Eye of the Cobra

by Christopher Sherlock

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘’E left a note for me. ’E said you treated him like a dog and he was ashamed.’

  Her throaty voice tore at him. ‘It’s not my fault that he was a failure,’ he said defensively.

  ‘’E loved you. ’E kept that team for you. You broke him, saying those things!’

  Wyatt felt terrible, but contrived to appear cold and unmoved, unable to display the deep emotion he felt inside.

  ‘And what did you think I felt,’ he said, ‘when you accused me of killing Father? How do you think I felt?’

  She stood her ground. Most women were afraid of him when he was angry, but she was different, she always had been.

  ‘You are strong, Wyatt. But you should have cared. Don’t lie to yourself. You killed Danny with your words, as you killed James with your driving.’

  Wyatt gripped her arms and drew her to him. He wanted her to say that she cared for him. Deep down, he still hurt from the things she’d said over ten years before.

  ‘It was an accident.’ He enunciated each word bitterly.

  ‘You were driving too fast. That’s what the police said.’

  He let go of her hands, breathing deeply. ‘You can’t really blame me for Danny’s suicide?’

  ‘My God, Wyatt, do you think I am a fool? I can guess what you said to him. Don’t you understand, he was no match for Jack Phelps. He was just trying to do his best for you, as he always did. Danny loved you!’

  ‘I know, but I couldn’t forgive him for wrecking the business.’

  ‘He wanted you to stay with him, help build it up again.’

  ‘I need to win. Chase Racing was losing.’

  ‘Oh, it is so simple for you, is it not? There are winners and losers. It’s just bad luck if you happen to be a loser . . .’

  ‘I wanted a competitive drive, not a lame dog.’

  ‘Is this the way they taught you to behave in Japan?’

  He turned away from her and walked into the trees. He’d had enough.

  She called after him. ‘Wyatt, you’re not a man. You don’t have any feelings. I don’t want to see you again unless you can learn to feel.’

  The rain began to fall. A chapter of his life was closed for ever.

  Sunday January 6th

  Bogota

  Colombia

  From the shelter of the doorway, Kruger watched the front doors of the church and glanced down at his wrist-watch. Nine o’clock. The bastard should be coming out any moment now.

  He drew up the zip on the black windcheater and watched the vapour rise as his breath hit the cold air. His right hand felt inside the airways carry-bag that hung from his shoulder and touched the ice-cold metal of the barrel of the Browning Hi-Power.

  Across the road, near the doors of the church, stood one of Ortega’s two bodyguards - smart suit, dark glasses, and an Uzi carbine in his hands. A faint smile crossed Kruger’s face. This was better than he had hoped for: he had been briefed to pull off a stylish job, but this was going to be good fun. ‘Arsehole,’ he said very quietly as he looked over at the other bodyguard, who was waiting in a doorway to his left.

  In his ear, the tiny hearing-aid crackled. ‘We’re ready for him.’

  Kruger smiled again. Two other men besides himself were to assist in the assassination; both were on the rooftops and armed with untraceable South African-made R4 assault rifles. Good men.

  A woman walked past, a tiny child following her.

  ‘Get out the fucking way . . .’ Kruger willed them on, out of the killing-field. He had to admit it was fucking dangerous. But that was the brief - to hit the bastard close to home. There was no questioning this kill, it was logical and correct. This man deserved to be terminated, along with all the vermin who worked for him.

  It gave Kruger satisfaction that few of the professionals would have taken this job. Ortega was dangerous. Kruger knew that even if he killed him, Ortega’s men would exact their revenge on whoever had dared to take his life.

  The church door opened and the smile went from Kruger’s face. The headphones crackled into life.

  ‘Condition red.’

  His hand closed around the butt of the pistol and he started to drop down very slowly, ready to sprint. Other men would have used a rifle or a machine-gun, but Kruger preferred a pistol. He liked to get in close, to deliver what he defined as a guaranteed termination.

  First out of the church were the women and children; the men would be talking to each other inside. The sound of the church bells filled the air, and for a moment Kruger was reminded of his own childhood, the lonely farm and the little close-knit town.

  Ortega was coming out, flanked by his wife and two other women. Shit.

  Kruger knew it was now or never. His two assistants were ready to open fire the moment he gave the command.

  ‘Go!’ he screamed into the microphone concealed in the lapel of his windcheater.

  He pushed his feet hard against the tarmac, every nerve in his body keyed up. He saw the bodyguard across the road clutch at his chest and crumple to the ground - he couldn’t see the other one, but guessed he’d gone the same way.

  The women were parting, he was closing, drawing, levelling, seeing the fear in Ortega’s eyes. Ortega’s wife was coming across his line of fire, silly bitch.

  Crack.

  Ortega’s wife’s face erupting in blood . . .

  Crack.

  The woman collapsing . . . Ortega reaching for his handgun ...

  Crack.

  Ortega clutching at his chest . . .

  Crack. Crack. Crack.

  Ortega dead.

  Kruger felt coherent thought return as he sprinted behind the church and onto the waiting motorcycle-scrambler. He smelt the fresh air. It was over.

  Half an hour later a car drew up outside the back door of the church. The door opened cautiously and a man slipped out, darting into the back seat of the car. He whispered a command to the driver, who pulled away very slowly.

  The man dropped down below the level of the window, and cursed silently. It had been planned so carefully, but of course they’d had to take the risk with his wife. It wouldn’t have looked authentic unless she’d been there.

  Ortega grunted. He was now officially ‘dead’, the price had been his wife’s life and the life of the actor who’d impersonated him. Still, it had been a small price to pay. Now he, Emerson Ortega, owner of the biggest drug cartel in South America and perhaps one of the wealthiest men in the world, was free from persecution by the CIA.

  His wife’s life - a small price to pay for such security.

  And the actor, well, he’d earned his fee.

  February

  Wyatt read the headline in a rage. ‘Jack Phelps Set To Inject Power Into Chase Racing!’ Phelps had really put one over Danny. And now Wyatt was sitting without a drive in Formula One, and with a pittance of a pay-out for his share.

  He could not get a drive. He’d knocked on every door, but without money in his pocket, no one was interested. He’d have to go into Formula 3000 for a year - and that was a step backwards. The natural step up was a second year in Formula One. And he knew that a lot of people who made it in Formula 3000 never made it in Formula One. He didn’t want to be one of those drivers. He’d be twenty-nine next year, he hadn’t got time to play around.

  Wyatt knew he could win the Formula One championship. He’d already proved he could finish in a totally uncompetitive and unreliable machine. He’d even won one Grand Prix in it.

  He wondered who Phelps would choose as the new team manager - Danny had traditionally taken that role, though with a hands-off approach that appalled most people. He just wasn’t around when decisions needed to be taken, or if he was available, he spent hours deliberating over a decision that needed to be made in seconds. Jack Phelps had said he was determined that the team would win the championship, so he’d be looking for a manager who was one of the top men in the business.

  Phelps had already strafed the
staff at Chase Racing, firing nearly seventy per cent of them. He was clearly intent on gearing up with the best people money could buy.

  Bruce de Villiers sat in the back of the restaurant, sipping a glass of red wine. He looked through the letter again and stared across at the room, a faraway look on his face. It was a hard face that gave little away; clean-shaven, the skin slightly pitted, so that he looked his age - forty-three. His brown- blond hair was tousled unevenly across his forehead even though he had made every effort to comb it back. The hand that held the glass of wine was scarred and strong.

  He had come a long, long way since he had worked as Reg Tillson’s assistant at Chase Racing. He remembered those years well, and the way he’d pushed himself to the top of the Formula One ladder.

  His hazel eyes scanned the typewritten pages for a third time. It was time to break off his contract with McCabe. He was the manager of the winning Formula One team - but that was all he was. He didn’t have complete control of the operation; he didn’t have a shareholding in the company - all he got was a salary plus incentive payments. He knew he could get a better deal.

  He raised his eyes and thumped the table so that the china rattled. Several people looked round, and a waiter was over in seconds. Bruce de Villiers liked things done properly and bad service was something that really annoyed him.

  ‘Another glass of wine, man.’

  He looked down again at the letter. It was more than words on a flimsy piece of paper, it was a step into the unknown.

  There was a typing error on the fourth page. It irritated him. Bruce de Villiers, for all his apparent lack of sophistication, was, and always would be, a perfectionist. He looked up again and saw a minor commotion at the entrance to the restaurant.

  Bruce watched Jack Phelps as he swept past the tables. Phelps had the sort of face you knew you’d seen before, a strong face, with partially greying hair that came far down the forehead and was then swept slickly back. He was immaculately groomed in a hand-tailored double-breasted suit. Though he was over six foot six, it was his face, not his height that left the lasting impression - a face that reflected formidable determination and, above all, power.

  Phelps’s eyes locked on Bruce’s.

  ‘Bruce, how are you?’

  ‘Good to see you, Jack.’

  They shook hands and Bruce measured the American’s grip. In his native South Africa the handshake was a subtle test of a man’s virility and will-power. Phelps passed the assessment with flying colours. He remembered Phelps from Chase Racing, ten years before, but the man had changed with success; he was more confident now.

  They exchanged pleasantries and ordered lunch. It was only over dessert that Phelps leaned in a little closer and got down to business.

  He knew de Villiers was a different animal from himself. He had grown up on a wine farm in the Cape - an ambitious young man who wanted more than to inherit the farm that had been in his family since the eighteenth century. Phelps had decided that the only way to deal with de Villiers was to put his cards on the table. The man had to trust him, they had to work as a team. There wouldn’t be much time: de Villiers would be under great pressure from the moment they signed an agreement.

  The coffee arrived and Jack poured for both of them. His attention was caught by de Villiers’ hands and arms, and de Villiers noticed.

  ‘I started fixing tractors at the vineyard,’ he said, smiling. Then it was racing-cars at the weekends. My father used to beat me when I went to the races. But man, once the grease gets into your skin it never really gets out.’

  ‘How did you get into Formula One?’

  ‘I wanted to be a driver. I still want to be a driver. But you know, there’s always this little voice telling me I’m not good enough. I won some minor events in South Africa, but I realised I was better at making racing-cars, so I thought, if I can’t be in the driver’s seat, at least I can set up his car. I came here to England because that’s the centre of Formula One.’

  ‘So you became a Grand Prix mechanic - Reg’s number two at Chase Racing . . .’

  ‘Ja. And then I found that people came to respect me. They listened when I gave advice.’

  Phelps had read a lot about de Villiers, about how the rough accent and behaviour concealed a sharp mind that missed nothing. It was de Villiers’ fanatical attention to detail, and his ability to manage people, that made him the best Formula One manager in the business.

  ‘Jack, my man, I must make one thing perfectly clear to you. I’m only in this business to win.’

  Jack laid his immaculately manicured hands on the tablecloth.

  ‘You are a very direct guy, Bruce. I like that. You know much about me?’

  ‘You’ve always been into racing - you sponsored Chase the last time I worked with you. You own the world’s biggest tobacco company.’

  Jack took a sip from his coffee and stared at a passing London taxi. How things had changed, he reflected.

  ‘I started with nothing,’ he said quietly. ‘No education, no money. I vowed that I’d never be poor again, that men would respect me for myself. I, like you, Bruce, enjoy winning. I have never failed, and I will not tolerate failure. I want to win in our first season. No, not one race. The whole championship.’

  Bruce watched Phelps. He had to trust this man. He had to be sure that Phelps was totally committed to his Formula One venture.

  ‘So you’ll keep pumping in the cash?’

  ‘Whatever it takes to win, Bruce.’

  Bruce felt a charge of excitement surge through him. This was the opportunity of a lifetime - more than that, it was a chance to be his own man. Then his heart plummeted. There was his contract with McCabe. He was locked in for the next three years.

  ‘Listen, man. I’ve got commitments to McCabe.’

  Jack held up his hands and smiled.

  ‘Commitments are made to be broken. I want the best, and you are the best.’

  Bruce stared at him, weighing him up. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I will buy out your contract - and you will owe me nothing except your determination to win the championship. You’ll earn twice what you’re getting with McCabe and you’ll get twenty per cent equity in the team.’

  Bruce whistled softly. Phelps didn’t mess around.

  ‘You have a deal, man.’

  The stretch-limo pulled up alongside the huge New York office tower. The chauffeur stepped out and moved quickly round to open the rear door, then stood to attention.

  Jack Phelps stepped out, not even looking at the chauffeur. His eyes were shielded by a pair of dark glasses. Irritated, he glanced down at his Piaget watch, then dismissed the chauffeur with a wave of his hand, and strode towards Phelps Plaza. Several pedestrians had to get rapidly out of his way: no one ever stood in Jack Phelps’s path.

  The doors to the office tower opened automatically as he approached them, and a smartly dressed negro in a white suit stepped forward.

  ‘They’re waiting for you on the top floor, Mr Phelps, sir.’

  ‘Is everyone present, Royston?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You will make sure that we are not interrupted?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Royston opened the door to the private lift and, with relief, watched Phelps disappear into it.

  In the twenty years Royston had worked for Phelps he had learned to both respect and fear him. Phelps, he reflected, was like a bull-terrier: vicious - all six feet six inches of him. He kept very fit, and always cut an imposing figure in impeccable clothes. His smooth, dark, slightly greying hair was combed sharply back, exposing a definite widow’s peak and heavy dark eyebrows. The lips were thin and defiant, the nose a shade too large, the jawline ruthlessly straight. Women, Royston had noticed, found him irresistible . . .

  Phelps looked at himself in the lift mirror. Not a hair out of place, the way he liked to look. The pressure didn’t show on his face, that was good. The problems in the Middle East, and the worsening United States ec
onomy hadn’t been good for business; then there was that British journalist bitch, Vanessa Tyson, with her damning report on smoking. On top of that, his company was being sued in three different court cases for the effects of secondary smoking. Phelps’s empire, Phelps Co., was in serious trouble. He’d been diversifying out of the tobacco business and had made many new acquisitions, all of which he intended to underwrite through new share issues. Now Phelps Co. shares were trading at an all-time low, and there was no way the market would support a new issue.

  He wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief. It was always the same, a tough fight to stay on top. But he had the means to stay in the market, a way of raising vast amounts of cash, quickly and efficiently.

  And now everything was in place for the development of a much larger operation, one with enormous potential. He took a deep breath and prepared for action . . .

  In the foyer Royston watched the light flash, indicating that the lift had reached the top floor. Royston reflected that while Phelps could charm anyone, he could also destroy them.

  Royston turned the key in the control panel and stood rock-solid next to the lift doors. As usual, Phelps had made quite sure that he was totally in control of the situation.

  Phelps stepped out of the lift on the fiftieth floor and stared across at the brunette in the dark suit.

  ‘Lauren, is everything in order?’

  ‘Yes,sir. They’re waiting for you.’

  He stared for a moment at her muscular legs sheathed in black nylon, then replied, ‘Make sure that the whole discussion is recorded.’

  ‘Naturally, sir. Is there anything else you require?’

  ‘That will be all.’

  He walked past her and through the black lacquered doors that led into the private conference room. There was a heated discussion in progress around the big black table. It stopped the moment he entered.

  He waited a few moments in the doorway, looking up and down the lines of faces, making eye-contact with everyone, enjoying the chilling quietness. Yes, they were all afraid. He closed the doors behind him and took his place at the head of the table. He scanned the faces once more. Royston was correct, they were all there.