Eye of the Cobra

by Christopher Sherlock

  Bruce put his arm across Wyatt’s shoulder.

  ‘Charlie’s a second faster than you.’

  Wyatt felt his blood tingling. The pressure never let up. He had heard a lot about the Japanese driver - now he knew most of it was accurate.

  Wyatt unzipped his jumpsuit, enjoying the coolness of the falling rain.

  ‘Have you spoken to that cop yet?’ Bruce said.

  ‘What cop?’

  ‘John Tennant. Here’s his number. He wants to talk to you about Vanessa Tyson.’

  ‘That’s all I need in my life.’

  John Tennant wasn’t what Wyatt had been expecting. He was younger, about Wyatt’s own age, and smartly dressed in a dark-blue suit. Tennant looked as if he meant business.

  ‘Count me as one of your admirers,’ he said warmly, stretching out his hand. Then he laid his cards on the table.

  By the time he had finished, Wyatt was on edge. He sensed that there was something going on over which he had no control, something very sinister.

  John Tennant stared at him long and hard.

  ‘What’s on your mind?’ he said.

  Wyatt told him about Suzie’s disappearance and the incidents in Rio, about the attack on Vanessa. Tennant made detailed notes, not interrupting him. Wyatt didn’t tell him about Carlos’s involvement.

  Tennant looked up.

  ‘I want you,’ he said, ‘to be my inside man at Calibre-Shensu.’

  Wyatt felt his spirits sink. Why was Tennant so interested in the team? He wished he’d never set eyes on Vanessa Tyson. Besides, he needed every ounce of energy to hold onto his lead.

  ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘What you’re saying could spell big trouble for us. If our sponsor heard about this investigation, he could pull out. That’d be Bruce and me finished for the year.’

  ‘I’ll do everything in my power to make sure that doesn’t happen. I know you want to find Suzie von Falkenhyn.’

  Tennant leaned foward on his elbows, his eyes wide.

  ‘This is a giant jigsaw puzzle and I’m trying to put the pieces together. Drugs are coming in in enormous quantities to each country that’s hosting a Formula One Grand Prix.’

  ‘It could be coincidence.’

  ‘I doubt it. We’ve had the same problems with rock groups in the past. The people doing it always change - the people behind them never do.’

  He paused, and pulled a cigarette with his lips from a crumpled pack.

  Wyatt felt a strange empathy with the policeman.

  ‘I’m not against you,’ he said.

  Tennant picked up a file and tossed it over to Wyatt.

  ‘Take a look through that.’

  Wyatt went through the news-cuttings, every one of them about Suzie.

  ‘It doesn’t make any sense, does it?’ Tennant said. ‘It’s positively bizarre. You’ve put up more reward money than most people ask for a ransom, and yet you’ve heard nothing.’

  Wyatt closed his eyes as Tennant continued, ‘You know what buys the silence? Big money. And my guess is it’s drug money. The Ortega Cartel is at the centre of the drug business. Earlier this year, Emerson Ortega was assassinated by a CIA operative, and in the United States a lot of cocaine was recovered. We cut off the supply routes through Panama and the Bahamas, and we also cut off the chemical supplies that the producers need to refine the drugs. But it’s economics that’s actually nailed the producers. The street price is dropping, because the US is heading for a recession.’

  A habitual chain-smoker, Tennant pulled out his packet of cigarettes again, offered one to Wyatt who refused, and then lit up himself. He smiled.

  ‘I’ve seen ads of you smoking - yet you don’t smoke?’

  ‘You sound like Vanessa Tyson . . . That’s what sponsorships are all about.’

  Tennant coughed, and then continued.

  ‘It’s those two factors: the difficulty of supplying the US market and the lower street price there, that’s resulted in the Ortega Cartel developing new markets. Like Europe . . . Japan . . . and even the Eastern Bloc.’

  Wyatt sat back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.

  ‘That makes sense. But are there really that many people who can afford cocaine?’

  ‘The demand is certainly there. The street price is fifty-five thousand dollars a kilo here, compared with eighteen to twenty-five thousand in the States. You see, there’s more money in Europe at the moment.’

  ‘How much does that translate into for the man in the street?’

  ‘About one hundred and forty dollars a gram - and that could have been cut. You know what I mean by that?’

  Wyatt shook his head.

  ‘Dealers cut other chemicals into the coke, diluting its quality but upping their supply. So you see, the profit could be even higher.’

  Wyatt stared around the bare-walled office, then back at Tennant. He read the hard face beneath the dark hair, saw the faint bags under the eyes. Tennant’s casual attitude was an act, beneath the surface he was deeply agitated. But Wyatt couldn’t concern himself with Tennant’s problems.

  ‘I’ve got one life,’ he said candidly. ‘I’ve got one chance at the championship. I came into racing late, I haven’t got time to help you.

  ‘Yeah,’ Tennant said, waving an arm. ‘Who gives a fuck? Forget all the destroyed lives, sweep the dirt under the carpet and hope it’ll go away. Is that what you learned in Japan? Is that your code of honour?’

  Wyatt gripped the glass of water that was on the desk in front of him. His hands closed around it and it shattered, glass shards flying round the office.

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Tennant said, ‘maybe I shouldn’t have said that. I did a little research on your background.’

  Wyatt stared at him coldly. ‘I’ve got enough guilt in me to last a lifetime.’

  Tennant coughed. ‘So you’re not going to help me?’

  He scribbled a number on the back of an empty cigarette pack and then tossed it over to Wyatt.

  ‘If you hear anything, ring me at this number. If you want help, for any reason, get in touch with me.’

  The door slammed shut and Wyatt was gone. Tennant picked up a glass from the bookcase. He squeezed it. Nothing happened.

  ‘My God,’ he muttered.

  He paced around the office, tossed his finished cigarette into the green waste-bin in the corner, and lit another. Then he looked again at the telefax from New York. Sartori was paid out of a company in Switzerland. Apparently it wasn’t possible to discover who owned the company - but Tennant didn’t have to guess why Sartori was earning close to half a million dollars a month.

  ‘Mr Sartori, you’re out of your depth,’ he said, voicing his thoughts.

  He picked up the phone and dialled a number in Italy.

  Set a thief to catch a thief. Sartori was about to feel the heat.

  The evening air was hot and muggy outside the villa. And it wasn’t improved by the exhaust fumes from the chauffeur-driven cars that kept arriving. Each time a car pulled up, the door of the villa opened slightly and a large man in evening-dress looked out to ascertain the identity of the car’s occupant.

  The lush, opulent interior of the villa was in dramatic contrast to its bland exterior. At the end of the long hall was a dining-room, painted rose, with long rose curtains on all the walls. Around the antique dining-table sat six men - all of them over fifty years of age.

  The ruling families of the Mafia had little reason to like each other, but this evening they were drawn together by a common threat. Romano Ciolli, Il Capo, a thin man with heavy black-framed glasses and a deathly pallor, stood up at the head of the table.

  ‘Brothers. This has gone on long enough. We have to band together. Someone is moving in on our territory.’

  All the faces remained impassive.

  ‘I have received a tip-off that two large deliveries have already been made, one in Monaco and another in Belgium. The next will be here.’
r />   An enormous man with grey hair that stood out from his scalp like porcupine quills, grunted.

  ‘Porca miseria! The bastards must be taught who is in control!’

  The other heads nodded slowly in agreement.

  ‘You agree, then. They must be stopped.’ Il Capo treated them to a tight-lipped smile

  One of the men coughed, the others looked around. It was not done to speak so openly of such things.

  ‘An informer has given us the name of one of their number. I have arranged for his death. Finito. Expensive, but then success is guaranteed.’

  ‘Who is it, signor?’ A big, fat man spoke softly. The speaker turned to him.

  ‘Madonna, Leonardo! That is my secret - as it is also my risk.’

  This comment obviously found favour with the others.

  ‘Then it is agreed. Finire, for a million dollars.’

  The men nodded grudgingly. Then II Capo was gone and they all filed into the hall. Fifteen minutes later they had all disappeared, and the house was silent. It was as if the meeting had never taken place.

  Romano Ciolli walked back into the room. He pulled back one of the rose curtains to reveal a very petite, red-haired woman.

  ‘You are happy?’

  ‘Yes, signor,' she replied, in the impeccable English spoken only by the very aristocratic or the very rich. ‘I feel comfortable with the agreement. My identity is protected, and the fee is adequate.’

  II Capo breathed in but held his temper. Adequate! It was the most he had ever paid out for an assassination. But then this was no ordinary assassin.

  Ricardo stood in the constructors’ box and stared out at the spectators in the pouring rain. Then he looked across to the brightly coloured cars on the grid. His eyes reflected his total desolation, desperation. He wanted to be down there. He longed to spend the next two hours living on the edge. He wanted the feeling of winning again - and he wanted to be away from the fear that gripped him. He wanted to return to the arena, to the challenge of the Grand Prix. A challenge he knew how to handle.

  The cars had been round once for the warm-up circuit, and now they lay poised to advance, the black livery of the Calibre-Shensu Shadow in the number four place on the grid. This time Wyatt was going to have to fight for his lead, Ricardo thought to himself. Charlie Ibuka was further back, in tenth place. Judging by his performance in the practices, Ricardo could tell Ibuka was going to make a name for himself very quickly.

  He looked up and across to Estelle Chase, and his pulse quickened as it always did when he saw a beauty. Her husband, the Argentinian, was not with her. Why, he wondered? Perhaps their relationship was strained?

  He turned back to the grid where the cars crouched like predators, their engines growling. He did not see the starting-light change to green, but he heard the engines screaming with excitement and saw the cars launching forwards, down the short straight that led to the formidable bend of the Eau Rouge.

  Oh, to be with them, fighting it out for the lead!

  Wyatt shot past Maupassant and Zito as he flew off the grid, ending up right behind de Rosner in the McCabe as they took the same line round the bend.

  Ricardo watched Estelle’s face. Her mouth had tightened - there was a paleness around her lips. She knew the danger. Wyatt had given them a brilliant display of tactical driving, dispelling any doubts that the Shadow Two was not as quick as its predecessor.

  Conversation broke out amongst the various constructors. No doubt, Ricardo thought, many of them would be disappointed to see that the Shadow Two was as competitive as the Shadow One.

  The BBC commentator’s voice burst in on this thoughts.

  ‘And here we are, in possibly the wettest Grand Prix of the year, watching some brilliant driving from Wyatt Chase. I think we’re soon about to see a very drawn-out fight between de Rosner and Chase for first place. De Rosner’s McCabe is as competitive as ever. What a shame that Sartori blotted his copybook in Rio: who could predict how this race would be going even now, if the great Italian was also on the grid? Still, we are witnessing a level of competitiveness that we haven’t seen on the circuit for a long time.’

  Ricardo switched his concentration away from the BBC commentary and looked down at the pits. The Shensu team were clearly identifiable by their dark jumpsuits.

  ‘Hi, Ricardo.’

  The big voice boomed through the box. Jack Phelps’s presence was unmistakable.

  ‘A great race for the team.’

  Ricardo looked at Jack’s superbly cut suit, the swept-back hair revealing the dramatic forehead. He was the image of the ultra-successful, wheeler-dealer American millionaire. Between his fingers he held a large Havana cigar which he sucked at viciously every few seconds.

  ‘Everything OK?’ he whispered in Ricardo’s ear, the smell of cigar smoke filling the Italian’s nostrils.

  ‘It’s OK.’ Why was he so nervous, all of a sudden?

  ‘It’d better be,’ Phelps responded, and then pulled away to utter more loudly: ‘You’re lucky I gave you a job so you can continue living like a king - or should I say, count.’

  A few people looked around. Jack had made his point. Without him, Ricardo would be nothing.

  ‘Get me a whisky,’ Phelps said suddenly.

  Ricardo didn’t budge. He’d had enough.

  ‘Get it,’ Phelps whispered softly, ‘or perhaps I shall tell the papers a little about your background.’

  Ricardo went and got the drink. He knew how Phelps liked it, a triple tot of Scotch with lots of ice.

  He came back to see that the cars were on the third lap, de Rosner still leading, Wyatt right behind him. They had both broken de Rosner’s previous lap record. Ricardo handed Phelps his whisky, and saw that he had been joined by a female companion. He moved away, anxious to be on his own.

  ‘Not so fast, boy. Amanda would like a drink.’

  ‘A Perrier water.’ The Vogue cover model on Jack’s arm smiled without warmth.

  Ricardo turned back to the bar. He could sense the eyes watching him, but he was trapped. Phelps could destroy him. Why had he allowed himself to be used like this? He would rather be poor than humiliated in this way. But then he comforted himself with the thought that Talbot was waiting in the wings to destroy Phelps.

  Life had been simple when he’d been in the fast lane.

  In the pits, Mickey Dunstal stared at the computer screen alongside Professor Katana. He was worried. Wyatt’s Shadow Two was overheating. If it had been a hot day, the Shensu engine in the Shadow Two would already have blown up.

  He voiced his concern to Katana. He knew now that they could reprogramme the engine by remote control, as they had done in Rio - he was just scared FISA might find out about it and disqualify them yet again.

  ‘No problem,’ Katana replied, and tapped in a series of commands.

  ‘What’s up?’ Bruce asked. He looked over Katana’s shoulder, and saw from the read-outs that the engine was overheating. ‘Bugger it. Don’t blame yourself, Mickey, that was a record rebuild.’

  Katana continued typing in instructions.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Bruce asked, somewhat nervously, looking around to make sure no one was watching Katana.

  ‘He’s done it!’ Mickey exclaimed, looking down at the changing readings on the computer screen.

  ‘We reprogramme chip electronically. Very secret. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, only too well,’ Bruce muttered. ‘For God’s sake, don’t let anyone else know about this.’

  Bruce didn’t need another FISA disqualification. He felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck as the Japanese engineer continued to reprogramme the chip on the Shadow Two’s engine. Within minutes the engine temperature had dropped a couple of degrees and was back within the safe margin.

  Katana turned to them.

  ‘This is the result of ten years’ work; it is the beginning of a revolution in car service. The next generation of Shensu cars will all benefit from this technology. It will be
possible for a mechanic anywhere in the country to analyse a car’s performance - and make corrections.’

  Bruce was certain FISA wouldn’t approve of Professor Katana’s remote-control engine management system - Formula One was littered with the debris of great inventions that were not acceptable to its ruling body.

  ‘Previously, the performance of the chip was built in at the factory. Now, at Shensu, we can adjust the performance when the chip is in the car. Thus, you buy a car in North America which we can adapt to comply with emission and performance regulations anywhere in the world.’

  Katana stared down at the screen again. He punched a couple of keys.

  ‘Here is a profile of Chase’s driving style. We can assess the way in which he uses the engine, thus we make it stronger in certain places.’

  ‘I don’t bloody believe this!’

  ‘The new engine fitted to the Shadow Two reflects this technology. I must also add that Chase’s driving style is very hard on the engine. But, no problem, we have made it stronger.’

  Bruce gripped the side of the desk. Charlie Ibuka was now in fifth place; he had two drivers in the points. They weren’t just back in the running. They were winning.

  By lap thirty-three Wyatt had had enough of de Rosner’s dominance of the race. The rain had started pouring down and they’d both been in for a change of tyres; now the spray from the French driver’s tyres made it nearly impossible for Wyatt to see a passing-gap. He knew that he could go faster in the Shadow Two, but he had to get past de Rosner to prove it.

  He shot past the pits and braked late into the Eau Rouge. He let his foot off the brake earlier than he had done before, then accelerated, shutting out from his mind what would happen if he lost control. Now he came inside the curve of de Rosner’s line.

  Shit! He was going too fast!

  The Shadow lost its grip and spun off the track onto the gravel.

  He tried to get back on the track but it was useless, the wheels were stuck in the gravel.

  He smashed his fists up and down on the sides of the cockpit.

  It was all his fault.