Eye of the Cobra (42 page)

‘
Talk, my friend, or jump. Tell me if anyone else knows about where she is,’ Talbot said quietly.

Manuel stared into Raoul’s eyes and remained silent. The helicopter tilted over a little more.

Raoul vomited. Then he talked.

Talbot relaxed. ‘You are a wise man, my friend. You’re sure no one else knows about the location of the factory?’

Raoul nodded.

‘Manuel?’

‘No. Only Raoul, I tell no one else. I gave you the only map showing the location of the factory.’

Talbot felt the map in his side-pocket.

Then you may both die in peace,’ he said.

He banked the chopper, and Manuel and Raoul fell scream
ing towards the ground.

Carlos arrived in the little village late in the afternoon. There was an eerie chill about the place, and he had the uneasy feeling he was being watched.

He checked into the hotel and was about to phone Wyatt when something warned him against it. He walked down to reception and confronted the manager.

‘I am looking for Raoul.’

The manager swallowed, then said quickly, ‘Who?’

Carlos grabbed the register and spun it round before the manager could stop him. A guest had checked out that afternoon. Carlos looked at the room number, then pushed the register back across to the manager and ran up the stairs to the top floor. The door to room twenty-one burst open with one well-aimed kick from his boot.

The place was a mess. A suitcase lay in the centre of the floor, half-packed, and the bed was unmade. The window was open, a slight breeze blowing in through the curtains.

Carlos closed the door and began to search. He examined every piece of clothing. There were no papers and no money. Clearly, someone had given the place a clean sweep.

At the bottom of the suitcase he found a couple of paper
backs and a child’s atlas. He sat down on an upright chair by the window and stared round the room. There had to be something he could find, some tiny clue.

He searched through the man’s possessions again. When he came to look at the atlas, it fell open at a map of the Amazon basin. There were some scribbles on it and a few arrows - and a circle round an area that lay on the borders of Brazil and Colombia.

What did it mean?

The Dorchester was living up to its reputation as one of London’s - if not the world’s - finest hotels. He was contemplating the Waterford whisky decanter when the phone rang.

‘Mr Sartori? I’d appreciate it if you could spend a few minutes with me. Perhaps we could meet in the lobby?’

The smooth American voice was disturbing.

‘Who are you?’ Ricardo said.

‘Let us say that I know you’ve been laundering drug money through certain Swiss banks and that you are now in serious trouble.’

Ricardo felt sick.

‘Are we going to talk, Mr Sartori? Or would you prefer me to speak to the authorities?’

‘Please . . .’

‘Meet me in the coffee lounge in five minutes. I’ll be reading a book with a pink cover.’

Ricardo put the phone down nervously. Should he ring Phelps? Drug money? Jesus, so that was why Phelps was paying him so much! Then Ricardo put two and two together, and a whole lot of things he hadn’t been able to understand about the Calibre-Shensu deal suddenly fell into place. With a sick feeling in his stomach, he went down to the coffee lounge.

He saw a man reading a book with a pink cover, a tall, lean, blond man who looked as though he might be an actor.

‘Mr Sartori, the name’s Talbot . . .’

Coffee with Talbot did nothing to improve Ricardo’s spirits. He was clearly in very serious trouble.

‘So, Mr Sartori, by rights I should have you arrested.’

‘But . . . but what about Jack Phelps?’ Ricardo stuttered.

‘Come off it, buddy. That’s your story. There’s no mention of Phelps in any of the dealings I’ve investigated - and Phelps is a powerful man with influential Washington connections. I’d say you’d be signing your death-warrant if you accused him of anything.’

Ricardo sipped nervously at his coffee. What a fool he’d been to get involved with Phelps! Now he was out of his depth.

‘What do you want?’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

Talbot laughed.

‘I’m with Interpol - we want to cut a deal with you.’

Ricardo suddenly felt a little more optimistic.

‘A deal?’

‘Yeah.’ He smiled.

‘
You see, we know perfectly well Phelps is involved, but we can’t get a handle on him. So, you cooperate with us, you help us nail Phelps, and . . .’

‘And?’

‘We’ll take a lenient view on the fact that you’ve been laundering drug money.’

Talbot looked like a bigger James Dean, thought Ricardo, but there was an air of menace in his turquoise eyes that was disturbing. He wondered what Talbot meant by ‘co-operate’.

‘So, Ricardo, old friend, is it “yes” or “no”?’ said Talbot, getting up to go.

‘You give me no choice.’

‘There’s always a choice.’

‘I co-operate with you.’

Talbot leaned a little closer.

‘Look, we know Phelps has master-minded a huge cocaine-smuggling operation that’s being mounted across Europe. We just want you to let us know what’s going on.’

Ricardo looked a little nervous and Talbot slapped him across the back.

‘Hey, relax! Phelps totally underestimates your abilities - he’d never dream you could two-time him. I know you can do it, though. Besides, I’ll always be around for you to consult. Really, there’s nothing to worry about. With your help we can identify the dealers. We have to infiltrate the network, you see, to get all the big boys.’

‘I don’t know about this . . .’

‘You want to spend the rest of your life in jail?’

‘All right, I do it.’

The Belgian sky was grey and overcast, which suited Debbie’s mood perfectly. The temperature had scarcely risen above five degrees centigrade, and the tall pine trees above the track looked strangely forbidding in the low light.

She sensed that Ricardo might be interested in someone else. He’d been so strange lately, so preoccupied.

The Calibre-Shensu team had arrived a few days in advance of the redesigned Shadows, but Bruce de Villiers had stayed at the Calibre-Shensu headquarters to help with the final stages of the rebuild. Wyatt would be coming with the cars.

Debbie knew how desperately Ricardo wanted to compete. She’d felt closest to him just before the Brazilian Grand Prix. He’d been at his most vulnerable - and, for once, he’d relied on her.

She wandered from the pits to the warehouse where the rest of the team’s equipment was stored. There were the usual security guards, supplied by another of Jack Phelps’s endless list of companies. One of the guards smiled at her, his eyes fixed on her breasts, which were plainly visible through her tight-fitting white polo-neck jersey. She stared him out and walked past, sensing his interest move from her breasts to her backside.

Inside, she looked around at the immaculately organised paraphernalia of equipment - all the miscellaneous accessories that travelled with every Grand Prix team. She knew the inventory pretty well off by heart. As usual there were plenty of Carvalho tyres. They’d probably brought more wet-weather tyres because it looked as though the entire race would be run in the rain - unless the conditions changed drastically.

She ran her hand over the surface of one of the tyres that had just come out of the container - then felt a hand rest firmly on her shoulder and spin her round. Ricardo took her arm and guided her away from the tyres.

‘Let me take you to lunch,’ he said. ‘It is a tragedy for a beautiful woman to be alone.’

The jet landed in pouring rain. Vanessa Tyson moved quickly through the customs with her crew and then out through the rain to a hired mini-bus. Sean, her cameraman, grinned at her ruefully.

‘The glamour of international Grand Prix racing?’

‘Cool it, Sean,’ she answered good-humouredly. ‘This is typical Belgian spring weather. Believe me, it can only get worse.’

They were at their hotel a few hours later, having driven through an intense thunderstorm. After off-loading all their gear, Vanessa suggested that they eat at a nearby restaurant - a well-known watering-hole of the Formula One circus.

Vanessa had arrived at the Spa circuit well in advance, to pick up on any difficulties the organisers might be having, and any gossip about the teams. Her pulse quickened when they got to the restaurant - she caught sight of several of the top drivers. A few people looked up when she walked in; it was because of her growing reputation, she was sure. Most of the diners had had a lot to drink and were talking freely.

To her surprise, Ricardo Sartori came up and kissed her on the cheek.

‘The very attractive Vanessa Tyson? Perhaps you would care to join us for dinner?’

Vanessa prepared herself for an interesting evening.

The door to Vanessa Tyson’s hotel room opened quietly and a man slipped in without switching on the lights. He looked carefully round the room, using a small flashlight, and eventually moved towards the aluminium camera cases stacked up in one corner.

After opening a number of the cases, he moved on to the suitcase that lay on the bed. He sifted through Vanessa’s clothes and belongings, his hands exploring her underwear, then moving on through the rest of her wardrobe.

Ten minutes later he slipped out of the room, closing the door very quietly behind him and disappearing down the corridor.

Vanessa returned to the hotel after two. She had hardly drunk anything at all, unlike Sean, who could hardly stand up by the time they got back to the hotel. Wearily she picked up her suitcase and put it on the desk in the corner of the room. She was about to open it to look for her dictaphone when she saw that she’d left it next to the bed.

She spent the next fifteen minutes noting down what infor
mation she’d picked up during the course of the evening. She found this was the best way to order her thoughts - generally she didn’t even have to listen back to what she’d dictated, just the action of doing it improved her memory.

Having finished her work, she showered and went to bed, and almost at once dropped off into a deep sleep. She dreamed about Wyatt. She was lost in the desert, staggering forward through blinding sand-storms, and Wyatt’s face kept appearing on the horizon with a cynical grin. It was a strange, tormented dream.

She was woken by a loud rapping on the door.

‘For God’s sake!’ she shouted as she got up, pulling on her silk dressing-gown. The knocking continued.

‘Hold on! I’m coming!’

She opened the door and found herself looking at a stern
-faced man, thin, in his early forties. Behind him were two Belgian police officers.

‘Miss Tyson? I am Detective Inspector Tielemans. I have a warrant to search your room.’

He handed her the warrant, and the two policemen filed into the room and started rifling cupboards and drawers.

‘I don’t believe this!’ Vanessa said, watching.

‘I’ll be reporting it to the British Ambassador.’

Inspector Tielemans didn’t react, but guided her outside the door and stood watching his men move methodically through the room. Vanessa folded her arms and watched with growing irritation. She would make them pay for this.

One of the policemen picked up her briefcase and opened it. He pulled out the files and then examined the lining. It came away, revealing a flat, transparent plastic bag, filled with white powder.

Vanessa sucked in her breath as the p
oliceman chucked it on the bed.

‘What is it?’

Detective Inspector Tielemans asked, a distinct edge to his voice.

‘I don’t know.’

He pulled out a pocket-knife and slit open the plastic. Then he wet his finger, touched the powder and brought it to his lips.

‘Heroin.’

‘I don’t know how the hell that got into my case, but it’s not mine,’ Vanessa stammered.

‘Our laboratory will confirm my finding. You are under arrest.’

‘This is ridiculous!’

Before she realised it, a set of handcuffs had been attached to her wrists and she was marched off down the corridor. It was early in the morning, so there was hardly anyone about, but the few people they passed stared at her incredulously. She was bundled into the back of a waiting police car which took off at once, lights flashing and siren wailing.

Detective Inspector Tielemans sat next to her.

‘You’re treating me like a criminal!’

‘People like you make me sick,’ he replied, staring out at the rain that streaked the windows of the car.

‘But I’m not guilty! What would I want to smuggle heroin into Belgium for?’