Eye of the Cobra (45 page)

She was desperate. She had to get help, that was all she knew. She wanted another fix. She made her way painfully through the darkness.

She hadn’t forgotten where she’d seen the phone before he’d switched off the light. She wanted to cry out, the pain from where he’d hit her was so bad.

She found the push-buttons and tapped in the number. It rang ten times and then an answering-machine came on. She wanted to cry. These was a noise behind her - and then she heard the tone.

‘Wyatt, it’s Suzie . . . I’m a prisoner on a mountain, somewhere in the jungle. It’s very hot. For God’s sake, help me ... I need a fix now!’

The blow sent her flying across the room.

‘You bitch!’

Jules was naked, staring at her, panting hard. In his hand was the leather belt.

‘You animal!’ she screamed.

She picked up the first object that came to hand, a crystal decanter, and hurled it at him. It struck him in the groin, and with a strangled sob he staggered forward, his hands gripping his genitals in agony.

Suzie grabbed a glass ashtray and staggered towards him, aiming it at his head. He avoided it, and hit her hard across the face with the back of his damaged right hand. Then he was on her, hitting her again and again until she finally blacked out.

Jules felt the tears running from his eyes. If she had damaged his testicles he would kill her. He dragged himself over to the intercom and called the doctor.

He would make her pay for this.

Dr Estevez burst into the room. He stared across at Suzie von Falkenyn, naked and slumped on the ground.

‘Bastard,’ Dr Estevez murmured, appalled by Jules’s brutality.

Jules turned towards Dr Estevez, tempted to strike him as well, but knowing that he needed the doctor’s help.

‘She hurt me here,’ he said.

The doctor carefully examined Jules’s blood-soaked groin.

‘There’s no damage apart from a cut on your thigh. You’re very lucky. Now, I must examine the lady . . .’

‘No. She doesn’t matter. If Mr Vargas or Mr Talbot ask what happened to her, you will say she fell.’

Dr Estevez nodded and then left quickly, anxious to avoid any further displays of brutality.

Suzie started groaning. Jules pulled the hypodermic out the drawer and drew up twice the maximum dose, then he grabbed her arm and injected her.

He walked down the passage laughing, confident in the knowledge that Suzie was heading towards oblivion.

Wyatt knew that the Belgian Spa-Francorchamps circuit bore little resemblance to the original fourteen-kilometre track that had made its name a legend in the annals of motor-racing history. In 1950, the year of the first Formula One world championship, it had been the scene of an outstanding race. Juan Manuel Fangio had taken first place in an Alfa Romeo; an Italian driver, Guiseppe Farina, fourth place. At the end of that year Farina was World Champion, but Fangio went on to win more world championships than any other driver in the history of Formula One racing.

After a series of accidents the circuit was considered unsafe for Grand Prix racing, and was closed in 1971. It was opened again, completely rebuilt, in 1983 - a wide, sweeping, unfor
giving circuit that demanded courage, concentration and a good car.

The Virage de la Source, the bend closest to the pits, was one of the only parts of the old circuit that had been integrated into the new. The record for the fastest lap was held by Roger de Rosner in the McCabe at 132.5 mph, breaking the previous record for the circuit.

Set in the wooded hills of the Ardennes, the new circuit’s most fearsome corner was the Eau Rouge, where the cars sped down the old pit-lane straight, turned left-right, and at the same time faced a steep surge up the hill into a slight lefthander. The circuit was a favourite amongst the drivers in the championship because it provided them with exciting and competitive driving conditions.

With an umbrella held over the cockpit and the rain pouring down, Wyatt reflected on another side of the Belgian circuit’s character that was not particularly popular - the weather. It was the beginning of the first practice, and wet-weather tyres were definitely the order of the day. Wyatt was disappointed because these tyres wouldn’t give him much of an opportunity to explore the full potential of the Shadow.

Friday afternoon, he reflected, was when most people went home early from work. For him it was the hardest day of the week - first practice was always the toughest.

Suzie. Where the hell are you?

He kept on thinking about her, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. He just hoped that Carlos had come up with something. The practice had been scheduled for Friday morning, but the Formula One officials had been unhappy about the medical facilities at the circuit and had asked the organisers to bring in more people. Monaco was fresh in everyone’s mind and the season did not need another disaster.

Wyatt closed his mind to all these thoughts as the Shadow Two exploded into life. The Shensu engine always thrilled him with the deep, melodic sound of its smoothly running cylin
ders. He moved out onto the circuit and did a slow initial lap, to get a better feel for the new car.

De Rosner was driving expertly. He’d turned in a lap time in the wet that came close to his existing lap record. Wyatt knew he would have his work cut out just to keep up with the Doctor.

The spray was really bad, and Wyatt did not feel at all happy with the way the Shadow was handling. She just didn’t feel like the same car; the suspension set-up was radically different. His best time by the end of the afternoon session was only good enough to earn him fifth place on the grid.

Bruce seemed unperturbed by Wyatt’s relatively poor showing.

‘Relax, Wyatt. You’ve got too much on your mind. You’ve got to forget about it and get into the spirit of the race.’

Wyatt got out of the car, still in the pouring rain.

‘I wish we had more time to set up the Shadow. I don’t have the confidence yet, especially in the wet, to really push it.’

Mickey came forwards, anxious to find out Wyatt’s problems.

‘Wyatt, me boy, you’ve got to realise that this is basically the same design. If anything, it’s better. It’ll be a fock sight faster round the corners.’

Bruce put his arm across Wyatt’s shoulder.

‘Charlie’s a second faster than you.’

Wyatt felt his blood tingling. The pressure never let up. He had heard a lot about the Japanese driver - now he knew most of it was accurate.

Wyatt unzipped his jumpsuit, enjoying the coolness of the falling rain.

‘Have you spoken to that cop yet?’ Bruce said.

‘What cop?’

‘John Tennant. Here’s his number. He wants to talk to you about Vanessa Tyson.’

‘That’s all I need in my life.’

John Tennant wasn’t what Wyatt had been expecting. He was younger, about Wyatt’s own age, and smartly dressed in a dark-blue suit. Tennant looked as if he meant business.

‘Count me as one of your admirers,’ he said warmly, stretching out his hand. Then he laid his cards on the table.

By the time he had finished, Wyatt was on edge. He sensed that there was something going on over which he had no control, something very sinister.

John Tennant stared at him long and hard.

‘What’s on your mind?’ he said.

Wyatt told him about Suzie’s disappearance and the inci
dents in Rio, about the attack on Vanessa. Tennant made detailed notes, not interrupting him. Wyatt didn’t tell him about Carlos’s involvement.

Tennant looked up.

‘I want you,’ he said, ‘to be my inside man at Calibre-Shensu.’

Wyatt felt his spirits sink. Why was Tennant so interested in the team? He wished he’d never set eyes on Vanessa Tyson. Besides, he needed every ounce of energy to hold onto his lead.

‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘What you’re saying could spell big trouble for us. If our sponsor heard about this investigation, he could pull out. That’d be Bruce and me finished for the year.’

‘I’ll do everything in my power to make sure that doesn’t happen. I know you want to find Suzie von Falkenhyn.’

Tennant leaned foward on his elbows, his eyes wide.

‘This is a giant jigsaw puzzle and I’m trying to put the pieces together. Drugs are coming in in enormous quantities to each country that’s hosting a Formula One Grand Prix.’

‘It could be coincidence.’

‘I doubt it. We’ve had the same problems with rock groups in the past. The people doing it always change - the people behind them never do.’

He paused, and pulled a cigarette with his lips from a crumpled pack.

Wyatt felt a strange empathy with the policeman.

‘I’m not against you,’ he said.

Tennant picked up a file and tossed it over to Wyatt.

‘Take a look through that.’

Wyatt went through the news-cuttings, every one of them about Suzie.

‘It doesn’t make any sense, does it?’ Tennant said. ‘It’s positively bizarre. You’ve put up more reward money than most people ask for a ransom, and yet you’ve heard nothing.’

Wyatt closed his eyes as Tennant continued, ‘You know what buys the silence? Big money. And my guess is it’s drug money. The Ortega Cartel is at the centre of the drug business. Earlier this year, Emerson Ortega was assassinated by a CIA operative, and in the United States a lot of cocaine was recovered. We cut off the supply routes through Panama and the Bahamas, and we also cut off the chemical supplies that the producers need to refine the drugs. But it’s economics that’s actually nailed the producers. The street price is drop
ping, because the US is heading for a recession.’

A habitual chain-smoker, Tennant pulled out his packet of cigarettes again, offered one to Wyatt who refused, and then lit up himself. He smiled.

‘I’ve seen ads of you smoking - yet you don’t smoke?’

‘You sound like Vanessa Tyson . . . That’s what sponsor
ships are all about.’

Tennant coughed, and then continued.

‘It’s those two factors: the difficulty of supplying the US market and the lower street price there, that’s resulted in the Ortega Cartel developing new markets. Like Europe . . . Japan . . . and even the Eastern Bloc.’

Wyatt sat back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.

‘That makes sense. But are there really that many people who can afford cocaine?’

‘The demand is certainly there. The street price is fifty-five thousand dollars a kilo here, compared with eighteen to twenty-five thousand in the States. You see, there’s more money in Europe at the moment.’

‘How much does that translate into for the man in the street?’

‘About one hundred and forty dollars a gram - and that could have been cut. You know what I mean by that?’

Wyatt shook his head.

‘Dealers cut other chemicals into the coke, diluting its quality but upping their supply. So you see, the profit could be even higher.’

Wyatt stared around the bare-walled office, then back at Tennant. He read the hard face beneath the dark hair, saw the faint bags under the eyes. Tennant’s casual attitude was an act, beneath the surface he was deeply agitated. But Wyatt couldn’t concern himself with Tennant’s problems.

‘I’ve got one life,’ he said candidly. ‘I’ve got one chance at the championship. I came into racing late, I haven’t got time to help you.

‘Yeah,’ Tennant said, waving an arm. ‘Who gives a fuck? Forget all the destroyed lives, sweep the dirt under the carpet and hope it’ll go away. Is that what you learned in Japan? Is that your code of honour?’

Wyatt gripped the glass of water that was on the desk in front of him. His hands closed around it and it shattered, glass shards flying round the office.

There was a moment’s silence.

‘I’m sorry,’ Tennant said, ‘maybe I shouldn’t have said that. I did a little research on your background.’

Wyatt stared at him coldly. ‘I’ve got enough guilt in me to last a lifetime.’

Tennant coughed. ‘So you’re not going to help me?’

He scribbled a number on the back of an empty cigarette pack and then tossed it over to Wyatt.

‘If you hear anything, ring me at this number. If you want help, for any reason, get in touch with me.’

The door slammed shut and Wyatt was gone. Tennant picked up a glass from the bookcase. He squeezed it. Nothing happened.

‘My God,’ he muttered.

He paced around the office, tossed his finished cigarette into the green waste-bin in the corner, and lit another. Then he looked again at the telefax from New York. Sartori was paid out of a company in Switzerland. Apparently it wasn’t possible to discover who owned the company - but Tennant didn’t have to guess why Sartori was earning close to half a million dollars a month.

‘Mr Sartori, you’re out of your depth,’ he said, voicing his thoughts.

He picked up the phone and dialled a number in Italy.