Eye of the Cobra

by Christopher Sherlock

  ‘He drove very well,’ Ricardo said. ‘I cannot deny that. There is no question of his ability.’

  ‘But can you drive as fast?’

  ‘It is one thing to perform well in practice, it is another to achieve victory in competition. He will be slow now. At least for another couple of weeks, eh?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I know. He will be scared.’

  Debbie knew that Ricardo was staying with friends, that he didn’t like the hotel - too many people staring at him and too many reporters getting in his way. He didn’t need them.

  He slipped his arm around her waist, squeezing her playfully, and she felt uninhibited, like a young girl again. He was raw and elemental: she wanted to be naked against him. She looked at the black curling hairs on his chest revealed by the open buttons of the T-shirt.

  He drove very quickly but she wasn’t scared. He was always in control, and she watched the dark hairs on the back of his wrists as he changed gear. He flicked his eyes over her, taking in the dress she had chosen for the evening.

  ‘You are very beautiful.’

  She laughed softly as he ran his hand over her dark-stockinged thigh again.

  The restaurant was exclusive, set in lush gardens beneath an office complex. Ricardo looked up and the maitre d’hotel came across to them smartly.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Sartori.’

  He handed Ricardo the wine list and ran over the restaurant’s better dishes. Ricardo ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon, and Knysna oysters for both of them.

  ‘Champagne is all that the beautiful should ever drink,’ he said.

  Afterwards they walked out to the Ferrari, and he said: ‘You spend the night with me.’ It was not a question.

  She lay her head against him as he drove. She felt scared of herself, of the sexual desire she’d never been able to control. She wanted him, that was all she knew.

  Later, he pulled up at the end of a long tree-lined drive, next to a black-walled house. The architecture was clean and modern, greenery clinging to the plaster around the big, square oak door that was set deep into the wall. Inside, they stepped into a huge, marble-tiled hall; through a picture-window the northern suburbs of Johannesburg could be seen twinkling in the distance.

  She wanted him to make love to her and she wanted it to be good.

  His hands moved gently over her body. He knew almost instinctively what aroused her.

  ‘Don’t stop.’

  She whispered it softly in his ear as his hand unzipped the back of her dress. Now she wanted her naked body next to his, to feel that darkly tanned skin against her own.

  He pushed her over one of the white raw silk couches, her legs parting in anticipation. He dropped his trousers in a single movement.

  Then she felt him, hard and big. She could no longer control herself. She pushed back against him as he thrust deep within her. She needed to be possessed.

  ‘Oh my God.’

  There was now a masculine smell about him that excited her even more, and she came again and again. Then he exploded within her and she sank down, satiated.

  Later, they lay naked on the tiles. She placed her head on his stomach and he stroked her hair.

  ‘Did the accident scare you?’ she asked softly.

  It was some time before he answered.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said.

  She wondered what Wyatt would be like in bed. There was something about racing-drivers that turned her on. She’d slept with some of the best, but always there was a new conquest to make.

  He ran his fingers teasingly across her upper lip.

  ‘You are afraid of Wyatt?’ she asked.

  She felt his body tense up. She enjoyed the sensation, enjoyed the power she felt she had over him.

  ‘Am I afraid?’

  Already she could feel herself wanting him again. She parted her lips and worked her way down his torso making small kisses.

  ‘They say he has the makings of a great driver.’ She enveloped him with her lips.

  ‘He does not know how to control a car. Look what happened today.’

  She felt the sap rising within him and his hand ran through her hair.

  ‘I want to beat him,’ Ricardo said, ‘show him that I am the fastest. Yes, he is a challenge.’

  She tasted him, and it was almost too much for her to bear. He lifted her up, and then thrust, and exploded again within her.

  God, it felt good. But she had to have Wyatt as well.

  She could never have enough.

  The hunter took another drag on his cigarette and contemplated the meaning of life. He supposed he should be pleased. The spectacle he was about to witness would net him around twenty-five thousand dollars, but there was something that made him feel slightly guilty about the whole business.

  He’d spent days trailing this animal, working out its habits and finding when it drank at the waterhole. Then it had been a matter of setting everything up and bringing in Mr Phelps at the right moment.

  Mr Phelps wanted to bag a rhino, and that he would certainly do. Whether it could be called hunting was another matter.

  He inhaled again and hoped to hell Phelps wouldn’t belch or do something else to scare the animal away.

  Jack watched the rhino walk up to the water’s edge as the sun rose in the cold air of the morning. He liked the atmosphere of the bush, the rawness of the environment. He’d wanted to do this ever since he was a kid.

  He looked through the hairlines of the sight and hugged the rifle closer to his shoulder, then let his finger stroke the trigger softly.

  The huge animal faltered on his hooves, then staggered back and let out a snort of pain.

  Jack smiled. The bullet had caught the right front knee. He felt the hunter’s hand on his arm.

  ‘Meneer Phelps, let me finish this.’

  ‘Leave me alone. How I kill him is my business.’

  He loaded up and fired again. The body of the rhino collapsed forward, both front legs crippled. The cries of pain echoed across the bushveld.

  Phelps laid down the rifle and pulled out a cigar. The hunter raised his own rifle.

  ‘I don’t want your money, meneer. But believe you me, this’ll be in all the papers.’

  The hunter’s first shot killed the rhino instantly. Almost immediately a pack of lions moved in.

  Then he felt the cold of Phelps’s rifle-barrel against his ear.

  ‘Go and inspect the kill, Mr du Plessis.’

  The hunter staggered forward.

  ‘Now you can find out what it’s like to be hunted,’ Phelps said quietly.

  Du Plessis broke into a run, pulling the sheath-knife from his belt.

  As he ran, a lioness looked up from the kill and launched herself towards him.

  As the hunter’s final scream faded, Phelps lit his cigar, sucked the rich smoke into his lungs, then exhaled, enjoying the soft warmth of the first rays of sunlight against his back.

  Another unfortunate hunting accident, he reflected. The bush was just like the business world; the weak always got savaged.

  Suzie looked aghast at the doctor. ‘What do you mean, he checked himself out?’

  The doctor moved uneasily in his chair and stared again at the beautiful blonde woman sitting opposite him. He could quite understand her anger. He hadn’t wanted to let Wyatt Chase go, but then he hadn’t had much choice.

  ‘Miss von Falkenhyn, this isn’t a prison. We can’t force a patient to stay here against his will. Besides, he threatened me.’

  The doctor took off his glasses and cleaned them on the side of his coat.

  ‘Threatened you?’ said Suzie, not believing what she was hearing.

  ‘He said that if I knocked him out again he would break my arm when he came round.’

  ‘But surely you didn’t take him seriously?’

  The doctor looked again at the open file on his desk.

  ‘Look, Wyatt Chase is a fighter. He’s tough. If he wants to leave, that’s hi
s decision.’

  ‘I do not believe this,’ Suzie shouted angrily.

  ‘Dammit. He got out of bed, he knocked one orderly over - and I was not about to take him on,’ the doctor replied quickly.

  Suzie got up, red-faced.

  ‘I am sorry. I didn’t realise.’

  The doctor softened.

  ‘You don’t know where he’s gone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The dojo. Evidently fighting is his form of recovery.’

  He came over and rested his hands on her shoulders.

  ‘He’ll be OK. I don’t think he’s the type of man who takes orders.’

  He took a handwritten note out of his pocket.

  ‘This is where he said you can find him.’

  The burns stung. The pain was terrible, but he was mastering it. He swivelled round again, his bare feet moving softly across the wooden floor of the dojo.

  His first attacker moved in, lightning-fast. He pivoted, blocked and then punched, aware of the second attacker approaching. The blow came before he could react, striking the burns on his back and he screamed out with pain as he retaliated, knocking the third man flying off his feet.

  The three men surrounded him, trying to find another opening but not succeeding. Then the whistle went, and they bowed to each other.

  Wyatt walked across the floor to the sensei.

  ‘I thank you. It has been a pleasure to train with you.’

  The sensei bowed. ‘Your style is not ours, but I heard much about you in Tokyo. From what I have seen today, what I heard is true. You must come here every day till you leave Johannesburg. It is an honour to train with you.’

  Wyatt bowed, then walked across the floor of the dojo.

  Suzie was waiting outside, her blue eyes locked on his. He took her hands and kissed her softly.

  Later, as they drove to the hotel, he told her about Japan, about the years of training.

  ‘Pain is something you live with. It’s a challenge, Suzie. A hospital is a place for the sick. I am not sick - and the drugs do not help me to fight the pain, they make me weak.’

  ‘Promise you’ll rest, Wyatt.’

  ‘No. I’ll drive again today.’

  Wyatt walked casually up to the side of the Shadow and stared over the Kyalami race-track at the setting sun with a vague, dreamy smile. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he eased the packet of cigarettes out of his black jumpsuit. Looking straight into the camera, he shook the pack, slipped out a cigarette and put it gently to his mouth. Then he struck a match and inhaled deeply - and broke into violent coughing.

  ‘Cut! Cut!’

  Wyatt threw the cigarette down on the tarmac with disgust. The director glared at him in consternation from his chair, and turned to the crew.

  ‘Move it, guys. We’ve only got thirty minutes more light.’

  He came over to Wyatt, a thickset man with tiny spectacles that made him look like a grown-up Billy Bunter.

  ‘How many times have I told you - don’t inhale and you won’t cough.’

  ‘It has to look real. You told me that.’

  ‘Fuck, but you’re stubborn.’

  Wyatt stared at him. He wasn’t impressed by this arrogant bastard of a commercials director. He handed him the pack.

  ‘Why don’t you shove them up your arse.’

  Then he heard Jack Phelps’s voice in the background.

  ‘Cool it, Wyatt.’

  The calm, assured tones of the professional businessman.

  ‘Damion’s only trying to do his job.’

  The director looked despairingly into Wyatt’s eyes.

  ‘The James Dean pose looks good. Just light up, and take the smoke into your mouth.’

  ‘I really feel great, endorsing lung cancer.’

  ‘If you don’t like it, Wyatt, choose another career.’ Phelps’s voice drifted across the tarmac.

  Wyatt stared across at him. He was still sore from the burns, but Ricardo had not bettered his times and he could tell the Italian was itching to prove himself the better driver.

  Suzie walked up to Wyatt, while Phelps ran his eyes up and down her body, mentally undressing her.

  ‘Relax, Wyatt,’ she said. ‘It’s not difficult. As Damion says, don’t inhale. Watch me.’

  Damion was glaring at them, red-faced and angry. Time was running out, the sun had almost set. Wyatt knew the commercial was already over budget, but he disliked the director intensely.

  Suzie lit the cigarette, placed it between her full and perfect lips, then drew in her breath very slowly. The cigarette glowed, she lifted it elegantly from her mouth.

  ‘Too much for the great Wyatt Chase?’

  He laughed. Phelps wasn’t amused, but there was a smirk on Damion’s lips. Wyatt stared at him, aching to wipe the smile off his face.

  ‘OK, Damion. I’ll try again.’

  In a few minutes the crew were ready, and Wyatt sauntered casually across to the car. Phelps was watching him like a hawk. He was trying to figure him out, much as he would a company he was about to take over.

  Wyatt looked across at Damion sitting nonchalantly back on his wood and canvas folding-chair. He crushed the cigarette pack in his right hand.

  ‘Shit!’ Damion’s voice cut through the air. ‘Jesus, Wyatt! That box has been specially prepared. We’ve only got one more - wreck that, and we’ll have to can the shoot.’

  Suzie was at his side again. He smelt the familiar fragrance as she handed him the other packet.

  He held it in his hand.

  ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Crush it.’

  Everyone looked on, horrified. He stared at her for what seemed a long time. She was testing him - she wanted him to do it. And then he relaxed.

  Damion fidgeted in his chair and wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead.

  ‘OK. Action!’

  The set went deadly still, and this time Wyatt went through the actions perfectly - he sensed Suzie was watching him, judging him. He took the cigarette to his lips and inhaled softly. Then he blew the smoke out and stared coolly into the camera.

  ‘Cut.’

  There was applause, and Damion was up.

  ‘It’s a wrap.’

  Wyatt walked away from them, down the track. He stared down the straight. This was all irrelevant. It was only the racing that mattered, the rest was superfluous. The rest was a game.

  The trick was to concentrate on the driving, not to let the other issues distract him. It was only two weeks to the first Grand Prix in Rio. Tomorrow they would fly back to England, ready to make their final preparations.

  Someone came up behind him.

  ‘Wyatt, don’t let them piss you off.’

  It was de Villiers, hands in his pockets, looking haggard.

  ‘It does piss me off.’

  ‘Jack’s happy. You’ve just made his day.’

  ‘The publicity seems more important to him than winning.’

  He walked further down the track with Bruce alongside him.

  ‘Listen, Wyatt,’ Bruce said. ‘Let me give you some advice. If you handle the sponsors well now, you’ll make it easier on yourself when the racing’s on. And let me warn you, too. If you won’t go along with him, Phelps will dump you.’

  Wyatt nodded.

  Bruce said earnestly: ‘You, me, Aito and Ricardo, we all have the same objective. We want to win.’

  Wyatt looked above the line of blue-gum trees and saw some birds in the distance, flying across the red sunset. He thought back momentarily to the dojo where he had trained in Tokyo. Then the memory was gone, and his mind was clear. He was in Formula One for the same reason as Bruce.

  To win.

  Back in London, Suzie wasn’t quite sure what to make of what was happening to her. Suddenly she had achieved celebrity status through her liaison with Wyatt.

  Jack Phelps was particularly happy about the publicity. There were stories about her and Calibre-Shensu in most of the major international magazines, an
d she’d been invited to appear on a prominent television talk-show. Also, her pret a porter range had sold out within five minutes of the Paris opening, and she’d been approached by several large clothing manufacturers to lend her name to a new label. Now she was sitting in her London apartment, awaiting a team of journalists from Time.

  The phone rang. It was Jack Phelps again. He wouldn’t leave her alone. He’d insisted on helping her set up the New York office of her design company through the acquisition of an American group.

  ‘Suzie dear. Everything is in order. I’ve successfully negotiated your take-over of Morgan Design. You get a fifty-five per cent controlling interest, and their name changes to Zen, as you requested.’

  Suzie sighed. Phelps was setting her up in big business - whether she liked it or not.

  He continued, his tone confidential, ‘I’ve set up a meeting for you tomorrow with Lawrence Simons Junior, their executive president. He seems to be most amenable to working for you.’

  ‘What if he isn’t?’

  ‘Then he’ll get the laughing heave-ho.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A handshake and a parting cheque. Listen, Suzie, with your new celebrity status there are plenty of top creative people here who’ll leap at the opportunity of running the New York arm of Zen.’

  ‘I’m sure Lawrence will be fine. The reason we chose his company is because his philosophy has always been similar to mine.’

  The doorbell rang insistently.

  ‘Jack, I’ll see you tomorrow, the reporters from Time have arrived.’

  She slammed the phone down. There was a price to pay for everything in life, and Phelps was hers.

  Aito Shensu sat on the dojo floor, facing the Shihan, the chief instructor. Each day it became harder and harder to move through the training exercises. The disease was creeping over his body and he was unable to resist it. No one except the Shihan and his doctor knew of the leukemia that had attacked his blood cells.

  Despite the disease, he remained focused on his life philosophy - Budo - the way of the winner. He had reached nearly all his goals. Only two remained - perhaps only one could be achieved. He wanted Wyatt to return to the dojo, and he wanted victory for the company he had started thirty years before.