Eye of the Cobra

by Christopher Sherlock

  He looked at the framed portrait of James on the wall and decided he would appeal to Wyatt’s loyalty. Wyatt couldn’t desert Chase Racing, it was a family business; Danny owned half the equity and Estelle and Wyatt a quarter each. But he had never told Wyatt or Estelle about his financial difficulties; how, raising money against his share in the company, he had speculated in supermarkets and property - and done very badly.

  He had been elated when Wyatt returned from his ten-year sojourn in Japan, eager to begin racing again. He’d certainly proved his ability - winning the Spanish Grand Prix the previous season - and Danny had reasoned that with Wyatt he could pull more sponsors. But the people he approached had been sceptical about the twenty-seven-year-old with no track record. They preferred to back young drivers who’d proved themselves in Formula 3000, they said. They argued that Wyatt’s Spanish victory had been a matter of luck and not skill.

  Danny was surprised Wyatt hadn’t burned himself out - it had been a frustrating season for him. But instead it seemed he had more energy for racing than ever before. Dany knew that part of the problem with Wyatt was that he’d had to let Ricardo Sartori, the Formula One veteran and former world champion, drive the better of the cars. But that, and the ludicrously high fee he was paid, was the only reason Sartori stayed with the team. It was some sort of miracle that he was driving for them at all. Danny guessed that in his late thirties, money was more important to Ricardo than anything else.

  Of course Danny had wanted Wyatt to win. Thank God the car had lasted at least one race to give him a first place. But he couldn’t give Wyatt the best engines or the best chassis - those were kept exclusively for Ricardo. Wyatt’s machine was basically two years out of date and constantly breaking down . . .

  The door to the boardroom opened and closed softly, and his nephew was standing in front of him. Danny shifted back in his chair, avoiding Wyatt’s dark eyes. Wyatt was taller and leaner than he was.

  ‘Sit down, Wyatt, I want to talk.’

  Wyatt slid easily into one of the chairs at the far end of the table. Every movement was precise yet subtle, reminding Danny of James. He looked across at Wyatt’s enormous, calloused hands and thought, not for the first time, how much dedication it must have taken for his nephew to become the youngest Westerner ever to receive the Seventh Dan.

  He could sense from Wyatt’s stern expression that he wasn’t going to be easily swayed from his decision. The dark hair was as unruly as the man, and his eyebrows were knotted in concentration. He was wearing his customary black windcheater and jeans.

  Wyatt said nothing, forcing Danny to begin.

  ‘I read the paper,’ Danny said.

  Wyatt arched his eyebrows.

  ‘You’re telling me you’re surprised I’m leaving?’ His rich, deep voice was heavy with sarcasm, his contempt for his uncle thinly veiled.

  ‘You could have talked to me first, instead of smearing it all over the national dailies. I tried, dammit. You could at least have talked to me!’

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about. You’ve let me down - again and again and again! I would have qualified at Monaco if the bloody suspension hadn’t collapsed.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Wyatt. I didn’t have the resources. I had to put more into Sartori’s machine - Carvalho insisted on it.’

  ‘I’m not interested in your bullshit. My car was a dog.’

  Danny felt the hairs lifting on the back of his neck.

  ‘After all I’ve done for you . . . Look, I’ll ignore your insults. Let’s give it one more chance. It could be just like the old days with your father.’

  ‘That’s rich. He was the one who made the team a success. He carried you.’

  Danny smashed his fist hard down on the table.

  ‘You bastard!’

  Wyatt remained calm. ‘I don’t have to take your bullshit any longer. I want out. I’ve negotiated a deal to buy myself into a new French team.’

  Danny went white. ‘You don’t mean you want to sell your share of Chase?’

  ‘Of course I want to bloody sell. The money’ll buy me a decent drive. I’m not putting up with your incompetence any longer.’

  ‘But Wyatt, your father and I built up the business . . .’

  ‘Danny, I want to sell.’

  Danny went over to the wall-safe and fiddled with the combination. He swung back the door, nervously pulled out the document and handed it to Wyatt, who quickly ran his eyes over it.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me my mother owned a quarter of the team?’

  ‘I thought you knew.’

  Danny’s surprise wasn’t faked.

  Wyatt smiled stiffly. ‘I thought I had fifty per cent of it. Anyway, just pay me out.’

  ‘It’ll take a month or so. I’ll have to call in the auditors to work out the precise value of your shares.’

  He had to buy time, that was all there was to it. Danny leaned forward across his desk, trying to look relaxed. Perhaps he could still find another sponsor and then persuade Wyatt to reconsider his decision.

  ‘Look, if you should change your mind . . .’

  ‘Danny. I just want my money. And I want it fast.’

  Wyatt got up, walked out and slammed the door behind him.

  After days of anguish Danny felt the tide of events was finally turning in his favour.

  When Jack Phelps first approached him, he’d thought it was for old time’s sake. Phelps had asked him how the business was doing, and Danny made out he had plenty of money and had only kept Chase Racing so that Wyatt could have a drive - though now, of course, Wyatt was leaving.

  But Phelps had another agenda. He said he wanted to get involved in Formula One again, that he would sponsor the team. Danny had felt his spirits soar. He had always realised the strategic value of Chase Racing to anyone who wanted to get into Formula One in a hurry. James had built the company up out of love for the sport, but it had been very different in those days - not so much money and a far more select group of people involved. Now Formula One was an international business, ruthlessly competitive, with stiff rules and codes of conduct.

  Danny knew Phelps had become incredibly wealthy. It was only logical that the American should want to resume his sponsorship of the team, a sponsorship that had lapsed after James’s death. Danny knew Phelps would pump in the funds, just as he had in the past. And Phelps wouldn’t monopolise the sponsorship - Danny had just negotiated a deal with Ricardo Sartori that included the Carvalho sponsorship. He knew that with a better car and big enough backing, Sartori could quite easily win the world championship again.

  Danny had told no one of the possibility of Phelps becoming involved again. He wanted to keep it as a surprise, and anyway, he didn’t want any of the other Formula One teams to know that Phelps was interested in sponsoring a team.

  His secretary’s discreet knock on the door told him that Phelps had arrived. He would hold the discussions in the boardroom. He fastened the inner button of his double- breasted jacket and walked smartly to the door. Now for some hard bargaining.

  Jack Phelps leaned back and stretched his arms as Danny Chase finished his presentation. Good old Danny, the same weak-willed jerk James had carried all those years before.

  Jack had done his homework - he knew Chase Racing was a disaster-story. But of course, the potential was there: Chase Racing had its own test circuit just outside London, and plenty of good equipment. Jack wanted to move in, strip out the weaker layers of management and take control. Chase Racing was exactly the way he’d hoped to find it - run down and deep in debt. Besides, he had sentimental reasons for screwing the Chases. He and James Chase had been good partners in the sixties . . . then James had got too clever for his own good . . . After James’s death Jack had lost interest in the team - his other businesses had taken all his energy.

  His eyes swept around the oak-panelled boardroom and then looked out across the grey skyline.

  ‘Have you discussed my possible involvement with any of the guys on the t
eam?'

  Danny looked slightly put out. ‘I wanted to keep it a surprise.’

  ‘Don’t you think they might be a little pissed off at not being involved?’

  ‘Jack, I am Chase Racing. What I say, goes.’

  Danny was feeling confident. He could sense Phelps was eager to close the deal, and he wasn’t going to be pressurised.

  ‘With your nephew’s departure, you’ve only one driver left in the team . . .’ Jack stared hard at Danny Chase, loosening him up for the big punch.

  ‘I’ve just signed a contract tying in Ricardo and Carvalho,’ Danny said with satisfaction. ‘I’m not desperate for other sponsors.’

  ‘Listen, buddy. I’ve just bought and taken over Carvalho. The deal you signed is void.’

  Danny’s hand tightened on the coffee cup, and Phelps moved in. ‘Without that deal you’re bankrupt. I’m buying you out!’

  ‘I’m the owner and I'm not about to sell. . .’ Danny parried desperately.

  Phelps put his hands on his hips.

  ‘Oh, really? I’m sure Wyatt and Estelle will sell out to me.’

  Danny swayed on his feet. ‘No . . .’

  ‘Oh yes they will. Especially when they discover you’re a million pounds in the red. Without the Carvalho sponsorship you can’t roll your debt over. You’re finished.’

  ‘Oh God, Jack, be reasonable,’ Danny stammered, avoiding Phelps’s eyes. ‘The audited value of the business is one-and-a- half million pounds in assets alone.’

  Jack Phelps laid his hands on the smooth surface of the table. Then his voice filled the silence.

  ‘When you’re bankrupt, I’ll buy everything you’ve got, including this building, the test circuit and all your equipment. Wyatt and Estelle will get nothing.’

  Danny was shaking. Phelps had changed, or maybe he’d never really known the American that well. He needed James now, and James was dead.

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘You sell to me now - all your shares - and I promise I’ll pay out Wyatt and Estelle.’

  ‘How much?’ Danny stammered.

  Phelps grinned. He reached inside his jacket, taking out a stiff manilla envelope.

  ‘Your cheque,’ he said, tossing it onto the boardrooom table in front of Danny.

  Danny tore open the envelope and stared at the cheque.

  ‘Fifty thousand pounds! Jesus Christ!’

  ‘It’s a lot, lot better than fuck-all. Estelle and Wyatt’ll get the same. The other way, they’ll each be liable for a quarter of a million pounds of your bad debts when the business goes down.’

  Danny felt the room spinning. Phelps took out a printed agreement and laid it in front of him.

  ‘Sign here and here. Very good. Now please, I think it’s time you left.’

  Revenge felt sweet to Jack Phelps. He might never have got the better of James Chase, but he’d certainly screwed his brother.

  Wyatt ran his eyes over the woman in the too-short skirt at a nearby table in the crowded restaurant.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘now I get to be paid out in full for my share of Chase Racing.’

  An uncertain smile crossed Danny’s face.

  ‘As stipulated in my father’s will,’ Wyatt continued.

  Danny nervously pulled out an envelope and handed it to Wyatt, who tore it open.

  ‘Fuck! What’s this, a joke?’

  ‘Wyatt, we’re bankrupt.’ Danny blurted out what he’d been too scared to say during lunch. ‘The company was over a million pounds in debt. Jack Phelps bought out Carvalho last week and cancelled the sponsorship deal with Sartori. I couldn’t carry the debt over, I had to sell. I’ve never been any good with money. Our creditors would have annihilated us - they’d have taken you alone for over a quarter of a million. This way, at least you get something.’

  ‘Fifty thousand pounds. The French team want at least two hundred thousand if I’m to get a drive with them. Fifty thousand? Are you crazy?’

  ‘That’s all Phelps gave me.’

  ‘Phelps . . . You sold out to Jack Phelps! Carlos would have lent us the money. Why didn’t you ask him?’

  ‘Oh God, Wyatt, I couldn’t . . .’

  He watched Wyatt’s hands open and close against the tablecloth.

  ‘You jerk,’ Wyatt said.

  Danny got up. ‘Don’t you understand, I’m ruined.’

  Wyatt remained seated and looked up at his uncle with contempt. ‘Leave me alone. Just get out of here.’

  Danny sat in the darkened room and listened to the sounds of the traffic. He felt totally alone.

  Wyatt could at least have appreciated the fact that he’d saved him from debt . . .

  He eased the service revolver out of the top drawer and laid it on the desk top. Then he pulled out a piece of paper, switched on the lamp and began to write.

  It took him a while, and then he sat back, tears running from his eyes. All he’d wanted was a bit of bloody sympathy. Wyatt might as well have kicked him in the balls.

  He picked up the revolver, eased back the hammer, pushed the muzzle into his upper palate and squeezed the trigger.

  Wyatt felt almost as devastated as when his father had died. The emptiness was the worst part of it.

  Perhaps he should have gone easier on Danny. But he’d been furious, he’d just never thought Danny would take it that badly. He couldn’t help over-reacting in the restaurant - he’d been banking on the money from the business. With that money, he had calculated that he could buy a drive in the French team.

  Formula One racing was expensive, and for the top five teams with the biggest sponsors, money was in plentiful supply. But the other teams fought a continuous battle to raise enough cash to run their operation. If you had shown talent and were prepared to pay a substantial sum of money for the privilege, you could buy a drive with a team that was desperate for cash.

  Wyatt knew it would only take him a year to prove his worth. But now that option was closed. He could not afford to buy the drive. He could not borrow money from his stepfather, his mother would never allow Carlos to support Wyatt in the sport she hated so much.

  His chances of getting a drive in Formula One now looked about zero. Perhaps the lawyer facing him across the desk might turn the tables on Jack Phelps and get him his rightful inheritance.

  John Farqharson, QC, took off his reading-glasses and stared at the powerfully built man opposite him. He’d watched James Chase win at Monaco - he’d respected the man for his talent and his friendship. James’s death had come as a shock. Now, over ten years later, he was only too glad to offer assistance to his son.

  Wyatt, he reflected, might not look like his father but he had the same strength of character. John drew in a deep breath, for what he had to say was not particularly pleasant.

  ‘Wyatt. First, you mustn’t blame yourself for Danny’s suicide. I’m sorry, I understand how you feel, but it was his decision to take his life. And as to the other matter . . .

  ‘Frankly, you’d be throwing good money after bad. A cursory investigation reveals that under your uncle’s management Chase Racing was close to bankruptcy for years. If it hadn’t been Phelps, it would have been someone else.’

  Wyatt nodded grimly and rose. ‘Thank you for your time, John.’

  ‘Wyatt, a word of advice. You’re well clear of Phelps, he’s not a pleasant fellow. You’re like your father - I know you’ll make it.’

  When Wyatt left the Inns of Court, the sky was overcast and a light drizzle was falling. He thought of all the times his uncle had been with him during his childhood. If only he’d known how Danny was feeling inside. His father must have known the weaknesses in Danny’s character, that was why he’d always helped him.

  First his father’s death, now his uncle’s. And he had been instrumental in both. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  He took lunch at a nearby pub and then caught a cab to the cemetery.

  Wyatt nodded to a few close friends, then joined the pallbearers at the hearse
. He hadn’t gone to the burial service: the stark ritual appalled him - and he didn’t need to be reminded of his father’s death.

  The coffin was heavy. Danny had been a big man, but a weak one. Suicide, as far as Wyatt was concerned, was the coward’s way out; everything in his own life had driven him to confront danger, not to avoid it.

  It wasn’t a long walk to the grave and he felt relieved when they let the coffin into the ground. The priest gave a brief service and then Estelle took the spade and threw the first sods over the oak case.

  Wyatt stared at her. It was hard to believe she was his mother. She might be in her late forties, but she had the face and figure of a young woman. She was here on her own - Carlos wasn’t with her.

  She looked up and stared back at him - a hard, uncompromising stare. He couldn’t resist his feeling for her, and walked over. He kissed her on both cheeks, but her look did not soften.

  ‘Wyatt, why did you not come to the service?’

  ‘I had business . . .’

  ‘You are lying. You never tell me the truth.’

  She stood very close to him, the long blonde hair falling across her perfect shoulders and the tailored black suit accentuating her curvaceous figure. He loved her. He hated what he had done to her by killing James in the accident.

  Her blue eyes flashed, and she took his arm and guided him away from the rest of the party. He felt her strength, and he knew that she was as much a part of him as his father.

  Behind some trees, she let go of his hand, then in a flash she raised her own, attempting to slap him hard across the face. She didn’t get near; he blocked her instinctively with a blow that bruised her forearm - an action that hurt him deep inside.

  ‘Merde!’ she spat. ‘It is you who are responsible for this!’