Eye of the Cobra (16 page)

At the end of the day Bruce de Villiers sat in his office alone. He was very, very pleased with Chase’s performance.

He switched on the intercom.

‘Debbie, get me Ricardo Sartori.’

‘It’ll take a bit of time, Bruce, the exchange on the island is operated by a Casanova - he tries to chat me up every time I put a call through.’

Bruce chuckled. He looked down at the development sched
ule for the Shadow. They would fly to Kyalami, in his native South Africa, for extensive tyre testing. The conditions there were ideal - hot, dry weather and excellent marshalling around the track. For tyre testing, the high altitude of Johannesburg was an added advantage, and the privacy of the circuit appealed to him - he’d be assured that other teams wouldn’t be watching. He didn’t want them to get a close look at the Shadow till the first official Grand Prix.

Wyatt was fired up, and already earning his fee. However, Sartori wasn’t, and every hour he spent on Skiathos was sapping their chances of victory.

The phone rang, startling him. He hadn’t expected the call to go through so quickly.

‘Ricardo?’

‘He not here,’ a female voice, dark and husky, replied in poor English.

Bruce lost his rag. ‘I don’t give a flying fuck where he is. Get him here and get him now!’

He heard the phone drop and then lots of shouting. He hung on, feeling his irritation grow.

‘’Alio?’ Sartori’s voice was clear and melodic.

‘Ricardo. It’s de Villiers. You’ve . . .’

‘You insulted my maid.’

All right, thought Bruce, I’ve now had quite enough of this prima donna.

‘Stop buggering around. The car’s ready. Chase has just broken your lap record by two seconds.’

There was a lengthy pause.

‘The car. She must be very good, eh, Bruce?’

‘Chase is a brilliant driver. Every day he’s getting better.’

‘I am better.’

‘Prove it to me instead of sitting on your bum in the sun!’

There was another pause. Then: ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Bruce. Then I will a show you how fast your car really is.’

Bruce put the phone down. Now Ricardo would start earning his fee - the twenty million they had had to pay to hold him.

Bruce was quite certain that Sartori would break Wyatt’s record.

He slammed the phone down and felt the sweat trickling down his face. He looked out through the window with the vines round its edge. The Norwegian woman was lying outside in the bright sunshine, her body brown and sensuous on the white beach-towel. He would have to leave her.

The competition never went away. Perhaps he might have underestimated Chase. He had given him an advantage already, but not much of one.

He made another quick call to the airport, asking them to have his plane ready, then he
walked through into the master-bedroom and threw his essential clothes into a leather holdall. He always travelled light, buying new clothes wherever he went.

She came in through the door and he noticed the droplets of suntan oil clinging to her pubic hair.

‘Vat are you doing, Ricardo?’

She irritated him now. ‘What do you think?’

‘The phone call, it was bad?’

He ignored her question and continued packing. At last he relented. ‘I have to go to England tomorrow to begin training for the new season. There’s also a driver I have to put in his place.’

She put her hand over his buttocks. ‘I will come too?’

He had plenty of women in England, he didn’t need another. Besides, she was part of Skiathos, and he liked to forget about it when the pressure was on.

‘No. I will go alone.’

She started crying. It was so predictable. He didn’t need her.

‘Bastard,’ she said.

‘I promised you nothing. You understand? I live to drive. Motor-racing is my wife.’

It was the standard excuse, and he got the standard reaction.

‘You can chust fuck off!’

He zipped up the bag and put on his jacket, checking his passport.

‘I don’t need to hear your crying,’ he said. He went up to her, kissing her briefly on the mouth.

‘You . . . are a very beautiful woman.’

He walked quickly out of the front door and jumped into the front seat of the jeep. As he started the engine, she ran out, pulling on a towelling robe.

‘I will come with you to the airport!’

‘As you will.’

He drove fast, revelling in the fact that she was scared. The jeep slid through the corners of the narrow dirt road that led away from the villa. It launched into the air several times - then he hit the tar road and floored the accelerator. In the distance he saw the small airport, and on the runway his jet, its windows twinkling in the bright sunlight - his pride and
joy.

Minutes later, he pulled up next to it. He leaned over to kiss her, but she pushed him away and stared at him angrily.

‘I am coming to England. Even if you don’t want me.’

‘I don’t want you. I don’t love you.’

He tensed up, his face becoming a map of fascinating wrinkles. His eyes stared off into the distance. He had to shut himself off from this, he did not need it in his life.

He jumped out of the jeep and she drove off. He watched as she disappeared into the distance, feeling relief as the space between them increased. Then he turned to the jet and began his pre-flight inspection. The holiday was over. It was back to business, and he was determined to do what he had always been so good at. Winning.

Suzie watched Wyatt come round the corner for the fortieth time and accelerate down the long straight, the engine erupt
ing into a bloodcurdling scream.

She imagined his eyes, the dark eyes that never seemed to rest. She had spent the whole day in the pit. She’d had never realised what a tightly-knit organisation a Formula One team was.

You had to earn respect. You didn’t become a part of the team automatically. Bruce’s secretary, Debbie, was a great support. She’d introduced Suzie to everyone and offered to help her in any way she could.

She kept thinking of Wyatt’s leanly muscled body - the hard, sculpted face and the tangled dark hair. There was a confidence in the way he moved . . . She had never seen a man so much in control of his actions.

Now, mesmerised by the car flashing past, she imagined him making love to her. Perhaps she should have given in to him on the race track that morning. All she knew was that she wanted him.

In business she had often admired men for the power they radiated, but this was different. There was something more here - because in this place a man could die. Here, cars and drivers competed against each other for victory. It was an activity that ate up nearly half a billion pounds a year, and for her it held a magnetic attraction.

She took out a sketch-pad and made a few rough drawings. She worked quickly, in sharp, well-defined pencil strokes.

‘You draw so beautifully.’

She turned round to Debbie. The men couldn’t keep their eyes off Debbie’s short, tight skirt that revealed a stunning pair of legs.

‘I saw your latest collection in
Vogue,’
Debbie went on. ‘Wyatt said he’d give me one of your dresses.’

Suzie smiled. She’d been right not to give in to him. There were plenty of other women in his life and she was determined not to join the procession. She wanted Wyatt to respect her, she knew that was the only way she’d hold him.

The car shot past again, and they both stared at the driver’s helmet.

‘He’s magnificent,’ said Suzie. ‘Have you met Ricardo?’

‘Yes. Very charming, but with the looks of the devil.’

They walked over the track on the steel walkway and Suzie gazed off into the distance. She could see the Shadow snaking through the bends. Suddenly she was aware again of how dangerous it all was.

‘Have you ever seen an accident?’

The faint smile that had been on Debbie’s face disappeared.

‘We don’t talk about them. It’s bad luck.’

Mickey Dunstal came over to them, dressed in his regulation white shirt and jeans. ‘And what might you two beauties be looking so concerned about?’

His Irish charm always caught Suzie slightly off balance. He defied categorisation, he looked like one of the prophets in the storybooks, his thick, long blond hair caught up in a ponytail.

‘Nothing,’ Suzie answered quickly.

‘’Tis a tragedy to spend your life thinking o’ nothin’.’

She laughed.

‘I believe you’ll be decorating me car,’ he said.

She nodded, and he pinched the back of her arm affection
ately, and whispered in her ear: ‘As long as it doesn’t affect the aerodynamics, you can do what you like with her.’

When Mickey returned to the pits, there was an electricity in the air. Everyone was frantic. De Villiers was glowering at the mechanics.

‘This isn’t a holiday camp. If you want to win, you’ve got to give the job one hundred per cent! Wyatt’s on his fiftieth lap, and when he comes in for fresh tyres I want them changed in under eight seconds. Got it?’

A young mechanic turned to him. ‘This isn’t a bloody race.’

‘Get out, Ryan!’

‘What?’

‘Get out and don’t come back. I’m not carrying anyone, and if anyone else feels the same, they can join you.’

Ryan was shaking with rage now. He walked up to de Villiers. He was nearly six inches taller than Bruce, and holding a spanner in his right hand.

Mickey stepped forward. It looked as though it was going to get ugly. Then he felt Reg Tillson, the chief mechanic, restraining him. Reg whispered in his ear: ‘Bruce can look after himself.’

Ryan raised his arm. ‘Fuck you, you fucking South African fascist!’

Before Mickey realised it, Ryan was lying spread-eagled across the floor of the pits and de Villiers had the spanner out of his hand.

‘Get out, Ryan. Or I’ll break the other arm.’

Ryan staggered to his feet and walked out of the pitch, clutching his right arm. De Villiers turned to the rest of them.

‘I want you all with me. If you’re not in this business to win, get out. It’s Chase who’ll end up in a coffin if any of you fuck up.’

His eyes searched the pit, catching the attention of everyone around him. Only when he was certain that all eyes were upon him, did he continue.

‘This is a hard business. Especially hard if you’re running cars that don’t finish every race or don’t get first place. To beat everyone else, you’ve got to be better than everyone else.’

He turned and pointed at Reg.

‘Reg is one of the best. And you know why? Because he never stops.’ He paused, his eyes locking into each one of them. ‘You know the circus. There are always distractions. But if you get distracted, you’ll fuck up. So if you want a screw, do it before the race, do it after the race, but don’t think about it when you’re working on my car. If you kill one of my drivers - you’ll live with it till you’re dead.

‘I want each of you to ask yourself a question each day: What have I done to help Calibre-Shensu to win? What have I done to earn my salary - to deserve my place on this team?

‘I’ll tell you something. I work so hard that when I get home, I want to vomit on the lawn. And it’s only when you start feeling like that, that you have any right to say that you work for Calibre-Shensu.’ He looked up as he heard Wyatt’s machine coming into the pits.

‘Under eight seconds lads. Get it?’

Everyone was silent, poised as the Shadow screamed up to them. Bruce de Villiers leapt back, stop-watch in hand.

‘Go!’

The whole pit area erupted with noise, and in swung the Shensu Shadow. The mechanics swarmed over the car like bees and the wheels were changed at lightning speed. De Villiers raised his hand to Wyatt and the machine blasted out of the pits.

The silence after the deafening noise from the engine was disturbing. De Villiers grinned.

‘Seven point five seconds. And I’m sure we can get it down to six.’

Wyatt pulled in after eighty laps. He was wet with sweat and feeling totally exhausted. His neck muscles were finished, the pressure of the G-forces inside the Shadow as he was cornering had taken their toll.

He pulled off the steering-wheel and was helped out of the cockpit by
some of the pit crew. Wyatt pulled off his helmet and then the fire-proof balaclava, as Mickey peppered him with questions.

‘How did she handle, me boy? Wasn’t she like a dream?’

‘Better, Mickey. It’s just that I’ve got to readjust myself.

I’ve never driven a car that goes so quickly through the corners, it’s as if I’m learning to drive again.’

‘You were very quick.’

Wyatt saw de Villiers walking towards them. He noticed that there had been a change in the atmosphere in the pits since he’d started. He guessed Bruce had laid down the law.