Eye of the Cobra (52 page)

‘Yes. But after the race.’

Ricardo wanted to get it over with quickly. He did not relish the prospect of hanging around Milan after the Grand Prix - it would arouse suspicion, because drivers always liked to get away as quickly as possible after a race.

‘I’ll do it tomorrow evening,’ he said.

Before Ricardo could react, Talbot was up from the chair and had stabbed his right foot hard into his groin. The Italian topped forwards in agony, dropping his glass.

‘Just remember who’s in control,’ Talbot grated.

‘Please! Tell me when, and then go. I have to rest.’

Talbot left the hotel five minutes later, and Ricardo limped back to his bed - exhausted, drunk, and totally despondent.

Bruce de Villiers left the circuit at two that morning. Both cars were perfectly set up, but he knew in his gut that Ricardo couldn’t win. The Italian had lost his edge.

He got into his car and didn’t notice another vehicle, further back, start up as he pulled away. He drove out of the circuit and then towards his hotel. He cursed as the traffic-lights turned to red at an intersection. He was tired, and desperately wanted to rest.

Suddenly, his door was wrenched open and he was dragged out of his Shensu Fuji. Before he could react, a sack was dragged over his head. He tried to struggle loose, and received a vicious kick in the kidneys, that made him crumple. Then he felt a jab in his arm. His head started to swim, and he had time to feel terribly sick, before he blacked out.

He came round in a room that smelt of damp. He was naked, and tied to a chair without a seat. In front of him, on an easy-chair, sat a redhead who looked as though she’d just returned from an evening out on the town. Bloody hell, what was happening?

‘OK, Mr de Villiers, what are you doing in Milan?’

Bruce hadn’t got a clue who she was or what she represented.

‘I’m here for the Grand Prix,’ he said. ‘I think you might have the wrong person.’

She laughed coldly. Next to her were a couple of cylinders and a welding torch. She picked up the torch, released the gas and lit the nozzle. Bruce stared at the white flame.

‘You know what this is?’

‘Oxy-acetylene.’

‘Very good. But then you’re an engineer.’

Bruce steeled himself.

‘And you’re a welder?’

‘Very funny. As you’ll know, the flame burns at three thousand three hundred degrees centigrade.’

She brought the nozzle down and inverted it between his legs. He felt the heat against his testicles, smelt the hair burning. He gritted his teeth, tears running out of his eyes.

‘What’s your real business, Mr de Villiers?’ the redhead asked.

‘Running a Formula One team.’

‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

He felt the heat. He would not show weakness. She moved the torch away and he recovered slowly, the tears still running down his cheeks and his body shivering.

‘Come on, Mr de Villiers . . .’

‘You’ve got the wrong man.’

She lowered the torch and brought it under him.

‘This time I’m not playing.’

‘Nor am I.’

His eyes focused on hers. He felt the flame go out and he sagged forward, hyperventilating. She lit a cigarette and held the glowing tip close to his face. He pulled away, trembling.

‘Now, Mr de Villiers, tell me your real business in Milan.’

It was an all-or-nothing situation.

‘I run Calibre-Shensu,’ Bruce said. ‘I’m telling you, you must have the wrong man.’

He talked quickly, willing her to believe him. The silence was terrifying. He was playing for his life. She reached for the nozzle again and he urinated with fear. Then he sobbed at his weakness.

‘You’re a lucky boy. I believe you.’

She pulled a hypodermic syringe from her pocket and jabbed it in his arm.

‘Goodbye, Mr de Villiers.’

Bruce came round in his hotel room. Had it been a dream? But as he staggered painfully to the toilet he knew it hadn’t, and he lifted the lid and vomited into the bowl.

What the hell was going on?

Vanessa was shown into a pleasant room with two easy-chairs and no bars on the windows. What on earth were they playing at? she asked herself, totally bewildered. Perhaps this was some elaborately conceived ruse to extract a confession from her? All she knew was that, despite the cordial surroundings, she was still a prisoner.

Estelle Ramirez walked into the room. She was the very last person Vanessa had expected to see.

‘Vanessa, please sit down.’

Vanessa drew herself up to her full height.

‘If you think Wyatt and I are drug-traffickers, you’re wrong. And if you’ve been sent to get me to talk, you won’t get anything out of me,’ she said angrily.

She'd be damned if she was going to sit down with the bitch.

Estelle, however, did sit down.

‘My husband’s brother died in Colombia recently,’ she said. ‘He was the Minister of Justice. He was slowly hanged to death by members of the Ortega Cartel who video recorded the entire event and then sent the tape to his wife . . . Please sit down. I just want to talk.’

Vanessa took a chair.

‘Are you trying to make me feel sorry?’ she said. ‘Everyone thinks I’m guilty, but the fact is, I was set up.

Estelle smiled bitterly.

‘I am not here because I care about you or what happens to you. I am here for my son’s sake. I sense a conspiracy within Calibre-Shensu.’

Vanessa tossed back her hair, regaining her confidence.

‘And you think I know more than I’m letting on?’

Estelle nodded.

‘You bitch!’ Vanessa said.

The morning air was cool on his face as he came up the stairs and stared across the rooftops of Milan. He ran out across the concrete, his head bowed to avoid the swirling helicopter blades. Normally he would have taken over the controls from the pilot, but today he waved his hand, indicating that he did not want to.

The helicopter took off from the roof of the hotel. He felt desperately tired, and tried to block out the thoughts that kept filtering back into his mind. He’d been woken up at five.
There’d been a mix up with the containers at the airport and a batch of Carvalho tyres had gone missing. As Phelps’s agent, he was responsible for sorting the mess out.

Now the track appeared in the distance, and he felt the fear creeping over him. It was a new sensation. Monza had always excited him before; it had been the scene of some of his greatest victories. Like three years ago, when he had taken the lead from de Rosner in the final lap and the crowd had risen to their feet, cheering him over the finish-line.

They came in low over the pits. All the teams were at the track. The chopper nosed its way down into the car park, and then they were down. The pilot held out his hand and Ricardo shook it. Every red-blooded Italian would be behind him today, looking forward to another great performance from their hero.

Then the chopper was gone, and he felt quite alone in the car park. The air was warm, the sun burning brightly in the intense blue sky.

He had passed over long queues of cars on his way to the circuit. The crowd would be big and enthusiastic, as they always were at Monza.

Bruce came out from the pits. He was walking with great difficulty, keeping his legs wide apart. The Italian police had sniggered when he told them about his abduction, and after that he hadn’t felt like telling anyone else.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked Ricardo.

The look on Ricardo’s face told him more than words ever could.

‘Not too ’ot,’ he muttered. ‘But I will do my best.’

‘What the fuck have you been doing? I know you were out late last night, and I can smell you’ve been drinking. And now you’re taking twenty-five-million-pounds worth of investment onto the track.’

Ricardo bowed his head. ‘Bruce, I’m sorry.’

There was nothing Bruce could do. He just had to hope Ricardo might pull himself together.

They walked together towards the pits, the hustle and bustle of pre-race activity all around them. The pungent smell of petrol felt good in Ricardo’s nostrils as the various teams swarmed like angry bees over their cars.

Ricardo breathed in the excitement. He was back in the circus, that was what really mattered. He had to concentrate, and forget about all the problems.

They walked into the Calibre-Shensu bay and Bruce looked over Mickey Dunstal’s shoulders at the display on the monitor. Mickey was running through the Shadow’s internal diagnostic systems.

‘It’s looking fine, to be sure. But how’s the number one driver?’

‘I’ll be fine by the time of the race.’

Again, Bruce wanted to explode, but realised he didn’t need to push Ricardo over the edge - he was there already.

‘Listen, Ricardo,’ he said, ‘we don’t need you yet. The car is absolutely perfect, so why not go over to the motorhome and catch some sleep. I think you need a little time to unwind.’

He spoke calmly, keeping the anger out of his voice. He had so much that he wanted to achieve, and with Wyatt out of the running Ricardo was the man he had to bank on.

Ricardo let out a sigh of relief and walked back to the motorhome. He passed Charlie Ibuka, who gave him a searching glance. He didn’t like Ibuka one bit, and he hadn’t been shy about letting the Japanese driver know it.

He climbed eagerly into the bus. The air-conditioning system that ran continuously from a separate motor on the outside kept it beautifully cool. He went over to the bunk and climbed into it, and almost immediately dropped into a deep sleep.

Wyatt woke with a start. God, how long had he been asleep? He glanced at his watch. A few minutes, that was all. He frowned, trying to focus, to pinpoint what it was that had woken him. Then he was on his feet and peering into the blueness of the sky. In the distance, and getting steadily louder, was the drone of an aeroplane.

Perhaps it was nothing, just someone slightly off course. Then he caught sight of a Lockheed Hercules and realised that they might finally be in luck.

He shook Carlos awake and they both peered upwards.

The noise of the plane became deafening as it flew right overhead and then seemed to disappear into the top of the cliff.

‘How long would you estimate to get to the top?’ asked Wyatt, breaking the silence at last.

‘Three days minimum.’

‘I worked it out at two, but perhaps that’s pushing it.’

They hoisted their gear onto their backs and hacked their way towards the base of the rock face. It was going to be a hard, dangerous climb.

It was cool under the shade of the umbrella. It seemed strange to be in the centre of the pack rather than at the front. He looked up at Reg Tilson - the chief mechanic was running his eye over the car for the umpteenth time before the start.

‘What do you think?’

‘You can pass the lot of them, Ric. That’s what I think.’

Ricardo felt much better. He’d got four hours sleep in the motorhome, and felt stronger than he had done in the last week. Now he’d need every ounce of energy he possessed to fight his way to the front.

Bruce came up, and wished him good luck. Then he took the umbrella.

Bruce felt the burning sensation again between his legs as he sweated in the heat. He wanted to hold a gun to Ricardo’s head, to tell him that if he didn’t win he’d kill him. But what was the point? He knew Ricardo’s ego would be doing that for him.

All the engines fired up in unison, and the angry screams of wailing machinery filled the air. This was it, thought Ricardo; the point of no return.

He kept his position through the initial warm-up lap. The car felt good, she was responding beautifully. The quick straights and narrow chicanes passed by quickly.

Suddenly he was back on the grid, amongst the pack, the engine now warm and free-revving. The red light above him glowed ominously, then it flicked through to green, and in the midst of the screaming pack he shot off down the straight, through the Variante Goodyear and into the Curva Grande.

He focused on the cars in front of him, twelve in all, with nine others behind him.

He took two out on the straight and went into the curve in tenth place, screaming after the ninth man. He put everything he’d got into keeping the car moving smoothly. He knew the Shadow would be put under immense strain with the constant overtaking he was going to have to do to get ahead. He’d have to tail every car he was going to pass, and that meant the Shensu V12 was going to get really hot. It also meant that he’d be hammering his tyres with the constant manoeuvring to get into the first place.

The strength of Dunstal’s design showed in the corners, and Ricardo knew that through the bends she was faster than any other car on the track.

He heard the crackle in his headphones and then Bruce’s voice. De Rosner was leading the field, with two other front- ranked drivers right behind him. Then there was a three-second gap, and the other five cars ahead of Ricardo were packed together, each intent on giving no advantage whatever to any of the others.