Eye of the Cobra (37 page)

Lauren was waiting for him outside.

‘I’ve left some files on your desk as well as some videotapes. Mr Phelps would like you to look through them before he speaks with you.’

Ricardo walked back into the big office, beginning to feel in control and at home. His desk was covered with photographs and he moved closer to find out what they were.

Several minutes later, his hands were trembling. There were pictures of him with several women and a man in bed. Who had taken them? He smacked the desk with his fist and began to gather them up quickly.

Lauren came into the office.

‘Get out,’ he said quietly.

‘I saw all the pictures before I met you, Mr Sartori. Relax.

Mr Phelps insists that you watch the videotape. The switch is the red one on the left inside panel of the desk.’

He sat down in the huge leather chair behind the desk and pushed the red button.

The film started with a wide-angle view of Milan, then dissolved to the face of the presenter. Ricardo didn’t recognise him.

‘This is where it all began,’ the presenter said, ‘the career of Ricardo Sartori - in public the world-class racing-driver, in private a violent and unhappy man. His mother, a part-time prostitute . . .’

He wanted to switch the video off but he couldn’t. It was all there, all the worst parts of his life. As the minutes passed he was treated to interviews with his early girlfriends, details of the criminal record he had tried to have erased, and all the other dirt of his past.

He was aware of someone coming into the room and switched the recorder off quickly. The lights came up auto
matically and he found himself looking at Jack Phelps, lying back on the couch, smoking a cigar.

‘You bastard!’ he said.

Phelps smiled thinly.

‘That’s what the board said after they saw the film half an hour ago.’

Ricardo got up and made for the door.

‘Forget your offer, Phelps. I’m out.’

Saying he was going was as far as Ricardo got towards achieving it. He found his way blocked by a tall man in a dark suit, and when he tried to get past him he received a roundhouse kick in the side of the head. In an instant Ricardo knew that this man could kill him - and wouldn’t hesitate to do so if those were his orders.

He staggered back into the room, and Phelps dismissed the man, then returned his eyes to Ricardo.

‘Relax,’ he said. ‘You can leave, never to see me again, if that is what you wish. All I want to say is that the tape will then go to every major TV network in the world, as well as to all the influential newspapers and magazines.’

Phelps stopped and pulled another cigar out of his pocket.

‘Care for one?’

‘No.’

‘Smoke it.’

The command was icy.

‘I don’t smoke.’

‘Lauren!’

Lauren came into the room with a sheaf of files.

‘Give them to him, Lauren. You may stay.’

Lauren gave Ricardo the files and sat down.

‘That’s all the fine print on your financial standing,’ Phelps muttered maliciously. ‘I have it in my power to destroy you completely. So. Join me in a cigar.’

Ricardo took the cigar in his now trembling hands and placed it in his mouth. Lauren lit it.

‘Ah. I see that you are not intractable.’

‘What . . . what do you want?’

‘Your co-operation. You will live very well, and I will not work you hard.’

The words were precisely spoken, well thought out and full of menace.

‘I want to return to racing,’ Ricardo said almost pitifully. ‘Next year. This year you will concentrate on your career with me.’

‘But I need practice . . .’

Phelps got up and stared out of the window. He needed Ricardo because of his position, his public stature. He was the ideal front-man for what he had in mind.

‘I give the commands. Now, listen carefully . . .’

Ricardo was tense when he stepped outside Phelps Plaza one and a half hours later. The Rolls-Royce that had come to collect him earlier in the morning rolled up with the precision of a Swiss watch, and the chauffeur opened the back door for him and he stepped inside.

Being inside the car made him feel more secure again. He had read in a book many years before that every man had at least one major failing, and life was a process of overcoming one’s weakness. Just when he had felt most secure, everything had been taken away from him.

The terrifying reality was that he had no choice. He had had to accept Phelps’s offer. True, it paid very handsomely, but at the same time it enmeshed him in Phelps’s carefully spun web. As long as Phelps lived, Ricardo would be in his power.

Jules Ortega felt remarkably good. Everything was in place for expansion; from supplying America they would move on to supply the world. But better, he now had a new love - Suzie von Falkenhyn.

Her picture was everywhere in Brazil, on television morn
ing, noon and night. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t have taken her anywhere in public - she would have been recognised instantly.

Of course, he had been concerned, because some of his men must have seen her when Rod brought her to laboratory, and the reward for information leading to her whereabouts was close to a million dollars - too much of a temptation. So Talbot had agreed to dispose of them, quietly and professionally.

He went back into the bedroom, where Suzie had passed out. The needle was still in her hand, the inside of her arm a minefield of red pinpricks from the regular injections of heroin she had been giving herself. He sat down next to her and her eyes opened.

‘Jules, where have you been?’

Such an expression of love.

‘Don’t worry now,’ he said softly.

Her lips caressed his chest.

‘You’ll give me some more?’ she murmured.

‘Just carry on, and you’ll get all you want.’

April

Monaco was the epitome of all that was best and worst about Formula One, Ricardo thought as he looked across the harbour at the yachts bobbing up and down in the moonlight. Monaco was glamorous, and the circuit demanding. But running a Grand Prix in the middle of a busy old city meant the track was narrow and bumpy, and a nightmare from a logistical standpoint - supplies and spares and motorhomes had to be kept away from the main pits which were too small to hold them. Every time something was needed it meant a long journey from the pits to the parking area.

That evening the principality was alive with excitement, everyone waiting in anticipation for the Grand Prix the following day.

Ricardo walked out of the casino and looked down towards the sea, trying to forget his losses at the roulette wheel. He remembered the contents of the Calibre-Shensu press-release that was neatly folded in his pocket - and was incensed all over again. Wyatt had got pole position. The Shadow was performing exceptionally well, and Ricardo knew that if he hadn’t had the fight in Brazil, he could have been leading the championship. But now he was banned for a year and working for Jack Phelps, coordinating the Calibre-Shensu sponsorship.

Ricardo didn’t find his new position easy going. Jack Phelps never left him alone - there were calls at night, and impossible deadlines to meet. On top of all that, the team members avoided him if they could. Bruce de Villiers was icy - he still hadn’t forgiven him for his behaviour in Rio.

That afternoon Ricardo had bought a paper from a pavement kiosk. The leader on the sports page had filled him with a rage of jealousy.
‘Chase Sets The Pace’,
the headline had read.

He looked down now at his watch. Just after two in the morning. He’d better get some sleep. It w
as strange how his life had begun to revolve around the night - all those strange, secret liaisons he had to make with Phelps’s associates. A cloud passed over the moon, and for a moment he felt nervous. Then he dismissed the feeling and walked off down the road, an elegant figure in his dinner-jacket, a white silk scarf hanging casually around his neck.

Estelle and Carlos arrived back late at the estancia, after a pleasant dinner with some members of Carlos’s polo team. There was a telegram waiting for Carlos in the large wood-beamed hall, and something told Estelle that it did not bode well. However, he put it in his jacket pocket and walked up the stairs to their room.

She followed him upstairs, drew the curtains and looked out at the rolling grasslands in the moonlight, the distant moun
tains. She thought - not for the first time - of how lucky she was to have found Carlos after James’s death.

Carlos was reading the telegram and his face had darkened.

‘Darling, what’s wrong?’

He looked across to her.

‘It’s from the man investigating my brother’s murder.’

‘David is dead, Carlos - revenge won’t bring him back. Leave it alone.’

Estelle was scared. She thought of how gruesome David’s murder had been. But it was in the past - she wanted Carlos to forget about it. She knew his brother had been playing with fire. David, as Minister of Justice in Colombia, had challenged the Ortega Cartel; he had liaised with the CIA and had had Emerson Ortega, the biggest producer and dealer, assassinated. But then David had been abducted and murdered, and a videotape of his dreadful death had been sent to his wife and children. It did not bear thinking about . . .

Carlos looked across at her. ‘My contact says that Emerson Ortega is alive,’ he said. ‘That he murdered my brother. Emerson Ortega slowly hanged my brother to death.’

She felt herself shaking. She did not want Carlos involved in this madness. ‘How do you know it’s true?’ she said.

‘An associate of David’s suspected that Emerson Ortega was still alive - that he’d been warned of the assassination attempt and had substituted a double for himself. Then, after his supposed death, Emerson Ortega murdered my brother in revenge.’

‘Leave it alone, Carlos . . .’

‘I cannot. I loved my brother.’

Estelle walked to the window and stared out, unseeing. She prayed with all her heart that this obsession for justice would not take Carlos away from her too.

The morning sunlight held Monaco in a warm embrace. Every available balcony had been commandeered to watch the event of the year. Policemen and officials were stationed at strategic positions throughout the city. No one was thinking about anything except the race.

Bruce de Villiers gazed out over the road circuit. He did not like this track at all. As far as he was concerned, it was an anachronism that should have been left off the Grand Prix calendar years ago. He was still amused by the rebuff he had received from Ronnie Halliday, the head of the Formula One Constructors’ Association, after the TV appearance in which he tried to get Ricardo reinstated. He knew he’d got to Halliday.

Street circuits were kept in the Grand Prix programme because they had a romance and glamour of their own. They were less impersonal than the large, purpose-built circuits, and less accessible. More importantly, they heightened the exclusive nature of the sport.

‘Something wrong, Bruce?’ Wyatt’s voice boomed out from across the pits.

‘No, nothing. Are you feeling confident?’

‘Yes.’ Wyatt walked over and slapped Bruce on the back.

‘As long as I can start in front, I’ll stay in front.’

They were both silent for a few seconds. Monaco was hard on cars, it would be the ultimate test of the Shadow’s reliability.

‘Make sure Hoexter doesn’t try to cut in.’ Bruce was still scared of what had happened at Rio.

‘It wasn’t Hoexter’s fault.’

Wyatt was excited. Hoexter was in second position in the McCabe. He was a driver who never held back, and Wyatt knew he would have to fight him the whole way.

‘I haven’t got a second driver in this race, Wyatt. Just remember that.’

Debbie caused a lot of heads to turn as she walked into the pits with Ricardo. She was wearing an excuse of a white dress that hardly covered anything. Seeing her, Wyatt was reminded of Suzie, and his happy mood evaporated.

Jack Phelps appeared from amongst the crowd that clustered at the edge of the pits like animals at a water-hole. He pumped Wyatt’s hand warmly.

‘It’s great to see you on form again, Wyatt,’ he beamed enthusiastically. ‘Our noted recall scores are way up. You’re advertising dynamite.’

Wyatt couldn’t give a damn about noted recall scores. He stared at Phelps coolly. All the publicity was bothering him. He felt apprehensive, almost superstitious about making too much of a fuss about his victory in Rio. He knew the other drivers would be gunning for him now.

‘It’s one race so far, Jack. I need to consolidate to really make an impact.’

‘Hell, you’re a typical Brit. Isn’t he, Bruce?’ Phelps swung round to greet Bruce.

Bruce was looking drawn, and Wyatt understood why. It was the constructor’s trophy that mattered more to Bruce than anything else, and with only one driver in the championship he hadn’t a chance of winning it. Only two drivers, both getting high up in the points, would give him the points accumulation he needed to win the trophy.

‘I prefer action to talk,’ Bruce said softly, each word carefully emphasized to make his point.

‘Modesty gets you nowhere in today’s world. You know Andy Warhol said that everyone should be famous for fifteen minutes? That’s the nature of the business - to ensure enduring fame. To put it bluntly, it adds to the pressure on you to perpetuate the legend.’

Wyatt laughed. Perhaps Phelps had worked in marketing for so long that he believed his own bullshit. He wasn’t buying it, for sure, and he certainly wasn’t going to let it affect his edge.

Phelps pulled them both away from the pit crew and took them into a huddle in the corner.

‘Listen, guys, I’m taking flak from that bitch Vanessa Tyson. She’s on an anti-smoking, anti-motor-racing drive. I’ll have her taken care of, but for the moment watch out. Especially you, Bruce. I don’t want any more interviews with her.’

Bruce coloured.

‘I didn’t know that bitch would be on that programme!’

Wyatt tensed up, and Jack winked at him.

‘I don’t want you worrying about this, Wyatt. She’s history.’

The big American slapped him hard on the back.

Wyatt never ceased to be amazed at Phelps’s organisational ability. True, there were a lot of flags and banners for other teams, but Calibre-Shensu logos seemed to be everywhere.

Phelps concluded his discourse.

‘Gentlemen, I can see you’re busy, and besides, there isn’t much room down here. Wyatt . . .’

He stretched out his hand.

‘I know you’ll deliver. Just like your father did here, ten years ago.’

Phelps walked off smartly. He had hired an entire hotel for the Calibre-Shensu entourage - rooms and tickets had been given free to everyone who could be of influence in the cigarette or the car business. It was pure Hollywood.

Wyatt felt numb. Phelps’s reference to his father had brought memories back. Memories of his father’s victory, memories of the accident, and Estelle shouting at him:
‘You killed him, you killed him
. . . ’

If Bruce had been momentarily been taken in by the glamour of the circus, what was happening in the pits brought him back to reality with a bump. It was crazy racing at Monaco: there wasn’t enough room. At every other track, safety and security standards were being constantly upgraded, but at Monaco life went on as usual. The track was narrow and bumpy, and it was almost impossible for cars to overtake one another. And once the race was on, you were stuck in the pits - there was no way out at the back, except on foot through the heavy crowds. Really, it was almost impossible to race effectively in such an environment. Yet Monaco endured.

There would be twenty-six cars on the starting-grid, all of them more competitive than the p
revious year. In fact, there were only seven seconds between the fastest and the slowest.

The Monaco Grand Prix was a gamble. Beautiful girls, idyllic setting, high stakes . . . and if a car went out of control in the wrong place on this circuit, it could be catastrophic.

He watched the cars whipping past him in the warm-up before the main race. Wyatt was keeping well in front, the tightness of the circuit not seeming to bother him at all. Twenty-six cars were too many as far as Bruce was concerned; he would have limited it to eighteen maximum. There just wasn’t room for them all on the circuit.

As the cars rolled up onto the starting-grid, Bruce experi
enced a sense of foreboding. If Wyatt stayed out in front, he was safer, because it was in the pack, jostling for the front position that the real danger lay. At Monaco, if the front driver could maintain his pace he could lead the race from start to finish in an unassailable position.

The sound of the cars’ engines rose into a collective roar, and as the starting-light turned green they burst from the grid, each driver determined to win.

So far so good, thought Bruce.
Only one two laps to go.

He waited for Wyatt’s car to come round into view, ready to commence the seventy-seventh lap, and glanced down at his stop-watch. And suddenly he thought of Ricardo Sartori: yes, he could understand his bitterness at not being able to compete.

Where were the cars? They should be round again by now. He knew Wyatt still held the lead, but Hoexter was hot on his tail. For the crowd the main excitement was coming from the back-markers, where an unknown German driver, Kurt Kunstler, was doing battle with Italian veteran, Toni Vignelli.

Then the sirens erupted. Bruce could hear them in the distance and felt his body go weak. The pit lane exploded into chaos as different reports started coming in, but no one could tell what had happened. Over the speakers it was announced that there had been a serious accident at the Virage du Portier, just before the tunnel.

Wyatt sensed Hoexter was dropping away as they came into the Virage du Portier. He saw the crashed cars and the flames, and he saw the gap between the crashed cars and the edge of the track. Only one lap left, one lap to victory.

He glanced in his mirror. Hoexter was pulling over. At this late stage, there’d been no flags to halt the race. One lap, and he would win. He had to win for James’s sake.

Wyatt put his foot on the accelerator and powered on through the smoke and the devastation.

Bruce felt removed from the action. Two drivers in two races? Could his luck be that bad? The circuit was dangerous, everyone knew that, but what the hell had happened?

The sound of ambulances and police cars was louder, and he heard sirens from across the pit lane. It was Professor Sid Watkins, the London neurosurgeon responsible for overseeing all the Formula One medical facilities, and in the car with him was the Chief Medical Officer.

There must be fatalities. But they would not stop the race with only one lap left.