Eye of the Cobra (8 page)

Through the procession of bulletins, he thought about his fight up the racing ladder: the careful instructions he had received from his father; how he had won the British karting championship at fifteen; the travelling he had done with his mother and father, the glamour and excitement of it all.

Then the pain. The memories of the accident in Monaco. The turns of the steeply climbing road, the swift and deter
mined gear-changes that took full advantage of the car’s power in the corners . . .

But at that point the memories always faded, and the next thing he remembered was waking up in hospital, Estelle at the side of the bed, screaming hysterically as the doctor pulled her back.

He gripped the sides of his chair. The pain was still there, the words indelibly etched in his memory.
‘You killed him! You killed him!’
And he had loved his father more than he loved anyone in the world. He still didn’t understand what had happened on that lonely mountain road.

He thought of the German woman, Suzie, and the climb in Yosemite Valley, two months after the accident, when he’d made his decision to move to Japan. She had disappeared the day after the climb. He hadn’t been able to find out any more about her, who she was or where she lived.

He left her memory behind and focused on the present. Now he was without a drive in Formula One. He had heard people saying he was past his prime - look at what he could have done if he was still in his early twenties.

Staying on with Chase in an unreliable machine for another year would have been a complete waste of time. But he had expected a lot of money from his uncle as a pay-out for his share in the team - enough money to buy him a drive with the French team. But he hadn’t got the money and so he couldn’t drive for them. He knew he was running out of time, and the frustration was getting to him.

He could go to the United States and compete on the NASCAR circuit. But that wasn’t sport to him, going round in perfect ovals. He just wanted to drive in Formula One. And no one would give him a drive. No one would take him seriously since he’d driven for Danny’s team.

Ricardo Sartori, the number one, had always got the better machine. He’d nearly won the championship with it. And Wyatt had been far out of the points in what the outside world saw as essentially the same machine. Painful though it was, he had to admit that he was considered a has-been even though he’d won a Grand Prix in his first season.

The next item on the television news suddenly caught Wyatt’s attention.

‘Last month Jack Phelps, the American billionaire, bought out Chase Racing,’ the newscaster said. ‘This week, in a deal with Aito Shensu of the Shensu Motor Corporation and Bruce de Villiers, ex-manager of McCabe racing, Phelps formed Calibre-Shensu. The name Chase Racing will disappear.’

The picture cut to the headquarters of the Formula One Constructors’ Association, with Ronnie Halliday, the president of FOCA, being interviewed.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’re very pleased about this new team. I believe they will challenge the dominance of McCabe and Roger de Rosner. This move by Jack Phelps is welcomed by everyone in Formula One.’

The next picture was of Phelps, Shensu and de Villiers signing the agreement.

‘This historic agreement was signed at Phelps Plaza in New York,’ the newscaster announced. ‘Phelps, Shensu and de Villiers are the founding members and shareholders in Calibre-Shensu, a formidable new force on the 1991 Grand Prix circuit. If the track record of any of these three men is anything to go by, Calibre-Shensu will be the team to watch in the coming season.’

The camera closed in on Bruce de Villiers, standing next to a reporter, and the interviewer asked: ‘Bruce, how would you describe your involvement in this venture?’

De Villiers squared up in front of the camera. ‘Look, I’m totally involved, totally committed. We are all very clear about our objectives in international Grand Prix racing. We want to win.’

‘Isn’t that being a bit optimistic on your first outing with a new team and a new engine?’

‘Shensu have developed a superb V8 engine - we’re already into our first week of development on a car.’

‘But your old team, McCabe, has the best driver?’

‘The best perceived driver. We have Ricardo Sartori, the former world champion. We’re still looking for a second driver.’

Wyatt switched off the set. There was no doubt in his mind about what he had to do now.

The Lotus Super Seven, with a highly modified two-litre Ford Cosworth engine, shot down the narrow Buckinghamshire lanes at near suicidal speed.

Wyatt thought about Bruce de Villiers. The man was a fanatic. His meteoric career had nothing to do with luck and everything to do with determination. He had made McCabe the best Formula One team for five successive years. Wyatt was certain that Calibre-Shensu was going to be the new McCabe, and he wanted to be in on the team from the ground floor. This was his best chance - he knew de Villiers always got to work early.

He pulled off the tree-lined road and coasted down the tarmac drive. The memories came flooding back. He remembered his mother cutting the ribbon across this road; the sunlight filtering through the oak trees and his father smiling easily and talking to the reporters.

The old Chase Racing sign was gone. He felt a stab of bitterness that the last vestige of everything his father had built up had now been removed. But then he remembered the voice of his Japanese instructor, ‘The greatest advances are made when, having accepted the tradition, you have the courage to break it.’ Wyatt had severed his ties with the legacy his father had left him, but this place, the home of Chase Racing, was still a part of him.

The road dropped down and he looked out to see the building which had been designed in the early 1970s. It was typical of that time, with rough concrete finishes and lots of glass. His father had commissioned an American architect of considerable reputation to draw up the plans, and his wisdom was reflected in the fact that, nearly twenty years on, the building still looked impressive.

Behind the building was the test track, weaving its way in and out of the trees.

He pulled up in front of a set of high gates that blocked the road, flanked on each side by a wire security-fence. That was de Villiers’ influence. A military-looking man with a neatly trimmed moustache and closely cropped grey hair stepped out. He straightened his black uniform and strode up to Wyatt’s car, staring down at him.

‘’Morning, guvnor. Who are yer here to see?’

‘Bruce de Villiers.’

‘And your name is . . .?’

‘Wyatt Chase.’

‘Very good then, Mr Chase. Would yer mind fillin’ in this form? I’ll just check with Mr de Villiers that you’ve an appointment.’

He handed Wyatt a clipboard. Wyatt gripped his hand and stared into his eyes.

‘I don’t have an appointment and he wouldn’t give me one if I asked for it.’

The man grinned. He leaned forwards and his voice softened.

‘I know you. Weren’t you driving as number two to Sartori last season? Your old man owned this place, didn’t ’e?’

‘Then my uncle was forced to sell.’

‘Yes, I read all about it in the paper. I’m sorry about yer uncle.’

He waved Wyatt on. ‘Good luck, Mr Chase.’

Wyatt pulled up outside the front entrance, his heart beating a little faster. This was a gamble and he knew it.

He guessed which office de Villiers would have taken - the one on the first floor with a sweeping view of the test track. He’d always liked that office. It had been his father’s.

He walked up the stairs and was glad to see it was too early for de Villiers’ secretary to be at her desk. One less obstacle to negotiate. Everything was neatly ordered, with no paper in evidence. Instead the desk was graced with the latest model of personal computer with a sophisticated laser printer. Again, hallmarks of de Villiers’ style - to use the very best of what was available.

De Villiers’ door was closed. Wyatt went up and rapped on it smartly.

‘Come in,’ a voice barked from inside.

Wyatt steeled himself. De Villiers raised his eyes from the computer monitor he’d been studying and looked up at him, then nodded his head.

‘Ja?’

‘I want the number two slot.’

‘You’ve got a bloody cheek, Wyatt Chase. I haven’t got time for inexperience. The answer’s no. Get it? No.’

Wyatt took a deep breath. ‘We think the same way. We want the same things. Give me a break.’

‘Look, man, you don’t listen, do you?’ There was a menac
ing tone in de Villiers’ voice now, but Wyatt ignored it. ‘Danny never gave me a car that was competitive.’

Wyatt wanted in. He wanted de Villiers behind him, de Villiers’ determination behind the cars he was racing.

‘I buy results, not excuses,’ de Villiers said. ‘I’m not taking chances - that’s why I’m not taking you.’

‘Then who the fuck are you going to take?’

De Villiers rose up, his hands resting loosely at his side. ‘I don’t believe this,’ he said, his hazel eyes narrowing.

‘Let me help you develop your new car on the track while you’re looking for a driver.’

‘Get out!’

‘Put my name on the list.’

De Villiers stared out over the track.

‘You only get one chance in Formula One,’ he said. ‘You’ve had yours. Now get out!’

The door slammed shut and de Villiers punched in some more commands on the keyboard. Wyatt Chase had spirit, and that he admired. Yes, he needed a number two, but he needed a driver who had a string of wins under his belt, not just one freak victory. Chase was just too much of a gamble, and a little too old for a beginner.

He remembered his own parting from McCabe, two weeks before - telling the bastard he was resigning and seeing the surprise on his face. Then watching the surprise turn to anger as he told him he was leaving to start a new team. McCabe had attacked him immediately. ‘You’ve got no chance, Bruce. It doesn’t matter how much money there is behind you, you haven’t got what it takes - you’re not going to win.’

It was McCabe’s smugness that had finally got to him. That McCabe didn’t ask him to stay, that McCabe thought that without his backing, he’d fail. Well, he’d show McCabe.

The evening before, he’d spent four hours in heated discussion with Ricardo Sartori. Sartori had agreed to drive for Calibre-Shensu for what was probably the highest price ever paid for a driver - a cost that made Bruce shudder. But then he had realised: he wasn’t working to a budget. There was only one objective - to win.

The phone rang. He snatched it up to hear his old employer, McCabe, on the other end of the line.

‘You’re a bastard, Bruce. Just listen to me. I’ll give you your old job back and you’ll have another year of winning. What’s your answer?’

‘I’ve got nothing to say.’

‘After all our years together, you treacherous bastard.’

‘Don’t speak to me like that, man.’

‘We had a contract. You broke it. I’ll make your name dirt with FOCA and FISA.’

‘I think you should concentrate on looking for a new manager,’ Bruce said very softly.

‘Go fuck yourself, de Villiers.’

The phone went dead.

Aito Shensu looked up from his desk as his personal assistant came into the office.

‘Professor Katana wishes to speak with you.’

‘He was not supposed to speak to me until Friday.’

‘He said it was very important - that you would want to know about it.’

‘Send him in, in five minutes.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Aito waited until the door was closed, then got up to go to the dressing-room situated next to the bathroom suite at the side of his office. He rumpled his hair slightly, and replaced his couturier suit with the official Shensu one. Shensu’s corporate colours were black and white. Every Shensu factory worker wore a black and white overall, as did every member of the research team.

Katana’s appointment to Shensu had been the result of an elaborate head-hunting exercise. Then professor of mechanical engineering at Tokyo University, Katana had been wooed to the company with the offer of developing a Formula One racing engine.

Aito adjusted his heavy, black-framed spectacles and then took his place behind his desk. A few moments later there was a knock at the door.

‘Come in.’

Professor Katana bustled in through the door, a sheaf of papers stuffed under his left arm. A short, lean man who radiated energy, he was smiling from ear to ear.

They both bowed. Katana’s sharp eyes, set in an ascetic face with perfectly proportioned features, probed Aito’s face fearfully.

‘Mr Shensu. I know we had a meeting scheduled for later in the week - but I had to see you.’

‘It is always good to meet with you, professor. What is it?’

‘First, the latest test results from the engine.’ He handed Aito a sheet of printed figures. ‘Just read this.’

Katana waited as Aito pored over the figures.

‘You are sure they are correct?’ Aito asked.