‘Dammit, Mickey, telling him there’s been a last-minute modification will scare the shit out of him. He’ll be driving as hard as he can anyway.’
There was a knock at the door, and they all looked at each other. Bruce allowed himself a thin smile, knowing they wouldn’t betray him.
The door opened and in came Wyatt, looking fresh and relaxed. He ran his eyes over them - they all looked exhausted.
‘Morning everyone. Didn’t you get any sleep last night?’
‘There was a lot to check,’ Bruce replied evasively.
‘Well, I hope you’ll be able to keep your eyes open this afternoon.’
‘Like some coffee?’ Reg asked, moving towards the automatic dispenser in the corner of the cramped lounge, and hiding his worried face.
‘Yes, thanks. The coffee’s one of the few good things about Rio.’
Professor Katana looked at Wyatt directly and spoke in Japanese. Wyatt nodded a few times, then turned to Bruce.
‘Why my machine and not Ricardo’s?’
Bruce clenched his fist and snarled at Katana - and Wyatt was across the room and standing beside him in an instant. There was something in his eyes that made Bruce take a few steps back.
‘Why my car, Bruce?’
‘It’s the hottest I’ve known it here - we’re experiencing a heat-wave. I believe that the Shadow will overheat, but I can’t be sure. The modification is a gamble. It could go wrong. But then Ricardo’s car could also overheat.’
Wyatt spoke to Katana again in Japanese. ‘What are you saying?’ Bruce asked angrily.
‘I’m telling him,’ said Wyatt, ‘that he has more courage than the rest of you put together.’
Bruce’s knuckles were white, but Mickey nodded his head.
‘He’s right. I’ll be takin’ the blame as much as you. Wyatt, me boy, I’m sorry. I think it’ll work, and it’ll make you faster, by God.’
‘Or it’ll blow me up before I’ve had a chance to prove myself,’ Wyatt said angrily.
They sat sipping coffee and talking over the exact details of the race as the air-conditioning hummed in the background. The incident wasn’t mentioned again, but it was not forgotten.
Outside, the air temperature was rising fast, and a heat-haze shimmered across the track. Enthusiastic motor-racing fans were already packing in around the circuit - women in bikinis, dark-skinned men in shorts and little else. Already the ice-cream and cold drink vendors were doing a roaring trade.
The atmosphere was humid, the air desperately hot and still. The temperature in the shade was thirty degrees Celsius, and rising, and the day had hardly begun. The heat-wave was on.
Ricardo sat in his car at the entrance to the inside of the circuit, sweat running down his face. He’d told Debbie he wanted to come here alone, but he hadn’t told her why, because she wouldn’t have understood. Only he could deal with the enormity of it. He lifted his left hand from the steering-wheel and dispassionately watched it shake. He’d known fear before, but never like this. All he dreamed about was the accident, and every time he relived it the vision became more intense.
He didn’t need the warm-up session. He didn’t need the race. But he desperately needed the money to keep living the way he enjoyed. He’d phoned his bank in Rome two days ago, and the news hadn’t been good. He had always spent wildly and without thought; a multi-millionaire, he reasoned, didn’t need to worry about his financial affairs. But he’d been wrong. A big business venture had gone sour on him in the last few weeks, and he owed a lot of money, big money.
If he retired now he would be destined to a middle-class existence - and the idea of that revolted him. He had fought to escape poverty, and now that he had tasted the exotic life, nothing else would do for him. Perhaps he should marry money. He had never asked a woman to marry him. He didn’t believe he could be faithful to one woman, because he loved challenges and a beautiful woman was always the ultimate prize.
Debbie had been easy to bed - he had lost respect for her because of that. And already he had cheated on her, the experience being peculiarly enjoyable. But he suspected that Debbie might be from a wealthy background, even if she was only Bruce’s secretary. Little things she’d mentioned about her father’s various business dealings led him to believe the man was a big wheel. Also, Debbie wore expensive jewellery, all of which she said she’d inherited. He’d do a little more investigating on that score before he dumped her.
He put the car into first, and showed his special pass to the marshal. He noticed that several cars had their bonnets up, steam pouring out of their radiators. It was going to be a very hot race, unless there was rain to cool the circuit down in the afternoon. But rain would make the circuit dangerous - deadly slippery after the heat.
He drew up alongside the Calibre-Shensu motorvan, and Wyatt stepped out as he arrived. Immediately, Ricardo’s fear vanished. Wyatt was his enemy, the man who could beat him, humiliate him. But there was no way he was going to let Wyatt Chase do that to him.
‘Is it always this hot?’
He wasn’t going to reply, then he looked into Wyatt’s eyes and saw that there wasn’t a trace of animosity in them.
‘No,’ he said. ‘This is very bad, my friend.’
‘Bruce doesn’t seem concerned.’
This last remark really got to Ricardo. Wyatt was always a jump ahead of him, getting close to de Villiers. Ignoring him, Ricardo walked across to the motorvan and went inside to escape the heat. The coolness of the air-conditioning was an immediate relief. Bruce was sitting in the centre of the lounge, his arms stretched along the couch. In the hazel eyes Ricardo thought he saw irritation. De Villiers had this silent power about him that could make you feel uneasy for no explicable reason.
‘It is hot, eh?’
‘Don’t push it in the warm-up, Ricardo. Give your engine a chance.’
Ricardo raised his eyebrows incredulously.
‘You’re saying the engine, it cannot take the heat?’
‘I’m saying, take it easy. Everyone else is facing the same problem. How you handle it could make all the difference when the race is on.’
‘But when we get going, I’m not holding back.’
Ricardo hated the fact that he was under de Villiers’ control, and he knew the only way out of it was to win.
Without saying any more, he left the motorvan and walked in the blistering heat towards the pits.
Jack Phelps drank another glass of iced water. He was enjoying the event. Everyone was asking him questions about the team. The publicity was positive, and he was seen as an innovator as well as a sponsor. The Shadow was attracting a lot of attention and comment.
He cast his eye around the huge Shensu pavilion that had been set up on the outskirts of the circuit. It was typical of the style in which Aito Shensu approached any task: none of the other teams’ exhibition centres were anything near as good. In the centre of the display was the Shensu Ninja sports car - not a completed car but a model that looked like the real thing. This was the prototype that Mickey Dunstal was evolving in conjunction with Shensu. Jack had already put his name down to be the first owner of the greatest supercar to come out of the Orient.
The Ninja was attracting a lot of attention. Jack was cynical about it, though. He guessed these people had come inside to escape the heat, and were just looking at the new sports car to pass the time. He could think of another reason for coming to look - walking elegantly around the display were models dressed in some of Suzie von Falkenhyn’s most stunning creations. An unexpected bonus of Suzie’s involvement with the team was that the Calibre-Shensu gear she designed for the team was selling like crazy in department stores in Europe and America - Jack still could not quite believe the demand for it. Calibre-Shensu had not competed in a single race, yet the team was already labelled a success.
Rod Talbot walked out of the warehouse and listened to the wail of the Formula One engines. The warehouse was situated amongst many others at the back of the circuit.
Two huge container trucks thundered up outside. The side- door of one cab opened, and Jules Ortega stepped down, briefcase in hand. As expected, he had brought reinforcements, and Rod noted the two thugs step down from the cab of the other truck.
He backed into the warehouse, the noise of the Grand Prix cars echoing around him. He moved into the private office at the side of the open area. Perfect: no other doors and no windows, the only approach was from the front.
Jules’s eyes were cold and emotionless. He dropped his briefcase to reveal an Uzi machine-gun which he pointed at Rod’s chest.
‘Now you pay for the death of my woman,’ he hissed.
Rod laughed.
‘You cock-sucker, where’s my delivery?’
‘No money, no nothing, you Yankee bastard.’
Those were the last words Jules got out. He never saw Rod’s right foot come up and wind him in the side of the head.
The two strong men closed in. Rod straightened his hand and jabbed his extended fingers hard into one man’s eyes, and his opponent dropped to the floor screaming, clutching his face. Then the other moved in in a classic boxer’s stance. Rod laughed, and kicked him hard in the left knee-cap. The man hobbled forwards as Rod smacked his right knee-cap, and grinned in satisfaction as he heard the bone crunch. He slammed his right fist directly below the thug’s nose, breaking the bone above his mouth and killing him instantly.
Rod smoothed out his suit as he looked at Jules’s unconscious body, now lying at his feet.
‘Cock-sucker.’
The blinded thug rolled around on the floor, screaming. Rod pulled out a cigarette, lit up, and waited for Jules to come round. Rod was going to take delivery on his terms.
The Formula One cars buzzed around the Autodromo Internacional do Rio de Janeiro - renamed the Nelson Piquet Circuit after his 1987 win there - like angry flies. A record crowd was in attendance, and all around the circuit people were in various stages of undress. The heat-wave was in full swing. It was a great honour, the local newspaper reported, that the first Grand Prix of the 1991 season should open in Rio.
Aito Shensu looked up at the mountains, far in the distance, with satisfaction. He was pleased. Jack Phelps had done a superb job - he could sense the spirit in the Calibre-Shensu team. He thought, too, of the Shensu Ninja, sitting proudly in the centre of the Shensu pavilion. No man could match the masterpiece Mickey Dunstal had created.
Aito knew his investment in Formula One had added to his stature as a leading car manufacturer. Almost overnight the Shensu name was being associated with performance: dipstick market research in Europe and the United States had proved it.
Aito wanted Shensu to become the world’s top-selling cars; he wanted Shensu to be even more successful than Ford. He also wanted Wyatt Chase to win. Wyatt, who understood so much about Japan and its culture.
There was something else, too - even more important - that he had been grooming Wyatt for from the day he first met him. For that, though, Wyatt had still to prove himself.
Rod tightened the vice up another turn and watched the bleeding fingers locked in its jaws with detachment.
‘No!’ The Colombian’s scream was lost in the drone of the Formula One cars blasting round the circuit. He was drenched in sweat, slumped across the bench next to the vice, his other hand tied up behind his back. On his face was a look of terror.
Rod sipped at his iced water, sitting on a collapsible chair slightly away from the bench. He said nothing, only occasionally getting up to increase the pressure.
Now the Colombian was sobbing, his right hand a pulp.
‘Oh my God, what is it you want?’
Jules’s voice was almost a whisper.
‘I like to be called Mr Talbot.’
‘What is it you want, Mr Talbot?’
‘Let’s start with the delivery.’
After a moment’s silence, Rod got up and started to tighten the vice again.
‘No, please. I have the consignment.’ Jules’s voice was quavering. ‘Please . . . my hand . . .’
‘I want you to deliver it where I told you to.’
Rod yanked the vice handle upwards, tightening the jaws. The Columbian’s scream sounded like a woman’s, it was so high-pitched - then he passed out.
Rod walked over to a bucket of water standing in the corner. He picked it up and deftly chucked it over the unconscious Colombian. Jules came round almost immediately and started blubbing like a child.
‘Why you hurt me?’ The voice was pleading. All resistance had gone.
‘Now listen,’ Rod replied, watching Jules’s eyes which were firmly locked on his hand. ‘I want you to do something else for me.’
‘Yes?’
‘I want you to tell Vargas what I did to your hand. I want you to let him know that if there are any more problems, I will find him. And I will hurt him so badly that he wants to die.’
‘Yes.’
Rod undid the vice, and the Colombian dropped to the ground clutching his hand.
‘Now,’ Rod said, ‘I hope you will not be so stupid as to forget what you have promised.’
Bruce de Villiers wiped the sweat off his face as he looked at the bank of computer monitors. He wondered what the men of the 1950s, the oily rag brigade, would have made of the racing gadgetry of the ’90s. Back then there had been just five teams contesting the championship, and only in the mid ’60s had the number reached double figures. But what kept the whole team running hadn’t changed, it was still raw human energy.
He looked again at the impersonal screen. He could see just about every engine-function displayed. But it was frustrating in some ways: if anything went wrong, the monitors weren’t going to help him fix it - they would just tell him what had happened so that next time he could rectify the problem. In a few years’ time he knew he’d be monitoring the drivers in much the same way - constant read-outs on blood-pressure, pulse-rate and perhaps even pupil movement and cerebral activity.
Two of the monitors covered Wyatt’s car, and the other two Ricardo’s. Bruce was pleased that Ricardo had speeded up. Even though he was number seven on the grid, it meant he was more in the running than before.
The outside temperature was now forty degrees Celsius. Bruce prayed it wouldn’t rise much above that - it was far too hot already. He watched the engine temperatures of both the cars very closely. There was no doubt that Wyatt’s modified Shadow was keeping cooler than Ricardo’s machine.
‘Good morning, Bruce. Is everything in order?’ Aito Shensu’s cool, crisp voice cut through the stifling heat of the pits.
Bruce turned as Aito looked over his shoulder. The Japanese magnate was dressed in an immaculate dark-blue silk suit and the usual black-framed glasses.
‘Both cars are running well,’ he said. ‘Your engines appear faultless.’
Aito ran his eyes over the monitors and nodded.
‘The changes you made this morning are working to good effect.’
Professor Katana was obviously in constant communication with Aito, thought Bruce. This irritated him, because it took away a measure of his control. However, he told himself to relax; Aito’s input was always constructive.
‘As you know,’ he said, ‘only Wyatt’s car carries the modification.’
‘And if it wasn’t for Professor Katana, he wouldn’t know about it.’
Now Bruce was really angry. It was his business to decide what his drivers were told. His face betrayed his thoughts.
‘You are not angry with me - you are angry with yourself,’ Aito Shensu said. ‘I believe in being honest with people I trust. I know how, as a Westerner, you choose to run this team. But you are a shrewd man, Bruce. I think you are still prepared to learn.’
The grip on Bruce’s shoulder now felt like a steel clamp. He had totally underestimated Aito’s understanding of the situation.
‘I took the decision,’ Bruce said grimly.
Aito gave a faint smile.
‘I want you to be comp
letely open with Wyatt. You can trust him.’
Logic and ethics, thought Bruce. Yes they were fine in discussion, but on the track you operated by different rules.
‘This is going to be a hard race,’ he said. ‘There’ll be a lot of passing and overtaking, and that means some drivers are going to be tailing each other a lot of the time. The heat build-up for the following car is rapid; after a while the driver has to back off or risk a blow-up. So the increased cooling on the Shadow could give Wyatt the edge he needs to win.’
The words were out of his mouth before he realised it.
‘Ah, you favour Wyatt rather than Ricardo,’ Aito remarked reflectively.
‘Aito . . .’
Phelps’s voice boomed across the pits. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this.’
Jack and Aito shook hands. The President meets the Emperor, Bruce thought to himself.
‘I was looking for you earlier,’ Aito replied in a slightly abrupt voice, ‘but no one could find you.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I met an associate and we went off for a discussion.’
Bruce looked anxiously over the pit crew. ‘If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve got work to do.’
The practice was over and the cars were coming in. Bruce’s important business now was making sure that Wyatt and Ricardo were well rested before the race. That was what the motorvan was primarily for, a place where the drivers could relax before the big event. The masseuse was in attendance in case either of the drivers had tensed up.
Wyatt was first in, his face bathed in sweat as he removed his helmet and fire-protection mask. Bruce was impressed that Suzie was nowhere to be seen; she obviously understood how the team worked, that it was important for him to be close to his drivers at this moment.
‘Well, Wyatt, how did she go?’
‘Beautifully, but the heat’s worrying me.’
‘Every driver’s under the same pressure.’
‘It’s just like sitting in a microwave.’
‘Just relax. It’ll get cooler in the afternoon. Maybe there’ll be rain,’ Bruce added, looking up at the growing number of clouds in the sky.
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