Eye of the Cobra (23 page)

His first attacker moved in, lightning-fast. He pivoted, blocked and then punched, aware of the second attacker approaching. The blow came before he could react, striking the burns on his back and he screamed out with pain as he retaliated, knocking the third man flying off his feet.

The three men surrounded him, trying to find another opening but not succeeding. Then the whistle went, and they bowed to each other.

Wyatt walked across the floor to the
sensei.

‘I thank you. It has been a pleasure to train with you.’

The
sensei
bowed. ‘Your style is not ours, but I heard much about you in Tokyo. From what I have seen today, what I heard is true. You must come here every day till you leave Johannesburg. It is an honour to train with you.’

Wyatt bowed, then walked across the floor of the
dojo.

Suzie
was waiting outside, her blue eyes locked on his. He took her hands and kissed her softly.

Later, as they drove to the hotel, he told her about Japan, about the years of training.

‘Pain is something you live with. It’s a challenge, Suzie. A hospital is a place for the sick. I am not sick - and the drugs do not help me to fight the pain, they make me weak.’

‘Promise you’ll rest, Wyatt.’

‘No. I’ll drive again today.’

Wyatt walked casually up to the side of the Shadow and stared over the Kyalami race-track at the setting sun with a vague, dreamy smile. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he eased the packet of cigarettes out of his black jumpsuit. Looking straight into the camera, he shook the pack, slipped out a cigarette and put it gently to his mouth. Then he struck a match and inhaled deeply - and broke into violent coughing.

‘Cut! Cut!’

Wyatt threw the cigarette down on the tarmac with disgust. The director glared at him in consternation from his chair, and turned to the crew.

‘Move it, guys. We’ve only got thirty minutes more light.’

He came over to Wyatt, a thickset man with tiny spectacles that made him look like a grown-up Billy Bunter.

‘How many times have I told you - don’t inhale and you won’t cough.’

‘It has to look real. You told me that.’

‘Fuck, but you’re stubborn.’

Wyatt stared at him. He wasn’t impressed by this arrogant bastard of a commercials director. He handed him the pack.

‘Why don’t you shove them up your arse.’

Then he heard Jack Phelps’s voice in the background.

‘Cool it, Wyatt.’

The calm, assured tones of the professional businessman.

‘Damion’s only trying to do his job.’

The director looked despairingly into Wyatt’s eyes.

‘The James Dean pose looks good. Just light up, and take the smoke into your mouth.’

‘I really feel great, endorsing lung cancer.’

‘If you don’t like it, Wyatt, choose another career.’ Phelps’s voice drifted across the tarmac.

Wyatt stared across at him. He was still sore from the burns, but Ricardo had not bettered his times and he could tell the Italian was itching to prove himself the better driver.

Suzie walked up to Wyatt, while Phelps ran his eyes up and down her body, mentally undressing her.

‘Relax, Wyatt,’ she said. ‘It’s not difficult. As Damion says, don’t inhale. Watch me.’

Damion was glaring at them, red-faced and angry. Time was running out, the sun had almost set. Wyatt knew the commercial was already over budget, but he disliked the director intensely.

Suzie lit the cigarette, placed it between her full and perfect lips, then drew in her breath very slowly. The cigarette glowed, she lifted it elegantly from her mouth.

‘Too much for the great Wyatt Chase?’

He laughed. Phelps wasn’t amused, but there was a smirk on Damion’s lips. Wyatt stared at him, aching to wipe the smile off his face.

‘OK, Damion. I’ll try again.’

In a few minutes the crew were ready, and Wyatt sauntered casually across to the car. Phelps was watching him like a hawk. He was trying to figure him out, much as he would a company he was about to take over.

Wyatt looked across at Damion sitting nonchalantly back on his wood and canvas folding-chair. He crushed the cigarette pack in his right hand.

‘Shit!’ Damion’s voice cut through the air. ‘Jesus, Wyatt! That box has been specially prepared. We’ve only got one more - wreck that, and we’ll have to can the shoot.’

Suzie was at his side again. He smelt the familiar fragrance as she handed him the other packet.

He held it in his hand.

‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Crush it.’

Everyone looked on, horrified. He stared at her for what seemed a long time. She was testing him - she wanted him to do it. And then he relaxed.

Damion fidgeted in his chair and wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead.

‘OK. Action!’

The set went deadly still, and this time Wyatt went through the actions perfectly - he sensed Suzie was watching him, judging him. He took the cigarette to his lips and inhaled softly. Then he blew the smoke out and stared coolly into the camera.

‘Cut.’

There was applause, and Damion was up.

‘It’s a wrap.’

Wyatt walked away from them, down the track. He stared down the straight. This was all irrelevant. It was only the racing that mattered, the rest was superfluous. The rest was a game.

The trick was to concentrate on the driving, not to let the other issues distract him. It was only two weeks to the first Grand Prix in Rio. Tomorrow they would fly back to England, ready to make their final preparations.

Someone came up behind him.

‘Wyatt, don’t let them piss you off.’

It was de Villiers, hands in his pockets, looking haggard.

‘It does piss me off.’

‘Jack’s happy. You’ve just made his day.’

‘The publicity seems more important to him than winning.’

He walked further down the track with Bruce alongside him.

‘Listen, Wyatt,’ Bruce said. ‘Let me give you some advice. If you handle the sponsors well now, you’ll make it easier on yourself when the racing’s on. And let me warn you, too. If you won’t go along with him, Phelps will dump you.’

Wyatt nodded.

Bruce said earnestly: ‘You, me, Aito and Ricardo, we all have the same objective. We want to win.’

Wyatt looked above the line of blue-gum trees and saw some birds in the distance, flying across the red sunset. He thought back momentarily to the
dojo
where he had trained in Tokyo. Then the memory was gone, and his mind was clear. He was in Formula One for the same reason as Bruce.

To win.

Back in London, Suzie wasn’t quite sure what to make of what was happening to her. Suddenly she had achieved celebrity status through her liaison with Wyatt.

Jack Phelps was particularly happy about the publicity. There were stories about her and Calibre-Shensu in most of the major international magazines, and she’d been invited to appear on a prominent television talk-show. Also, her
pret a porter
range had sold out within five minutes of the Paris opening, and she’d been approached by several large clothing manufacturers to lend her name to a new label. Now she was sitting in her London apartment, awaiting a team of journalists from
Time.

The phone rang. It was Jack Phelps again. He wouldn’t leave her alone. He’d insisted on helping her set up the New York office of her design company through the acquisition of an American group.

‘Suzie dear. Everything is in order. I’ve successfully negotiated your take-over of Morgan Design. You get a fifty-five per cent controlling interest, and their name changes to Zen, as you requested.’

Suzie sighed. Phelps was setting her up in big business - whether she liked it or not.

He continued, his tone confidential, ‘I’ve set up a meeting for you tomorrow with Lawrence Simons Junior, their executive president. He seems to be most amenable to working for you.’

‘What if he isn’t?’

‘Then he’ll get the laughing heave-ho.’

‘What?’

‘A handshake and a parting cheque. Listen, Suzie, with your new celebrity status there are plenty of top creative people here who’ll leap at the opportunity of running the New York arm of Zen.’

‘I’m sure Lawrence will be fine. The reason we chose his company is because his philosophy has always been similar to mine.’

The doorbell rang insistently.

‘Jack, I’ll see you tomorrow, the reporters from
Time
have arrived.’

She slammed the phone down. There was a price to pay for everything in life, and Phelps was hers.

Aito Shensu sat on the
dojo
floor, facing the
Shihan,
the chief instructor. Each day it became harder and harder to move through the training exercises. The disease was creeping over his body and he was unable to resist it. No one except the
Shihan
and his doctor knew of the leukemia that had attacked his blood cells.

Despite the disease, he remained focused on his life philos
ophy -
Budo
- the way of the winner. He had reached nearly all his goals. Only two remained - perhaps only one could be achieved. He wanted Wyatt to return to the
dojo,
and he wanted victory for the company he had started thirty years before.

He rose to his feet with the
Shihan.

Dishonour had shaken this
dojo.
Their two greatest disciples had left. The one he would not think about, not talk about. As for Wyatt, he had his promise that he would return.

They bowed to each other, then stepped back.

The first blow struck Aito hard beneath his heart. It was a harsh, fighting blow. He looked into the eyes of his opponent. The
Shihan
did not treat him like a sick man and they fought like men.

It was not over. It was just beginning.

March

Bruce de Villiers surveyed
his cars as they came off the Jumbo at Rio airport. It was always an anxious time for him. He just hoped that nothing had been lost or mislaid, because the actual business of transportation was out of his hands. The airlift of all the Formula One teams to South America was a huge operation, coordinated by the head of the Formula One Constructors’ Association, Ronnie Halliday.

Bruce had two spare cars in addition to those he’d prepared for the Brazilian Grand Prix, but they weren’t the cars he’d set up, they were unknown, untested.

He only relaxed when everything was on the ground and it was clear that it was all in perfect shape. The customs people seemed to take forever, then a hydraulic hoist loaded the cars and equipment onto the waiting trucks.

The Brazilians always worried Bruce. He didn’t quite trust their good-natured conviviality.

More and more equipment came out of the plane, and he looked aghast at the four pallets of tyres that Carvalho had insisted he bring with him. He had argued that they could supply him direct from their factory, just north of Rio, but they had insisted that he bring existing supplies.

He walked out of the airport customs area an hour later, more than a little annoyed. The customs officials had insisted on going over one of the cars very carefully, and he’d been terrified that they’d damage something. He couldn’t under
stand a word of Portuguese, and the one official who could speak English wasn’t interested in playing interpreter.

Now he headed back to the hotel and a fresh set of worries, the first of which was keeping a close guard on his team. The temptations of the city were real. Again he cursed the nature of the Formula One circuit - almost all the events took place in the most glamorous possible locations. But at least he had little to worry about with his drivers. Ricardo had a lot to prove, and he was having an affair with Debbie, who seemed to be balancing out his Italian wildness. Wyatt was already at the circuit, itching to drive.

Bruce entered the hotel foyer and was immediately conscious of much shuffling and bowing - the Shensu factory mechanics had arrived. After shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries twenty times over, he slipped into the hotel bar and ordered a Scotch on the rocks, hoping to find sanity in the familiar amber liquid.

Tomorrow could only be better, he promised himself. They would be down at the track and he could get on with doing what he knew best - pulling his team together and focusing their attention on winning.

Bruce drank alone, studiously avoiding the managers of the other teams. As far as he was concerned, they were the opposition. He maintained his view that he wanted to savage his competitors, not drink with them.

He was pleased that Wyatt had recovered well from the accident at Kyalami. He knew that Wyatt’s mind was totally focused on the race; he wasn’t taken in by the glamour of the sport, he didn’t want to be a prima donna. In that way he reminded Bruce of James.

Bruce knew he had a lot to be pleased about - but there was something that was making him nervous, though he hadn’t admitted it to anyone. The journalist Vanessa Tyson was definitely stalking Calibre-Shensu. Fortunately, her interview with him hadn’t been given much air time in England, though he knew that in the US it had received wide coverage. She could cost him Phelps’s sponsorship and she could do Formula One a whole lot of damage. But, strangely, Phelps seemed unconcerned about her and said that he’d sort Vanessa Tyson out.

Ricardo lay back in the water and contemplated the bronzed goddess who’d been watching him for the last half-hour. There was nothing shy about the way she’d been assessing him; in fact there was almost an open invitation in her eyes.

He glanced across at Debbie and realised that she hadn’t even noticed what was going on. With her blonde hair, she was natural prey for every Brazilian male on the beach. He doubted if she’d ever had so much attention in her entire life - and he knew she loved it.

He closed his eyes again and thought about the Shensu Shadow. His marriage with the car was a hard one, and not yet entirely resolved. The Shadow refused to respond directly to some of his commands - the two of them were still fighting, still unsure of each other. He didn’t trust the automatic gearbox, and was scared that it might malfunction during the race; he knew that more and more of the teams were making the move to automatics, but he preferred the simplicity of a fully manual shift.

This season, there would be more competition on the track. For the first time in years, many of the cars would be equal in their levels of competitiveness. Even if he did have the best car, it would still be only marginally better than the rest. Of course, Wyatt would be driving the other Shadow, and he was certainly gunning for top place.

Ricardo looked at the goddess again, then at Debbie. Why could he never be content with one woman?

A dark-skinned Adonis had sat down next to Debbie, and was getting a little too interested for Ricardo’s liking. He turned over and swam for the shore. By the time he reached them, the man already had his hand over Debbie’s.

‘Eh, she is my lady.’ Ricardo glared at the man, who seemed totally unfazed by his arrival.

‘The charming young lady is talking to me,’ he said.

To Ricardo’s annoyance, Debbie didn’t say a word, nor did she try to extricate her hand.

‘Why don’t you take another swim,’ said the stranger. The tone of his voice suggested there would be a fight if the suggestion was not taken seriously.

‘Fuck off!’ Ricardo yelled.

The Brazilian rose, and Ricardo swung a hard left into the man’s jaw. He toppled over into the sand, and suddenly the beach went very quiet.

‘Ricardo, you . . .’

He stared at Debbie and she shut up. The Adonis dragged himself up, wiping blood from his mouth, and Ricardo sat down next to Debbie and examined the broken skin on his left hand. She slapped him on the face, an unexpected, hard, stinging blow.

‘You bastard!’ she said. He’d never seen her so angry. And suddenly she started shouting at him.

‘So you lie there eyeing that Brazilian bitch for the last half an hour, then I decide to talk to someone and you hit him!’

‘He was holding your hand . . .’

‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘you’re just beyond belief.’ She got up.

‘I suppose you’re leaving?’ he said, not moving.

She walked off the beach without turning round once, and he smiled to himself. If she thought he was going to tolerate her seeing other men, she had another thing coming.

His mind was quickly distracted. The dark-skinned goddess he’d been watching earlier was walking slowly up the sand towards him.

‘I see you’re alone.’

The voice was husky and attractive.

‘You see very well,’ he said.

She sat down on the sand next to him and then stretched out, exposing herself to the sun.

‘You have a fight with your woman?’ she said lazily.

‘She is for me, not for anyone else.’

‘But you can have who you want?’

He laughed. Slowly at first, then out loud. She was very perceptive, this woman. He turned on his side and stared into her dark eyes. ‘Are you a mind-reader?’

He couldn’t keep his eyes on hers for long, instead they moved down to inspect her beautiful body, the svelte torso, the fecund hips and the long, long legs.

He moved forward and kissed her on the lips. It was going to be an enjoyable afternoon.

The television studio was filled to capacity, and all eyes were on the woman who held the floor.

‘I believe that your legal system has exposed itself to a level of abuse unprecedented in the history of civilisation. The facts I have laid before you show that you have become slaves to an obsession with money, rather than the servants of justice . . .’

The Senator from California looked up at the woman with the hypnotic voice and cursed the day she had decided to investigate what her programme series called ‘The American Way of Justice’.

Who the hell did this British bit
ch Vanessa Tyson think she was - a knight in shining armour? That was the way the majority of US television viewers saw her, and it made her a dangerous adversary.

She was a difficult woman to handle. Her face was arresting with dark eyes and full, almost pouting lips; her body was, in a word, voluptuous. But she was a tough professional through and through - anyone thinking she was a pushover because of her sexy looks should think again. Vanessa Tyson was a formidable reporter with an incisive mind.

‘Far from making you a strong nation, your laws have crippled you. Ridiculous liability claims have prevented manufacturers from spending enough money on research and development to evolve better products. My findings suggest that serious and major reforms in your legal system are a necessity.’

The Senator shuffled his feet uneasily and eyed his female adversary cautiously.

‘You may have a point, Miss Tyson, but I think you are using specific examples to undermine the overall strength of our legal system,’ he said in his deep, sonorous voice. As well as being a Senator, Burt Calhoun ran a prosperous legal practice that specialised in liability suits. They had a high success rate that brought in millions and millions of dollars each year.

‘Might I suggest that you’re scared you’ll lose business, Senator?’

His face reddened. He scratched at the deep dimple on his chin.

‘I’d like to tan that fat bitch’s hide,’ he muttered under his breath, and then, out loud: ‘No. But I am afraid that ordinary people who are protected by those very laws you seek to attack, may once again become victims of unscrupu
lous manufacturers if those laws are repealed.’

‘
Unscrupulous manufacturers
, Senator?’ Vanessa said sarcastically, her eyes sweeping across the studio audience. ‘Like Jeff Sutherland, whose new car plant was closed down by a claim represented by your legal firm? A claim that would never have been made if one of your attorneys had not approached the owner of a Sutherland sports car and encouraged him to move against the company - providing he paid your company fifty per cent of the settlement?’

‘That’s a downright lie!’

‘A downright lie that closed down Jeff Sutherland’s factory, put the five thousand men who worked for him on the street, and personally bankrupted him. All because your client had a bad accident after a heavy drinking spree. Is that justice?’

‘The man is a cripple. He needed that money to survive.’

‘Seventy-five million dollars for him and seventy-five million for you? I would hardly call that survival money.’

‘He can’t walk.’

‘Neither can thousands of Vietnam veterans who fought in a war you pushed for, a war that your son did not have to fight because you got his call-up deferred.’

‘That’s irrelevant!’ the Senator yelled.

‘No, that’s politics. It’s what suits your needs, your back pocket, Senator. Not the needs of your people - the American people. Your committee is a sham, like you. You are protecting laws that keep you in business while closing down the American economy. Jeff Sutherland shot himself yesterday. He could have been a future Henry Ford. You, with your great legal system, destroyed him!’

Vanessa Tyson rose, indicating that the live debate was over, and the audience clapped loudly. Her attack on the US legal system over the past year had culminated in this oppor
tunity to put her views to Senator Calhoun, live.

She left the studio quickly and made her way outside. Reporters and spectators were waiting for her.

‘Miss Tyson, how did it go?’

‘Watch my programme at six tonight on WWTN and find out.’

‘Senator Calhoun says you’re seeking media hype and nothing else.’

‘Senator Calhoun is destroying this country. I’m trying to keep it where it belongs, on top.’

In front of her she saw Max, her assistant, pushing people away so that she could get to her car. Thank God. She needed to be away from all this. The interview had been far rougher than she’d expected; Calhoun had frightened her - though she refused to show it. He was like a mountain bear on the rampage, scared of no one and not afraid to strike out.

Max closed the car door and she stretched out, safe behind the dark-tinted windows. She gestured for her driver to pull off and began to compose herself. Her secret was to bring emotion into her arguments, constantly pushing her opponents to react.

As one of the highest-paid television reporters in the United States, she had an important reputation to uphold. Because she was a Londoner, some called her an alien, interfering in American matters, but she loved the United States and its people. What she did not love were the big wheeler-dealers who were destroying all that was good about America.

Calhoun had played into her hands, and she knew that evening’s programme would put her in an unassailable position. Her objective was to motivate major reforms in the American legal system.

She closed her eyes and relaxed.

Senator Calhoun poured himself a stiff Bourbon and eased into one of the leather button-backed armchairs in his office.