacked out as he pulled a thin nylon tie-back from his pocket. He completed the loop and slipped it over her thumbs, then he zipped it tight. He clamped one end of the nylon in one of the vices that lined the bench on the wall.

Suzie was about to start screaming again, but he put a piece of adhesive tape across her face. Meanwhile the other men continued working, hardly looking her way. They continued pushing tyres into the back of the truck.

What the hell were they doing? Suzie asked herself. Whatever he’d put round her thumbs was cutting off the circulation, and she could feel the sweat trickling off her body. She tried to move, but she was trapped. She could not see into the back of the truck. She prayed for time, but after what seemed a very short while they were finished.

The blond man walked up to her, turned his right hand palm-up and jabbed it, fingers first, into her stomach. She sagged, but as she did so the nylon slip-knot round her thumbs took her weight and it was agony. He loosened her from the vice and frog-marched her to the back of the truck, threw her onto the metal floor at the back and slammed the doors shut.

She started gagging. She could hardly breathe. She heard the big doors of the workshop opening and then the truck’s engine thunder into life.

The heat in the back of the truck was unbearable, the adhesive tape was pressing into her mouth: she realised she was suffocating. Desperately she tried to manoeuvre herself amongst the tyres so that she could bang against the wall of the truck. Tears streamed down her face and her body was soaked with sweat.