Eye of the Cobra

by Christopher Sherlock

  ‘I’ve always wanted to meet you, Mr Sartori,’ he said. ‘In fact, if you don’t mind . . .’ he took out a piece of paper ‘. . . my son would really be overjoyed if he had your autograph.’

  He didn’t have a son, but flattery could loosen a man’s tongue faster than almost anything else.

  Ricardo smiled, ‘My pleasure,’ and scrawled his name.

  Tennant observed the cut of his suit, the quality of his watch and many other details which told him Ricardo was a very wealthy man. Nothing surprising in that, though. He knew that the top drivers earned astronomical sums.

  ‘I’m on the Vanessa Tyson case, and I thought you might be able to help me,’ John Tennant said. ‘You’re a man who knows the Formula One world better than almost anyone else.’

  Ricardo shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s not really true. Bruce de Villiers . . .’

  ‘Ah, you misunderstand. I’m interested in the glamour, the life style, not the behind-the-scenes work.’

  ‘So . . .’

  ‘A large shipment of cocaine is rumoured to have been delivered in Monaco at the time of the Grand Prix.’

  Ricardo coloured slightly. Who was this detective? Some smooth operator who had come out specially to investigate Vanessa Tyson? Then he remembered Talbot’s directive: he must not talk or deal with anyone else from Interpol, Talbot must remain his only contact.

  John watched the Italian and noted the nervousness. His instincts had been right. Vanessa Tyson hadn’t pulled her punches when it came to attacking Calibre-Shensu, and now their biggest sponsor’s representative was looking distinctly edgy.

  ‘Mr Tennant, I have a very busy schedule.’

  ‘I won’t keep you long. I imagine your sponsor must have been very happy to see Miss Tyson arrested?’

  Ricardo shifted his eyes away from Tennant.

  ‘No more than other teams’ sponsors. Formula One relies heavily on tobacco industry sponsorship, and Miss Tyson’s investigations were very one-sided.’

  ‘I can only agree with you on that,’ Tennant replied pleasantly. He realised he’d come on a little too strong.

  ‘But she won’t be bothering you for the next twenty years.’

  He got up to leave.

  ‘Thank you for your time. I hope your team enjoys another victory. And I almost forgot, here’s my card. Cocaine is a very good bribe, so if you hear rumours that Tyson supplied it to anyone to get information, give me a call.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Oh, something else that slipped my mind - why did you ask Miss Tyson to dinner the night before she was arrested?’

  ‘I wanted to sleep with her.’

  A startling explanation, John Tennant thought as he walked from the hotel to his car, but perhaps, coming from Ricardo, an acceptable one. But still, his intuition told him to investigate the situation further.

  Ricardo read the card. ‘Chief Inspector John Tennant MSc Cantab., New Scotland Yard.’ He supposed it was logical that there should be an exhaustive enquiry after Vanessa Tyson’s arrest. Well, he’d remembered Talbot’s instructions and had not told Tennant he was already working with Interpol. But still, the situation was precarious. And if Phelps found out, he guessed he’d be a dead man.

  He put a call through to Talbot, telling him about Tennant’s visit. To his relief, Talbot was not in the least bit worried.

  ‘You’ll make your delivery, Ricardo. Relax. Tennant’s just a lower-echelon operator in Interpol, he’s not in on the major drugs-busts,’ Talbot lied.

  ‘I did the right thing?’

  ‘Yes. Tennant’s blind, he doesn’t operate in my league. But, my friend, there are other people you’ll have to be more wary of.’ An edge had crept into Talbot’s voice.

  ‘Like who?’ Ricardo asked, anxious to avoid any more surprises.

  ‘You’ll know if you meet them,’ Talbot replied evasively.

  ‘Why do you bring this up only now?’

  ‘Because the next Grand Prix is at Monza - your home country, and the home country of the people I’m talking about.’

  ‘The Mafia?’

  Ricardo tried to hide the hysteria in his voice.

  ‘If you back out now, I’ll press charges against you.’

  The phone went dead before Ricardo could ask any more questions. He paced up and down his room, trying to resist taking another snort. It was no good, he had to have it, he felt so tired and powerless without it.

  He had always feared the Mafia like the plague. He knew little about them, but what he did know frightened him to death.

  Jules Ortega put the phone down and looked at Suzie von Falkenhyn lying on the bed. She was naked and shivering, but the long blonde hair looked better now he had made her wash it, and the aristocratic features were as haughty as ever, even if her face was thinner. But it was just in her eyes that he could see the desperation. He laughed as she looked up at him, every square inch of her body pleading. The inside of her left arm was blue and dotted with red pinpricks.

  ‘Lie over the bed.’

  He unfastened the hand-tooled leather belt that held up his trousers, and took it in his left hand because his right was still too mangled to use. He brought the belt down hard, and she screamed as the leather grazed her flesh, bringing up a line of ugly weals. He felt the excitement surge through him.

  ‘Don’t scream. Enjoy it. Ask for it. If you behave yourself, you’ll get another fix.’

  Captain Tennant looked at the fax that had just come from Milan. Ricardo Sartori had been in a lot of trouble, it seemed. He’d been investigated for tax avoidance, and his expenditure was enormous. He owned a huge villa on Skiathos as well as an executive jet.

  But the outstanding tax, and the fine, had been paid a month ago ... A warning bell ran in Tennant’s head. Sartori’s contract had been cancelled after his suspension at the Rio Grand Prix, yet it appeared that his finances had improved dramatically.

  He was now registered as a director and owner of Sartori PR, and this company had taken over responsibility for Zen, the world-famous design group owned and founded by Suzie von Falkenhyn. Von Falkenyn had disappeared. Interesting . . . It was especially interesting that Sartori reported to Jack Phelps.

  Tennant picked up the phone and rang a contact in the US Internal Revenue. He wanted to know where Sartori PR got paid from and how much. It would take time to find out, was the reply. He sighed wearily, staring out of the window at the steadily falling rain, then began to page through his notes on Calibre-Shensu. To run such a team required an enormous amount of money. Jack Phelps and Aito Shensu were the main sponsors. But since Sartori had been suspended, there seemed no reason why they should be paying him a particularly large salary. So maybe Sartori was moving drugs.

  It wasn’t the small-time criminals John Tennant wanted, but the big operators. In 1992 the emergence of a united Europe would make the trafficking of cocaine much easier - there would be a relaxation of border and monetary controls. It would be hell to follow leads after that. He needed to catch a big fish now, in 1991, and signal to the major traffickers that Europe wasn’t going to be the tea-party they’d been dreaming about.

  The door to the small side-office the Belgian police had assigned him, opened.

  ‘Monsieur de Villiers to see you, sir.’ The junior officer was nervous because John Tennant had a reputation for being hard-arsed and ruthless.

  ‘Send him in. We are not to be disturbed.’

  He turned back to his work but was startled when the door to his office was slammed hard. ‘Why the hell have you pulled me in here?’ a voice growled.

  ‘Sit down, Mr de Villiers. Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘No, I’d rather get on with my job. I’d like to get the hell out of here as quickly as possible.’

  Tennant was furious.

  ‘Let me get one thing straight with you right now, Mr de Villiers. You may think the world begins and ends with Formula One, but I’ve got news for you - it doesn’t. What I do for a living is
also incredibly dangerous, but unfortunately, unlike your chosen profession, it doesn’t pay very well.’

  Tennant narrowed his eyes.

  ‘If I’ve a mind to, I can make your life hell.’

  Bruce de Villiers rested his hands on the table.

  ‘You are making my life hell. I’ve got a tight deadline, and with every minute I’m away from my team I stand a chance of missing it.’

  ‘All right, I apologise. I know your work is demanding, Mr de Villiers. I have only a few questions to ask.’ Tennant leaned forward.

  ‘Vanessa Tyson, how do you feel about her?’

  ‘I hate the bitch’s guts.’

  ‘She threatened the survival of your operation?’

  ‘Yes. She chose us, out of all the teams on the circuit, as the focus for her attack. Jack Phelps is our major sponsor. He represents substantial business interests in America. He handles the sponsorship for Shensu Industries of Japan, as well as Carvalho tyres and Moulton who supply our oils and fuel. You understand what her attack on the tobacco companies and our safety standards does to our sponsors?’

  John Tennant looked candidly at de Villiers.

  ‘So you were scared you’d lose your sponsors? After the suspension of Sartori, you must have been on edge ... So you arranged to have a quantity of heroin secreted in Miss Tyson’s luggage.’

  De Villiers snarled.

  ‘You bastard!’

  Tennant smiled and put his feet up on the desk.

  ‘De Villiers, you arsehole, you’re the number one suspect.’

  De Villiers was breathing heavily.

  ‘Listen, fucker, everything I own is in that team, my soul is there. But if you think I’d stoop to doing that, you’re a pathetic judge of character.’

  Tennant massaged the area around his neck and decided he wouldn’t enjoy working for de Villiers.

  ‘Do you know what the value of the heroin we found in Miss Tyson’s luggage was?’ he asked.

  ‘Another trick question?’

  ‘No. Take a guess.’

  ‘Thirty, forty thousand pounds?’

  ‘Try ten million.’

  De Villiers whistled through his teeth, and Tennant smiled.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t suspect you, Mr de Villiers.’

  ‘So why are you wasting my time?’

  Tennant scratched his nose.

  ‘You’ve got more equipment arriving today?’

  Bruce nodded.

  ‘Then perhaps I should authorise customs to organise a detailed search - that should take about five days.’

  Bruce froze.

  ‘You bastard!’

  ‘Look, I need your co-operation. You’ve been intimately involved in Formula One for over ten years, you have plenty of friends and contacts. If you hear one word about drugs, I want to know.’

  ‘I haven’t had a good year so far, Mr Tennant. I don’t need more problems.’

  ‘Relax. You co-operate with me, and you won’t have to worry . . . Unless I find someone in your team is smuggling drugs.’

  When de Villiers had left, John Tennant packed his briefcase. He was quite sure that de Villiers would mention their meeting to the other members of the team, which was precisely what he wanted to happen. He knew the South African would tell his people, in no uncertain terms, that if they were found using or carrying drugs, they’d be kicked out of Calibre-Shensu.

  With Sartori he sensed he was close to the big lead he’d been looking for for the last five years. But now he would have to be quiet, watch and wait patiently.

  If he got close to the big men it would be another matter. They were ruthless. If they knew he was onto them, he would be a dead man.

  Suzie staggered to her feet. She could hardly focus on anything. She hadn’t much idea what was happening to her, but she hadn’t been this lucid for some time. Perhaps she had not injected herself properly.

  She was desperate. She had to get help, that was all she knew. She wanted another fix. She made her way painfully through the darkness.

  She hadn’t forgotten where she’d seen the phone before he’d switched off the light. She wanted to cry out, the pain from where he’d hit her was so bad.

  She found the push-buttons and tapped in the number. It rang ten times and then an answering-machine came on. She wanted to cry. These was a noise behind her - and then she heard the tone.

  ‘Wyatt, it’s Suzie . . . I’m a prisoner on a mountain, somewhere in the jungle. It’s very hot. For God’s sake, help me ... I need a fix now!’

  The blow sent her flying across the room.

  ‘You bitch!’

  Jules was naked, staring at her, panting hard. In his hand was the leather belt.

  ‘You animal!’ she screamed.

  She picked up the first object that came to hand, a crystal decanter, and hurled it at him. It struck him in the groin, and with a strangled sob he staggered forward, his hands gripping his genitals in agony.

  Suzie grabbed a glass ashtray and staggered towards him, aiming it at his head. He avoided it, and hit her hard across the face with the back of his damaged right hand. Then he was on her, hitting her again and again until she finally blacked out.

  Jules felt the tears running from his eyes. If she had damaged his testicles he would kill her. He dragged himself over to the intercom and called the doctor.

  He would make her pay for this.

  Dr Estevez burst into the room. He stared across at Suzie von Falkenyn, naked and slumped on the ground.

  ‘Bastard,’ Dr Estevez murmured, appalled by Jules’s brutality.

  Jules turned towards Dr Estevez, tempted to strike him as well, but knowing that he needed the doctor’s help.

  ‘She hurt me here,’ he said.

  The doctor carefully examined Jules’s blood-soaked groin.

  ‘There’s no damage apart from a cut on your thigh. You’re very lucky. Now, I must examine the lady . . .’

  ‘No. She doesn’t matter. If Mr Vargas or Mr Talbot ask what happened to her, you will say she fell.’

  Dr Estevez nodded and then left quickly, anxious to avoid any further displays of brutality.

  Suzie started groaning. Jules pulled the hypodermic out the drawer and drew up twice the maximum dose, then he grabbed her arm and injected her.

  He walked down the passage laughing, confident in the knowledge that Suzie was heading towards oblivion.

  Wyatt knew that the Belgian Spa-Francorchamps circuit bore little resemblance to the original fourteen-kilometre track that had made its name a legend in the annals of motor-racing history. In 1950, the year of the first Formula One world championship, it had been the scene of an outstanding race. Juan Manuel Fangio had taken first place in an Alfa Romeo; an Italian driver, Guiseppe Farina, fourth place. At the end of that year Farina was World Champion, but Fangio went on to win more world championships than any other driver in the history of Formula One racing.

  After a series of accidents the circuit was considered unsafe for Grand Prix racing, and was closed in 1971. It was opened again, completely rebuilt, in 1983 - a wide, sweeping, unforgiving circuit that demanded courage, concentration and a good car.

  The Virage de la Source, the bend closest to the pits, was one of the only parts of the old circuit that had been integrated into the new. The record for the fastest lap was held by Roger de Rosner in the McCabe at 132.5 mph, breaking the previous record for the circuit.

  Set in the wooded hills of the Ardennes, the new circuit’s most fearsome corner was the Eau Rouge, where the cars sped down the old pit-lane straight, turned left-right, and at the same time faced a steep surge up the hill into a slight lefthander. The circuit was a favourite amongst the drivers in the championship because it provided them with exciting and competitive driving conditions.

  With an umbrella held over the cockpit and the rain pouring down, Wyatt reflected on another side of the Belgian circuit’s character that was not particularly popular - the weather. It was the beginning of the
first practice, and wet-weather tyres were definitely the order of the day. Wyatt was disappointed because these tyres wouldn’t give him much of an opportunity to explore the full potential of the Shadow.

  Friday afternoon, he reflected, was when most people went home early from work. For him it was the hardest day of the week - first practice was always the toughest.

  Suzie. Where the hell are you?

  He kept on thinking about her, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. He just hoped that Carlos had come up with something. The practice had been scheduled for Friday morning, but the Formula One officials had been unhappy about the medical facilities at the circuit and had asked the organisers to bring in more people. Monaco was fresh in everyone’s mind and the season did not need another disaster.

  Wyatt closed his mind to all these thoughts as the Shadow Two exploded into life. The Shensu engine always thrilled him with the deep, melodic sound of its smoothly running cylinders. He moved out onto the circuit and did a slow initial lap, to get a better feel for the new car.

  De Rosner was driving expertly. He’d turned in a lap time in the wet that came close to his existing lap record. Wyatt knew he would have his work cut out just to keep up with the Doctor.

  The spray was really bad, and Wyatt did not feel at all happy with the way the Shadow was handling. She just didn’t feel like the same car; the suspension set-up was radically different. His best time by the end of the afternoon session was only good enough to earn him fifth place on the grid.

  Bruce seemed unperturbed by Wyatt’s relatively poor showing.

  ‘Relax, Wyatt. You’ve got too much on your mind. You’ve got to forget about it and get into the spirit of the race.’

  Wyatt got out of the car, still in the pouring rain.

  ‘I wish we had more time to set up the Shadow. I don’t have the confidence yet, especially in the wet, to really push it.’

  Mickey came forwards, anxious to find out Wyatt’s problems.

  ‘Wyatt, me boy, you’ve got to realise that this is basically the same design. If anything, it’s better. It’ll be a fock sight faster round the corners.’