Ryan raised his arm. ‘Fuck you, you fucking South African fascist!’
Before Mickey realised it, Ryan was lying spread-eagled across the floor of the pits and de Villiers had the spanner out of his hand.
‘Get out, Ryan. Or I’ll break the other arm.’
Ryan staggered to his feet and walked out of the pitch, clutching his right arm. De Villiers turned to the rest of them.
‘I want you all with me. If you’re not in this business to win, get out. It’s Chase who’ll end up in a coffin if any of you fuck up.’
His eyes searched the pit, catching the attention of everyone around him. Only when he was certain that all eyes were upon him, did he continue.
‘This is a hard business. Especially hard if you’re running cars that don’t finish every race or don’t get first place. To beat everyone else, you’ve got to be better than everyone else.’
He turned and pointed at Reg.
‘Reg is one of the best. And you know why? Because he never stops.’ He paused, his eyes locking into each one of them. ‘You know the circus. There are always distractions. But if you get distracted, you’ll fuck up. So if you want a screw, do it before the race, do it after the race, but don’t think about it when you’re working on my car. If you kill one of my drivers - you’ll live with it till you’re dead.
‘I want each of you to ask yourself a question each day: What have I done to help Calibre-Shensu to win? What have I done to earn my salary - to deserve my place on this team?
‘I’ll tell you something. I work so hard that when I get home, I want to vomit on the lawn. And it’s only when you start feeling like that, that you have any right to say that you work for Calibre-Shensu.’ He looked up as he heard Wyatt’s machine coming into the pits.
‘Under eight seconds lads. Get it?’
Everyone was silent, poised as the Shadow screamed up to them. Bruce de Villiers leapt back, stop-watch in hand.
‘Go!’
The whole pit area erupted with noise, and in swung the Shensu Shadow. The mechanics swarmed over the car like bees and the wheels were changed at lightning speed. De Villiers raised his hand to Wyatt and the machine blasted out of the pits.
The silence after the deafening noise from the engine was disturbing. De Villiers grinned.
‘Seven point five seconds. And I’m sure we can get it down to six.’
Wyatt pulled in after eighty laps. He was wet with sweat and feeling totally exhausted. His neck muscles were finished, the pressure of the G-forces inside the Shadow as he was cornering had taken their toll.
He pulled off the steering-wheel and was helped out of the cockpit by some of the pit crew. Wyatt pulled off his helmet and then the fire-proof balaclava, as Mickey peppered him with questions.
‘How did she handle, me boy? Wasn’t she like a dream?’
‘Better, Mickey. It’s just that I’ve got to readjust myself.
I’ve never driven a car that goes so quickly through the corners, it’s as if I’m learning to drive again.’
‘You were very quick.’
Wyatt saw de Villiers walking towards them. He noticed that there had been a change in the atmosphere in the pits since he’d started. He guessed Bruce had laid down the law.
‘Are we going to win, Wyatt?’ Bruce’s hard voice was in stark contrast to Mickey’s sing-song Irish brogue.
‘I’m going to have to work on my neck muscles. The Shadow really goes through the corners - the G-forces are hammering me.’
‘You’ll handle it. How’s the engine?’
‘Magnificent.’
‘Sounds too good to be true.’
‘Professor Katana will be stripping the car and the engine, Bruce,’ Mickey said. ‘We’ll be giving you a full report by tomorrow mornin’.’
‘You’ll work through the night?’
‘Well, Bruce, we get the impression that if we don’t you’ll be after us with yer fists.’
Early the next morning Bruce was reading through Dunstal’s and Katana’s analysis of the Shadow’s performance, when the door to his office burst open.
‘You make a complete fool of me!’
He put down the report and looked up to see Ricardo Sartori in front of him, boiling with rage.
‘That’s because you spend your time in bed, rather than on the track,’ Bruce replied, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms behind his head.
‘I was world champion three times! I am the greatest driver in ’istory!’ Ricardo screamed, almost on top of Bruce. ‘You make a complete fool out of me!’
Sartori was a powerhouse. His short body was as lean and supple as a cat’s, and his dark eyes glared intensely from his deeply tanned face, which broke into a thousand intriguing wrinkles with every change of expression.
‘You let that fool drive your new car! You are crazy!’
‘He broke the lap record.’
‘Big deal! Do not insult me. I, Ricardo Sartori, will tomorrow give you a demonstration of how that car can really be driven.’
‘Your car will not be ready till Friday.’
‘I tell you, I don’t know why I drive for you! You know that? I think I leave.’
‘Forfeiting your twenty million dollars, and your reputation?’
Bruce was angry now. He was not prepared to put up with the Italian’s histrionics.
Ricardo knew he was cornered. He needed the money. His dark eyebrows began to twitch out of control.
‘No one has ever dared to speak to me in such a manner before. Whadda you think I am?’
Bruce wasn’t scared of Ricardo. You couldn’t manage drivers if they intimidated you. Supremely confident, they were hard to control and used to taking risks.
‘What do I think you are?’ Bruce paused a second, and then looked Ricardo in the eyes as he delivered his body-blow. ‘I think you’re a superb driver who’s punch-drunk with success.’
Bruce wasn’t sure for a few seconds if Ricardo was going to hit him. Then the Italian sat down in the chair opposite his desk.
‘I apologise. All right?’ He spoke quietly now, the anger gone from him.
‘OK. Now let’s get down to business,’ Bruce said, relieved. He was always amazed at the way the Italian’s temper could suddenly disappear, like a flash storm in the Mediterranean.
‘The new car, she sounds very good.’
‘Better than good. We’re going to win the championship. Wyatt says that the Shadow handles very differently to the usual Formula One machine.’
‘What does he know? He’s driven one car for one year. I have driven for fifteen!’
Bruce stared up at the ceiling. Shit. Was he going to have to put up with this sort of behaviour for the whole season? He would just have to get used to it.
‘Wyatt knows plenty,’ he said. ‘Don’t underestimate him.’
‘Huh.’ The Italian shrugged his shoulders. ‘When will my car be ready?’
Bruce looked up as Mickey strode into the office. The Irishman gave Ricardo a scathing look.
‘In about three days, me boy, so you’ll be twiddling your thumbs till then.’
‘And who are you?’ Ricardo stared at Mickey as if he were seeing some distasteful object.
‘Dr Mickey Dunstal.’
Ricardo rose from his chair and shook Mickey’s hand. Every driver on the circuit had immense respect for the mad Irishman and his brilliant cars. ‘I am honoured to meet you,’ he said graciously.
Bruce was taken aback by this sudden outpouring of charm - then realised that, most of the time, Ricardo was acting. What the Formula One champion really felt was very difficult to gauge - but he enjoyed drama, that much was clear.
Bruce laid his big, gnarled hands on the table. ‘Look, till your car is ready you can drive Wyatt’s, all right?’
‘Thank you,’ Ricardo replied, ‘but I will rather wait for my own car to be ready.’
Bruce gave him a veiled smile. He had the Italian worked out.
On Friday morni
ng the sun was shining brightly through the beech trees that surrounded the circuit, and the cool winter air was crisp. In the pits there was an atmosphere of excitement. Everyone involved in the running of Calibre-Shensu had turned up, and people were standing round drinking coffee, and talking in hushed tones. Steam rose from their mouths. The feeling of expectation was almost tangible.
Today was the first drive in the Shensu Shadow for the former world champion, Ricardo Sartori.
Wyatt had tried talking to Sartori over the previous few days, but the man had always snubbed him. He sensed a new hostility in the Italian’s behaviour, and resented it. The previous season he’d had to endure seeing the Italian get the better car every time, under his Uncle Danny’s watchful supervision. Well, there was certainly going to be no camaraderie between them this season. He guessed that was because Ricardo now knew they were evenly matched.
Ricardo pulled on his helmet and Wyatt saw the look of fiery determination in his eyes. He was determined to prove he was faster than Wyatt - that was all that mattered to him.
Again Wyatt realised the truth of what Bruce had told him a week before - that there was no such thing as holding back on the circuit. Every driver desperately wanted to prove himself.
Wyatt watched Ricardo settling down in the cockpit. The Italian raised his hand to indicate he was ready, and Bruce leaned over him and whispered something in his ear. Wyatt wondered what it was, then mentally shrugged it off. As they would say in Japan: Shikata ga nai. It can’t be helped.
The big engine roared into life and the Shadow shot out of the pits and onto the circuit. Wyatt felt his blood-pressure rising. He lowered himself into his own machine. This was war. His engine roared into life behind him and he screamed out of the pits, hot after Sartori.
Bruce watched the Shadow come down the main straight towards the starting-grid, then bellow as Ricardo floored the accelerator. Bruce admired the way the car moved. She looked superb.
He glanced down at the electronic timer and watched the seconds tick by. There was no doubt in his mind that Ricardo would be going for a record time.
The seconds ticked slowly past and everyone was quiet. Wyatt’s car shot past, completing its warm-up lap. In the back of Bruce’s mind was the thought of the accident that Ricardo had been involved in the previous season. Would Ricardo be afraid now, and would this slow him down?
Every head turned as Sartori’s car appeared out of the last corner and came into the main straight. The engine had a wonderful sound to it, almost singing as it shot up to maximum revs. The dark shape shot past the pits and Bruce again glanced at the timer.
‘Incredible.’
Everyone was looking at Bruce’s back, waiting to hear Sartori’s lap time.
‘One second faster than Wyatt’s new record. The Italian hasn’t lost his touch.’
Bruce gestured to Reg Tillson to hold up the board to let Wyatt know his lap record had fallen.
‘Now let’s see what this man’s really made of,’ he said to himself.
Wyatt looked up at the board as he shot past the pits. He became cold, as well as angry. Ricardo would be amongst the front runners that season, but he was determined to beat him. And that meant going faster.
He accelerated into the esses. The surface of the track was invisible to him, all he saw were the contortions of the circuit in front of him.
‘Take more chances.’ He repeated his father’s words to himself, over and over again.
He was in a trance-like state by the time he completed his second lap, and watched for the sign that would prove he had beaten Sartori. This was what he enjoyed doing. This was what he lived for. There was no place for fear. Suzie’s face flashed before him, then disappeared. He was almost cold now, taking the bends faster than he’d believed the Shadow was capable of doing. He flashed past Ricardo and down the straight.
Drops of water splashed against his visor. Shit. It was raining.
He pulled into the pits on the next lap, furious that he couldn’t go on, but knowing that in the wet he’d never beat Sartori’s time. As he got out of the car, Bruce slapped him on the back.
‘You bastard! I’ve never seen driving like that on the test circuit.’
The slow realisation that he must have broken Ricardo’s record lifted the weight from his shoulders. ‘I beat his time?’
‘You knocked another two seconds off it!’
Ricardo walked silently out of the pits. He hated Wyatt Chase more than any other man on earth at that particular moment. And in the pit of his stomach there was fear. The memories of last year’s accident had not gone away: he had not been able to go faster. But he would have to, or Chase would be ahead of him. There was no such thing as a final victory in Formula One, only the prospect of another race to be won.
Wyatt sank down next to Suzie on the settee in Bruce’s office.
‘I want you to feature in all our publicity,’ Suzie said.
There was a forced smile on Bruce’s face, and Wyatt laughed, but Suzie remained serious. ‘It’s not a joke, Wyatt, and you’re going to have to model for us.’
‘No way!’
‘It’s in your contract.’
‘And what about Ricardo?’
‘I - a refuse to model clothes,’ Bruce said, imitating Ricardo’s voice perfectly.
Suzie got up, her eyes resting on Wyatt’s.
‘It always amazes me how afraid men are of their masculinity. Come, I want to measure you.’
Wyatt didn’t say anything. He just returned her stare, and Suzie swallowed.
‘It’s going to take me just a couple of minutes. It means you’ll have clothes that fit you perfectly.’
Wyatt gestured for Bruce to leave, which he did with a smirk on his face. Suzie felt her confidence evaporating as the door closed behind de Villiers. She could feel the sexual electricity between herself and Wyatt.
‘You feel by being measured we will destroy your image? It must be pretty fragile.’ She tried to sound assured but she was almost stammering.
‘Are you going to make me a dress?’
‘You want one? You have a good figure - nice legs, slim waist.’
He didn’t laugh. He hadn’t realised that she had a sense of humour. She also smelt delicious, some fragrance he couldn’t quite recognise. He caught her eyes and saw them flicker as she tried to retain her image of controlled professionalism.
‘Measure me,’ he commanded.
‘You are a clothes-hanger, Wyatt,’ she said as she drew out her tape-measure.
She was close to him now, and she felt scared. She could smell the maleness of him. Then, without warning, he drew her to him and kissed her.
The pretence was useless, she wanted him so badly she was almost crying with desire. They tore at one another’s clothes, kissing, touching, stroking.
He kissed her all over, then ran his lips up the inside of her thigh, pausing before the blonde hairs at the top.
‘Oh God, please.’
But he didn’t oblige. Instead he continued to arouse her so that she tore his racing-suit from his body. Then she kneaded his buttocks and drew him inside her.
She started shaking, out of control, the orgasms rippling through her body, feeling as free as the wind.
‘Oh my God, Wyatt, I love you, I love you!’ she screamed. Then she felt him explode inside her.
She awoke later, lying naked in his arms on the couch. How long had they been sleeping? She looked at her watch on the floor and saw it was after midnight.
Wyatt opened his eyes as he felt the tape-measure against his body.
‘The way you are proportioned’ she said, ‘means that clothes will always sit well on you.’
‘I could have told you that.’
‘Ah, but it was fun finding out . . .’
She drew away and made a final note. He noticed that her handwriting was sloping and extravagant, reflecting the passion that lay behind her precise, ordered exterior.
Her face turned serious.
‘Is it true that you offered to buy Debbie one of my dresses?’
‘And if it is?’
‘It is a very personal gift. I am not one of a procession of . . .’
‘You think, after we made love like that, I would want to make love to someone else?’
It was as she had expected. She would never get a commitment from him.
‘Suzie, what I do is dangerous,’ Wyatt said. ‘I cannot take risks for someone else. I must face the world alone. There has been too much pain in my life already.’
He folded her in his arms and kissed her softly, but after a time she pulled away.
She would make certain he chose her, not Debbie, a dress.
Emerson Ortega took another pull of the large Havana cigar and walked past the chimpanzee cage. He grimaced with pain. Even the action of pulling on the cigar hurt his face.
He had always enjoyed visiting the zoo when he was small. Not that he ever went with his parents to the zoo, like other children; at nine he didn’t know who his father was and realised he couldn’t rely on his mother - she was more interested in turning tricks then educating her only son. So he fought on the streets, stole cars, traded drugs, killed the people who crossed him, and developed an instinct for survival. Now he had his own private zoo, stocked with animals from all over the world. He earned over $350 million a week and was arguably one of the ten wealthiest men alive. And he was no longer Emerson Ortega.
He was slim and dark, five foot ten inches tall, with smooth black hair. And he was very scared.
He touched his face. It still felt very sensitive. He had not dared look in the mirror yet. His moustache had disappeared before the operation and he would not grow it back. He would look younger, the surgeon had told him. Ortega said he did not care, as long as he did not look like himself. But of course he did care - his looks had been his trademark. He had liked the fact that he was known, and feared.
Emerson Ortega was wanted by the United States authorities on cocaine production and smuggling charges. The CIA had tried to kill him on three occasions. On the last one they had succeeded. Emerson Ortega was now officially dead.
Eye of the Cobra Page 13