‘And what if I don’t like it?’
‘That is my gamble. You must say exactly what you think.’
‘Then that’s fine with me.’
‘We’ll set up the shoot after Belgium. I have told them that it is not to take up much of your time.’
‘It’d better not.’ Bruce was anxious that Wyatt should be given ample time to relax after the race.
Mickey came over, having finished his discussion with the Shensu design team.
‘Aito,’ he said directly, ‘it is going to cost a lot of money, to be sure. But it’ll be worth it. Your lads know what they’re doing.’
‘The money is unimportant. Just concentrate on doing your best, that’s all I want.’
The lights burned continuously at the Calibre-Shensu headquarters. The Japanese design team worked alongside the factory mechanics, rebuilding the chassis and fine-tuning the modifications.
After midnight, Mickey took a break and strolled round the offices. He found Wyatt hunched over the phone in his office, his face taut, his fists clenched. Mickey waited till the conversation was over, and Wyatt put down the phone. He saw the bags under Wyatt’s eyes - and the look of total exhaustion and despair on his face.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Still no trace of Suzie. How the hell can someone just disappear?’
Mickey sat down and stared across at Wyatt. He wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of him, he decided; there was something very ruthless in his dark eyes.
‘I pray to God you find Suzie,’ he said quietly.
Wyatt clenched and unclenched his fists. If someone had taken her, if someone had hurt her, he wouldn’t rest till he got them.
Jules Ortega felt Suzie’s hand dig into his arm. She was lying on the bed, a gag through her mouth to muffle the screams. He knew she was going through hell and he thought she deserved it. She was an addict, and that made her his slave.
He glanced out over the rain-forest. Already the first rays of sunlight were beginning to appear, and thin pockets of mist drifted across the green horizon. He studied the mangled fingers on his right hand - all he could think of was revenge.
They had been stupid to deal with Talbot. Why had they allowed the American to control them? It was the Ortega Cartel who ran the drugs business, not the suppliers. His brother was running scared now he’d changed his identity, but Jules wasn’t going to stand for it any more. He would kill Talbot.
Wyatt put the phone down, his hand shaking. He glanced across at the clock by his bedside. It was just after midnight. The call had come unexpectedly - a long-distance call from the Brazilian police. A man called Raoul had contacted them and said he could give them information that would lead them to Suzie.
Wyatt knew there was no way he could deal with this alone, but he knew someone who could help him - someone he trusted more than anyone else in the world. Suzie’s life depended on it.
He dialled the number in Argentina. It rang for a long time and then was answered by a servant. Wyatt thought of the estancia, of the polo field and the mountains in the distance. What was he doing here in London?
‘Is Carlos on the ranch?’
‘Si, I call him for you.’
He waited patiently, hearing the faint calling and then the noise of feet across the floorboards.
‘Wyatt. You are all right after Monaco? The press were unkind . . .’
He felt a surge of relief on hearing Carlos’s voice.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I will race in Belgium.’
There was a long pause.
‘Estelle is concerned about you,’ Carlos said at last.
‘You know how it is between us,’ Wyatt replied quietly.
‘I know.’
Another long pause.
‘Carlos,’ Wyatt said. ‘I need you to help me, but it might be dangerous. The Brazilian police have a lead on Suzie, a man called Raoul. You must make contact with him, find out what he wants and then get the money to him.’
‘Don’t worry, Wyatt,’ Carlos’s strong, reassuring voice came down the phone.
‘I will handle this.’
Raoul put down the phone. He had spoken with Wyatt Chase, the man who had put up the reward money, and Chase had said he would send his stepfather, one Carlos Ramirez, to meet Raoul with the money. Ramirez would give him the money in exchange for information that would lead them to Suzie von Falkenhyn. Chase had emphasised that the information had to be good.
Raoul knew now that Manuel had been telling the truth. Manuel was barely alive, but he had talked.
Raoul understood why Manuel had been terrified to talk. This cocaine factory hidden in the bowels of the Amazon basin sounded incredible. And it was in this secret factory that Suzie von Falkenhyn was being held, supposedly for the pleasure of Jules Ortega.
Raoul lay back on the bedstead and stared at the discoloured ceiling. By late that afternoon he would be a millionaire. He would kill Manuel, then he would move on to another country. He wanted to be away from this hotel, the brothel and the town. Every minute was dangerous here. If the Ortega Cartel knew what Manuel had told him, they would have both of them killed.
It was just before midday when a helicopter buzzed noisily over the roof of the hotel. Raoul sank back behind the curtains. It must be Carlos Ramirez. It had to be - he didn’t want to wait any longer. Thank God! He would supply Ramirez with a map showing the location of the factory where Suzie von Falkenhyn was held, then he would take the money, kill Manuel and run.
He moved back to the bed and pulled out the Uzi carbine, then let himself out of the window and onto the fire-escape. Five minutes later there was a knock on his door.
‘Who is it?’ he shouted from outside the window, the Uzi lined up on the door, his finger stroking the trigger.
‘A Mr Ramirez to see you,’ said a voice from behind the door.
‘Tell him to come up here.’
He was sweating now. He must be very careful not to give too much away. He wanted his million dollars.
There was another knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ Raoul shouted, and moved to the side of the window, out of view.
A man came into the room. He was over six feet tall, blond, and wearing an airforce jumpsuit. In his right hand he carried an attache case.
‘Put down the case or you die,’ Raoul said softly.
The man walked forward and dropped the case on the bed.
‘Who are you?’ Raoul asked.
‘Talbot. Rod Talbot.’
Raoul laughed uneasily.
‘You lie. You must be Carlos Ramirez.’
‘No. But I have the same amount of money as Ramirez.’ Raoul moved into view.
‘What do you mean?’
Talbot flicked open the catches on the case to reveal wads of money.
‘The rest is in the chopper.’
‘You pay me the money so I don’t talk to Ramirez?’
‘You get the drift good, buddy. I have my contacts in the police force, and they put me onto you.’
Raoul stepped carefully over the window-ledge and into the room.
‘We go to the helicopter to get the rest of the money. You walk, I follow.’
Raoul looked closely at Talbot’s back. The muscles were rock-hard on the neck beneath the crew-cut.
They moved out of the hotel and into a field behind it. The helicopter stood on the grass, empty and forbidding.
‘Show me the money that buys my silence.’
Talbot reached inside and pulled out a couple of bulky holdalls. Raoul felt his pulse racing.
‘Take out the money.’
Talbot reached inside one of the bags, pivoted - and a shot exploded from his side, taking Raoul in the hip. Raoul staggered back, but before he could fire Talbot deftly kicked the Uzi from his hands in one fluid, lightning movement. Raoul writhed in pain on the ground.
‘Where is the person who told you where she is being held?’ Talbot asked. When he got no answer, he knelt down next
to Raoul and pressed his fingers into his wound.
‘No! No!’ Raoul screamed.
‘Where is the person?’
‘His name is Manuel, it was his sister Julia, who works in the cocaine factory, who told him. He’s in the basement with my men. Please let me go - it was his idea to claim the reward, not mine.’
‘Turn over.’
Talbot bound Raoul’s hands and left him face-down in the grass, then walked back into the hotel. Minutes later, Raoul heard screams. After what seemed an eternity, Talbot dragged Manuel into view, blubbering like a child.
‘Why you call him?’ he sobbed at Raoul. ‘He works for the Ortega Cartel. He kill us both.’
Raoul looked at the blond man in terror.
‘Let me live, please! I will say nothing.’
‘Shut up, cock-sucker. I had to fly a long way to get here, and you’ve really upset me. Now, Manuel, be a good man and sit on the edge of the hold.’
Manuel obediently sat on the edge of the chopper, his feet resting on the landing-frame, and Talbot hauled up Raoul and deposited him next to Manuel. Then he climbed into the cockpit and took off. High above the ground, he tilted the machine to one side so that the two of them were almost falling out. The road in front of the hotel lay one hundred metres below them. Manuel was shaking.
‘Talk, my friend, or jump. Tell me if anyone else knows about where she is,’ Talbot said quietly.
Manuel stared into Raoul’s eyes and remained silent. The helicopter tilted over a little more.
Raoul vomited. Then he talked.
Talbot relaxed. ‘You are a wise man, my friend. You’re sure no one else knows about the location of the factory?’
Raoul nodded.
‘Manuel?’
‘No. Only Raoul, I tell no one else. I gave you the only map showing the location of the factory.’
Talbot felt the map in his side-pocket.
Then you may both die in peace,’ he said.
He banked the chopper, and Manuel and Raoul fell screaming towards the ground.
Carlos arrived in the little village late in the afternoon. There was an eerie chill about the place, and he had the uneasy feeling he was being watched.
He checked into the hotel and was about to phone Wyatt when something warned him against it. He walked down to reception and confronted the manager.
‘I am looking for Raoul.’
The manager swallowed, then said quickly, ‘Who?’
Carlos grabbed the register and spun it round before the manager could stop him. A guest had checked out that afternoon. Carlos looked at the room number, then pushed the register back across to the manager and ran up the stairs to the top floor. The door to room twenty-one burst open with one well-aimed kick from his boot.
The place was a mess. A suitcase lay in the centre of the floor, half-packed, and the bed was unmade. The window was open, a slight breeze blowing in through the curtains.
Carlos closed the door and began to search. He examined every piece of clothing. There were no papers and no money. Clearly, someone had given the place a clean sweep.
At the bottom of the suitcase he found a couple of paperbacks and a child’s atlas. He sat down on an upright chair by the window and stared round the room. There had to be something he could find, some tiny clue.
He searched through the man’s possessions again. When he came to look at the atlas, it fell open at a map of the Amazon basin. There were some scribbles on it and a few arrows - and a circle round an area that lay on the borders of Brazil and Colombia.
What did it mean?
The Dorchester was living up to its reputation as one of London’s - if not the world’s - finest hotels. He was contemplating the Waterford whisky decanter when the phone rang.
‘Mr Sartori? I’d appreciate it if you could spend a few minutes with me. Perhaps we could meet in the lobby?’
The smooth American voice was disturbing.
‘Who are you?’ Ricardo said.
‘Let us say that I know you’ve been laundering drug money through certain Swiss banks and that you are now in serious trouble.’
Ricardo felt sick.
‘Are we going to talk, Mr Sartori? Or would you prefer me to speak to the authorities?’
‘Please . . .’
‘Meet me in the coffee lounge in five minutes. I’ll be reading a book with a pink cover.’
Ricardo put the phone down nervously. Should he ring Phelps? Drug money? Jesus, so that was why Phelps was paying him so much! Then Ricardo put two and two together, and a whole lot of things he hadn’t been able to understand about the Calibre-Shensu deal suddenly fell into place. With a sick feeling in his stomach, he went down to the coffee lounge.
He saw a man reading a book with a pink cover, a tall, lean, blond man who looked as though he might be an actor.
‘Mr Sartori, the name’s Talbot . . .’
Coffee with Talbot did nothing to improve Ricardo’s spirits. He was clearly in very serious trouble.
‘So, Mr Sartori, by rights I should have you arrested.’
‘But . . . but what about Jack Phelps?’ Ricardo stuttered.
‘Come off it, buddy. That’s your story. There’s no mention of Phelps in any of the dealings I’ve investigated - and Phelps is a powerful man with influential Washington connections. I’d say you’d be signing your death-warrant if you accused him of anything.’
Ricardo sipped nervously at his coffee. What a fool he’d been to get involved with Phelps! Now he was out of his depth.
‘What do you want?’ he said. ‘Who are you?’
Talbot laughed.
‘I’m with Interpol - we want to cut a deal with you.’
Ricardo suddenly felt a little more optimistic.
‘A deal?’
‘Yeah.’ He smiled.
‘You see, we know perfectly well Phelps is involved, but we can’t get a handle on him. So, you cooperate with us, you help us nail Phelps, and . . .’
‘And?’
‘We’ll take a lenient view on the fact that you’ve been laundering drug money.’
Talbot looked like a bigger James Dean, thought Ricardo, but there was an air of menace in his turquoise eyes that was disturbing. He wondered what Talbot meant by ‘co-operate’.
‘So, Ricardo, old friend, is it “yes” or “no”?’ said Talbot, getting up to go.
‘You give me no choice.’
‘There’s always a choice.’
‘I co-operate with you.’
Talbot leaned a little closer.
‘Look, we know Phelps has master-minded a huge cocaine-smuggling operation that’s being mounted across Europe. We just want you to let us know what’s going on.’
Ricardo looked a little nervous and Talbot slapped him across the back.
‘Hey, relax! Phelps totally underestimates your abilities - he’d never dream you could two-time him. I know you can do it, though. Besides, I’ll always be around for you to consult. Really, there’s nothing to worry about. With your help we can identify the dealers. We have to infiltrate the network, you see, to get all the big boys.’
‘I don’t know about this . . .’
‘You want to spend the rest of your life in jail?’
‘All right, I do it.’
The Belgian sky was grey and overcast, which suited Debbie’s mood perfectly. The temperature had scarcely risen above five degrees centigrade, and the tall pine trees above the track looked strangely forbidding in the low light.
She sensed that Ricardo might be interested in someone else. He’d been so strange lately, so preoccupied.
The Calibre-Shensu team had arrived a few days in advance of the redesigned Shadows, but Bruce de Villiers had stayed at the Calibre-Shensu headquarters to help with the final stages of the rebuild. Wyatt would be coming with the cars.
Debbie knew how desperately Ricardo wanted to compete. She’d felt closest to him just before the Brazilian Grand Prix. He’d been at his most vulnerable - an
d, for once, he’d relied on her.
She wandered from the pits to the warehouse where the rest of the team’s equipment was stored. There were the usual security guards, supplied by another of Jack Phelps’s endless list of companies. One of the guards smiled at her, his eyes fixed on her breasts, which were plainly visible through her tight-fitting white polo-neck jersey. She stared him out and walked past, sensing his interest move from her breasts to her backside.
Inside, she looked around at the immaculately organised paraphernalia of equipment - all the miscellaneous accessories that travelled with every Grand Prix team. She knew the inventory pretty well off by heart. As usual there were plenty of Carvalho tyres. They’d probably brought more wet-weather tyres because it looked as though the entire race would be run in the rain - unless the conditions changed drastically.
She ran her hand over the surface of one of the tyres that had just come out of the container - then felt a hand rest firmly on her shoulder and spin her round. Ricardo took her arm and guided her away from the tyres.
‘Let me take you to lunch,’ he said. ‘It is a tragedy for a beautiful woman to be alone.’
The jet landed in pouring rain. Vanessa Tyson moved quickly through the customs with her crew and then out through the rain to a hired mini-bus. Sean, her cameraman, grinned at her ruefully.
‘The glamour of international Grand Prix racing?’
‘Cool it, Sean,’ she answered good-humouredly. ‘This is typical Belgian spring weather. Believe me, it can only get worse.’
They were at their hotel a few hours later, having driven through an intense thunderstorm. After off-loading all their gear, Vanessa suggested that they eat at a nearby restaurant - a well-known watering-hole of the Formula One circus.
Vanessa had arrived at the Spa circuit well in advance, to pick up on any difficulties the organisers might be having, and any gossip about the teams. Her pulse quickened when they got to the restaurant - she caught sight of several of the top drivers. A few people looked up when she walked in; it was because of her growing reputation, she was sure. Most of the diners had had a lot to drink and were talking freely.
Eye of the Cobra Page 32