Eye of the Cobra

by Christopher Sherlock

  The film ended, and the camera focused on Bruce de Villiers, who was icy cool. Out of camera, Vanessa’s voice cut across the stillness of the studio.

  ‘Bruce de Villiers, you are now challenging the governing bodies of Formula One. You want a driver who is dangerous on the track reinstated?’

  Bruce gave a tight-lipped smile to camera.

  ‘Everyone is entitled to their own viewpoint. I live Formula One. My drivers are in it because they want to be. They know the risks. Our sponsors are giving the world something it wants to see. Formula One is life at the sharp end. Only thirty men in the world can ever sit in the driving-seat of a Formula One car, and only about five of them can ever hope to feature high in the points. I’m in this business to win, so are my drivers. Yes, I do have a responsibility to my sponsors. I also have a responsibility to my team and to Ricardo. Suspended for one race - I couldn’t argue with that. But a whole season? No way.’

  Vanessa smiled demurely.

  ‘How do you feel about the two drivers you’ve killed in the past ten years?’

  Wyatt wanted to strangle her. She was baiting Bruce - de Villiers’ temper was legendary.

  Bruce replied, his face red and his fingers tapping on the edge of the chair.

  ‘I killed? They died where they wanted to live, behind the wheel. You take your risks with a TV camera, you never put your life on the line. Where are you at the start of a race? Where are you during the sweat of preparation, when my men work without sleep to make the car as perfect as possible? I suggest you get off your fat arse and get in the seat of a Formula One car, see if you can take it for one lap.’

  Vanessa’s eyes flashed and her face was white.

  ‘You were born a bully, Mr de Villiers, and you have no manners. Drivers are for killing, are they? But no, don’t ask any difficult questions, because this is a man’s business, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.’

  Vanessa was shouting now.

  ‘I don’t buy it, Mr de Villiers, and I’m not scared of you or your sponsors. You don’t care, but I do. It’s time some questions were asked, and I’m going to ask them.’

  There was a quick glimpse of de Villiers’ angry face, then the camera cut back to Robin Cox.

  ‘Only the men who run Formula One can decide if the decision they made against Ricardo Sartori three days ago is just. However, you the viewer can make your own decision, and then perhaps ask yourself a question: Is Formula One all that sporting?

  ‘Thank you, Bruce de Villiers and Vanessa Tyson, for being with us here tonight on “Straight Talking.” Next week’s interview will be with Austrian climber, Reinhold Meissner.’

  Wyatt switched off the set and walked about in a daze. The images from the documentary flashed through his mind. He thought of his mother by his father’s graveside, then his uncle’s; he thought of the long, winding road in Monaco and the memories that refused to come back. You killed him. You killed him. The words echoed through his mind.

  He felt he was losing control, cracking up. He changed into his karate-gi and moved into his training ritual. In half an hour the thoughts were forgotten and he went through the elaborate sequences of several katas.

  The phone broke the inner peace. He lifted the receiver and heard Vanessa’s voice.

  ‘Wyatt, I’m sorry but . . .’

  ‘Go to hell!’

  As the first rays of sunlight passed through the window, Ricardo looked down at the blonde woman who lay sleeping on his chest. They’d made love passionately for hours. Earlier, the previous evening, she’d taken a line of coke to heighten the experience, and she’d exhausted him.

  He pushed her away. He was still numbed, both by his suspension and the way Bruce had told him that without the right to race, his contract was null and void. But money would not be a problem, Phelps had spoken of higher earnings than he had achieved in Formula One. But at what price? Ricardo asked himself. He had lived to race.

  In a day’s time he would be appointed executive vice-president of Calibre Worldwide. His yearly salary wouldn’t be close to what he was earning in Formula One, but with the perks it included, and the profit potential of the deals Phelps had hinted at, it could net him far more.

  In the two days he’d spent so far in New York, Ricardo knew he’d been constantly assessed by Phelps’s partners. He guessed that there was more to the deal than met the eye and he wondered when Phelps was going to enlighten him.

  The phone next to his bed rang and he snatched it up.

  ‘Sartori? The board-meeting will begin in thirty minutes.’

  Ricardo felt a moment’s hesitation. Maybe he should leave New York, sell his island villa and his jet, and pay off his tax debts. He could spend the rest of the year as a test driver, and then re-emerge on the Formula One circuit. But perhaps the other teams would be reluctant to take him on in case he lost his cool again? Anyway, he definitely did not want to lose the villa or the plane.

  He looked at his watch.

  ‘The meeting is now?’ he said into the phone. It was six in the morning.

  ‘Yes, at six thirty. We’ll see you there - in a suit please. A chauffeur will collect you in ten minutes.’

  Twenty minutes later Ricardo strode into the enormous foyer. The words ‘Phelps Plaza’ were emblazoned in silver over a huge waterfall that cascaded down over marble blocks piled four storeys high. He liked it. And he was sure that whatever it was Mr Phelps wanted, he could accommodate it. The lift took off like a jet, taking only a few seconds to reach the top floor. The doors opened and Ricardo was greeted by the smell of coffee - and a very attractive woman in a tailored suit.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Sartori. Welcome to Calibre. First let me show you your office suite. Mr Phelps and his board have another matter to discuss before it will be necessary for you to join them.’

  ‘That’s fine with me.’

  He followed her down a series of dark, oak-panelled passages, walking on a carpet that was as thick as uncut grass. He admired the line of her long, athletic legs in expensive silk stockings.

  They walked into a large room with a curved ceiling, lit on either side by concealed neon lights. At each end of the room were double doors, and on the walls hung a series of original paintings by Salvador Dali. The receptionist’s desk was Georgian with a black leather surface.

  ‘This is your reception area,’ the elegant woman said. ‘Anyone coming into your office will be screened. Naturally, you will choose your own personal secretary. There is also a hidden TV camera at the back of the wall, so that you can always see who is in the reception area.’ Her voice reeled off further information with computer-like precision.

  He came up to her and touched her arm.

  ‘Your name?’

  She hesitated. ‘Lauren, Mr Sartori.’

  ‘How would you like to be my secretary?’

  She moved discreetly away from him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Sartori, but I’m Mr Phelps’s personal assistant.’ She spoke very quietly. ‘I appreciate your offer very much, but I suggest you don’t mention it to Mr Phelps.’

  Lauren opened the doors to the main office area and Ricardo found himself looking out across the New York skyline. She switched on the lights and the room took on a different quality. The main desk was a giant marble slab perched on a granite pedestal, and there were two leather couches and a long, flat coffee table. The room had an overall feeling of space, and suggested immense power.

  ‘Hidden behind the mirrors along the wall are a bathroom and sauna, also a filing room and a walk-in safe.’ As Lauren spoke she pushed a button underneath the desk, and two of the mirrors slid back to reveal a boardroom.

  ‘This is for any private discussions you might wish to conduct.’

  Another set of mirrors slid quietly back to expose a suite of private rooms. Sartori followed her through the doors.

  ‘This is a self-contained living-area. If you wish to live here some of the time, you can, quite comfortably. A personal chef is on
twenty-four-hour stand-by.’

  ‘Where does this go?’ he asked, pointing to another lift inside the private suite.

  ‘To the helipad. There’s also an entrance to it in the lobby. However, you might want to leave discreetly.’

  Ricardo nodded his approval. He walked back out to the main office.

  ‘Who used this office before me?’

  Lauren appeared to be slightly embarrassed by this question.

  ‘The office was completely redecorated for you, Mr Sartori. It has not been occupied for a while.’

  ‘Yes, but when it was, who sat here?’

  ‘Mr Ambrose. He held the position you are about to take over.’

  ‘Which is?’

  This line of conversation was broken by the purr of a concealed telephone. Lauren went behind the desk and lifted out the receiver from underneath.

  ‘Yes, Mr Phelps, I’ll send him through now.’

  Ricardo felt his confidence evaporate as he walked into the oval boardroom. There was a deathly silence as he contemplated the faces at the table, headed by Jack Phelps.

  There was one empty place and he moved silently towards it. He felt he was being examined - quietly assessed. He was about to sit down when Phelps gestured for him to remain standing.

  ‘Gentlemen. I stated last year that I would handle special operations myself, but now I have found a successor to our previous special operations executive. The man you see before you is Ricardo Sartori. With his assistance, over the next six months we will establish an unprecedented hold over the world market. He will take on the anti-tobacco lobby and win.’ He paused for a moment, and surveyed the faces around the table before delivering his final sentence. ‘Those in favour, raise their hands.’

  Every hand at the table was raised. Ricardo guessed that anyone who didn’t raise his hand would be looking for a new job.

  Phelps looked over to him.

  ‘Mr Sartori, you are now a board-member of Calibre. I will not ask you to sit in on this particular meeting as your full portfolio is still to be decided. I will speak to you later.’

  Ricardo correctly interpreted this as an order to leave and walked smartly out of the boardroom. Immediately he was through the door he heard a heated discussion erupt.

  Lauren was waiting for him outside.

  ‘I’ve left some files on your desk as well as some videotapes. Mr Phelps would like you to look through them before he speaks with you.’

  Ricardo walked back into the big office, beginning to feel in control and at home. His desk was covered with photographs and he moved closer to find out what they were.

  Several minutes later, his hands were trembling. There were pictures of him with several women and a man in bed. Who had taken them? He smacked the desk with his fist and began to gather them up quickly.

  Lauren came into the office.

  ‘Get out,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I saw all the pictures before I met you, Mr Sartori. Relax.

  Mr Phelps insists that you watch the videotape. The switch is the red one on the left inside panel of the desk.’

  He sat down in the huge leather chair behind the desk and pushed the red button.

  The film started with a wide-angle view of Milan, then dissolved to the face of the presenter. Ricardo didn’t recognise him.

  ‘This is where it all began,’ the presenter said, ‘the career of Ricardo Sartori - in public the world-class racing-driver, in private a violent and unhappy man. His mother, a part-time prostitute . . .’

  He wanted to switch the video off but he couldn’t. It was all there, all the worst parts of his life. As the minutes passed he was treated to interviews with his early girlfriends, details of the criminal record he had tried to have erased, and all the other dirt of his past.

  He was aware of someone coming into the room and switched the recorder off quickly. The lights came up automatically and he found himself looking at Jack Phelps, lying back on the couch, smoking a cigar.

  ‘You bastard!’ he said.

  Phelps smiled thinly.

  ‘That’s what the board said after they saw the film half an hour ago.’

  Ricardo got up and made for the door.

  ‘Forget your offer, Phelps. I’m out.’

  Saying he was going was as far as Ricardo got towards achieving it. He found his way blocked by a tall man in a dark suit, and when he tried to get past him he received a roundhouse kick in the side of the head. In an instant Ricardo knew that this man could kill him - and wouldn’t hesitate to do so if those were his orders.

  He staggered back into the room, and Phelps dismissed the man, then returned his eyes to Ricardo.

  ‘Relax,’ he said. ‘You can leave, never to see me again, if that is what you wish. All I want to say is that the tape will then go to every major TV network in the world, as well as to all the influential newspapers and magazines.’

  Phelps stopped and pulled another cigar out of his pocket.

  ‘Care for one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Smoke it.’

  The command was icy.

  ‘I don’t smoke.’

  ‘Lauren!’

  Lauren came into the room with a sheaf of files.

  ‘Give them to him, Lauren. You may stay.’

  Lauren gave Ricardo the files and sat down.

  ‘That’s all the fine print on your financial standing,’ Phelps muttered maliciously. ‘I have it in my power to destroy you completely. So. Join me in a cigar.’

  Ricardo took the cigar in his now trembling hands and placed it in his mouth. Lauren lit it.

  ‘Ah. I see that you are not intractable.’

  ‘What . . . what do you want?’

  ‘Your co-operation. You will live very well, and I will not work you hard.’

  The words were precisely spoken, well thought out and full of menace.

  ‘I want to return to racing,’ Ricardo said almost pitifully. ‘Next year. This year you will concentrate on your career with me.’

  ‘But I need practice . . .’

  Phelps got up and stared out of the window. He needed Ricardo because of his position, his public stature. He was the ideal front-man for what he had in mind.

  ‘I give the commands. Now, listen carefully . . .’

  Ricardo was tense when he stepped outside Phelps Plaza one and a half hours later. The Rolls-Royce that had come to collect him earlier in the morning rolled up with the precision of a Swiss watch, and the chauffeur opened the back door for him and he stepped inside.

  Being inside the car made him feel more secure again. He had read in a book many years before that every man had at least one major failing, and life was a process of overcoming one’s weakness. Just when he had felt most secure, everything had been taken away from him.

  The terrifying reality was that he had no choice. He had had to accept Phelps’s offer. True, it paid very handsomely, but at the same time it enmeshed him in Phelps’s carefully spun web. As long as Phelps lived, Ricardo would be in his power.

  Jules Ortega felt remarkably good. Everything was in place for expansion; from supplying America they would move on to supply the world. But better, he now had a new love - Suzie von Falkenhyn.

  Her picture was everywhere in Brazil, on television morning, noon and night. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t have taken her anywhere in public - she would have been recognised instantly.

  Of course, he had been concerned, because some of his men must have seen her when Rod brought her to laboratory, and the reward for information leading to her whereabouts was close to a million dollars - too much of a temptation. So Talbot had agreed to dispose of them, quietly and professionally.

  He went back into the bedroom, where Suzie had passed out. The needle was still in her hand, the inside of her arm a minefield of red pinpricks from the regular injections of heroin she had been giving herself. He sat down next to her and her eyes opened.

  ‘Jules, where have you been?’

&nbs
p; Such an expression of love.

  ‘Don’t worry now,’ he said softly.

  Her lips caressed his chest.

  ‘You’ll give me some more?’ she murmured.

  ‘Just carry on, and you’ll get all you want.’

  April

  Monaco was the epitome of all that was best and worst about Formula One, Ricardo thought as he looked across the harbour at the yachts bobbing up and down in the moonlight. Monaco was glamorous, and the circuit demanding. But running a Grand Prix in the middle of a busy old city meant the track was narrow and bumpy, and a nightmare from a logistical standpoint - supplies and spares and motorhomes had to be kept away from the main pits which were too small to hold them. Every time something was needed it meant a long journey from the pits to the parking area.

  That evening the principality was alive with excitement, everyone waiting in anticipation for the Grand Prix the following day.

  Ricardo walked out of the casino and looked down towards the sea, trying to forget his losses at the roulette wheel. He remembered the contents of the Calibre-Shensu press-release that was neatly folded in his pocket - and was incensed all over again. Wyatt had got pole position. The Shadow was performing exceptionally well, and Ricardo knew that if he hadn’t had the fight in Brazil, he could have been leading the championship. But now he was banned for a year and working for Jack Phelps, coordinating the Calibre-Shensu sponsorship.

  Ricardo didn’t find his new position easy going. Jack Phelps never left him alone - there were calls at night, and impossible deadlines to meet. On top of all that, the team members avoided him if they could. Bruce de Villiers was icy - he still hadn’t forgiven him for his behaviour in Rio.

  That afternoon Ricardo had bought a paper from a pavement kiosk. The leader on the sports page had filled him with a rage of jealousy. ‘Chase Sets The Pace’, the headline had read.