‘But Burt, surely you know how to handle her?’
Jack Phelps thought Burt Calhoun seemed to be making a helluva fuss about nothing - but the Senator’s reply wiped the smile off his face.
‘What do you mean, you can’t help me with this one?’ Jack roared.
‘Hell, I pay you a fortune in legal fees every month - you’re making a fortune off all these claims smokers are making against my company.’
Jack slammed down the phone. He wanted to strangle Vanessa Tyson. He guessed the fat bitch was out to cause havoc. He’d never known Calhoun to be so cautious.
Well, Vanessa Tyson had better watch out, because he wasn’t going to be a pushover.
He picked up the publicity reports that Don Morrison had sent him, a broad grin spreading across his face. It was paying off. All the effort and all the work were showing a handsome dividend.
He reread the New York Times item on the forthcoming Brazilian Grand Prix - a full-page article. They were playing up the competition between Sartori and Chase, and there was a full-colour picture of the machine - in jet-black livery with silver highlights. Suzie von Falkenhyn’s design work was faultless, but the byline on her affair with Wyatt made him furious. He wanted Suzie himself; he needed to have her.
He lay back in his chair, contemplating the New York skyline and the success of Calibre-Shensu. Aito Shensu had proved to be the perfect business partner. The man rarely asked questions, and when he did, it was only about technicalities. Aito had been as good as his word, so that he, Jack Phelps, was the one who was running the team. The only thing that still rankled was Aito’s appointment of Wyatt Chase.
Jack checked his watch. He would be in Rio in twenty-four hours’ time, ready to watch the Saturday practice and make sure everything was running smoothly.
He switched on the video unit that was hidden behind the end wall of his office and watched the endorsement commercial that had just arrived from his ad agency. It was good, very good - the work was of outstanding quality. He always let the creative director have total control; he found he got a far better product that way. If he didn’t like what was produced, he just the fired agency and appointed another one. Advertising people were simple to control. One fed them money to keep them thinking, and fired them when they stopped delivering.
Of course, the commercial was basically supposed to support Shensu, because cigarette advertising had been outlawed from the TV networks years before. Quite why, he had never been able to understand; he felt that freedom of will should include the choice to smoke or not smoke. One’s death was a personal matter. But the commercial was deliberately designed to look as though it was for Shensu rather than for Calibre.
He watched it through once more, and smiled. Wyatt Chase might not be world champion, but he was a natural television star. He would exploit Wyatt to the full. Besides, Wyatt had Suzie, and he wanted Suzie. Forcing Wyatt to make commercial appearance after commercial appearance would pull him away from Suzie, giving Jack a chance to move in on her. Contractually, he had Wyatt by the shorts.
With Ricardo it was a different matter. His contract was far more specific, limiting the number of commercial appearances he had to make. Wyatt’s contract contained no such protection and obliged him to do almost whatever Phelps wanted him to.
He’d get Suzie von Falkenhyn. It was just a matter of timing. He smiled, and watched the commercial through again.
Debbie got back to the hotel after having a cup of tea at the circuit with the rest of the team. She was still smarting from Ricardo’s behaviour on the beach that morning. She went straight up to their room, and saw to her annoyance that the bed still hadn’t been made. She reached for the phone to call room service, and then decided against it. She didn’t want to have to sit around waiting for the maid to come and make up the bed.
Anything that smacked of disorder irritated her. She hated Ricardo’s messiness - though she had to admit he did dress perfectly. She pulled back the duvet cover and straightened the sheets beneath it. Next she plumped up the pillows, and arranged the duvet beneath them. As a last touch, she pulled the duvet out at the edges. It was then that she felt something beneath the duvet cover.
Carefully she undid the buttons that fastened the cover and reached down. Her hand found something and pulled it out. She was looking at a pair of pale-blue silk panties, and they weren’t hers. There was a noise outside the door and she realised that Ricardo had returned. She threw the panties on one of the chairs and went to the mirror, pretending to make up her face.
Ricardo burst into the room. Obviously he had been planning to tidy up the bed before she returned. He turned with shock as he saw her at the mirror.
‘Debbie?’
‘Yes?’ she replied, as demurely as possible.
‘You surprised me.’ He came over and kissed her on the back of the neck.
‘Have you been busy?’
‘Er, yes. I’ve been shopping,’ he lied.
‘What did you buy?’
‘Er, window-shopping. You understand.’
She saw his eyes dart around the room and eventually light on the panties, lying brazenly on the chair. He sauntered towards them.
‘Ricardo.’
She rose, forcing him to turn his gaze to her. She could see the agitation on his face. She touched the dark skin of his cheek and looked into his eyes. Now she wanted to see him lie.
‘Do you love me?’
‘But of course. There has never been anyone quite like you.’
Not quite like me, thought Debbie; but similar, apparently. She could see his eyes, looking at the panties. She walked over to the chair and picked them up.
He coloured. ‘I can explain!’
‘Explain what? That the cleaners must have left them here?’
‘No . . . Yes . . . You’re right. I’ll phone the manager and complain.’
As she watched him make a fool of himself on the phone, she quietly undressed and got into the bed. If he was going to make love to anyone else that day, it was going to be her.
He put the phone down angrily. ‘They said they already cleaned the room, can you believe it?’
‘No. Come to bed . . .’
If she hadn’t known, she would have never guessed that he had slept with another woman only hours before. She gripped the headboard in ecstasy. Sure, he was a bastard, but an irresistible bastard.
The sun rose over Rio, the Sugar Loaf mountain standing supreme over the city; the slums lay sprawling the distance. This was a world where poverty and wealth walked hand in hand.
The car-crazy locals were expectant. The glamour of Formula One attracted them - especially to cheer on the three Brazilian drivers. The searing summer heat added to the carnival atmosphere, and cars raced madly along the bumpy road towards the circuit.
At the Autodromo Internacional do Rio du Janeiro, Baix- ada de Jacarepagua, conditions were perfect for the practice session.
Bruce de Villiers looked down at his non-existent fingernails and cursed his nervousness. So far, everything was fine. The two cars looked immaculate and so did the team, out in their livery for the first time in public. The press photographers were loving it. Bruce had to admit that Suzie had done her job very well. He felt entirely comfortable in the jet-black and silver jumpsuit; it breathed well, and despite the heat he didn’t feel at all restricted. Ricardo and Wyatt were keeping their distance from each other, like two fighting-cocks, eyeing each other out before the contest.
He saw Mickey Dunstal strolling over to him, clipboard and calculator in hand. He liked the way Mickey got involved with the pit crew and didn’t stand aloof from them. His long blond hair was not plaited up as usual, and he looked like a rock star about to grab a microphone and give a performance.
‘Nervous, are you, Bruce me boy?’
Bruce laughed. Mickey had just as much to be concerned about.
‘How could I be worried, with your car?’
‘You’re a sly fellah, to be sure.’
>
Wyatt came over to them, and Mickey slapped him on the back.
‘Tense?’
‘I just want to get going. It’s bloody hot.’
Bruce looked closely at his driver.
‘Everything OK for you, Wyatt?’ he enquired casually. ‘Just take it easy to start with.’
‘Relax, I’m not going to put your car into the concrete.’
Bruce shuddered. Even the thought of it was bad enough. In the distance he caught sight of a bevy of Brazilian beauties handing out packets of Calibre Lights to the spectators.
‘When they die of cancer in forty years’ time, who will they have to thank?’
‘Wyatt, would you stop being so cynical.’
‘Call it professional pride. Jack tells me the TV commercial is a winner.’
‘Congratulations, Wyatt,’ said Mickey.
‘I want to win races, not cigarette sales.’
‘This year you’ll do both.’
Suddenly, Phelps’s American accent boomed out behind them.
Shit, thought de Villiers, the bastard’s arrived early. They all turned, and there stood their sponsor, perfectly dressed in a double-breasted suit.
‘Everything A-OK, Bruce?’
‘Yes, Jack. We’re confident of good times today.’
‘Aito arrives tomorrow. It’ll be a nice surprise for him if both cars are in the front-runners.
‘That’s the idea.’
Bruce glanced over at the dozen Japanese mechanics in the pits, all looking very determined.
‘How are the Shensu crowd?’ Jack asked, following his gaze. ‘Are they any good?’
‘To be honest, Jack, I’ve never had a better team. Discipline definitely has its rewards.’
Bruce watched Wyatt climbing into the Shensu Shadow. This was the moment of truth. Further away, Ricardo strutted out towards his machine, a number of dark-skinned Brazilian women with autograph-books chasing after him. He stopped and signed them, giving each of the women an affectionate kiss.
Bruce turned slightly and saw Debbie watching Ricardo. The look said it all. He chuckled. He wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of Debbie. If Ricardo didn’t behave himself, he’d have to look out.
There was a mechanical scream as Wyatt’s engine erupted into life. Bruce raised his hand and Wyatt shot out of the pits onto the track. The Japanese mechanics weren’t smiling, and Bruce knew why. This was the acid test.
Ricardo had an ugly sneer on his face. He had followed Wyatt’s progress out of the pits and was now settling down into his own car. This tension between Wyatt and Ricardo was exactly what Bruce had wanted. Now all he had to pray for was that they both performed.
Two front-runners, that’s what he wanted. The way it had been at McCabe - except he wanted it even better. The press were complaining that Formula One had lost its excitement, that drivers like De Rosner dominated the races. Bruce sensed that Wyatt would be the one to challenge them.
It was hotter inside the Shensu Shadow than Wyatt had imagined it would be. He would have to get used to that, forget about it. Eighty laps in this heat - he was going to sweat a lot. A helluva lot.
The other cars were grouped close by him. In front of him was the Ferrari driven by Hoexter, and behind him, De Rosner in the McCabe: the two greats of the sport. Somewhere in the distance would be Ricardo, hungry for his blood.
Only now did the excitement really grip him. The engine was stronger than ever before; he had marvelled at the expertise of the Japanese mechanics as he watched them tuning it. These men were in a class of their own. The intricacies of the telemetry - the electronic tuning and monitoring equipment - were beyond his comprehension; but all that mattered was that they could extract from the engine the kind of performance he needed.
On the main straight he followed the rest of the cars as they weaved from side to side, bedding in their tyres, getting them warm. This was fine. He could still think. But after this it would just be reaction and concentration.
As he turned the corner into the main straight, for some unaccountable reason Suzie’s face came into his mind. Then it faded as he saw the rest of the field accelerating hard, ready for the first timed lap.
He would prove himself today or he would kill himself.
He pushed his foot down hard, and the Shadow leapt forward.
All around him the noise was deafening. The other machines were a blur.
The first corner was fine, not too sharp.
Easy to keep the speed high. The automatic gearbox allowed him to concentrate totally on driving. He was aware of the other machines surrounding him. Everyone was vying for a place high up on the starting-grid in two days’ time.
A succession of curves, and then came the really sharp 180- degree curve before the main straight.
He cut the line of the corner and wove his way through a succession of machines, barely keeping control. Then he was into the main straight, the engine running flat out as he passed over 200 mph, thundering down towards the next corner, more gentle than the entry to the straight.
He passed another five machines. The signage of the corner came up as though it were blocking his way, but he took a good line and passed easily round the corner.
The Shadow was going beautifully. She was responding well to the track, almost relishing the challenge.
He was in a trance. Every second counted in this practice. He was setting up the Shadow for the main event. He could make mistakes now which he could not make on Sunday.
No one had passed him. He was faintly surprised. He knew he was going quickly, perhaps faster than before. But what really mattered was the number of cars he was passing - cars that were disappearing behind him in a blur.
The engine’s reserves in the corners appeared to be limitless - he knew he was going over 13500 rpm and that there was more to come. He was discovering new depths to the car’s responsiveness. It was just a question of getting a good balance between the output power of the engine and the outer limits of adhesion of the Carvalho tyres.
The laps went by with gruelling regularity. When his headphones finally crackled into life he resented the intrusion, as if his private world had been invaded by some alien force.
‘Come in - great drive.’
De Villiers’ enigmatic tones did nothing to reassure him. All he wanted to know was how his times compared with those of the rest of the field. He did not relax his pace until he came up to the 180-degree curve before the pits.
He drove in, and people converged on the machine. He pulled off the steering-wheel and then levered himself out of the cockpit. The helmet felt like an immense load, and he was glad to pull it off.
Everyone was clapping. He stared round, uncomprehending. Bruce came up to him and shook his hand warmly.
‘Your best lap time was one minute twenty-six seconds on the dot.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Well, it’s officially recorded. No one else has come close. You’ll be first off the grid, I bet.’
Suzie kissed him on the cheek. He gradually felt he was coming back to reality.
He went over to Mickey. ‘She’s wonderful - and I still believe there’s more in reserve. At the edge she handles magnificently.’
‘It’s the race, Wyatt . . . the race that counts.’
‘Yes. But this is a great start.’
‘That it is.’
Suddenly he felt drained. Jack Phelps loomed up in front of him and pumped his hand.
‘Great driving, Wyatt. The Carvalho tyres are delivering.’
Wyatt kept quiet. He didn’t want to get involved in Phelps’s private battles. If Bruce and Mickey were happy with the Carvalhos, then he was.
Phelps turned his back on him and walked across to the stands. A mass of press photographers seethed past him and headed for Wyatt. Now Wyatt was blinded by an avalanche of flash-bulbs, and then the shutters fell like rain.
‘Can we predict a win on Sunday?’ An eager reporter stared at him, pen poised a
bove notebook. Wyatt knew this was where he had to prove his mettle to his sponsors.
‘I’ll do my best,’ he said. ‘Calibre-Shensu is right behind me. As a team, we aim for victory. That’s what we’re in this sport for.’
A woman reporter moved forwards. She looked familiar, and she had dark eyes that he found strangely alluring.
She said: ‘Are you scared of dying?’
It was too much. It was too close to home. He turned his back on her and stormed into the workshops. Who the hell was she?
He sat down on a bench in the shadows and stared for no particular reason at a wheel-spanner hanging on the wall. Someone sat down next to him. He didn’t have to look to see who it was; he smelled the fragrance, and was grateful.
‘It was a stupid question. She’s a big bitch,’ Suzie said softly. He thought how different she was from the hard-nosed British reporter.
‘You can’t know what it’s like,’ he said. ‘To be . . .’
‘Hush,’ she said. ‘I do know.’ He felt her hand on his. ‘That’s Vanessa Tyson,’ she said. ‘She was the one who went for Bruce after Kyalami.’
But he didn’t care who she was. He took Suzie’s hand and walked out with her into the sunshine.
Flying to the hotel in the helicopter, Wyatt took over the controls from the pilot. He needed to clock-in hours and experience before he could get his licence and buy his own chopper. Suzie was with him. She was looking particularly lovely, he thought; her blonde hair bleached by the sun and her skin more tanned than usual. She wore a light shade of lipstick that gave her lips a lustrous quality. He leaned over and kissed her.
‘You know that Debbie’s attracted to you, Wyatt? Mmmm, I think I’ll have to watch out.’
‘She’s just playing around.’
‘She should keep her eye on Ricardo. From what I hear, he’s still having affairs.’
‘The lecherous Italian.’
‘Do you ever think of me when you’re driving?’
‘Yes.’
He felt more relaxed by the time they got back to the hotel, but the image of the circuit would not disappear from his mind.
Suzie undressed in front of him, and he started by licking her nipples, then worked his way to the lustrous blonde hairs, crisp and curling, lower down. Now he was rock-hard and he could restrain himself no more.
Eye of the Cobra Page 19