Eye of the Cobra

by Christopher Sherlock

  Bruce de Villiers’ words seemed out of place in the boardroom of one of Japan’s largest corporations, but the man opposite de Villiers did not seem perturbed. Wyatt looked across to Aito Shensu. He stared into Aito’s eyes and felt the power of them. The bond was still there - Aito had forgiven him for leaving - but then Aito was drawing him back. Aito was challenging him. Eventually Wyatt looked back at Bruce de Villiers and broke the long silence.

  ‘I can take anything you give, Bruce.’ Wyatt felt his spirits soaring. ‘Why are you asking me?’

  ‘You’ve got a drive with Calibre-Shensu.’ Bruce swallowed as he spoke. He hadn’t wanted Chase, but Aito had insisted. In a way, that left no room for negotiation.

  Two hours later they signed the deal. Aito was in a reflective mood.

  ‘I was under pressure from the board to choose a Japanese driver,’ he said. ‘I did a lot of thinking. I told them about you, Wyatt; that you were Japanese in spirit. You understand us and our culture, you understand we are centred here - he gestured to his stomach, ‘ - not here - he gestured to his heart.

  Bruce looked puzzled not knowing that to the Japanese the stomach, or hara, is the emotional centre, the role Westerners assign to the heart. Bruce leaned forward. ‘I’m not totally happy about this. Contractually, I have to accept your appointment, and so does Jack Phelps. It was Aito’s decision. But I don’t know if you’ve got what it takes, Wyatt. You’ve got a lot to prove. We want to be in the front all the way. The theory goes that it’s twenty-five per cent car, twenty-five per cent team, twenty-five per cent tyres and twenty-five per cent driver. I’m going to give you that seventy-five per cent, so don’t come looking for excuses.’

  When Wyatt and Aito had left, Bruce de Villiers walked over to the big window overlooking the busy Rappongi district. He couldn’t explain why, but he felt slightly more confident about Wyatt Chase than he had done before. Perhaps he was seeing things that he’d just never taken the trouble to notice.

  He would keep pushing Wyatt, forcing him to cram into a month what it often took some drivers years to learn. And he knew that if he helped Wyatt to win, he’d hold him. As for Ricardo Sartori, that was another matter.

  He lay on the beach, contemplating the dark hair covering his flat, bronzed stomach. A ball of sweat ran down his forehead and he turned over lazily.

  ‘Maria!’

  The big girl sauntered out of the beach house, naked, walking a little gingerly over the hot sand. Her body was as dark as his and her figure just as firm.

  He stared past her at the glittering waters of the Aegean. This was paradise. The sun warmed and revitalised him. He wished the moment could last forever.

  She knelt over him and massaged his back. He felt the last knots of tension disappear as her hands worked carefully down his spine.

  Then, just when he thought it had gone, the nightmare vision returned. He was on the track in Detroit, coming into the first corner after the main straight. His foot was pumping the brake pedal, but there was nothing there. He was closing too fast, losing control, crashing into the concrete barrier.

  It was all redness and pain. Blackness beckoned, and he resisted it.

  ‘No! No!’

  He couldn’t get it out of his mind.

  ‘I hurt you?’ Maria asked softly.

  He signed and looked out across the blue waters, narrowing his eyes. This villa on Skiathos had been a dream for a long time. He had bought it the previous year, but spent little time here since then. The racing circuit was demanding.

  World champion. He had been world champion. But that was in the past. Since then, the fear had crept into his soul slowly, insidiously, but steadily. In a way, he wished he could give up. But he was greedy, as each season brought more money, more sponsorships and more fame. And this season it would net him twenty million dollars. Please God, he had to win for that.

  He was addicted to one other passion besides racing - women. He could never have enough of them. Yet he had not found one he truly loved. He needed someone to trust, but there was no one. He had no family. Nothing.

  Another girl appeared. Helena worked in the villa as a maid during the day and sometimes entertained him at night. She was a tall, lithe girl who moved beautifully on a windsurfer and was as wild in bed as a storm on the Aegean.

  ‘Telegram for you, Ricardo.’

  He pushed the big girl off him into the sand and got up. He liked women, and he had never had much problem getting them, but he found it difficult to keep them. Perhaps, he reflected, that was why he had never found a wife.

  He tore the envelope open and saw that the telegram was in English. He hoped it was not another request to return to London. He had only come to the island yesterday, having signed the contract with Calibre-Shensu. He read it quickly. ‘Second driver is Wyatt Chase. Will explain when you are in England. Calibre-Shensu. Bruce de Villiers.’

  He felt himself shaking with laughter. Was de Villiers crazy? Wyatt Chase - inexperienced and hot-headed. He’d only got a drive because his uncle Danny had owned Chase Racing. He’d heard a rumour that there was some proviso in Wyatt’s father’s will that Wyatt had to get a drive if he wanted it. Ricardo had thought Danny was lucky when Wyatt pulled out, and most of the other drivers had doubted that Wyatt would ever compete in Formula One again. What the hell was de Villiers doing, giving Chase a drive?

  He ran into the sea and started to do a fast crawl, pushing his body to the limit: he had to be fit for the next season. He knew that he had enough stamina to keep racing competitively for the next five years at the very least. The pain of the hard swim blotted out the last traces of the nightmare of the accident, and he thought again about Chase. De Villiers must be crazy to choose an inexperienced driver as his second.

  He skirted some rocks and then pulled himself out of the water onto an isolated pier. He lay back on the wooden planking and looked up at the brilliant blue sky.

  He knew very little about Wyatt Chase - the man was very much a loner - but he surmised that Chase must be soft. After all, he came from a wealthy family, so he hadn’t had to fight to get where he was; he had ridden on his father’s reputation and his uncle’s money. Well, he would be in for a shock, working for Bruce de Villiers, Ricardo mused.

  Ricardo was a fighter, and he intended to drive the best of the Calibre-Shensu machines in every race. He would receive the most attention - he would make quiet sure of that. Chase would certainly be the number two driver.

  He would see a hypnotist in London to try and get rid of the dream; he had to purge it from his mind before it started to affect his driving. Getting to know the new engine and the new chassis would be a challenging exercise.

  A shadow crossed his body and he looked up quickly, like a cat whose peace has been disturbed.

  ‘Hallo?’

  The voice was feminine, the body was light-skinned and succulent, with long, finely-muscled legs. The face was Nordic.

  He rose lazily, keeping his eyes fixed on hers as he introduced himself. ‘I swam over here from my villa. Ricardo Sartori.’

  ‘You are the motor-racing champion?’

  ‘The same. You haven’t told me your name.’

  ‘Mrs Olafson.’

  ‘Mrs Olafson? What does Mr Olafson call you?’

  ‘Helga.’

  ‘How about a siesta over at my villa, Helga?’

  ‘Ah. You are not just the world champion of racing. I’ve heard about you. Yes, a siesta would be very nice.’

  There was silence for a moment while they looked at one another, then they both dived into the water. She was a strong swimmer and surged ahead of him. He let her get a decent distance in front, then turned on the speed.

  He was back on the beach outside his villa ten minutes later. He looked back across the calm blue waters as she came up the beach, then screamed at his women to be gone, to stay out of sight. They disappeared, giggling. He went to the bar by the side of the patio and poured himself a drink. For Helga he prepared an elaborate
cocktail.

  She came up to him, the salty water still dripping from her costume. She pulled it off, then drank quickly, looking at him with appraising eyes.

  ‘Siesta?’

  Later, in the coolness of the bedroom, his lips worked their way down the lightly bronzed skin of her stomach and she started to cry out again.

  No, he would not be returning to England in a hurry. It would be at least a month before the car was built and ready for testing. He had earned his pleasure, now he was going to enjoy it.

  As for Wyatt Chase, de Villiers could have the pleasure of breaking him in.

  Wyatt looked out across the polo field. He ignored the crowds of elegantly dressed men and women, concentrating instead on the players and their horses. A man in morning-dress with two attractive women companions walked across his field of view. They had no doubt just come from watching the racing at Royal Ascot.

  He lifted his binoculars and studied Carlos’s face. Carlos was sitting easily on the snorting pony, but the casual smile on his face did not deceive Wyatt - he guessed his stepfather was swiftly calculating his next attack.

  Carlos was captain of the visiting Argentinian polo team. With a ten-goal handicap, he was also the highest-ranked player on the field - his every move a cause for trepidation amongst the defending British side.

  Wyatt panned the binoculars along the edge of the green field, searching for his mother, but he could not find her. The snorting of the polo ponies indicated that the next chukka was about to begin.

  As the ball rolled into play and both sides galloped forward, one of the British players, Jeremy Flanders, closed in on Carlos, trying to cut him off from the ball.

  Carlos spurred his pony forward and headed directly for Jeremy, who was already blocking him. Jeremy thought he was feinting, till their ponies almost collided and he had to back off quickly. Then Carlos was through, swinging his mallet and taking possession of the ball, sweeping it away from the English.

  He pushed on at full gallop, swinging his stick backwards and forwards, each time cracking the ball towards the goal. The other ponies pounded down on him, but he refused to acknowledge their existence, pushing his pony harder and harder. Another rider pulled in front of him, but Carlos was not intimidated. He headed for him at a full gallop, making as if to run into him. At the last moment he diverted course slightly, and smashed the ball into the goal. A huge wave of applause drifted across the field.

  Chukka after chukka, the Argentinians built up their lead, till by the end of the game they had given the English side a hammering. As they galloped off the field, the applause was deafening.

  Wyatt felt elated. The excitement and the risk had been there, and he had really enjoyed the game. As he walked through the crowds, looking for Estelle, he felt a stab of regret that he had not played more often on Carlos’s estancia when he’d had the opportunity.

  He caught sight of Estelle, a glass of champagne in her hand, talking to a group of people.

  ‘Non, mon cheri. Not at all. And it was the Argentinians’ first day on their new ponies.’

  He moved forward, his heart pounding, his mouth dry.

  ‘Mother.’

  Everything seemed to slow down as she turned round.

  ‘Wyatt. To what do I owe this?’ she asked coldly.

  He wanted to say so many things, but he could feel the anger sweeping through him. He wanted to hit her for what she was doing to him.

  He could sense her friends staring at him, assessing him. He was out of place amongst these people, in his black windcheater and cotton trousers.

  ‘Wyatt, I would appreciate it if you would leave me alone. We ’ave nothing to discuss.’

  She turned, and he felt the self-control slipping. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he transferred his weight, pivoted in a lightning second, and moved to block and punch.

  His eyes focused on Carlos. His body relaxed. To an outside observer he knew it looked as if he had just turned round. Only a karate-ka would know how close it had been; only a karate-ka would know the agony within him at the near loss of self-control.

  ‘It was a brilliant game, Carlos,’ he said, shaking his stepfather’s hand.

  They walked to the edge of the field in silence, away from the crowds of people.

  Wyatt respected Carlos, admired his poise as a man. He didn’t look his fifty-one years. The long, curling dark hair worn in a pony-tail, and the copper bangles on his wrists, set him apart from other men; on any other man they would have looked effeminate, but on Carlos they only added to the rugged texture. He was heavy-boned, with dark skin and a face that spoke of experience.

  Only when they were out of earshot did Carlos speak.

  ‘Wyatt. You must understand that she will never forgive you. I have reasoned with her, begged her to understand. But your mother is determined, even obstinate - there is nothing to be done.’

  Wyatt gripped the white fence that ran along the edge of the polo field and stared up at the forming clouds.

  ‘I was only seventeen,’ he said. ‘It was ten years ago. My God, can’t she ever forget?’

  ‘She is a passionate and beautiful woman. I have never loved anyone, never will love anyone as much as your mother. You are so alike, and it hurts me to see this thing between you, but you cannot wipe out the past. She screams when she has the nightmare. She screams your name in hatred.’

  Wyatt closed his hand and smashed it down hard against one of the poles of the fence - it splintered, and split down its length, and crashed to the ground.

  Carlos was staring at him, not saying anything, looking at the broken pole.

  ‘Leave this thing, Wyatt. It will never heal.’

  ‘I wish I could remember the accident properly. I wish I could remember exactly what happened.’

  ‘Perhaps you do not remember because you do not want to.’

  The phone went at six, interrupting his training.

  ‘Wyatt!’ It was de Villiers’ voice. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to reach you since early yesterday. The car is ready. Get your arse over here and show me how you can drive!’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Cut the questions. I’ll see you in half an hour.’

  Bruce de Villiers staggered out of the glass front doors of the Calibre-Shensu headquarters in the early morning sunlight. The newly built front entrance was his idea - a clean design incorporating concrete and glass. The effect was spacious yet functional. Things, he reflected, were taking shape.

  He had worked through the night without a break. His wife Anna understood the need for such dedication and she didn’t complain. She understood that all his energy had to go into developing the new team.

  He had to have the right people. The people he chose could build up the spirit of the team, but they could also bring it down. He needed people who weren’t shy of hard work, who loved Formula One racing with genuine passion.

  It was tough if Wyatt Chase had to come in a month early, but he couldn’t worry about Wyatt’s problems - he had enough of his own.

  In every person he selected he looked for the same dedication that he himself brought to the sport. He wasn’t going to carry anyone. And he didn’t want his people socialising with the other teams, he wanted his people to savage them.

  Wyatt’s Lotus roared up in front of the building. He leapt out and pumped Bruce’s hand.

  ‘So? Where’s the car?’

  Wyatt stared round the premises. Everywhere he looked brought back memories of James and Danny. Now this place was owned and controlled by different men. He felt bitter that it had come to this; but the last time he came here de Villiers had humiliated him, and now at least the man was treating him with respect.

  It was strange that only a few weeks before he’d been out on his ear without a drive. Now the tables had turned and he was back in control. Well, he might be working for the man who’d destroyed his uncle, but he
’d make sure he came out the winner.

  ‘Come in Wyatt. Relax and have some coffee. I don’t want you writing off the Shadow.’

  They continued the conversation in Bruce’s big, uncluttered office.

  ‘I cannot emphasise what an opportunity this is for us,’ de Villiers went on. ‘Usually a Formula One team is stretched to the limit, designing, developing and refining its car, but Shensu has given us a completed car. All we have to do is to set it up properly.’

  Wyatt couldn’t wait to get his hands on the car. He was still having difficulty with the change in de Villiers’ attitude. He owed Aito a lot for that, a hell of a lot.

  ‘The Shadow’s a brilliant design. Mickey Dunstal has created something totally different. Every loophole in the FISA regulations has been exploited.’

  ‘It’s a gamble?’

  ‘All designs are a gamble - but Dunstal has more flair and ability than any other designer in Formula One. He’s a lateral thinker, an innovator. He’s used materials developed for the US Stealth fighter programme - that, and the way the car sits low on the track, is the reason we’ve called her the Shadow.’

  ‘How soon can I drive?’

  ‘Relax, man. The car’ll be ready in half an hour. Sartori doesn’t seem in a hurry to get back here, and his contract specified he only had to start in a month’s time, so the bastard’s giving me an uphill ride.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ll develop the car. She’ll be set up to match your driving style. And let me tell you, the moment Sartori learns about that, he’ll be back. He’ll be bloody furious. You know how hard it is to stay out front in Formula One.’

  De Villiers couldn’t say it out loud, but he wasn’t going to treat Wyatt as a number two. He would be given equal rating with Sartori. Anyway, it wasn’t his decision, it was Shensu’s.

  De Villiers got up and paced over to the window. He looked down over the track, then turned to face Wyatt.

  ‘This business is dogged by all sorts of problems. I’ve never had so much handed to me on a plate. You have to deliver, Wyatt.’