Eye of the Cobra
Page 6
If an engine broke down, it would be taken to the research centre and replaced with another one, all vital information having been recorded on computer. The goal was single-minded - to produce the most powerful, most reliable Grand Prix engine ever.
After an hour, Phelps felt his concentration beginning to lag. He was pleased to see Mr Mishima walking swiftly towards him through the pools of sunlight, past the line of thundering engines.
‘Thank you. Very impressive,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Now I must return to my hotel.’
Mishima gazed across at him, exuding an almost missionary zeal. ‘But Mr Phelps, a meeting has been arranged for you with our director of research. He is honoured to tell you that this will be followed by dinner.’
Phelps finally made it back to his room at half past two that morning and collapsed on the bed. He had never met people who could drink so much at a sitting. However, everything was going as anticipated, he reflected, as he dropped off into a deep sleep.
He awoke at five thirty and took a cold shower. He had no doubt that Aito would be at the hotel to collect him at six on the dot.
As he towelled himself down, he reread the details on his air ticket, just to make sure. Yes, everything was in order.
He dressed and waited. There was no call at six. He smiled. Aito was really cutting it fine.
Finally, at ten past seven, there was a call for him. He picked up the phone. Aito was waiting for him in reception. He took the lift down and prepared himself to look as agitated as possible.
‘A thousand apologies, Jack. I was delayed in the traffic.’
Jack glared at Aito, reflecting, he hoped, a suitable level of irritation. ‘My plane leaves at nine!’
‘Don’t worry. I have the agreement in my car. It is essentially the same as the one you drew up, with a few minor changes. You can check them on the way to the airport.’
‘My bags?’
‘They are being collected from your room. Shall we go to my car? We can discuss the final aspects of the contract on the way to the airport. Then you can sign.’
Once they were inside the comfortable confines of the car, Aito handed him the agreement - over two hundred pages of it.
‘I have highlighted the important sections for you, Jack.’
‘I haven’t got time to read the whole thing.’
‘It’s not necessary, there are only minor changes.’
Jack read the beginning of the document very carefully. He circled anything that he found difficult to interpret, or unacceptable. He admired the way that Aito had had the whole thing carefully restructured - but some of the clauses were now a little too much in Shensu’s favour for his liking.
The car was almost at Narita airport. Jack glanced across at the digital clock in the centre of the dashboard.
‘Relax, Jack. Just read the relevant sections, then sign. I need to have the agreement for a crucial board meeting tomorrow morning. Otherwise, I do not know if we will make our deal before the season begins - then it will be another year . . .’
Jack ignored this and returned his attention to the agreement. Everything else ceased to be important to him, only the printed words mattered. This was what he enjoyed - playing out a deal. He admired Aito Shensu’s artistry. Nothing particularly wrong with the agreement, just that it slanted all the advantages to the Japanese company.
He felt the car draw up, heard the noise of the arrivals hall. Did not look up but carried on reading.
‘You’ll miss your plane,’ Aito whispered.
‘I’ll miss my plane.’
A faint smile crossed Jack’s lips. He continued reading, sensing Aito’s surprise.
‘You wish to return to the hotel, Jack?’
‘No, let’s go to your offices. As you said, your board meeting’s tomorrow and we have to be in agreement on this. I’m sure we can have it ready for then,’ Jack said, his eyes still on the document.
The section on sponsorship was particularly interesting. The present structure of the agreement would leave him with little say in how the team was run. He ringed the whole section . . .
He finished his reading in Aito’s office at half past ten. He turned to his host.
‘In principle I agree with what’s here. But I want far more say in the running of the team, and I also want to discuss the ambiguities that I have ringed. Once all that’s resolved, I’ll sign.’
‘You will not sign now?’
‘No. I will fax certain sections to my lawyers in New York, and they can work on them immediately. We can discuss the sponsorship section while that’s being done.’
‘But Jack, that will take days.’
‘No, it can be done in twenty-four hours. Your secretary can fax my lawyers immediately. In the meantime, perhaps you can arrange a few more tours and dinners for me?’
Aito chuckled. When he turned to Jack, his face had lost every trace of oriental inscrutability.
‘I see I have chosen a worthy partner in Formula One!’
Now they could get down to the hard facts of the business. There were only eighteen teams in Formula One. Jack owned one of them - Chase Racing, bought out from Danny and Wyatt Chase. He’d also bought Bruce de Villiers from McCabe, thus securing the best manager in the business. And through a separate deal he had Ricardo Sartori, the former world champion and that year’s runner-up, signed up to drive for him in the next season.
Aito had Formula One engines and gearboxes that were ready to race. He had also done a lot of work on chassis and body design with a European consultant he refused to name to Jack.
They worked through the day and into the night, arguing and negotiating. Chase Racing would lose its name, replaced by Calibre-Shensu. Phelps Co. would own forty per cent of the company, and get half of the surface area of the machine for Calibre Lights branding. Shensu badging would cover the rest of the machine. Shensu would also get a forty per cent shareholding, the other twenty per cent going to Bruce de Villiers.
They would appoint an independent consultancy to handle all the promotional work for their brands. The Shensu advertising account, worth five hundred million US dollars, would be handled by this consultancy, as would the Calibre Lights account. Phelps did not want any advertising agency involvement. There were people gunning for cigarette companies, and one of the main areas of attack was their advertising. If he wasn’t seen to be advertising in the conventional sense, Jack reasoned, he would be safer from this kind of attack.
Aito insisted that he must have the final say on who the second driver would be. Jack argued this point for some time, then gave in. He realised that Aito might want a top Japanese driver in the seat of the number-two machine. He could understand that. Still, with Sartori in the number-one machine he didn’t have anything to worry about.
They worked through the night, finally signing in the early hours of the morning.
Jack shook hands with Aito at the airport departure building.
‘To winning, Jack.’
‘To success, Aito.’
They bowed to each other, and parted.
Jack walked into the first-class lounge, well pleased. It was going to be a very profitable, very successful 1991.
Wyatt was awake at four in the morning. That was a ritual he had kept to since he was seventeen and had moved to Japan.
His house was part of a converted warehouse on the south bank of the Thames. The main room was enormous, with curving white walls that soared up to a vaulted roof of reinforced glass. The sprung wooden floor yielded as he walked across it to the bathroom. Everything was white, and he glanced out of the big picture window that filled one of the narrower walls, revealing a shadowy view of the Thames with the skyline of the city in the distance.
He followed the Japanese style. All the spare furniture in this room was against the walls, encircling the empty centre. The predominant motif through the house was circles. In Japanese decor, geometric mirroring and straight lines are practically non-existent; evil spirits, accordi
ng to Shinto belief, travel in straight lines.
He stood for a moment, taking in the early-morning darkness and the silence. Then he looked up to where his Japanese water-colours hung on the high wall above him.
He took a scalding-hot shower, then turned the water on cold, feeling his body stiffen and resisting the urge to shiver. He stepped out and towelled himself dry. Then he slipped on the white robes, the karate-gi, tying them together with the black belt embroidered with the words of a language that was almost more familiar to him than English. That belt, signifying his status as a Seventh Dan, was the most valuable thing he owned. He had spent nearly ten years of his life earning it.
Then there came the moment he always savoured, the feeling of emptiness, the memories of the dojo in Tokyo and the Shihan, the supreme instructor.
He began with a series of warming-up exercises, then moved into heavier training for the next hour. After that came a session of punching against the makiwara, a long, sprung wooden plank fixed upright, its base planted in the floor. Then followed some work on a punch-bag that hung suspended from the rafters close to the window.
Then he performed a series of katas, formal movements against an imaginary opponent that focused the karate-ka’s competitive and co-operative spirit. The swift, flowing movements were like a form of meditation to Wyatt, and his concentration never wavered.
At six he showered again, then changed into his favourite clothes, a black T-shirt and black cotton trousers. He made himself a simple breakfast and switched on the television for the morning news.
Through the procession of bulletins, he thought about his fight up the racing ladder: the careful instructions he had received from his father; how he had won the British karting championship at fifteen; the travelling he had done with his mother and father, the glamour and excitement of it all.
Then the pain. The memories of the accident in Monaco. The turns of the steeply climbing road, the swift and determined gear-changes that took full advantage of the car’s power in the corners . . .
But at that point the memories always faded, and the next thing he remembered was waking up in hospital, Estelle at the side of the bed, screaming hysterically as the doctor pulled her back.
He gripped the sides of his chair. The pain was still there, the words indelibly etched in his memory. ‘You killed him! You killed him!’ And he had loved his father more than he loved anyone in the world. He still didn’t understand what had happened on that lonely mountain road.
He thought of the German woman, Suzie, and the climb in Yosemite Valley, two months after the accident, when he’d made his decision to move to Japan. She had disappeared the day after the climb. He hadn’t been able to find out any more about her, who she was or where she lived.
He left her memory behind and focused on the present. Now he was without a drive in Formula One. He had heard people saying he was past his prime - look at what he could have done if he was still in his early twenties.
Staying on with Chase in an unreliable machine for another year would have been a complete waste of time. But he had expected a lot of money from his uncle as a pay-out for his share in the team - enough money to buy him a drive with the French team. But he hadn’t got the money and so he couldn’t drive for them. He knew he was running out of time, and the frustration was getting to him.
He could go to the United States and compete on the NASCAR circuit. But that wasn’t sport to him, going round in perfect ovals. He just wanted to drive in Formula One. And no one would give him a drive. No one would take him seriously since he’d driven for Danny’s team.
Ricardo Sartori, the number one, had always got the better machine. He’d nearly won the championship with it. And Wyatt had been far out of the points in what the outside world saw as essentially the same machine. Painful though it was, he had to admit that he was considered a has-been even though he’d won a Grand Prix in his first season.
The next item on the television news suddenly caught Wyatt’s attention.
‘Last month Jack Phelps, the American billionaire, bought out Chase Racing,’ the newscaster said. ‘This week, in a deal with Aito Shensu of the Shensu Motor Corporation and Bruce de Villiers, ex-manager of McCabe racing, Phelps formed Calibre-Shensu. The name Chase Racing will disappear.’
The picture cut to the headquarters of the Formula One Constructors’ Association, with Ronnie Halliday, the president of FOCA, being interviewed.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’re very pleased about this new team. I believe they will challenge the dominance of McCabe and Roger de Rosner. This move by Jack Phelps is welcomed by everyone in Formula One.’
The next picture was of Phelps, Shensu and de Villiers signing the agreement.
‘This historic agreement was signed at Phelps Plaza in New York,’ the newscaster announced. ‘Phelps, Shensu and de Villiers are the founding members and shareholders in Calibre-Shensu, a formidable new force on the 1991 Grand Prix circuit. If the track record of any of these three men is anything to go by, Calibre-Shensu will be the team to watch in the coming season.’
The camera closed in on Bruce de Villiers, standing next to a reporter, and the interviewer asked: ‘Bruce, how would you describe your involvement in this venture?’
De Villiers squared up in front of the camera. ‘Look, I’m totally involved, totally committed. We are all very clear about our objectives in international Grand Prix racing. We want to win.’
‘Isn’t that being a bit optimistic on your first outing with a new team and a new engine?’
‘Shensu have developed a superb V8 engine - we’re already into our first week of development on a car.’
‘But your old team, McCabe, has the best driver?’
‘The best perceived driver. We have Ricardo Sartori, the former world champion. We’re still looking for a second driver.’
Wyatt switched off the set. There was no doubt in his mind about what he had to do now.
The Lotus Super Seven, with a highly modified two-litre Ford Cosworth engine, shot down the narrow Buckinghamshire lanes at near suicidal speed.
Wyatt thought about Bruce de Villiers. The man was a fanatic. His meteoric career had nothing to do with luck and everything to do with determination. He had made McCabe the best Formula One team for five successive years. Wyatt was certain that Calibre-Shensu was going to be the new McCabe, and he wanted to be in on the team from the ground floor. This was his best chance - he knew de Villiers always got to work early.
He pulled off the tree-lined road and coasted down the tarmac drive. The memories came flooding back. He remembered his mother cutting the ribbon across this road; the sunlight filtering through the oak trees and his father smiling easily and talking to the reporters.
The old Chase Racing sign was gone. He felt a stab of bitterness that the last vestige of everything his father had built up had now been removed. But then he remembered the voice of his Japanese instructor, ‘The greatest advances are made when, having accepted the tradition, you have the courage to break it.’ Wyatt had severed his ties with the legacy his father had left him, but this place, the home of Chase Racing, was still a part of him.
The road dropped down and he looked out to see the building which had been designed in the early 1970s. It was typical of that time, with rough concrete finishes and lots of glass. His father had commissioned an American architect of considerable reputation to draw up the plans, and his wisdom was reflected in the fact that, nearly twenty years on, the building still looked impressive.
Behind the building was the test track, weaving its way in and out of the trees.
He pulled up in front of a set of high gates that blocked the road, flanked on each side by a wire security-fence. That was de Villiers’ influence. A military-looking man with a neatly trimmed moustache and closely cropped grey hair stepped out. He straightened his black uniform and strode up to Wyatt’s car, staring down at him.
‘’Morning, guvnor. Who are yer here to see?’
&nb
sp; ‘Bruce de Villiers.’
‘And your name is . . .?’
‘Wyatt Chase.’
‘Very good then, Mr Chase. Would yer mind fillin’ in this form? I’ll just check with Mr de Villiers that you’ve an appointment.’
He handed Wyatt a clipboard. Wyatt gripped his hand and stared into his eyes.
‘I don’t have an appointment and he wouldn’t give me one if I asked for it.’
The man grinned. He leaned forwards and his voice softened.
‘I know you. Weren’t you driving as number two to Sartori last season? Your old man owned this place, didn’t ’e?’
‘Then my uncle was forced to sell.’
‘Yes, I read all about it in the paper. I’m sorry about yer uncle.’
He waved Wyatt on. ‘Good luck, Mr Chase.’
Wyatt pulled up outside the front entrance, his heart beating a little faster. This was a gamble and he knew it.
He guessed which office de Villiers would have taken - the one on the first floor with a sweeping view of the test track. He’d always liked that office. It had been his father’s.
He walked up the stairs and was glad to see it was too early for de Villiers’ secretary to be at her desk. One less obstacle to negotiate. Everything was neatly ordered, with no paper in evidence. Instead the desk was graced with the latest model of personal computer with a sophisticated laser printer. Again, hallmarks of de Villiers’ style - to use the very best of what was available.
De Villiers’ door was closed. Wyatt went up and rapped on it smartly.
‘Come in,’ a voice barked from inside.
Wyatt steeled himself. De Villiers raised his eyes from the computer monitor he’d been studying and looked up at him, then nodded his head.
‘Ja?’
‘I want the number two slot.’
‘You’ve got a bloody cheek, Wyatt Chase. I haven’t got time for inexperience. The answer’s no. Get it? No.’