Adrenalin Rush

by Steve Reeder

  Just after six o’clock that evening Dave dropped us off at the Gleneagles Hotel where we would be staying for the next few days with Julia, Tarryn, Bud and the two riders. The rest of the team was staying at the track in large trailers provided by the organizers for a hefty fee.

  Michele and I shared a room with a large oil painting of Barry Sheen over the bed. I discovered later that every room had a portrait of a past motorcycling great. Julia was disturbed to find Carl Fogarty above her bed. “His eyes seem to be staring at you no matter where you are in the room,” she said, but Brett seemed to think it was “cool”, Fogarty being a hero of his.

  Chapter 22

  The next day dawned bright and sunny with no indication of the trauma that was to come.

  Everyone faces death at some stage during his or her life. Stands to reason, doesn’t it? We’re all going to die eventually, hopefully later rather than sooner. Many people, however, choose to risk their lives for any number of reasons. Some to help others, like fire-fighters or policemen. Some for the satisfaction of a challenge, like mountain climbers or aerobatic pilots and some because it comes with the enjoyment of racing fast, hi-powered machines like large capacity motorcycles: Superbikes. In fact most riders will tell you that the risk enhances the fun: makes you feel alive, even more so if you have just come close to a major life threatening moment on the track. But we never believe it can happen to us. It’s always the other poor bugger who missed the braking point once too often at the wrong track at the wrong time, or whose machinery failed just at that critical point.

  Why do we do it? Partly because we are competitive by nature and have an overwhelming drive to win. But there’s also that adrenalin rush you get when you know you’ve just beaten the grim reaper one more time, and partly because none of us really believe it can happen to us. Sure, we know it can, but deep down we don’t believe it, not really. Besides, the bike’s not trying to kill us, is it? We control how hard we want to push, how competitive we want to be. There would be few takers, though, if we knew for sure that the odds of surviving a race were no better than fifty/fifty. That would be plain stupid, wouldn’t it?

  I thought about this as I showered and wondered if I would survive the weekend. The opposition was gathering and they weren’t friendly. How desperate was Hussein to get the design plans, and would he consider it cheaper to threaten or kill rather than to pay the price I had asked? Had Brown even passed on the note he had picked up, and if not then what game was he playing?

  Jethro was definitely here and I still couldn’t decide whose side he was on. I was just sure it wasn’t mine any more. The chances of the fake Sultan not being here was slim to nothing, and he would certainly have more unfriendlies with him. Going by the experiences of the past weeks, he was certainly keen to see me dead. It was a dangerous game I was playing now. Hussein was ready to kill to get what he wanted and he thought I had it. I thought I might have it too, but couldn’t be sure yet. How was I going to keep him from killing me while at the same time have him believe I could deliver on the deal I was going to offer him? Would he believe he could get what he wanted by threatening my friends? What if Hussein got what he wanted, but Brown and Hammil were unhappy that they didn’t get it? Or Jethro for that matter.

  I stood at the bathroom door and looked at Michele sleeping. She lay on her front with one arm tucked under her. The duvet had slipped down to her waist leaving her back exposed and her sun-kissed blonde hair spread about her face and shoulders. She looked so peaceful and young, more like a sixteen-year-old rather than her twenty-two years. The swell of her breast pressed against the sheet made her seem innocent and somehow younger rather than older.

  Was I putting her at risk too? Either to harm from Hussein, or to the risk that I would never see her again? I offered a silent prayer that she would remain unharmed, and dressed as quickly as I could in warm clothes. The day may be bright, but summer had not reached as far north as Scotland yet.

  I left Michele to sleep late and breakfasted with Julia and Bud. Brett and Russell were already at the track. Russell had picked up a habit of jogging around racetracks he had not raced at before or at least not in a while, and Brett had decided to join him. Julia found the idea absurd.

  “They’ll be spending all day going round and round that track, what’s the point of running around it?”

  Bud laughed heartily, almost choking on his toast and marmalade. “Yeah, I used to think it was dumb too, but Simon here explained it to me years ago.” He nodded at me. “Go on then, explain yourself to the lady.”

  “Well, er - it’s not actually that uncommon an idea. Most riders will want to have a close look at the track before riding it for the first time. Granted, most will take a walk, or drive slowly round. One guy I knew used to take his bicycle out and do twenty laps or so.” I paused. I could see Julia wasn’t quite with me. “Thing is, Julia, at speed you don’t see the things you do when going slower and having a closer look. Sometimes you think a piece of the track is doing one thing when actually it’s doing something else. Stand on the outside of a bend and look down the track as well as back the way you’ve just come and you get a good idea of the shape of the track. I mean, a corner may be slightly banked for instance but you never noticed it at high speed and then you struggle to work out your lines because you’re trying to ride the track one way and the track is actually different. I’m not sure if that makes sense, but do you see what I mean?”

  “OK, but why run, for heaven’s sake?” she asked, shaking her head.

  I shrugged. “It’s just a personal thing. I used to run five laps around a track before I would ride it. Russell likes to run and I guess Brett has taken to the idea too.”

  “Well that’s just fine, except that he wakes me up at four in the morning to do it,” She said with mock disgust. Bud chortled into his coffee cup.

  “There is a price to pay for being involved with a motorcycle racer, Julia. Come winter you’re going to begin to hate the racetracks in England and Scotland. Standing around cold and wet pit complexes all day is going to be a true test of love.”

  Julia sat up straighter. “Well I love Brett so that’s what I’ll do then.”

  Bud and I shared a knowing look. We’d both had girlfriends that had said that same thing before, only to change their minds halfway through winter.

  “Well then, you’re the boss lady. What say we go join the lads and find out what they think of Knockhill Raceway then?” he said.

  By lunchtime we had made significant progress, at least on the racing front. All four machines were working well and both riders expressed satisfaction with their machinery: our lap times were competitive if not startling.

  I had spent much of the morning ducking questions about my unexplained absence from the first race meeting at Donnington Park. I tried my best to focus on why we were all there but I could sense the presence of Jethro, Hussein and the others. Whether this was because I knew they were here, or some intuitive feeling, I don’t know. The crowds were not huge as this was only the first day of official practice, but still big enough for the opposition to hide amongst them.

  Suddenly, across the track on the grandstand, appeared Hammil. He smiled sadly at me, then came down two steps, turned and vanished from view behind the tiered seats. Why had he done that? A warning, a threat maybe? More likely just the first move to intimidate me; get me to do something stupid. Too late, I thought. I should have stayed in Texas.

  I chose to ignore it for the moment. Nothing had changed except that I now knew for sure that Hussein was here.

  Frank Brown then appeared on the grandstand a hundred yards away. He was staring intently at the spot where Hammil had just disappeared. The look on his face was not friendly. Dissention in the ranks of the opposition? Perhaps I had got it all wrong. Could there be more than three sides to this business? Maybe more than four interested parties?

  “Simon?” A voice came from behind me. I spun around, startling Julia.

  “Ju
lia.”

  “What’s wrong? You looked miles away.” She glanced around, wondering what was distracting me.

  “Nothing, it’s all right. I just thought I saw someone I knew.”

  “It’s them, isn’t it? They’re here?” She looked concerned, and I didn’t blame her.

  I nodded reluctantly. “Hammil. And Brown. I saw them over on the grandstand. Hammil showed himself to me deliberately. Better keep your eyes open; they may try something nasty just for the hell of it. I can’t understand why they don’t just come speak to me. Brown must have passed on the offer to Hussein by now, surely?”

  “Perhaps they didn’t believe your offer?”

  “I don’t know, Julia, it’s almost like they don’t think they should pay for that design. Which doesn’t make sense; all this has cost them a packet already.” I hesitated. “Anyway, they don’t know exactly what my offer is yet. I didn’t put an actual sterling value to it.”

  “You think they will try kidnapping one of us again?” she said fearfully.

  “Not unless it’s me. I think this whole thing has become very personal for Hussein. I wonder what his real name is.” Julia covered her ears as a Yamaha screamed down the pit lane and took to the track. I waited till the noise levels dropped low enough for her to hear me. “I think I’m going to go looking for them,” I announced.

  Julia looked alarmed. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know, to be truthful, but I don’t feel right just waiting. Sooner or later I have to speak to Hussein or the threat will continue for who knows how long.” I really wanted to get Hussein alone, where he couldn’t call on the muscle men. I felt sure that if I could just get my offer across to him, to talk with him one-on-one he would go for it. I wondered briefly about getting Hammil to pass on a message, but I dismissed it as a bad idea. I didn’t trust the man any more.

  “Julia, have you still got that electronic zapper thing?” She nodded, dug into her shoulder bag and handed it over. “And I’d like to borrow those sunglasses of yours if you don’t mind?”

  A plan of action had been forming in the back of my mind for some minutes now. I sent Julia back to the team pits and went in search of Monty.

  Montgomery Cliff, named after his grandfather’s favourite actor, had worked for Sky Sports Television for more years than I had been involved in racing. He was arguably the best cameraman working in motor sport. Two years ago he had had a bust-up with his producers and gone private, selling his footage to anyone prepared to pay his price. If he was here, and there was no guarantee that he would be, then I would most likely find him hanging around the works teams. Big teams mean big money and a kind of political clout, which gave them the best pit garages in the pit lane.

  Taking a careful look around me, I set off down the pit lane, cautiously keeping out of the path of competitors travelling in the same direction.

  After quick looks into several team garages I poked my head into the Honda Britain pit. The security guard recognised me and waved me in with a smile. Mike Ritter was sitting on a BP fuel drum pulling on his boots. I crossed the cluttered floor, waving to people I knew along the way, and stopped by Ritter’s side.

  “Oh, hello, Simon me old mate, all right then?” he asked with a welcoming smile.

  “Yeah, well, Mike, thanks.” I pulled up a nearby toolbox and sat alongside Ritter. “Have you seen Monty around?”

  Ritter zipped up his boots and looked up at me, a frown on his face.

  “You know, Simon, I do have a feeling I have seen him today, but I’m not too sure. We’ve had a hell of a morning. Bloody gearbox settings. Still, shouldn’t be telling you that, should I?” He laughed. I grinned automatically and peered around the pits. Both the number two bikes were stripped, their engines lying on workbenches with heaps of gears strewn across the working surface.

  “Everything going all right with that team of yours, Simon?” Ritter asked.

  “Hmm? Oh, yeah, fine, Mike, fine. The kids are top class. Look, if you see Monty, tell him to come and find me, will you?” Mike nodded and began taking his boots off again. He must be nervous about something, I thought. It would be nice if it was Rodber Racing that was worrying him.

  I stood up to leave but instead asked Ritter, “Mike, I missed the first meeting as you know, could you tell me your opinion on my two riders. How did they go?”

  Ritter thought for a moment. ‘Tell you the truth, Simon, I had a so-so sort of start, passed that Australian bloke, Yates, on the second lap then never saw them again.” He thought for a moment, and then called out, “Bobby!” Bobby Ryan was his new team mate and number two rider. Ryan, an American, looked up from what he had been doing.

  “What’s up, man?” he asked Ritter. Mike introduced us and told the American what I wanted to know. Ryan concentrated for a second or two, and then said, “I noticed one of them for a bit during the race and he was doing pretty well, but who it was I’m not sure. Sorry, buddy.”

  Ah well, I could always get the videotape and watch it when I had time. When Hussein was gone for good and Bud was getting around again I was going to have too much time on my hands. Then again, there was always my cosy little Petworth cottage, £50 000 and Michele. And who knows, maybe I could profit some more from this business before it was over. I set off to track down the man who called himself Hussein.

  Monty found me as I crossed the track to the grandstands.

  “Simon Roberts, I hear you were looking for me?” he boomed. Monty was always happy with life.

  “Yes, I am. And good morning to you too.”

  “Oh. Umm .. Good morning, Simon. Sorry, I’m a little grumpy this morning. How are you?” For a grumpy man he was grinning like the cat that got the proverbial cream.

  “I’m good, Monty. Look, I need a favour from you,” I said, taking his arm and steering him out of sight behind the concrete wall that formed the side of the main stands. “Have you got your equipment with you?”

  “Bloody ‘course, mate. I go nowhere without my stuff. You never know when you are going to come across something worth recording.” He grinned slyly at me. “You know that footage of those two blonde models making out in the back of that Rolls, the one all over the news the other day? Well, I filmed that. Spotted them sneaking out of the Chill Club in Manchester looking all lovey-dovey so I followed them and made myself a hundred and fifty thousand quid from the tabloids.”

  “That’s great, Monty. Now, apart from lending me the unedited tape at some stage, this is what I need from you.” I laid it out for him. “And remember, Monty, I just want the evidence, OK? Don’t take any risks.”

  So the game began.

  I slipped on Julia’s sunglasses. They had small mirrors built into the frame where the sides attached and I could now see behind me, albeit a little blurred. I wandered down through the stands, stopping for a Coke at one concession stand and a hotdog at another. Carefully I surveyed the crowds but saw nobody I knew. There was one man, well over six feet tall with an over-developed upper body and a hard look in his eyes. But I gave up on him when he stopped to passionately kiss a younger man dressed in a tight sleeveless T-shirt and running shorts that were way too small for him.

  I decided to check out the car park. They would be bound to have someone covering it. I drifted down past the Shell Fuel supply depot, returning a greeting from an old competitor who was filling a drum with hi-octane fuel, and down a short paved drive to the entrance gate. A security man by the name of Pete was stopping people without pit entry tickets from coming into the pit garage complex.

  I waited while a group of teenagers passed by decked out in shirts with Essex Yamaha printed boldly across front and back. I recognised one of them as a younger brother of Jeff Lawson. Lawson was a rich, privateer Yamaha rider who raced for the fun of it and hardly ever scored a point. As the group passed me I noticed a large man (done up in a dark suit and tie) standing next to a red Jaguar. He was staring at me intently. My stomach turned decidedly queas
y and I very nearly turned tail right there and then.

  Summonsing up more courage, I exited the gate, glancing casually behind me as I did so. Monty was some thirty yards back, minicam slung around his neck, strolling my way with an unconcerned expression on his face. Some way behind him was Frank Brown.

  “Hey, Pete!” I called back to the security guy. “Have you seen a large Mercedes, sort of maroon in colour with an Arab-looking gent in it?”

  Pete took his time checking pit entry passes then turned to me. “Yeah. He’s been sitting in it for the past hour doing fooking nothing, jest sitting there like Lord fooking Muck,” he said sourly.

  “Umm. Where, exactly, is the car, Pete?”

  “Far side by the fooking main gate, mate. If you’re going to see him, tell him to fook off, will ya? He’s making me fooking nervous sitting there doing bloody nothing.”

  “Yeah, no problems, Pete.” I couldn’t help smiling at Pete. He really wasn’t much of a security guard. Good thing he didn’t have to physically keep people out.

  I wasn’t going to make this easy for them. I turned right and made my way down the row of cars away from the suit. Was Brown shepherding me to his boss, or trying to keep away from Hussein? I wasn’t sure why that thought had suddenly come to me. Come to think of it, I had no real reason to believe that Brown was connected to Hussein. Perhaps he was just another interested party. I just needed to find Hussein first. I was heading for a double-decker bus parked alongside the fence on the far side of the parking area. From the top deck I was sure I would be able to spot the maroon Mercedes Hussein usually drove.

  Frank Brown filled the small mirrors in my sunglasses. There seemed to be two more over-dressed blokes with him. One of them was openly swinging a thick black stick of some sort in his right hand. I ducked left behind a Vauxhall pick-up, sprinted down the row of cars for fifty yards or so and turned left again before the trio came into sight. With luck I could go unobserved for a short while. Perhaps even make it to the far side of the car park. No such luck.