Eye of the Cobra (28 page)

Bruce walked in and looked around. His eyes lighted on Wyatt.

‘You should be resting.’

He was right.

‘All right. I’m turning in.’

‘You’re confident?’

‘I feel in my gut I can do it.’

‘You can.’

Wyatt walked out into the darkness. What happened tomorrow would determine his future.

It was four in the morning. Bruce sat next to the two cars and looked across at his mechanics. Everything was in place.

‘Let’s call it a day, gentlemen.’

Everyone filed out, dog-tired, leaving the garage empty except for Bruce and Mickey.

‘Now it’s up to Ricardo and Wyatt,’ Mickey said. ‘I know who I’ll be putting my money on.’

Bruce sat down on a tool-box next to the machine. ‘You’re letting your heart influence your mind, Mickey. You know as well as I do how much experience counts for in this business.’

Bruce didn’t want to admit that he also rated Wyatt higher than Ricardo. He remembered Ricardo years before - Ricardo had been better then, less cocky and a lot more professional. Still, a couple of poor finishes and the Italian would be back fighting. And of course, if Wyatt was out in front, Ricardo wouldn’t be far behind.

‘Do you know Ricardo’s got the better car?’

Bruce swung round to face Mickey. Yes, he knew that the latest Shadow was the more refined car, the one in which they’d been able to incorporate every single thing they’d learned from Wyatt’s testing work.

Theoretically better,’ Bruce said. ‘She hasn’t been put through her paces yet.’

There was a noise from the entrance to the garage, and they both looked up. It was Reg.

‘Worried about something, Reg?’

‘No. I didn’t realise it was you two in here, I thought it might be someone snooping. It’s pitch-black out there. The McCabe lads are looking tatty - they’re still hard at work.’

Bruce was surprised. McCabe were obviously having problems. ‘They must be worried about the new engine,’ he said, voicing the thoughts of all of them.

‘Well, they’re certainly sweating. It’s as hot as Hades.’ Bruce thought fast. They were experiencing a heat-wave. Perhaps McCabe weren’t so disorganised after all; perhaps they were making some useful modifications to their engine. If it was this hot at four in the morning, when the race was run in the early afternoon tomorrow, the track would be a furnace.

He cast his mind back to the time when they were still testing at Kyalami. Wyatt’s car had blown up from overheating. At the time he thought they’d solved the problem more than adequately.

He turned to Mickey.

‘I’m worried. Reg has made a good point. Maybe McCabe are improving their cooling-system.’ Mickey had got up and was examining the ventilation ducts that directed air into the cooling-system of the car.

‘I know what yer thinking,’ he said slowly. ‘But I think we should leave things as they are.’

Reg glanced apprehensively at Bruce. They were both mechanics by training, and they both knew the dangers of changing things at the last minute. Generally such changes weren’t properly thought through, and caused other faults during the race.

It was Reg who broke the agonised silence.

‘What about modifying just one of the cars? Ricardo and Wyatt are both bloody good drivers. It’d be a fifty-fifty gamble. Then if one grinds to a halt, at least the other’s in with a chance.’

Bruce knew he would have to decide whose car they would make the modification to.

‘Give me a minute. I’m going to take a walk.'

He got up and went out into the blackness. It was even hotter than he’d realised. Hell, he must have raced here every year for the past nine years, but it had never been this hot before. Both cars could be out of the race because of severe overheating.

Reg was right, you couldn’t see a thing out here. He walked into a parked car and cursed silently.

Should he pray? He was, in a quiet way, a religious man. What was fair, that was the question? In the end it was a gamble. Mickey’s modification would have been fine two days before the race - then they could have checked it out, refined it.

Wyatt deserved a good car for his first race, but he was the number two driver. An initial win for Ricardo would put the champion in great form for the rest of the season. And Wyatt drove hard, whereas Ricardo was smoother; Ricardo wouldn’t hammer his car as hard.

After a few more minutes he walked back into the pits. Both Reg and Mickey were staring at him intently as he returned.

‘So, what’s it ter be?’ asked Mickey, keen to get to work.

‘It’s in the hands of Lady Luck.’

Bruce pulled a coin out of his pocket, spun it in the air and caught it on the back of his wrist. Then he stared at Reg.

‘Heads or tails?’

‘Tails.’

‘OK, we do it. It’ll be Wyatt’s car we modify. Gentlemen, let’s get to work.’

They finished at seven in the morning. To an outside observer Wyatt’s Shadow looked just as it had the previous day; only a careful examination would
have revealed the enlarged air-cooling ducts. Bruce had called Professor Katana from the hotel - Shensu’s head of engine development was here in Brazil for the Grand Prix. Katana had worked with them on the computer to calculate the exact dimensions of the enlargement, then he’d reprogrammed the chip that controlled the engine’s electronic management system.

Bruce staggered over to the motorvan with Katana, Mickey and Reg. They were all on edge, and Bruce could see the sweat dripping from Reg’s forehead.

‘Wyatt and Ricardo have their final warm-up soon.’

Reg looked up, exhausted. ‘Who’s going to tell Wyatt?’

‘And why are we talkin’ so quietly?’ Mickey interjected. Bruce stared at the Irishman: Mickey was always fast off the mark. Reg had thought they’d just come into the van to relax.

‘I don’t want to say anything to Wyatt about this,’ Bruce replied, his face betraying none of the tension he was feeling.

‘You’re the penultimate bastard,’ Reg uttered softly, knowing that he would go along with Bruce, knowing that he himself wouldn’t have had the courage to be so ruthless.

‘It is dishonourable,’ Professor Katana said quietly.

‘Bruce, you’re not being fair,’ Mickey chimed in. ‘Wyatt knows more about that car than any of us. Telling him that he’s got better cooling would push him to drive a bit harder.’

‘Dammit, Mickey, telling him there’s been a last-minute modification will scare the shit out of him. He’ll be driving as hard as he can anyway.’

There was a knock at the door, and they all looked at each other. Bruce allowed himself a thin smile, knowing they wouldn’t betray him.

The door opened and in came Wyatt, looking fresh and relaxed. He ran his eyes over them - they all looked exhausted.

‘
Morning everyone. Didn’t you get any sleep last night?’

‘There was a lot to check,’ Bruce replied evasively.

‘Well, I hope you’ll be able to keep your eyes open this afternoon.’

‘Like some coffee?’ Reg asked, moving towards the auto
matic dispenser in the corner of the cramped lounge, and hiding his worried face.

‘Yes, thanks. The coffee’s one of the few good things about Rio.’

Professor Katana looked at Wyatt directly and spoke in Japanese. Wyatt nodded a few times, then turned to Bruce.

‘Why my machine and not Ricardo’s?’

Bruce clenched his fist and snarled at Katana - and Wyatt was across the room and standing beside him in an instant. There was something in his eyes that made Bruce take a few steps back.

‘Why my car, Bruce?’

‘It’s the hottest I’ve known it here - we’re experiencing a heat-wave. I believe that the Shadow will overheat, but I can’t be sure. The modification is a gamble. It could go wrong. But then Ricardo’s car could also overheat.’

Wyatt spoke to Katana again in Japanese. ‘What are you saying?’ Bruce asked angrily.

‘I’m telling him,’ said Wyatt, ‘that he has more courage than the rest of you put together.’

Bruce’s knuckles were white, but Mickey nodded his head.

‘He’s right. I’ll be takin’ the blame as much as you. Wyatt, me boy, I’m sorry. I think it’ll work, and it’ll make you faster, by God.’

‘Or it’ll blow me up before I’ve had a chance to prove myself,’ Wyatt said angrily.

They sat sipping coffee and talking over the exact details of the race as the air-conditioning hummed in the background. The incident wasn’t mentioned again, but it was not forgotten.

Outside, the air temperatu
re was rising fast, and a heat-haze shimmered across the track. Enthusiastic motor-racing fans were already packing in around the circuit - women in bikinis, dark-skinned men in shorts and little else. Already the ice-cream and cold drink vendors were doing a roaring trade.

The atmosphere was humid, the air desperately hot and still. The temperature in the shade was thirty degrees Celsius, and rising, and the day had hardly begun. The heat-wave was on.

Ricardo sat in his car at the entrance to the inside of the circuit, sweat running down his face. He’d told Debbie he wanted to come here alone, but he hadn’t told her why, because she wouldn’t have understood. Only he could deal with the enormity of it. He lifted his left hand from the steering-wheel and dispassionately watched it shake. He’d known fear before, but never like this. All he dreamed about was the accident, and every time he relived it the vision became more intense.

He didn’t need the warm-up session. He didn’t need the race. But he desperately needed the money to keep living the way he enjoyed. He’d phoned his bank in Rome two days ago, and the news hadn’t been good. He had always spent wildly and without thought; a multi-millionaire, he reasoned, didn’t need to worry about his financial affairs. But he’d been wrong. A big business venture had gone sour on him in the last few weeks, and he owed a lot of money, big money.

If he retired now he would be destined to a middle-class existence - and the idea of that revolted him. He had fought to escape poverty, and now that he had tasted the exotic life, nothing else would do for him. Perhaps he should marry money. He had never asked a woman to marry him. He didn’t believe he could be faithful to one woman, because he loved challenges and a beautiful woman was always the ultimate prize.

Debbie had been easy to bed - he had lost respect for her because of that. And already he had cheated on her, the experience being peculiarly enjoyable. But he suspected that Debbie might be from a wealthy background, even if she was only Bruce’s secretary. Little things she’d mentioned about her father’s various business dealings led him to believe the man was a big wheel. Also, Debbie wore expensive jewellery, all of which she said she’d inherited. He’d do a little more investigating on that score before he dumped her.

He put the car into first, and showed his special pass to the marshal. He noticed that several cars had their bonnets up, steam pouring out of their radiators. It was going to be a very hot race, unless there was rain to cool the circuit down in the afternoon. But rain would make the circuit dangerous - deadly slippery after the heat.

He drew up alongside the Calibre-Shensu motorvan, and Wyatt stepped out as he arrived. Immediately, Ricardo’s fear vanished. Wyatt was his enemy, the man who could beat him, humiliate him. But there was no way he was going to let Wyatt Chase do that to him.

‘Is it always this hot?’

He wasn’t going to reply, then he looked into Wyatt’s eyes and saw that there wasn’t a trace of animosity in them.

‘No,’ he said. ‘This is very bad, my friend.’

‘Bruce doesn’t seem concerned.’

This last remark really got to Ricardo. Wyatt was always a jump ahead of him, getting close to de Villiers. Ignoring him, Ricardo walked across to the motorvan and went inside to escape the heat. The coolness of the air-conditioning was an immediate relief. Bruce was sitting in the centre of the lounge, his arms stretched along the couch. In the hazel eyes Ricardo thought he saw irritation. De Villiers had this silent power about him that could make you feel uneasy for no explicable reason.

‘It is hot, eh?’

‘Don’t push it in the warm-up, Ricardo. Give your engine a chance.’

Ricardo raised his eyebrows incredulously.

‘You’re saying the engine, it cannot take the heat?’

‘I’m saying, take it easy. Everyone else is facing the same problem. How you handle it could make all the difference when the race is on.’

‘But when we get going, I’m not holding back.’

Ricardo hated the fact that he was under de Villiers’ control, and he knew the only way out of it was to win.

Without saying any more, he left the motorvan and walked in the blistering heat towards the pits.

Jack Phelps drank another glass of iced water. He was enjoying the event. Everyone was asking him questions about the team. The publicity was positive, and he was seen as an innovator as well as a sponsor. The Shadow was attracting a lot of attention and comment.