Eye of the Cobra

by Christopher Sherlock

  Emerson had moved towards the door and was about to open it when Carlos switched on the public address system.

  ‘Wyatt,’ he roared, ‘get in the chopper!’

  The glass of the cockpit exploded as gunfire erupted from the edge of the runway. Wyatt wrenched open the door - and Emerson Ortega raised his gun and fired, grazing Wyatt’s shoulder.

  Then Wyatt was on him, smashing his fists into Ortega’s face.

  ‘Take off!’

  Wyatt yelled to Carlos above the noise of the gunfire.

  They rose up, were off into the blackness and away from the dark mountain.

  The explosion caught Carlos totally unawares. The missile struck the top of the chopper and put out all three engines. He’d been so exhausted, he’d just concentrated on getting to Manaus, the closest town in the Amazon basin - forgetting that the other choppers still on the mountain would give pursuit.

  He wrestled with the controls as the helicopter pitched downwards into the blackness. Ortega was screaming, but Wyatt held Suzie, bracing himself, cradling her head.

  Carlos managed to restart one engine and arrested their downward course, but the engine began to misfire almost immediately. They were losing height rapidly, and he tried to glide the chopper in on its rotors. The next moment they crashed into branches with a sickening noise as the helicopter tore open. Something came up without warning and struck Carlos hard in the face. He fell back from the controls and blacked out.

  Carlos came round to the smell of wood-smoke. Wyatt was sitting in front of a small fire, staring across at the horizon. Emerson Ortega was trussed to a large tree, shivering uncontrollably.

  ‘Where’s Suzie?’ Carlos asked, then caught sight of the parachute cloth to his left.

  Wyatt looked ashen. It was as if the life had been drained from within him, and that he hovered on the edge of an abyss, unsure if he had strength to go on.

  Carlos wished he had never regained consciousness. He walked over to the parachute cloth and pulled it back slightly.

  Suzie’s face was perfect in death.

  Wyatt did not say a word, but Carlos saw the tears running from his eyes and he knew the hurt that Wyatt felt deep inside.

  The silence seemed eternal.

  Later, towards the end of the afternoon, Carlos rose and went up to Emerson Ortega, drawing his knife.

  ‘I saw the film of what you did to my brother,’ he said.

  ‘It was a lie.’

  The knife in Carlos’s hand shifted. ‘You killed my brother,’ he said.

  ‘No! It was not my doing!’

  ‘I want you to tell me you killed my brother. I will make you stand up in court and tell a jury what you did to him.’

  Ortega chuckled weakly. ‘You Ramirez, you are all the same. How long do you think you would last if it was known you had threatened me? Do you know what they’d do to your wife? Think about it, and let me go. I am a reasonable man. All this will be forgotten.’

  Carlos walked over to the fire and rested the blade against a flame. Then he lifted it up, went across to the tree and pressed it against his own arm. Wyatt smelt sweetness. But Carlos did not cry out, instead he spoke, gritting his teeth.

  ‘You know that I have learned to live with pain. To die is easy. You are not going to die, Ortego. You are going to live, and you are going to pay the price.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself.’

  Carlos walked back to the fire and sat down, staring at Emerson.

  ‘I will never sink to your level,’ he said.

  Wyatt rose to his feet. He spoke for the first time that day.

  ‘It would be better to kill him.’

  ‘You do not understand. You will need this dog to convict Phelps.’

  Wyatt walked down to the side of the river. He sat there for a long time, and then he felt Carlos’s hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Come. She must be laid to rest.’

  They worked with their hands, digging a simple, shallow grave. Then Carlos took Suzie’s body to the river and washed it carefully. Wyatt collapsed on the ground by the grave, his sobs mingling with the noises of the jungle.

  Carlos wrapped her carefully in the parachute cloth and laid her body in the shallow grave. Then he went across to Wyatt.

  ‘Come. It is right that you should cover her.’

  Wyatt scraped the black earth over the shroud. He felt empty, unable to go on.

  Carlos carved a simple cross and placed it over the grave. The orange sun disappeared beneath the green horizon.

  Wyatt felt a part of himself had died with Suzie.

  They got Emerson to his feet at dawn, broke camp and started to cut their way through the foliage, heading towards the east.

  A heaviness lay on Wyatt’s soul. He did not care whether they got out alive or died in the jungle.

  Bruce got the message to contact Dr Max Weiss when he came into the office after the testing session, and it was with considerable anxiety that he drove up to the scientist’s house. He sounded the intercom, and looked up at the TV camera that was focused on him.

  ‘Come in, please,’ a digitised voice purred.

  ‘Bruce, I’m sorry to drag you out all this way,’ Dr Weiss said apologetically, looking up from a computer screen as he came in. ‘It’s just that my findings are odd, to say the least, and in view of what happened with Wyatt Chase, I thought your phones might be tapped.’

  He gestured for Bruce to take a seat and handed him a sheet of test results.

  ‘Both tyres definitely burst. As to why, I can’t work it out. There aren’t enough pieces to rebuild the carcass. But I did do a few other tests, and guess what I found?’

  ‘Defective material?’ Bruce suggested, hating the very thought.

  ‘No, nothing wrong with the tyres at all. But I found minute traces of cocaine on the inner wall. I think you should have a close look at your pit crew.’

  Bruce felt rage building inside him. It was a rule of his that

  there was to be no drinking while working - but drugs, he hadn’t even thought about drugs. Maybe he’d been naive. Maybe he should have paid more attention to Tennant that time. Shit!

  ‘I’m suggesting that one of the men who fitted the tyres to the rims could possibly have been as high as a kite. That would account for the repeated mistake. I realise it’s the last thing you’d like the press to get hold of.’

  In the back of Bruce’s mind another incident replayed itself. The redhead with the blow-torch. Of course, she’d been after something, something he didn’t know about. Now he knew what. Someone on the team must be using cocaine - probably smuggling and selling it as well.

  There was a deathly silence in Bruce’s office. He eyeballed each of the pit crew and the team from Carvalho, only avoiding Reg Tillson.

  Reg was not on the suspect list.

  He coughed, then got up from his desk.

  ‘As you know, we’ve been trying to work out what happened at Monza. The results now appear pretty conclusive: the tyres were not at fault. However, a forensic scientist has found traces of cocaine on the inside of the tyres involved in both accidents. One of you has been taking coke - perhaps more than one. I want to know who.’

  The silence continued. Every face was red. He could understand why. Anyone admitting guilt would be admitting to responsibility for the death of Charlie Ibuka.

  Bruce slammed his fist on the desk.

  ‘Own up! Because I’ll find out who it was, and when I do, I’ll crucify you. I can understand if you don’t want to come forward in front of the others, I can understand that very well, so I’m going to let you all go back to work. But I want whoever is guilty to contact me. This way, it’ll be hard . . . The other way, I’ll have to call in the police, and that’ll be terrible.’

  They all filed out of the office except for Reg, who sat down in front of Bruce’s desk.

  ‘Did you have to be so tough? I mean, is the evidence that conclusive? The guys have been under a lot of pressure. It could even have
been one of the men at the Carvalho factory, for all you know.’

  Bruce coloured and ran his hand through his hair.

  ‘Yes, it could be. But you know, I have to start at the most obvious place, and that means the pit crew.’

  Reg laid his hands on the table.

  ‘What you’re saying is that you don’t trust them.’

  ‘Well, you tell me how else to handle it. Or do you want Ricardo’s death on your hands at Silverstone?’

  Reg got up. ‘I’ll watch my guys like a hawk. If I suspect anything, you’ll be the first to know.’

  ‘Reg, if I’m wrong, I’m sorry, but there’s no other way.’

  Jack Phelps stood on the US Airforce runway in Texas and looked up at the sun. What he’d just been told wasn’t good news. They’d got Talbot to the hospital, almost on the verge of death, but somehow the man had recovered.

  Talbot had never mentioned Suzie von Falkenhyn, never told him they’d taken her. Talbot had been a fool, playing with fire.

  Then there was the story about the helicopter that had come back out of the darkness. About the man with dark hair and a prominent chin who had leaped on board as it took off. A man who was lean but incredibly strong. Jesus, how the hell had Wyatt got out of there? And how had he got to the mountain in the first place?

  History repeats itself, he thought. At least Chase was now dead. They’d rocketed the helicopter and seen it plunging, covered in flame, down into the vastness of the Amazon basin. Probably better that way; no evidence. Still, he had demanded they launch a search. No point in taking chances.

  He walked back and shook hands with the general before getting into the helicopter. Now word would get out in the underworld that the Ortega Cartel was finished and that cocaine supplies had dried up. Then he would wait for the price to rise. In a year he would be the wealthiest man in the world.

  Estelle was at the Dorchester in London when she heard that Jack Phelps was in reception to see her. She looked at her face in the mirror as she checked her make-up.

  The tension she was under was terrible. She still had heard no word from either Carlos or Wyatt. Both she and John Tennant wanted to talk to them - to try and get to the bottom of events.

  Jack Phelps looked better than ever, she thought, as she made her way across the lobby to greet him. He kissed her on both cheeks and guided her into the coffee shop.

  ‘I wanted to see you when Wyatt was arrested, but there was a lot of business pressure on. However, now I’m free from commitments, at least for the next twenty-four hours, and I want to try and find Wyatt. I must talk to him. I feel responsible, as the chief sponsor of Calibre-Shensu.’

  Estelle felt the fear growing inside her. She decided to play along with Phelps. That was what she’d agreed with Tennant.

  ‘Jack, I’m glad you came to me. I know where Wyatt is, and he’s not in a good way. He doesn’t want to give himself up.’

  Jack rested his hand on her arm.

  ‘I can help, I know I can. If you just tell me where he is, I’ll go and talk to him.’

  ‘But Jack, once you know where he is you’ll be committing a crime if you don’t let the police know.’

  ‘Estelle, James was good to me. I want to help.’

  A waiter came up to the table and Phelps ordered a coffee and a cappuccino. Estelle was touched that he remembered she always drank cappuccino in the afternoon. She softened.

  ‘Jack, I don’t want you in trouble as well.’

  ‘I’m not scared of risks. Tell me where he is.’

  She decided that a bit of the truth was all right.

  ‘With Carlos,’ she said.

  ‘And where’s Carlos?’

  She moved closer to Phelps, anxious to see his face as she imparted her next piece of information.

  ‘This is for your ears only,’ she said softly, and Phelps leaned in towards her.

  ‘As you know, his brother David was the Minister of Justice in Colombia. He was killed by the Ortega Cartel. Carlos was planning to bring back the man who killed him, Emerson Ortega.’

  Phelps’s face went white.

  ‘Ortega’s dead,’ he blurted out a little too quickly. Then he recovered his wits.

  ‘I’m sorry, Estelle, but that sounds like garbage.’

  Estelle remained unruffled, watching the American.

  ‘Carlos,’ she said, ‘was certain that Ortega was still alive.’

  Phelps staggered up.

  ‘Estelle, would you excuse me for a minute?’

  He got up and strode away between the tables. Estelle gestured to a waiter, who was one of Tennant’s men.

  ‘Follow him. He’s up to something.’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Just watch what he does. Now go!’

  Phelps staggered into the toilets, wrenched open one of the cubicle doors, hung over the bowl and vomited. Ortega still alive - it was too terrible to contemplate! Everything would come out!

  It must have been Carlos with Wyatt, Carlos who’d captured the helicopter and rescued Suzie. But what had happened to Emerson Ortega? Was he still alive? Had they all survived? The pilot had assured him that no one could have got out alive from the chopper when it was rocketed.

  He went over to the washbasins and cleaned himself up. One of the waiters from the coffee shop was busy washing his hands, and seemed to take forever - they left the toilets together.

  Phelps went over to the maitre d’hotel.

  ‘I need to make an international call immediately.’

  He was shown to a private cubicle and handed a phone, and in five minutes he was through to a contact at the Pentagon. He barked out a series of instructions rapid-fire, and then slammed the phone down.

  Estelle looked at her watch. He had been gone ten minutes. She looked up to see him hurrying back.

  ‘Estelle. I’m terribly sorry but I bumped into an old business associate who wouldn’t leave me alone.’

  He rested his hand on hers.

  ‘Please, when you know where Wyatt is, get him to contact me.’

  Then he was gone.

  Tennant’s man came up to her and recounted Phelp’s behaviour over the previous ten minutes.

  ‘You are sure that he did not meet an old friend?’

  ‘The only person he spoke to was the maitre d’hotel.’

  Out in the lobby, Tennant’s man showed the hotel manager his police identity, and the manager got a print-out of the number Phelps had direct-dialled from reception.

  It was a United States number. Back in her room with Tennant’s man, Estelle asked the telephonist to put her through to the same number.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said a woman with an American accent. ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Who do you wish to speak to?’

  ‘I want to know if I’m through to the right number.’

  ‘Who do you wish to speak to?’

  ‘Someone in authority.’

  The phone went dead.

  When the call came through, Jack Phelps was still trying to persuade himself that Estelle had been bluffing.

  ‘Yes?’ he said into the receiver. ‘From the Dorchester? What? Estelle Ramirez, yes. She rang the number?’

  He put the phone down and dialled another number. He barked a series of commands down the line.

  ‘Talbot, I don’t care how bad you are, you sort it out.’

  Estelle met Tennant himself a little later, and he scribbled down the number she’d dialled.

  ‘It’s probably some financial brokerage service that has private lines for its more exclusive clients.’

  ‘So you don’t believe he’s the one?’

  ‘Mrs Ramirez, people always have a motive. Now why should Jack Phelps, already one of the wealthiest men in the world, want to get involved in drugs? Besides, the cocaine business is pretty much dead after the coup in Colombia.’

  ‘But he lied to me.’

  ‘I’m sure a man like Phelps is under constant stress. He’s probably got an ulcer he’s n
ot talking about. And as for the phone call, well, he probably doesn’t like to let anybody know what he’s up to most of the time.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ve been letting my imagination run riot.’

  ‘I think we’ve been taking Vanessa Tyson too much at her word.’

  Estelle got back to the Dorchester just after midnight. She took her key from reception and went up to her room. She remembered she’d left the light on, but now it was off. She searched for the switch and put it on.

  A man with a bandaged face held a gun to her head.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Ramirez. One word, one gasp, and I’ll put a bullet through your head. This gun is silenced, so don’t make the mistake of trying me out.’

  She turned for the door, and he gripped her arm and twisted it hard up her back.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘It’s time for your bath. Take off your clothes.’

  She undressed as the gunman looked on. After all she’d been through, she thought, she now had to run into a rapist . . . She pressed the panic-button the police had given her, then hid it under her discarded dress.

  ‘Very good. Now I’ve run the bath for you and the water’s nice and hot.’

  As she moved to the bathroom door, his leg shot out and he pushed her forward so that she fell head-first into the water. She tried to scream - and then the door to her room burst open and two policemen ran in. The man with the gun swivelled, pumped shots into each of them. Estelle rolled into the bathroom and locked the door.

  Bullets smashed through the wood, narrowly missing her. Then she heard sirens outside, and the shooting stopped.

  John Tennant replaced the phone with a grim expression on his face. He thanked God he’d given her the panic-button - but he felt sick when he thought of the two men who’d died saving her life.

  Then he remembered the number she’d given him, and phoned headquarters and dictated it over the phone. Five minutes later he had an answer.

  It was classified. A direct line to a general in the Pentagon.

  John Tennant opened and closed his hands. It was worse, far worse than he’d dreamed.