Quick

by Steve Worland

  ‘Really?’

  The Australian thinks about it. ‘Well, actually yeah, I probably would, which is part of the reason I got fired.’

  Marcellus nods. ‘And yet that’s the reason you’re here. We believe we know where the crew is operating from but we need someone on the inside. Someone who can identify them. Someone with a special kind of tenacity, who’d chase after them on a Vespa when they’re driving a truck.’

  Billy takes this in. ‘You think the thieves are part of the Formula One World Championship, don’t you?

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘The heist happened on the Saturday before the race. And you’re from Interpol so that must mean it’s happened at a number of other places around the world. And Formula One visits a lot of places.’

  The German nods once more, impressed. ‘Yes, there have been five robberies, totalling just under nine million US dollars, all on race weekends during the F1 season, all stolen diamonds. What we do know is that every place that was hit was insured by the same company, Crown, based in Monaco.’

  ‘Is it an inside job?’

  Claude answers that. ‘We looked into it but there’s nothing there. Crown has a huge, worldwide risk portfolio. It’s just a coincidence as far as we can tell.’

  ‘So, what, you need someone to go undercover as an F1 driver?’

  ‘Reserve F1 driver, yes. For Iron Rhino. In a purely observational capacity. I know you raced V8 Supercars, and before your accident you were a prospect to drive in Europe, so you would, I believe, fit into that world without many questions being asked, certainly better than any agents we have.’

  The Australian takes this in. ‘Righto.’

  Marcellus studies him.

  So, is he the right man for the job?

  The German won’t rush the decision. Something will tip him off, one way or the other. He just needs to go with his gut. It’s always worked in the past.

  Billy nods. ‘It does make sense.’

  ‘What does?’

  ‘That they’re involved in F1. I’m sure one of them was wearing a Michael Schumacher helmet, the red one, from the time he drove for Ferrari. And I’m almost certain one was wearing a yellow Ayrton Senna helmet, and I think the other was wearing a black helmet, like the one that British guy used to wear —’

  ‘James Hunt.’ Marcellus and Billy say it together.

  The only reason Marcellus knows anything about James Hunt, the charismatic British driver, a tall blonde Adonis known as much for his hard partying as for being the 1976 world champion, is because he’d seen Rush, the movie about his battle for the championship with Niki Lauda, just last week. Interestingly Hunt was played by Chris Hemsworth, another Australian. ‘Are you sure about that?’

  Billy nods. ‘Think so. Three helmets, three champions.’

  Marcellus smiles. ‘The Three Champions.’ He glances at Claude. ‘I like it. That’s what we’ll call them from now on.’ The German regards Billy for a moment. Is this information the ‘something’ he was waiting for? Sure, the Australian wasn’t that experienced but his work record was excellent, if you didn’t count all the reprimands and being forced to resign, and he had once been a racing driver.

  Go with your gut.

  ‘Do you speak French or German?’

  Billy shakes his head. ‘Just English, mate.’

  ‘Okay.’ Marcellus turns to Claude and speaks French. ‘I like him.’

  Claude speaks French too. ‘I do not.’

  ‘You’re only saying that because he made you look foolish.’

  ‘No. He’s a hothead.’

  ‘You attempted to tackle him in the middle of a packed lobby as he arrived for the biggest job interview of his life during his first visit to a foreign country. You’d have been a “hothead” too.’ The old German takes a moment. ‘And what was that about anyway?’

  Claude studies the floor, sheepish. ‘I thought he was carrying a weapon. I’m rusty.’

  ‘Well I need you not to be, and fast.’

  ‘He has no experience.’

  ‘Neither did you when you started.’

  Billy grins. ‘You guys are talking about me, aren’t you?’

  Marcellus nods and speaks English: ‘Absolutely.’

  Billy grins. ‘Cool beans.’

  Marcellus looks back at Claude and continues in French: ‘I think he’s the right man.’

  Claude does not. He can barley disguise his disdain for the Australian. “‘Cool beans, mate, righto.” What kind of language is this?’

  ‘I want you to guide him, lend him your experience, help him where you can —’

  ‘I’m not a babysitter —’

  ‘— like I did when you were starting out.’

  That shuts Claude up. The two men study each other for a long moment, then Marcellus breaks the silence. ‘So, are we agreed?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Marcellus turns to Billy and speaks in English. ‘So, if there was a job on offer, would you be interested? If it works out, it could mean an ongoing roll within the organisation.’

  The Australian’s face lights up. ‘When do I start?’

  Marcellus grins. ‘Ten seconds ago.’

  ~ * ~

  5

  Before Marcellus dispatched Billy and Claude to Sepang, Malaysia, site of the second Formula One race of the year, he furnished the Australian with a number of items. The first was a tracking app installed on his iPhone that would allow him to locate Claude, and vice versa. The second was a wallet that contained a load of cash, his ‘walking around money’, a credit card and his Interpol credentials, which looked a lot like his driver’s licence but was way cooler. The third was his weapon, a Glock 17 nine-millimetre handgun, similar to the pistol he used on the force back in Oz.

  The drive from the airport to the Sepang International Circuit is, to say the least, awkward. He and the Frenchman have exchanged barely ten words since they left France. Strangely the guy has yet to apologise for his bumbling arrest attempt in the Interpol lobby.

  The map app on Billy’s phone tells him the racetrack is only forty minutes from the airport. Unfortunately the Frenchman’s driving is as slow as molasses during ski season so they’ve been on the road for thirty minutes and they’re barely halfway there. Billy doesn’t want to say anything, in the spirit of harmony, so he just stares out at the lush countryside and takes in a vividly green hinterland often hydrated by monsoonal rains. Still, it’s difficult to hold his tongue. The guy has been five klicks under the speed limit the whole way. If they keep travelling at this pace they’re going to miss the qualifying session.

  Billy knows pretty well everything about the schedule of a Formula One race weekend. It’s not that hard to remember. They are uniform across all races—except Monaco. Monaco is different, and special, the blue ribbon event of the season, and for good reason. It’s the most watched race, the most talked about and, nowadays, the most tweeted about. It’s also the oldest.

  On the Friday of a race weekend there are two practice sessions of an hour and a half each, with a three-hour break between. This is when the teams put their cars through their paces for the first time and test new parts. Very occasionally a reserve driver will get to run in one of the sessions, to be evaluated or for experience behind the wheel of a Formula One car.

  On the Saturday there’s a third sixty-minute practice session, during which the teams tweak the setup of their car, everything from ride height to suspension settings to the ratios in the gearbox to the pressure in the tyres. The ability to balance so many different, adjustable elements is the difference between a slow car and a quick car. After the third session there’s a break, then a one-hour qualifying session. This determines where on the grid the cars will start, which is often, but not always, a guide to how well the car will perform in the race. Pole position is the goal, not just for bragging rights but for track position at the beginning of the Gr
and Prix.

  Sunday is race day. In Malaysia it runs late in the afternoon, which always makes it a bit of a lottery as that’s when those monsoonal rains often turn up, though a four o’clock deluge midway through the race can often spice up the action. Rain is a great equaliser in Formula One. The power of the engine and the efficiency of the car’s aerodynamics often mean less when the track is wet and the speeds are lower.

  Billy glances at his iPhone again. The map app is open and the blue dot that represents their rental car, a Hyundai i30, pulses on the screen. It has barely moved since the last time he looked. Why did he let this guy drive? Because he’s the senior partner in this endeavour—and he actually rented the car.

  Billy steals a look at the Frenchman. The bloke must be, what, fifty if he’s a day? So he’s old and slow. And short, at least compared to Billy, who’s six-foot-two. As for his hair, well, he still has it all but it’s grey and worn long in the way European guys who came of age in the seventies wear it because they don’t realise long grey hair looks ridiculous on someone so old.

  An old banger zips past, puffing acrid black smoke from its exhaust pipe.

  Billy watches it go. ‘We just got passed by a Toyota Crown that was built a decade before I was born. I think we can up the pace a little huh?’

  The Frenchman ignores him.

  A moment passes.

  ‘Hello? Are you awake? Why are we doing seventy-five in an eighty zone?’

  Silence.

  ‘Mate, if we were going any slower we’d be in reverse.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Tell me, in any of those four languages do you know the word for accelerate?’

  Nada.

  ‘Christ, by the time we reach the track the season will be over.’

  ‘You don’t want to have an accident before we start the investigation, do you?

  ‘He speaks!’

  ‘I’m driving to the conditions.’

  Billy looks out the windscreen. The sky is blue and the roadway is clear. ‘The conditions? I could land an A380 on this highway and nobody would notice.’

  ‘I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Really? Like you did in the lobby? Because that was some real great police work right there.’

  ‘I thought you were carrying a weapon.’

  ‘Well I wasn’t, so you should apologise.’

  ‘I’m not going to apologise for securing my workplace.’

  ‘Oh come on, man, you profiled me and got it wrong. Now you need to own it so we can be friends.’

  Claude looks at him like he’s crazy. ‘I have no interest in being your friend.’

  Billy exhales wearily. ‘It’s a figure of speech, Einstein. I don’t want to be your friend either but we have to work together so we should clear the air before we start the job.’

  ‘I did what was right.’

  ‘And you were still wrong.’ A moment passes. ‘So, are you going to apologise?’

  ~ * ~

  Claude shakes his head. He is not going to apologise, and he hasn’t, to anyone, since he was a boy.

  He was eleven when his mother sent him to the corner store to buy a pack of Gitanes. Moments after leaving the house he was cornered by the local teenage hood, Bertrand Le Fincher, who promptly stole the money, then beat him like a dusty rug. When his mother heard the cries of her son she came running, but not for the reason you’d think. She didn’t take retribution on the thief but beat Claude for being ‘veule’, or ‘spineless’, because he had apologised to Bertrand for not having more money to give him to stop the beating. Yes, his mother was a tough old broad, but it did the trick. Claude never apologised for anything again. Ever.

  As far as Claude is concerned, what he did in the lobby was absolutely right. Admittedly, he was rusty but his intention was one hundred per cent correct. The thing is, apart from that, he just doesn’t like the Australian. He’s not sure if it’s his confidence or his laid-back, half-mast, antipodean air, but the guy just annoys him.

  ~ * ~

  ‘Really? No apology?’

  Claude doesn’t look at the Australian. ‘I did what was right.’

  ‘Nice.’ Billy turns and stares out the window, tries his best to let it go. He’s heard all the cliches about the French, how they’re rude and dismissive and the women sexually liberal. Unfortunately he’s only experiencing the first and second of those cliches today.

  They drive on in silence.

  ~ * ~

  They arrive at the Sepang racetrack a full hour after departing the airport and leave the Hyundai in the sprawling car park. The place really is quite something. Billy’s seen it on television many times but that didn’t convey how impressive it is, particularly the enormous sun shades that float above the pit straight grandstands and resemble giant flower petals basking in the light.

  They quickly find the pit paddock entry, identify themselves to the security officers manning the gate and are handed passes that allow them to move freely through the restricted area. A young man wearing a gold and red Iron Rhino team uniform, emblazoned with the Iron Rhino logo and Iron Rhino Gets the Lead Out slogan, is there to collect them.

  Together they walk along the road that runs behind the pits and they pass various Formula One teams’ motorhomes, which resemble multistorey buildings. Billy takes in names he’s known since he was a boy: the front of grid Ferrari, McLaren and Mercedes, the midfield Sauber and Force India, the back of grid Marussia and Evergreen and the defending champions Red Bull.

  They soon reach the Iron Rhino motorhome, which looks like a small red and gold ocean liner. ‘This way.’ The young man leads them inside and they enter through a side door. They are ushered along a narrow hallway until they reach a room, into which they are shown and asked to wait.

  The walls are plastered with large action photographs of the Iron Rhino cars at speed. The Frenchman takes them in. ‘I’ve never understood the appeal of it.’

  Billy looks at him. ‘The appeal of what?’

  ‘Motor racing. Driving around and around in circles for hours on end. Right turn, right turn, wait, right turn, right turn, wait, oooh left turn, that was a surprise, right turn, right turn, right turn. I mean, jeeze, is it not the most stupid thing you’ve ever heard of?’ He glances at the Australian. ‘If you had all that money, why would you spend it on that?’

  ‘Because I want to win.’ They turn to Dieter Wolfe as he enters the room. ‘And I want to advance the technology that makes motoring safer and more efficient, and I want to entertain a global audience of five-hundred million as I do it. That’s why I spend it on that.’

  The Frenchman moves towards Dieter with a hand outstretched, tries hard to cover his embarrassment: ‘Claude Michelle. A pleasure to meet you.’

  The strapping German leaves him hanging, fixes him with a steady gaze: ‘You’re French?’

  Claude nods.

  ‘Your country has a magnificent history in Formula One. You have a four-time world champion in Alain Prost and you build Renault engines that not only power my cars but have helped Red Bull win the last four world championships. You should be proud of that motor racing heritage, not belittling a sport that employs thousands of your countrymen and generates hundreds of millions of euros for your economy.’ The German moves past Claude and extends a hand to the Australian. ‘Billy.’

  Billy shakes it. Dieter’s blue eyes drill into the Australian, sizing him up, searching him out. The old guy looks ten years younger than his sixty-four years, trim and fit with a full head of cropped silver hair. ‘I had my eye on you for a long time.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes, that Formula Ford race when you won the Australasian Championship, I still remember that move on the final corner of the last lap at Phillip Island. You passed on the outside, two wheels on the grass and somehow found the traction to overtake. How old were you then?’

  ‘Fourteen.’ Billy remembers it clearly, cracks a smile. ‘That
was a good day.’ He’s amazed, though not surprised the German remembers it. The old man is well known for favouring motor racing over any of the other sports he sponsors. Along with owning a team he also runs a management company that is involved in the behind-the-scenes horsetrading of drivers within the Formula One universe.

  ‘I even saw your Bathurst crash live.’

  ‘So did I.’

  The German grins. ‘I’m surprised you don’t walk with a limp.’

  ‘I limp on the inside.’

  Dieter smiles again. In fact Billy does have a limp but he does all he can to hide it. To his surprise, the Australian realises he really wants to impress the old man. Yes he knows he’s here to work a case but still, it’s an odd feeling. Six years ago Billy would have given his eyeteeth to have a conversation with this man, one of the most powerful in international motorsport.