‘Easier said than done without hard evidence. It’s the biggest Grand Prix of the year, with the biggest television audience.’
‘So what do we do?’
Billy turns to the Frenchman. ‘We come up with a bloody plan.’
~ * ~
25
The dark hotel room is lit by a single desk lamp.
Franka looks across at Juan who lies on the bed, eyes shut, a cold compress across his forehead. The hotel’s doctor has just given him some painkillers and told him to take it easy for a few days, though she knows there’s no way that will happen.
Franka turns and checks her iPhone’s screen for what feels like the thousandth time. She has received no reply from Billy and wants to scream. She wants to go and look for him but if she was to head out to the forest now it would raise considerable suspicion with the three men in front of her, suspicion that could very well lead to her lying dead in that forest. No, she must pray he’s okay, wait for an opportunity to slip away, then get back out there and find him.
She takes a breath to settle her emotions, then speaks to the others: ‘We need to call it off.’
From his lounge chair Vandelay, the injured Iron Rhino driver, looks at her like she’s a crazy person. ‘And why is that?’
‘Because they’re onto us. Because they were following us. We only managed to escape because Kurt turned up.’
‘Who are “they”?’
‘He identified himself as Interpol. I couldn’t tell you who he was.’ She doesn’t, and won’t, give Billy up.
‘And where did they go?’
Kurt sits at the desk. ‘When I arrived they ran into the forest. I fired after them but it was pitch-black so I don’t know if I hit anything. We only left because we needed to get Juan back here —’
‘I saw one of them.’
They turn to Juan on the bed, his eyes now open.
Franka studies him. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. And I know who it is.’ Juan pulls himself up slightly, his head clearly aching. ‘It was the Australian. The Iron Rhino reserve driver. Hotchkiss.’
‘What?’ Kurt doesn’t believe it. ‘I know him. He’s no cop.’
Franka plays it sceptical too. ‘It didn’t look like him to me.’
Juan nods gingerly. ‘It’s him, and what’s the bet his partner’s the one who tasered me. And I also bet that partner is the guy I ran off the road this afternoon.’
Franka speaks: ‘That’s all very interesting but it doesn’t change the fact they’re onto us. I think we cut our loses and cancel the operation, not that I thought we should do it in the first place —’
‘Yes, yes, we’re well aware of your moral objections.’ Juan rubs his head lightly.
‘What you’re planning to do is just wrong.’
‘Nobody believes that except you. How many times do we need to go over this? We have been systematically marginalised, rejected and silenced. We have no other option but to take matters into our own hands.’
Kurt and Vandelay are emboldened by the Spaniard’s words but not Franka. ‘I don’t agree. I do not. There is no victory in hurting innocent people.’
‘That is the only victory. We must bring this place to its knees and the only way to do that is to cut out its heart.’
She studies him, taken aback by his vehemence. ‘You think doing that will somehow make you feel better? Make your life better? It won’t. You’ll be just as bitter and twisted as you’ve always been, except thousands of innocent people will have suffered unnecessarily.’
‘Don’t you worry about how I’ll feel. That’s no concern of yours.’ He turns to the others. ‘We vote now. Those in favour of continuing with our current course of action, raise your hand.’
They all raise their hands—except Franka.
‘The motion passes three to one with one absentee. And all those in favour of eliminating the Australian, if he’s not already dead, raise your hand.’
They all raise their hands—except Franka, though Kurt is a bit slow.
‘So that settles it.’
Franka glances at her phone again. There are no messages from the Australian. So not only may Billy be dead but if he is alive his life is now in grave danger.
~ * ~
Troubled, Kurt moves to Juan, sits on the edge of his bed beside him. ‘Are you sure it was Billy?’
‘Of course.’
Kurt finds it very hard to accept. ‘It’s just—unbelievable. I mean I can’t...’
‘That’s not what you should be worrying about now.’ Juan stares at the Austrian for a long moment then turns and looks across at Franka, his voice low: ‘You need to keep an eye on her. I don’t want her screwing anything up tomorrow.’
‘She wouldn’t do that.’
‘Don’t be so sure. Do not let her out of your sight, okay?’
Kurt nods. ‘Of course. I have it covered.’
‘Good.’ Juan slides off the bed, finds his feet and addresses the crew: ‘Okay, we have a great deal of work to do so let’s get to it.’
~ * ~
26
Claude’s injured knee means the trip back to Monaco is a slow and arduous process. It’s a constant source of pain, not only for the Frenchman but also for Billy, because the Gaul is not the world’s greatest patient. He’s prone to sweeping statements of catastrophe regarding the injury, everything from: ‘It feels like I broke my funny bone’ to ‘I’ll never dance again.’ In spite of that he does soldier on with a pronounced limp.
Unfortunately no one stops to pick them up. Only two trucks pass by during their three-hour walk and both assiduously ignore the odd pair of hitchhikers. Billy repeatedly tries to order a taxi on Claude’s phone. It takes an hour, almost drains the battery and nobody answers.
As they draw closer to Monaco the density of houses along the road increases. Billy knocks on three separate doors, hoping to rent or borrow a car for the remainder of the trip. It’s pushing four in the a.m. so, unsurprisingly, there’s no response from the first two and then a muffled threat of gunfire from the third. After this they resign themselves to the fact they will have to walk the whole way back.
As the sun rises and illuminates the twinkling Mediterranean to their left, Billy notices a small billboard for Crown insurance on the side of a closed corner store. At the bottom of the billboard is the Monaco coat of arms, same as the tattoo he saw on Kurt and Juan’s arms. ‘Wait a sec.’ Billy stops walking and studies the advertisement.
Claude pulls up with a wince and looks over at him. ‘Once I’m rolling it’s hard to brake.’
‘Why do I know Crown insurance?’ Before the Frenchman can answer Billy remembers. ‘All the companies that were robbed by the Three Champions were insured by Crown.’
‘Oui. I don’t know about that wholesale jeweller in Malaysia, but Tiffany’s certainly.’
‘Seems like a bit of a coincidence, doesn’t it?’ Billy points at the coat of arms. ‘So does this mean the company is owned by the royal family?’
Claude nods. ‘They control pretty much everything of value here, including the casinos and the hotels.’
‘So why are the Three Champions targeting a Monaco-based insurance company owned by the royal family?’
The Frenchman thinks about it. ‘And why do they want to disrupt the Grand Prix, the biggest day of the year for the principality?’
‘To harm the royal family somehow?’
‘Okay. But why?’
Billy brightens. ‘Because—they don’t like them?’ He thinks about what he just said and grimaces. ‘Well that’s pretty vague, isn’t it?’
‘But maybe it’s as simple as that. Maybe they just don’t like them.’
Billy stares at the billboard for a moment longer. ‘But why?’ He then turns and walks on, deep in thought. Claude follows.
~ * ~
The sun is high and Monaco is alive with activity.
Exhausted, B
illy and Claude enter the paddock area. What takes the Australian by surprise is the number of people crammed around the track. He was expecting a big crowd, had seen it on television many times over the years, but there’s not a spare inch anywhere, and not just at ground level. Every balcony of every building is filled with spectators excited to watch the iconic race. There must be over one hundred thousand here, easy. Billy takes in the faces, sees children the same age he was when he first watched F1. It brings home just how many people will be at risk if there is an attack today.
Claude hobbles to keep up with the Aussie as they cut through to the pit road. ‘Well, we’re running, I just don’t know where we’re running too.’
‘We going to talk to Charlie Whiting. He’s the race director and controls the start of every Grand Prix. We just need to convince him of the threat.’
‘But we don’t have any proof. He’s not going to stop the biggest race of the year without evidence.’
Billy takes it in, knows the Frenchman’s right, then glances at a scaffolding tower that looms above them. On top is a television camera and its operator. ‘Maybe we don’t need proof.’
Claude follows. ‘What are you talking about?’
Billy increases his pace. ‘I have a plan.’
~ * ~
‘Team A, are you in position?’
A voice squawks through the walkie-talkie speaker. Vandelay immediately turns down the volume and answers: ‘We’re in position and standing by.’
‘Roger that.’
Vandelay nods at Juan, who sits beside him in the cabin, sunglasses on, cap pulled low. ‘Team B, are you in position?’
Kurt answers the walkie-talkie. ‘In position and standing by.’ He called in sick from his safety car duties today and Franka would have done the same if she hadn’t been sidelined by the FIA because of her concussion. She sits beside Kurt in the truck cabin and looks down the narrow street. A hundred metres away is a roadblock at a T-junction manned by two policemen. She pulls out her iPhone, swipes it open.
No messages from Billy.
She was hoping he’d turn up at the track. He hasn’t. On the giant video screen, which she can partially see through the trees to the right, she knows his car is the only one not on the grid. The race is going ahead as scheduled and she’s certain he’s lying dead in that forest. At no point today has she been able to slip away and get back there. In fact she hasn’t been able to shake Kurt at all. It’s clear they no longer trust her—and so they shouldn’t. She has made up her mind that she must do something to stop, or at least minimise, the damage they will cause today.
Could those cops stationed at the roadblock down the hill help me do it?
Franka glances at Kurt beside her. His right hand rests on the nine-millimetre Uzi that lies on the seat between them.
She has a choice: Run or stay.
If she runs towards those police officers to tell them what’s about to happen, Kurt will kill them instantly and the attack will happen anyway. If she stays she can find another way to stop the attack when the odds are better and there’s less chance two innocent people will die.
She stays. For now.
~ * ~
Billy runs and Claude limp-runs along the busy pit road.
‘So that’s it.’
Claude nods. ‘Well, the plan is certainly speciale.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Oh no, you misunderstand.’
The Australian’s confused. ‘You said it was special.’
‘In France speciale does not always mean good.’
‘What’s it mean then?’
‘Bizarre. Absurd.’
‘Nice. Come up with something better then.’
‘How about anything? Anything would be better than that.’
‘It’ll work.’
‘No it won’t, and I can’t be a part of it.’
‘News flash, you already are.’
‘Not anymore.’ Claude stops limp-running.
It takes a moment before Billy realises the Frenchman is no longer following. He stops and turns to him. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Leaving.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I can’t stay.’
Billy stares at the Frenchman, incredulous. ‘Are you kidding? You can’t leave, we’re partners! And I know you know that because you said all that stuff about being partners after you tasered that guy. You even said the words: “What are partners for?”‘
‘That was before you told me the absurd plan.’
‘Again, looking forward to hearing something better.’
‘I don’t have something better and that’s why I have to go. And you should too. She said it was going to be terrible, didn’t she? They were the words she used, right?’
‘Yes, but I need your help so it isn’t terrible.’ Billy gestures at the surrounding crowd. ‘For these people. That’s the job, mate.’
‘But it’s not worth dying for. I’m too old for this merde, and the reason I’m too old is because I don’t hang around when these kinds of things happen. Christ, I’ve almost died three times today, four if you count that panther.’
Billy shakes his head, stunned by the turn of events.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You finally say the word and it isn’t even an apology.’
‘I’m not going to draw this out so—good luck.’ Claude shoots Billy a tight smile then turns and walks away.
Alone in the middle of the crowded pit paddock, the Australian watches him go, astonished. ‘Well this blows.’
~ * ~
A group of men are huddled around the driver-less car that sits in the Iron Rhino garage. Among the mechanics and engineers are Dieter and Thorne.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
Dieter pivots towards the Australian. ‘What the fuck?!’ The old bloke is both furious and relieved, approaches Billy, his voice a hard whisper: ‘Where the hell have you been?’
Billy whispers back: ‘This isn’t my only job, mate.’
‘You missed the driver’s briefing.’
‘Then tell me what they said.’
‘Thorne was there. He can fill you in.’ Dieter glances at his watch, agitated. ‘You have less than ten minutes to suit up and get the car onto the grid.’
‘Settle petal, where’s my gear?’
Dieter points at the change room to the left. ‘Be quick.’
Billy nods, enters the small room. A television is on in the corner and his race suit, boots and helmet are laid out on a table. He places his pistol beside them then strips out of his civvies.
There’s a knock at the door.
‘Yes?’
‘Thorne. You need to know what was discussed in the drivers’ briefing.’
Billy searches for a place to momentarily hide the pistol, finds a drawer in the table, places it inside, then pulls the door open. ‘Come in.’ Thorne enters and shuts the door behind him.
‘I’m in a bit of a rush so give me the cliff notes version.’ Billy grabs his race suit from the table and slides it on.
‘All right. It’s all pretty straight forward really —’
Metal glints and a thin wire loops over the Australian’s head.
Garotte.
‘Oh fuck!’ The weapon is held between Thorne’s fists and is yanked backwards. Billy throws up his right hand, gets it between the wire and his neck. The wire slams into his skin, cuts deep.
‘I can’t—imagine this—was part—of the—briefing . . .’ The Australian’s voice is just a croak as he reaches his left hand towards the drawer with the pistol in it. Thorne pulls hard on the wire and Billy can’t get to it. He tries another tack, swings his arm around, leans, leans some more, snags something with his outstretched fingers then swings it backwards hard and fast —
Thwump. His race helmet slams into the side of Thorne’s head. The wire goes loose and the Brit slumps to the ground behind Billy, uncons
cious.
Sweet Jesus.
Gobsmacked, Billy catches his breath as a thousand thoughts swirl through his mind. Thorne is a member of the Three Champions. Thorne? Really?
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