Eye of the Cobra

by Christopher Sherlock

  His eyes wandered around the room. Everything was black.

  The walls had been specially prepared to his instructions: smeared in epoxy resin, they had been sprayed with tiny chips of black glass, so that the end result was a dark surface that sparkled in the intense light which illuminated the boardroom table. The table itself was a long oval of black marble. The room was designed to make people feel uneasy.

  ‘I’ve called you here because I’m angry,’ Phelps said quietly. A few of the men shifted uneasily in their chairs, and he waited a moment. Good. Let them worry that they might lose their coveted positions. Divide and rule was his modus operandi. No man who worked for him could ever feel secure.

  ‘This is one of the biggest operations in the world. We are known, we are respected, and above all, we are feared. But lately the distribution of our products has not been properly handled.’

  A thick-set, grey-haired man wearing dark-tinted glasses raised his hand to object.

  ‘Shut it, Ambrose. I know, you were going to give me a pathetic excuse. And I know what it is before you make it!’ Ambrose fidgeted nervously with a pen, not daring to make eye contact with Phelps.

  Phelps said: ‘Get out.’

  ‘But, Jack, you’re being unreasonable.’

  Phelps hated Ambrose’s strong southern accent. He found the long-drawn-out vowels intensely irritating.

  ‘I said that you would come here to listen to me. You dare to try and speak, to make some pathetic excuse for your failure. Then you sit here twiddling your thumbs. Distribution was your baby, Ambrose. Well, you fucked it up. Get out!’ Ambrose got up and walked out through the double doors, his shoulders hunched forwards. The doors closed behind him. Phelps waited for a moment, letting the fear take hold of everyone at the table.

  At last he said: ‘I will personally handle distribution for the next year. I will show you how it can be achieved faultlessly, without problems. At the same time I will examine each of your areas of operation. If any of you are found lacking you will follow Ambrose.’

  Phil Ambrose staggered towards the lift, his hands shaking. He noticed that Lauren was standing in front of the lift doors.

  ‘Mr Ambrose?’

  ‘I wanna leave, Lauren.’

  ‘The lift is locked till the end of the session.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  Ambrose had to wait for over an hour. Finally, the doors of the conference room opened and Phelps walked out. He ignored Ambrose and walked straight to the lift. As he was about to get in, he turned to Ambrose.

  ‘You will wait till everyone else has gone. I don’t want you holding up company business.’

  ‘You’re not gonna get away with this, Jack. I know things about yew . . .’

  Phelps turned his back on Ambrose and got into the lift. The other men waited in the lobby. It was a rule that no one moved till Phelps had left the building, a rule that was never questioned.

  Ambrose found his office stripped. Sitting outside was a new secretary in place of his own. He stared hard at her.

  ‘Where are my things?’

  ‘They’ve been trashed,’ she replied with a sly smile.

  ‘I demand to see . . .’

  Two security men approached from the passage. ‘Sir, you must leave the building.’

  The secretary held her smile.

  Ambrose made to resist, and the larger of the two men gripped his arms firmly.

  ‘Out, sir. Now.’

  A few minutes later he staggered out of the revolving doors of Phelps Plaza and took one final look up at its mirrored walls. Then he began to calculate how he’d get his revenge. He did not see a tall, blond man drop into step behind him.

  Yes, with the things he knew about Phelps, he could cause a lot of trouble. Big trouble.

  The light turned to green and he stepped off the pavement.

  He never saw the car coming fast from the side-street, but he felt the punch that hammered into his back, and staggered forwards. As far as the watching pedestrians were concerned, he walked right into the speeding car.

  The Pan American jet touched down at Narita airport in Tokyo at nineteen hundred hours. Aito Shensu, owner and founder of Shensu, one of Japan’s biggest car manufacturers, stood on the tarmac waiting for the first-class passengers to disembark. He was dressed simply but expensively in a hand- tailored dark suit. He hated to admit it, but he was nervous. He didn’t have much time. The deal that Phelps had proposed had to go through.

  Aito Shensu was of medium build, with a lean, athletic body. His smooth skin and chiselled features gave him the appearance of a man in his early fifties, though in reality he was over seventy. He stood straight and moved determinedly.

  As he caught sight of his distinguished visitor, his mouth broke into a smile, revealing his pearl-white teeth. He walked slowly across the tarmac, his two personal assistants trailing him, and stopped at the base of the gangway and stood at ease.

  As Phelps walked down the steps, it struck Aito that he looked the typical American, well-groomed, tall and exuding confidence. Perhaps he looked a little like Richard Nixon?

  ‘My pleasure, Mr Phelps.’

  He bowed. Phelps followed suit - rather awkwardly. Aito knew how much he needed what this man had, but he did not want Phelps to realise this. Letting your competitors sense your weakness gave them an advantage - and for the moment Jack Phelps was competition.

  ‘You will follow me please, Mr Phelps. Special arrangements have been made for your convenience. Please hand your belongings to my men. It is not correct that you should have to carry them.’

  ‘As you say,’ Phelps replied gruffly.

  They walked briskly across the tarmac towards a section of the customs and were greeted courteously by the officials. Phelps showed his passport, its examination a mere formality, and his briefcase went through unexamined. Aito Shensu smiled at him yet again.

  ‘I have informed the officials that you are a very important man. Jack Phelps, Tokyo welcomes you.’

  Aito’s English was faultless, with only a faint accent.

  ‘I am most impressed by your welcome.’

  ‘Now we travel to your hotel.’

  Phelps felt better every minute. A relationship that had started six months ago, with a short phone conversation, had blossomed. Phelps was now confident of signing a deal with Shensu to co-sponsor a new Formula One racing team.

  The benefits would be mutual. Jack wanted Shensu’s technology - their engines and their design ability. He was offering a complete Formula One team in the UK, Chase Racing, and one of the world’s greatest racing-drivers - Ricardo Sartori. He had just signed up Bruce de Villiers, the ex-manager of McCabe, whose team had won the driver’s and constructor’s championships for the last three seasons. As Jack knew, although the driver’s championship was the one that the world really cared about, to the teams whose life was racing, the constructor’s trophy was the highest accolade.

  The prize for Jack was publicity for his cigarette brand, Calibre Lights - advertising that he couldn’t buy for love or money elsewhere. It was also an opportunity for him to promote his latest acquisition, Carvalho, Brazil’s largest tyre company. Carvalho was a rapidly expanding concern, and Phelps was determined both to challenge the international tyre giants who dominated Formula One, and to develop new markets.

  For Aito Shensu, the benefits of the collaboration were clear-cut - the whole deal would be excellent publicity for Shensu, making it the world’s leading motor manufacturer and the new driving force in the hotly contested world of Formula One.

  And Jack had another ace in his pocket. He’d had long discussions with Alain Hugo of FISA, the world governing body of Formula One, and with Ronnie Halliday of FOCA, the Formula One Constructors’ Association. Both men were deeply concerned at the way the McCabe team had dominated the previous season; audience levels were dropping, and sponsors were grumbling that the sport was becoming boring.

  Both Hugo and Halliday were keen on Phelps’s
plan to challenge McCabe’s dominance in the sport, and they sanctioned his buy-out of Chase Racing, its possible name-change, and the liaison with Shensu.

  Aito Shensu ran his hand over the soft leather upholstery of the car they were now travelling in and looked directly, penetratingly, into Phelps’s eyes.

  ‘This is another Shensu product. Our finest. A worthy competitor for Mercedes-Benz, Rolls-Royce and BMW?’

  ‘A worthy competitor. In fact, I have just ordered this model.’

  Phelps was not lying. The Shensu Fuji was the car the world’s toughest motoring critics could not stop talking about. At last, it was said, the Japanese had produced a luxury machine which surpassed the great European marques.

  ‘Quality is all-important in our new venture. I would rather wait another year than go into Formula One with an uncompetitive team.’

  ‘Yes. Naturally,’ Phelps grunted. ‘But you have no need for concern, I have the best of everything for you. Our tie-up will create a stir in the racing business. I can tell you that many teams are already apprehensive, even though our association is still only a rumour. I look forward to our partnership.’

  ‘But first you must enjoy Tokyo.’

  The car drew up outside the Okura, Tokyo’s smartest hotel. Porters rushed from everywhere, vying for the chance to carry Phelps’s luggage.

  Aito Shensu bowed deferentially to him. ‘I will give you a few hours to freshen up. Then we will paint the town red?’ Phelps smiled enigmatically, and Aito frowned. ‘Did I say something wrong?’

  ‘No. It’s just that it’s an English expression. I’m sure there’s a better Japanese saying.’

  ‘Ah. Let the evening be proof of that.’

  ‘Well, I only wish I could speak Japanese as well as you speak English.’

  ‘You do me a great honour. I will return at eight.’

  As Phelps went up in the lift, he noticed the absence of a fourth floor. He knew from his researches that in Japanese the number ‘four’ was pronounced in the same way as the word ‘death’, and was therefore considered unlucky. Thus buildings never had a fourth floor, and sets of anything like pens or teacups never came in fours.

  He went to his room, took a quick shower, and then opened his suitcase. He took out a variety of pills and liquid concoctions, downed a selection of these and then lay down on the bed to sleep. He set his alarm clock for seven forty-five.

  He was dressed and ready when he received a call at seven fifty-nine to say that Mr Shensu was waiting for him in reception.

  As he’d expected, Shensu was wearing a different suit.

  ‘Ohaiyo gozaimasa, Aito-san. Good day Aito,’ Phelps greeted him.

  ‘Anato no nihongo ga jozu desune. Your Japanese is very good,’ Aito replied. It wasn’t. Aito was just being a polite, well-mannered Japanese.

  Phelps stared into his dark eyes and tried to find the reality behind the mask. He wasn’t rewarded with even the smallest clue.

  A chauffeur drove them away from the hotel in a Shensu limousine. First they went to the Caffe Bongo, a surrealist cafe on the ground floor of the store Parco. Jack stared at the bizarre combination of architectural styles, from minimalist to classical; above him was suspended a silver aeroplane wing and an engine. He was offered a baffling array of drinks and was surprised by how much alcohol Aito consumed.

  There was a war of wills taking place. Aito watched with amusement as Jack tried to match him drink for drink. He knew from past experience that no Westerner could match his capacity for alcohol. It was an advantage he had used on many occasions to weaken the tongue of a prospective gaijin client.

  From the Caffe Bongo they drove to Shiruyoshi, a restaurant with a reputation for serving first-class Japanese food in a distinctly Western atmosphere that appealed to tourists and foreign businessmen like Jack Phelps. They enjoyed tempura and kaiseki with a bottle of saki, from which Aito drank steadily. The dark eyes never lost their intensity.

  At the end of the meal Jack was feeling unsteady on his feet. He could hardly credit the amount of alcohol Aito had consumed, without any apparent effect.

  ‘Now for some real entertainment, Jack.’

  Their next stop was a very, very exclusive club. As Jack had expected, the hostesses were beautiful, but he was wise to the ways of Japanese business and knew he would need all his energy and all his wits about him for the next few days of intense negotiation.

  ‘Aito, I am tired after my flight.’

  ‘I am a bad host. I apologise. We’ll go back to your hotel.’ Round one to me, thought Jack. He knew the routine: drunk and sated, he would have talked, maybe a little too freely, to one of the girls. His revelations would then immediately have been reported to Aito Shensu. On his own territory he would have enjoyed one of these women, but here he was on dangerous ground and the stakes were high. He needed this deal far more than Aito - and he certainly didn’t want the astute Japanese magnate to know that . . .

  He collapsed on his bed at three that morning. Aito would collect him at seven. He downed some more pills and prepared himself for another brief sleep.

  The next day was an intense and exhausting series of meetings with different members of Shensu’s senior management team. Jack was impressed by the research and development that had already gone into Shensu’s Formula One programme; the engines and gearboxes had been thoroughly tested. He wondered just how hard Aito Shensu would be when the time came to negotiate the deal.

  Aito Shensu sat in his office, poring over a long series of reports on Phelps Co.. However, more interesting by far was the story of Jack Phelps himself. The man was the very essence of the American dream - a boy from Brooklyn who had made good in the motor spares business, eventually listing his company on the stock exchange and embarking on a meteoric succession of mergers and takeovers. There was no doubting Phelps’s financial credentials - though the current low trading price of Phelps Co. shares was of some concern. As to Phelps’s own personal financial health, Aito could not access any information.

  Phelps had never married, but had courted most of New York’s society beauties as well as a few film stars. This might explain his lack of interest in the women the previous evening, Aito reasoned. Clearly, a man who could have his pick of that sort of woman would not be interested in such entertainment.

  The rest of Jack Phelps’s life was shrouded in mystery. He only kept a few loyal men close to him, and they could not be bought. His passion for motor-racing had started at an early age when he had competed in his own machine on the American circuit. After that came his Formula One sponsorship in the seventies under the Calibre brand.

  There was more to Jack Phelps than these papers could tell him, of that Aito Shensu was certain.

  There was a knock at his office door and his secretary came in. ‘Mr Mishima wishes to see you.’

  ‘In five minutes.’

  Once his secretary had left, Aito rose from his desk and walked through a door at the back of his office. He entered a mirrored walk-in cupbard that led through to an en suite bathroom. The cupboard contained many different outfits, and Aito now changed out of his elegant suit and into one that was identical, but slightly more worn-looking. He also changed his tie for a less distinguished one, and his glasses for an older pair. Thus dressed, he returned to his desk and pushed the intercom buzzer.

  Mr Mishima entered the office and bowed low. He was a short, bald man who in some ways resembled the great humanist, Ghandi. The perfect employee, reflected Aito; a man whose loyalty he would never question.

  Aito bowed slightly, then gestured for Mishima to sit down at his desk. ‘How is he?’ he asked.

  ‘This American giant does not tire,’ Mishima said.

  ‘Take him to the research and development centre. Then take him to dinner with the development team. I want him to know just how far our development of the Formula One engine has progressed. But do not mention our design link-up or the progress we have made in that direction. Tell him I will see him at his hotel at
six tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  When Mishima had left, Aito Shensu leant back in his chair and let his mind wander. He would dearly have liked to run the team on his own, but Shensu was a public company and he was accountable to his shareholders and his board of directors. From his investigations he realised that the top teams in Formula One operated on unlimited budgets, and to embark on such a venture alone would be considered extravagant by his board, especially when rival Japanese manufacturers had already proved they could work successfully with European teams.

  Shensu had already invested a small fortune on the development of an engine chassis and gearbox. By going to the board with another partner to shoulder the burden of further research, he would have more funds available to compete at the top end of Formula One.

  Phelps would be totally exhausted by the time they came to tie up the deal. Aito planned to structure it with maximum benefit to Shensu . . . Yes, everything was proceeding as he’d planned.

  Jack was more and more excited by what he saw. After inspecting Shensu’s engine development facility he was pretty sure that it must be amongst the finest in the world. He also knew that this was Shensu’s tenth year of building racing engines, but that they had never competed outside Japan.

  The test area looked like a high-technology cathedral - a huge, airy room with gigantic stainless-steel pillars soaring upwards to a glass roof. Shafts of sunlight shone down onto a podium that looked like an altar. Noise reverberated through the room, more like a spiritual chant than the sound of machinery.

  The glass and metal reflected the sunlight, creating a rainbow of grey and silver colours that seemed to flash before his eyes. The size of it, the financial investment it represented, took Jack’s breath away. He had to have these engines.

  There were ten on test, all V12s of 3500 cc capacity, thundering away without a break. These units were forced to perform under the same loading and changing revs as an engine in a Formula One Grand Prix. A bank of computers transmitted information so that each engine was loaded and stressed appropriately.