Eye of the Cobra (11 page)

When he arrived at the
dojo
there was no one to greet him.

A solitary candle burned in the centre of the floor next to some unrolled futons. He showered under one of the cold-water taps outside, then towelled himself dry and lay down to sleep.

Before the morning sun fell in broken lines across the floor of the
dojo,
he was up. He rolled up the futons, changed into a black Japanese smoking-jacket and pants, took his towel and toilet bag and walked outside.

On the street he stood out from the majority of pedestrians because of his size and height. Yet he did not feel a stranger in this place; in a way, it was more like a home than England. He paid for his ticket at the washroom and went inside.

He stripped, then went into the main area, joining the many men who sat facing the wall on tiny wooden stools. He moved over to a stool and sat down in front of one of the taps. He brushed his teeth and spat on the floor, looked into the mirror above the tap and studied his face. Then he opened one of the spigots and filled a bucket with hot water, lathering his face and shaving at a leisurely pace. Pouring the water away, he refilled the bucket with hot water, and then filled another with cold. He mixed the two and lathered himself all over, completely cleaning his body. Then he took the longer of the two hoses attached to the spigot and showered himself down. His ablutions finished, he stepped into the communal bath and soaked himself in the nearly boiling water with everyone else.

He was back at the
dojo
at six thirty. Usually it would have been full of students, but today it was empty. He changed into his
karate-gi
and performed a succession of warm-up exercises. He was charged with a new energy.

The door to the
dojo
slid back and in stepped a lean Japanese in
karate-gi
and wearing a black belt. Wyatt drew himself up and bowed. He recognised the man. Naoko, his former pupil.

‘We fight,’ Naoko said simply, in Japanese.

Wyatt understood perfectly. He had left the
dojo,
and that was a disgrace. Now, to return to it, he must prove himself worthy of the honour. But to fight, they should be under the supervision of the master.

The
Shihan
stepped through the door and Wyatt bowed to him. It was then he understood that Naoko had taken his job, that of personal assistant to the
Shihan.
His return was a challenge to Naoko.

They bowed to each other again, then began the eye-contact and the waiting. The blow came before Wyatt could react, striking him hard in the solar-plexus. The breath burst from him and he staggered forwards to receive a hammering blow across the head that sent him flying across the floor. The anger rose up in him, but he fought it back, knowing that he must master his own emotions before he could outwit his opponent. Gradually he regained his self-control.

He felt blood running from his lip. His mind emptied, concentrating totally on anticipating the movements of his opponent. He had made the mistake of underestimating Naoko; he would not make it again. Naoko could have killed him, but in the controlled movements of
kumite
the intention was merely to prove that the opening had been left, not to cause serious injury.
Kumite
meant sparring, loose fighting in which both opponents held back from delivering the killing blows they were capable of.

Now they both moved with absolute precision, circling each other, striking and warding off the blows. Wyatt felt his confidence building, when a well-placed kick caught him hard between the legs.

He screamed out and toppled over. He wanted to crawl, regain his breath and wipe the tears from his eyes. Instead he rose again, controlling the pain and the anger, moving in on Naoko and timing three expert strikes against Naoko without hurting him. Each strike was carefully aimed to cause maximum injury, but each was held back a fraction in the controlled movements of
kumite.

The
Shihan
called for them to stop. They both bowed, and then Naoko walked out of the room. Wyatt knelt down on the floor, ignoring the pain, and the
Shihan
sat opposite him. He spoke in English.

‘You still train, Wyatt. You are still as expert as when you left here. I thought you would not train. You showed your superiority to Naoko by not striking him. I need you here. You were the finest of my pupils and I invested everything I had in your training. Then you left me. The void has not been filled. There was the other one, but he went on the path of evil.’

Wyatt was filled with guilt. He had had to leave to satisfy his need to race. That need still existed.

‘I did not want to return here,’ he said quietly.

‘You still cannot accept your father’s death?’

‘I ran away. I have not proved myself yet.’

‘You want to win the Formula One championship?’ The words seemed out of place in the simple atmosphere of the
dojo.

Wyatt nodded. ‘I have to win to prove myself.’

‘Then you will return.’

‘Then I will return.’

‘Aito Shensu says that you must meet him in his office.’ Wyatt rose and bowed to the
Shihan.
His body ached, but in his mind he was free from the guilt he had felt on leaving the
dojo.

‘Listen, Wyatt. Can you work with me? I mean, can you take orders and apply them? I’m hard. Fucking hard.’

Bruce de Villiers’ words seemed out of place in the board
room of one of Japan’s largest corporations, but the man opposite de Villiers did not seem perturbed. Wyatt looked across to Aito Shensu. He stared into Aito’s eyes and felt the power of them. The bond was still there - Aito had forgiven him for leaving - but then Aito was drawing him back. Aito was challenging him. Eventually Wyatt looked back at Bruce de Villiers and broke the long silence.

‘I can take anything you give, Bruce.’ Wyatt felt his spirits soaring. ‘Why are you asking me?’

‘You’ve got a drive with Calibre-Shensu.’ Bruce swallowed as he spoke. He hadn’t wanted Chase, but Aito had insisted. In a way, that left no room for negotiation.

Two hours later they signed the deal. Aito was in a reflective mood.

‘I was under pressure from the board to choose a Japanese driver,’ he said. ‘I did a lot of thinking. I told them about you, Wyatt; that you were Japanese in spirit. You understand us and our culture, you understand we are centred here - he gestured to his stomach, ‘ - not here - he gestured to his heart.

Bruce looked puzzled not knowing that to the Japanese the stomach, or
hara,
is the emotional centre, the role Westerners assign to the heart. Bruce leaned forward. ‘I’m not totally happy about this. Contractually, I have to accept your appointment, and so does Jack Phelps. It was Aito’s decision. But I don’t know if you’ve got what it takes, Wyatt. You’ve got a lot to prove. We want to be in the front all the way. The theory goes that it’s twenty-five per cent car, twenty-five per cent team, twenty-five per cent tyres and twenty-five per cent driver. I’m going to give you that seventy-five per cent, so don’t come looking for excuses.’

When Wyatt and Aito had left, Bruce de Villiers walked over to the big window overlooking the busy Rappongi district. He couldn’t explain why, but he felt slightly more confident about Wyatt Chase than he had done before. Perhaps he was seeing things that he’d just never taken the trouble to notice.

He would keep pushing Wyatt, forcing him to cram into a month what it often took some drivers years to learn. And he knew that if he helped Wyatt to win, he’d hold him. As for Ricardo Sartori, that was another matter.

He lay on the beach, contemplating the dark hair covering his flat, bronzed stomach. A ball of sweat ran down his forehead and he turned over lazily.

‘Maria!’

The big girl sauntered out of the beach house, naked, walking a little gingerly over the hot sand. Her body was as dark as his and her figure just as firm.

He stared past her at the glittering waters of the Aegean. This was paradise. The sun warmed and revitalised him. He wished the moment could last forever.

She knelt over him and massaged his back. He felt the last knots of tension disappear as her hands worked carefully down his spine.

Then, just when he thought it had gone, the nightmare vision returned. He was on the track in Detroit, coming into the first corner after the main straight. His foot was pumping the brake pedal, but there was nothing there. He was closing too fast, losing control, crashing into the concrete barrier.

It was all redness and pain. Blackness beckoned, and he resisted it.

‘No! No!’

He couldn’t get it out of his mind.

‘I hurt you?’ Maria asked softly.

He signed and looked out across the blue waters, narrowing his eyes. This villa on Skiathos had been a dream for a long time. He had bought it the previous year, but spent little time here since then. The racing circuit was demanding.

World champion. He had been world champion. But that was in the past. Since then, the fear had crept into his soul slowly, insidiously, but steadily. In a way, he wished he could give up. But he was greedy, as each season brought more money, more sponsorships and more fame. And this season it would net him twenty million dollars. Please God, he had to win for that.

He was addicted to one other passion besides racing - women. He could never have enough of them. Yet he had not found one he truly loved. He needed someone to trust, but there was no one. He had no family. Nothing.

Another girl appeared. Helena worked in the villa as a maid during the day and sometimes entertained him at night. She was a tall, lithe girl who moved beautifully on a windsurfer and was as wild in bed as a storm on the Aegean.

‘Telegram for you, Ricardo.’

He pushed the big girl off him into the sand and got up. He liked women, and he had never had much problem getting them, but he found it difficult to keep them. Perhaps, he reflected, that was why he had never found a wife.

He tore the envelope open and saw that the telegram was in English. He hoped it was not another request to return to London. He had only come to the island yesterday, having signed the contract with Calibre-Shensu. He read it quickly. ‘Second driver is Wyatt Chase. Will explain when you are in England. Calibre-Shensu. Bruce de Villiers.’

He felt himself shaking with laughter. Was de Villiers crazy? Wyatt Chase - inexperienced and hot-headed. He’d only got a drive because his uncle Danny had owned Chase Racing. He’d heard a rumour that there was some proviso in Wyatt’s father’s will that Wyatt had to get a drive if he wanted it. Ricardo had thought Danny was lucky when Wyatt pulled out, and most of the other drivers had doubted that Wyatt would ever compete in Formula One again. What the hell was de Villiers doing, giving Chase a drive?

He ran into the sea and started to do a fast crawl, pushing his body to the limit: he had to be fit for the next season. He knew that he had enough stamina to keep racing competitively for the next five years at the very least. The pain of the hard swim blotted out the last traces of the nightmare of the accident, and he thought again about Chase. De Villiers must be crazy to choose an inexperienced driver as his second.

He skirted some rocks and then pulled himself out of the water onto an isolated pier. He lay back on the wooden planking and looked up at the brilliant blue sky.

He knew very little about Wyatt Chase - the man was very much a loner - but he surmised that Chase must be soft. After all, he came from a wealthy family, so he hadn’t had to fight to get where he was; he had ridden on his father’s reputation and his uncle’s money. Well, he would be in for a shock, working for Bruce de Villiers, Ricardo mused.

Ricardo was a fighter, and he intended to drive the best of the Calibre-Shensu machines in every race. He would receive the most attention - he would make quiet sure of that. Chase would certainly be the number two driver.

He would see a hypnotist in London to try and get rid of the dream; he had to purge it from his mind before it started to affect his driving. Getting to know the new engine and the new chassis would be a challenging exercise.

A shadow crossed his body and he looked up quickly, like a cat whose peace has been disturbed.

‘Hallo?’

The voice was feminine, the body was light-skinned and succulent, with long, finely-muscled legs. The face was Nordic.

He rose lazily, keeping his eyes fixed on hers as he intro
duced himself. ‘I swam over here from my villa. Ricardo Sartori.’

‘You are the motor-racing champion?’

‘The same. You haven’t told me your name.’

‘Mrs Olafson.’

‘Mrs Olafson? What does Mr Olafson call you?’

‘Helga.’

‘How about a siesta over at my villa, Helga?’

‘Ah. You are not just the world champion of racing. I’ve heard about you. Yes, a siesta would be very nice.’