John Tennant walked down into the cell section, his nose twitching. Why did all prisons smell the same? In front of him the woman warder tramped noisily onwards, then stopped at a cell door and opened it carefully. John gestured for her to go away, but she stayed outside.
Vanessa Tyson was lying on a bunk, reading. They’d given her plenty of books as he’d ordered.
‘So, Mr Tennant, what surprises do you have for me now?’
She didn’t look at him, but went on reading. He handed her a cigarette, which she took.
‘Still not going to talk?’
He lit her cigarette.
‘I’ve said all I’m going to say.’
He sat down on the chair next to the bunk and picked up the book she’d been reading. It was on Formula One.
‘Chase lost,’ Tennant said. ‘He spun off on the thirty-third lap. De Rosner won.’
He saw the flicker of despair cross her face, then she looked at him.
‘Why did you tell me that?’
‘You’re his lover.’
She raised herself up and smoothed back her hair. Then she hit him hard across the side of his face.
‘Get out of here, you bastard!’
Resisting the temptation to retaliate, Tennant quietly picked his cigarette off the floor and relit it; but his mouth was quivering.
Vanessa shifted on the bunk.
‘I . . . I’m sorry.’
‘You’re in serious trouble. I hope you know that.’
‘The first time I saw those drugs,’ Vanessa said steadily, ‘was when Inspector Tielemans found them.’
‘I’d like to believe you. Everything adds up, yet nothing adds up. I can’t work out why someone would spend millions of dollars to put you away.’
‘Because I was threatening them.’
‘Calibre-Shensu?’
‘I don’t know. There are a lot of cigarette companies in Formula One sponsorship. It could be any one of them.’
‘There have been similar attacks in the past and there will be in the future. I don’t think it makes sense. If they got found out it could be very, very damaging to them.’
Vanessa lay back on the bunk.
‘You know what really frightens me?’
She looked at the bars across the window.
‘No,’ he lied, thinking that she was scared of being denied her freedom.
‘It’s fine,’ she said, ‘watching those cars going round and round the circuit, as long as you’re not emotionally linked to anyone inside them. The moment you are, the whole character of the sport changes.’
‘Very touching. I sympathise.’
‘Goddamn you! I’m terrified Wyatt Chase will kill himself!’
John got up, scratching his forehead, embarrassed. He was getting attached to Vanessa Tyson, and that was dangerous.
‘Do you believe I’m guilty?’ she confronted him.
‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that.’
The cell door closed, and he was gone.
Ricardo packed his case quickly. His mind was made up. He would sell the villa on Skiathos and his Lear jet. That would be more than enough to defray his expenses. Then he would start again next year. He could still win the championship one more time.
He would say nothing to anyone about Phelps - his discussions and dealings with the man would be taboo. He was going to close that chapter of his life altogether.
The phone rang, and he answered it reluctantly. It was Phelps. He listened and then decided it was time to come clean.
‘No, Jack, I can’t go on. I want out. Well, do your worst, but I’m out.’
He slammed the phone down. He could feel the sweat breaking out on his face. How had he got involved with Phelps? It would always be like this.
He pulled the card from his pocket and dialled the number slowly. The phone rang for a long time before it was answered by the sleepy voice of John Tennant. But as soon as the voice spoke, Ricardo remembered Talbot’s instructions and lost his nerve. He put the receiver down, picked up his case and opened the door of his hotel room.
The doorway was blocked by Talbot. The fist hit him in the solar-plexus before he could react, and he toppled over, dropping his suitcase. But he was fit, and he was on his feet again like a cat - until Talbot’s foot shot up and hit him hard in the side of the head. He flew across the room and slammed into the wall.
Ricardo realised he was out-matched. The phone began to ring again.
‘Answer the phone, punk.’
He lay inert on the floor, scared to move. Talbot picked him up by the collar and dumped him on the bed, and Ricardo groped for the phone and picked up the handset.
‘Yes?’
‘Hallo, Ricardo. You haven’t left yet?’
There was more than a hint of menace in Phelps’s voice.
‘No, Jack, I’m staying,’ Ricardo replied with difficulty, staring nervously at Talbot.
‘Has anyone been asking questions about me?’
‘No.’
‘Just remember, I have the power to destroy you.’
The phone went dead. Ricardo stared at Talbot.
‘Who was it?’ Talbot snapped, and when Ricardo didn’t immediately reply, he hit him hard across the side of the head.
‘It was Jack Phelps,’ Ricardo said, almost inaudibly.
‘If I were you I wouldn’t try that again.’
Slowly Ricardo nodded his head.
The first-class section of the plane was almost empty. Wyatt sat down, but he couldn’t relax. He was in a quiet rage. How could he have been so stupid as to lose control of the Shadow in the wet? He had lost the race and it had been his own fault; he hadn’t scored a single championship point. And he was torn with guilt, too, over his brief involvement with Vanessa Tyson in Monaco. Why the hell had he got involved with a woman who was trying to destroy him and the team?
A hostess offered him a glass of champagne and he waved her away. He wanted to keep his mind clear: the pressure was on him all the time now. Two victories and one total failure. The continuing comments about his driving past the accident in Monaco infuriated him. It had been his choice and it had won him the race.
He switched his mind back to Suzie. Had Carlos followed up his lead? Wyatt hadn’t heard from him since the call a week before. But Carlos must be up to something because he had not flown out with Estelle to watch the Grand Prix. Wyatt knew he should be helping Carlos, but the hectic pace of the Grand Prix calendar demanded all his time and energy.
He would call Carlos the moment he got back to London.
John Tennant looked directly at Vanessa.
‘I want you to go through the whole sequence of events before you were busted.’
‘Again?’
‘Yes. Every last detail.’
He made notes as she went through the whole story of her arrival at the hotel and subsequent jaunt to the restaurant. She was suffering, but he wanted the bastard behind the racket. God, he’d make them pay. He’d be as ruthless as they were.
Later, in his office, he enjoyed a steaming cup of cocoa and watched the rain falling from the overcast sky. Then he read through his notes. Vanessa had used her briefcase on the plane as a work-table, so there was no possibility that anyone had placed anything in it before she arrived at the hotel. After booking in at the hotel, she’d driven out to the restaurant with her cameraman, Sean O’Connor, and Ricardo Sartori had got up from his table as they entered and invited them to join him for dinner. Vanessa and Sean had then driven back to the hotel in the early hours of the morning, and Vanessa had dictated her observations made during the evening, before turning in, exhausted. She’d been woken up by Monsieur Tielemans and his men.
John Tennant decided that the heroin could only have been planted in the briefcase in her room while Vanessa was at the restaurant.
Maybe, just maybe, someone in the hotel had seen whoever had gone into Vanessa’s room and planted the heroin. Unless, of course, the man had got in through the outside win
dow of her room.
Tennant got up and put on his raincoat. It was only a short drive to the hotel.
Wyatt woke up as the plane touched down at Heathrow. He’d fallen into an uneasy sleep, thinking about Suzie, and what he wanted to do now was to get back to his house and get in touch with Carlos. He went quickly through customs and walked out into the vast open foyer of Heathrow, glad to be back in England.
Flash-guns exploded, and a pack of reporters descended on him.
‘Do you take drugs?’ a voice called out.
The question ricocheted round Wyatt’s head. Then he remembered a newspaper article based more on wild speculation than fact, and his mind moved into focus.
‘Drugs? Never. They’d interfere with my concentration. Formula One driving is about concentration - and anything that interferes with that can kill you.’
Another reporter burst in: ‘Have you and Vanessa Tyson been involved for a long time? What did Suzie von Falkenhyn think about it?’
In an instant, the rage he felt at throwing away the Belgian Grand Prix was let loose. He straightened his hand and jabbed it hard in the reporter’s solar-plexus. As the reporter crumpled with a groan of pain, Wyatt closed the same hand and in one flowing movement smashed the back of it against the man’s head, knocking him flying across the floor.
Another reporter blocked his way.
‘Move,’ Wyatt said, but the man pushed a camera forward - and Wyatt shifted back, and upward blocked with his left arm. The camera flew through the air, the reporter crashed to the floor - and Wyatt brought his heel hard down on the man’s neck.
The whole crowd drew back in fear. Wyatt stared at them angrily, then walked across the foyer to the parking garage. He shouldn’t have lost control, but he’d had enough. Quite enough.
Jack Phelps gripped the edge of his desk tightly as he watched the WWTN broadcast. Why had Chase been balling Tyson?
He pushed the button on his intercom.
‘Lauren, get me de Villiers!’
‘Sir, it’s two in the morning in Britain.’
‘I don’t give a flying fuck. Get him now!’
Anna handed the phone to Bruce, who was desperately trying to orientate himself. He’d only got back from Calibre-Shensu headquarters after midnight - he was dog-tired and desperate for sleep. And he was furious about Wyatt’s spinning off the track because of a hare-brained overtaking manoeuvre.
‘Jack?’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s Chase.’
Bruce went cold. Drivers had a knack of getting killed on and off the circuit in the most bizarre circumstances.
‘Is he all right?’
‘Haven’t you seen the fucking papers!’
‘No, I’ve been working on the Shadow.’
‘He smashed up two reporters at the airport. He nearly broke one guy’s neck!’
God, thought Bruce, had Wyatt been on a drinking spree? Obviously, losing the Belgian Grand Prix had got to him.
‘What the fuck do you expect me to do about it?’ he shouted back.
‘Do you know how much money I’ve got riding on Chase? Do you know what people will be thinking? That he’s a callous thug, a killer. Especially after Monaco.’
Bruce held the phone away from his ear and waited till Jack had finished.
‘He’s under a lot of pressure,’ he said, when at last he could get a word in.
‘They’ve got goddamned photographs of Wyatt fucking up that reporter! And evidence that he was balling Vanessa Tyson.’
This took Bruce completely by surprise.
‘Jesus!’ he said. ‘What do we do?’
‘Bullet Chase. We’ll use Ibuka. I mean, the guy finished third in his first race. Wyatt didn’t even finish!’
‘No!’
‘Listen, de Villiers. Bullet Chase or I’ll bullet you.’
Everything had changed within a matter of minutes. The call had been entirely unexpected. At first Ricardo had thought de Villiers was about to raise another problem with the Carvalho sponsorship, but he soon realised from de Villiers’ tone that it was a lot more important than that.
Would he be prepared to drive for Calibre-Shensu? What a question! But how? The ban was still in force.
De Villiers told him not to worry - though he did stress that at this stage the matter was very, very confidential.
Alain Hugo raised his eyebrows for the fourth time in as many minutes. He liked Bruce de Villiers, even after the constructor’s disparaging remarks about FISA.
De Villiers was a fighter, and Hugo, who had come from a similar background, respected this man who’d clawed his way to the top of Formula One.
Sitting next to de Villiers was Ronnie Halliday. They’d both flown over to Paris that morning.
‘You have spoken to Sartori?’ Hugo said.
‘Yes,’ replied Bruce. ‘Naturally, he’s as keen as I am. I can honestly tell you that there will not be another incident. He agreed to abide by what I have recommended to you.’
‘A public apology and a personal payment of half a million dollars to FISA?’
Hugo raised his eyebrows.
‘Yes. You understand that I am in an impossible position. If I cannot get Sartori, Calibre-Shensu will be finished.’
Ronnie Halliday gestured for de Villiers to leave them.
‘Bruce, I must speak to Alain alone for a few moments.’
De Villiers got up and walked smartly from the room.
Ronnie waited till the door was closed.
‘Alain, I have made Formula One what it is today. Now, I know that Ricardo’s behaviour in Rio was excessive, and so was Bruce’s after the event, but let’s look at the realities. Bruce has the backing of two major sponsors - and I think that if he fails, they may well leave Formula One alone. You know the cigarette companies are taking a hammering - there’s pressure to stop them sponsoring the sport. That would be a disaster. Now, Jack Phelps of Calibre wants Chase out; the bad publicity about Chase smashing up reporters, and the relationship with Vanessa Tyson, isn’t helping his company. But that puts Bruce in an almost impossible position.’
Alain Hugo pursed his lips and stared at the picture behind Ronnie’s head. Charles de Gaulle had been a friend of his father’s, a man he respected and admired for his courage and strength. As always in a crisis, he asked himself the question, what would de Gaulle have done in such a situation?
He turned his eyes back to Ronnie Halliday.
‘The money and the apology. By tomorrow morning.’
Halliday broke into a smile, but Hugo held up his hand.
‘Ronnie, now you owe me. Please don’t forget it.’
Wyatt arrived at the Calibre-Shensu headquarters at seven thirty in the morning, in a state of high agitation. He hadn’t been able to get hold of Carlos, but he had found a tortured message on his answering machine from Suzie - a message that had been interrupted in mid-stream. She’d talked about a mountain in a jungle where she was being held prisoner. It could be anywhere.
He just had to get hold of Carlos. He’d kept phoning the whole night, leaving messages with people he thought might see him. He’d been so agitated he hadn’t trained that morning.
Now he was exhausted and very irritated. Mickey Dunstal had already discussed the latest modifications to the Shadow with him after the Belgian Grand Prix. Slight alterations to the anhedral wings at the front would increase the downforce, giving slightly better stability in the corners, which would help the Shadow Two to exploit the tremendous power-output of the Shensu V12 more effectively. There would be a slight drop in top speed, but the increased cornering capability would more than make up for it.
As he got out of the Lotus, Wyatt was struck by the quietness - the place seemed almost empty. Usually at that hour most of the mechanics had arrived, and Mickey would already be discussing the day’s testing with the team of Japanese engineers from Shensu. Where was everyone? What was going on?
He looked around. The only other car outside was Br
uce de Villiers’ Shensu saloon; it was pitch-black, in keeping with the team’s livery.
What the hell was wrong?
Wyatt went quickly inside and dashed up the stairs to Bruce’s office. Bruce was looking out of the window as he came in.
‘Bruce, where is everybody?’
De Villiers swung round, his face ashen, the hard features set rigid.
‘Wyatt. Take a seat.’
He sat down, trying to fathom what was happening. De Villiers leaned forward, placing the palms of his hands firmly on the desk.
‘You are a survivor, Wyatt. I’ve always known that. It takes a lot of courage and a lot of guts to get into Formula One.’
Wyatt felt the fear creeping through him. What was de Villiers saying?
‘Has this got something to do with my losing at Spa?’
‘Wyatt, you’ve brought an avalanche of bad publicity down around our heads. You’re reputedly involved with a woman who’s trying to destroy us, and you’ve assaulted two journalists. And there are even rumours that you’re on drugs. God knows what’s going to come out next.’
‘Bruce, I don’t believe this. I helped get Vanessa Tyson out of Rio after she was nearly killed, that’s all there is between us . . . I’m winning races. Spinning off was an error, and I won’t make it again.’
‘It’s over, Wyatt. I am genuinely sorry.’
The blood was rushing to his head, he had a breathless, horrifying feeling that this couldn’t really be happening.
‘What’s over?’ he managed.
‘Your drive. You’re out. Jack wants it. Aito doesn’t know, but he’ll have to agree. And I can only wish to God it hadn’t happened.’
‘I’ll sue you.’
De Villiers exploded.
‘Don’t be a fucking fool! Read your goddamned contract. This business is about racing, but to race you have to have money, and if I keep you I lose all our sponsorship. Phelps wants you out now!’
Wyatt breathed in and prepared to fight.
‘You can’t race without a driver,’ he said.
‘FISA have agreed that if Ricardo pays a half-a-million- dollar fine, he can race.’
Eye of the Cobra Page 36