Eye of the Cobra (48 page)

He turned his eyes back to Ronnie Halliday.

‘The money and the apology. By tomorrow morning.’

Halliday broke into a smile, but Hugo held up his hand.

‘Ronnie, now you owe me. Please don’t forget it.’

Wyatt arrived at the Calibre-Shensu headquarters at seven thirty in the morning, in a state of high agitation. He hadn’t been able to get hold of Carlos, but he had found a tortured message on his answering machine from Suzie - a message that had been interrupted in mid-stream. She’d talked about a mountain in a jungle where she was being held prisoner. It could be anywhere.

He just had to get hold of Carlos. He’d kept phoning the whole night, leaving messages with people he thought might see him. He’d been so agitated he hadn’t trained that morning.

Now he was exhausted and very irritated. Mickey Dunstal had already discussed the latest modifications to the Shadow with him after the Belgian Grand Prix. Slight alterations to the anhedral wings at the front would increase the downforce, giving slightly better stability in the corners, which would help the Shadow Two to exploit the tremendous power-output of the Shensu V12 more effectively. There would be a slight drop in top speed, but the increased cornering capability would more than make up for it.

As he got out of the Lotus, Wyatt was struck by the quietness - the place seemed almost empty. Usually at that hour most of the mechanics had arrived, and Mickey would already be discussing the day’s testing with the team of Japanese engineers from Shensu. Where was everyone? What was going on?

He looked around. The only other car outside was Bruce de Villiers’ Shensu saloon; it was pitch-black, in keeping with the team’s livery.

What the hell was wrong?

Wyatt went quickly inside and dashed up the stairs to Bruce’s office. Bruce was looking out of the window as he came in.

‘Bruce, where is everybody?’

De Villiers swung round, his face ashen, the hard features set rigid.

‘Wyatt. Take a seat.’

He sat down, trying to fathom what was happening. De Villiers leaned forward, placing the palms of his hands firmly on the desk.

‘You are a survivor, Wyatt. I’ve always known that. It takes a lot of courage and a lot of guts to get into Formula One.’

Wyatt felt the fear creeping through him. What was de Villiers saying?

‘Has this got something to do with my losing at Spa?’

‘Wyatt, you’ve brought an avalanche of bad publicity down around our heads. You’re reputedly involved with a woman who’s trying to destroy us, and you’ve assaulted two journal
ists. And there are even rumours that you’re on drugs. God knows what’s going to come out next.’

‘Bruce, I don’t believe this. I helped get Vanessa Tyson out of Rio after she was nearly killed, that’s all there is between us . . . I’m winning races. Spinning off was an error, and I won’t make it again.’

‘It’s over, Wyatt. I am genuinely sorry.’

The blood was rushing to his head, he had a breathless, horrifying feeling that this couldn’t really be happening.

‘What’s over?’ he managed.

‘Your drive. You’re out. Jack wants it. Aito doesn’t know, but he’ll have to agree. And I can only wish to God it hadn’t happened.’

‘I’ll sue you.’

De Villiers exploded.

‘Don’t be a fucking fool! Read your goddamned contract. This business is about racing, but to race you have to have money, and if I keep you I lose all our sponsorship. Phelps wants you out now!’

Wyatt breathed in and prepared to fight.

‘You can’t race without a driver,’ he said.

‘FISA have agreed that if Ricardo pays a half-a-million- dollar fine, he can race.’

He couldn’t speak. He got up and walked out of the office. Behind him he heard de Villiers’ voice.

‘Wyatt, wait . . .’

Wyatt felt tears come to his eyes as he quickened his pace. His whole world was collapsing around him.

Outside he started up his car and accelerated away.

It was over.

He drove, foot flat to the floor. Drove hard and fast, not thinking, because that was too painful. He wasn’t going to let anyone do this to him ever again. All his life had been geared for this year, for the possibility of taking the championship. Now, when he had it all in his hands, it was taken from him.

It was like that other time. The accident - coming round, finding his father dead. Then the hospital, and Estelle shouting at him.

You killed him. You killed him.

He’d been powerless against it, but in Japan he’d learned to fight the emptiness he felt inside. Now that hollowness threat
ened to return, and to destroy him.

No, he would not be beaten.

There was more to this business than met the eye . . .

He had to find Suzie. That was all that really mattered now.

When John Tennant arrived at the hotel, it was full of delegates checking in for a business conference. John waited patiently on the sidelines for a few moments, then he walked round the building and worked out that it would have taken an acrobat to climb the wall and get into Vanessa Tyson’s room on the seventh floor.

The foyer had cleared when he returned. The concierge looked him up and down as he approached, but he wasn’t fazed by this.

‘Hallo,’ he said, ‘I’m from the Belgian police.’

The concierge looked put out.

‘I hope this case of the drugs is sorted out. And now Wyatt Chase is dropped from Calibre- Shensu.’

‘What?’

This was news to Tennant.

‘Oh yes. It was on the television.’

Wheels started turning in Tennant’s mind.

‘Perhaps you can help me?’ he said. ‘I can’t believe the decision against Chase is fair, but I’m sure it’s linked to his involvement with Vanessa Tyson.’

The concierge smiled.

‘I admire Chase. If I can do something that would help . . .’

‘Well, first of all . . . Who was on duty at this desk the evening before Miss Tyson’s arrest?’

‘I was.’

‘Did you see anything remotely suspicious that evening, after Miss Tyson had gone off to dinner?’

The man looked up reflectively.

‘No, not really. The hotel was empty.’

‘When do you finish today?’

‘In five minutes. I’ve been on since midnight.’

‘Well then, I wonder if you would have lunch with me?’

After a couple of drinks the concierge had loosened up considerably.

‘So,’ Tennant said again, ‘there’s nothing that comes to mind about that evening?’

‘Ah, yes. At ten thirty, I remember, a man walked out of the lounge to the lifts.’

‘How do you remember the time so well?’

‘My girlfriend always phones me at ten thirty to say hallo.’

A smile crept across Tennant’s face. ‘But why didn’t you remember this earlier?’ he said.

‘It didn’t seem important. But thinking about it now, I was aware of . . . well. . . the way he moved.’

‘Moved?’

‘In control. Almost like one of the Formula One drivers. In fact, I thought he might be a driver, but I didn’t recognise him. He was about six feet tall, with short blond hair, dressed in a dark suit. Confident - like an American. And he was carrying a black leather document-case.’

John Tennant walked out into the pouring rain and moved along the street towards the centre of the town. The new information was disturbing. Who was the blond-haired man? What was the purpose behind the framing of Vanessa Tyson? Maybe the man had been making a delivery to her room.

Tennant was still none the wiser about what was going on, but he sensed that Vanessa Tyson was a small pawn in a very big game. It was a game he meant to put a stop to, once and for all.

Wyatt moved into the ring. His opponent, Dan Bugner, was twice his weight, and those extra kilograms were all solid muscle and bone. Bugner was the highest-graded
karateka
in Britain - Seventh Dan, equal in level to Wyatt.

Wyatt liked the concentration demanded by direct contact karate. He needed to clear his mind, get rid of the weakness, and combat was the only way to do that.

The
karateka
in London knew about him. They’d been asking him to fight Bugner ever since he’d moved there from Japan, but he’d always declined. Now he’d taken the challenge.

This was their third round. They were both dripping with sweat. Dan Bugner moved in, fast and sure, and the blow hit Wyatt hard under the heart. He didn’t back off, but moved forward, disconcerting Bugner with his lack of fear.

The next blow contacted Wyatt’s skull. Stars flew in front of his eyes, but he didn’t lose his balance or his concentration. He squared his hips and dropped low as Bugner moved in again. He didn’t block a hard kick that landed in his solar- plexus; instead he ignored the pain, swivelled his hips and drove his fist hard into Bugner’s face.

Bugner’s mouth opened up, the skin split up from his lips to the left of his nose. He staggered back, and then collapsed backwards, unconscious.

There was no applause from the ringside, just an intake of breath.

Wyatt walked off the floor. He knew there would be no more challenges. He felt sick. But he’d needed to expel the rage that was threatening to destroy him.

Wyatt inserted the key in his front door. Before he had a chance to turn it, his arms were gripped and pulled back. He dropped and pivoted: two quick kicks and the men were sprawling on the drive. He focused, and saw the distinctive uniforms of the London police. Damn. From the shadows another man appeared, not in uniform.

‘We’ve got you for assault with intent to do grievous bodily harm, Chase. Frank Johnson, the journalist, is pressing charges, and, believe me, they’ll stick. And now it’s assaulting police officers as well.’

Wyatt breathed in deeply. He knew he was in serious trouble.

‘I need to change,’ he said.

‘OK,’ replied the detective, ‘but no tricks.’

He got into the police car five minutes later, and the detective handcuffed him.

‘Let me tell you, Chase, it’s bastards like you I particularly en
joy nailing.’

Wyatt pressed his hands together and fought against the temptation to smash his right elbow hard into the detective’s face. He was in enough trouble already. He stared at the police driver’s head and wondered how the hell he was going to extricate himself from the mess he’d got into.

The campus of the University of Buenos Aires was empty. The buildings stood silent in the darkness, and the pavements that rang to the sound of students during the day, were deserted. In the corner of one building, however, a solitary light burned. Inside it, Carlos Ramirez sat opposite Professor Durate, who was poring over a map.

‘Yes, Carlos,’ he said excitedly, ‘there’s even a bearing scribbled here to one side. But you see, the problem I have is that there’s nothing there.’

Carlos pointed to the position on the map.

‘But what’s that?’

‘Mount Roraima.’

‘Well . . .?’

‘It is one of the most inaccessible places on earth.’

‘Good. Excellent!’

‘I don’t understand,’ the professor replied, taking off his reading-glasses.

‘An inaccessible place is just what I have been searching for.’

Professor Durate got up, stretched and then slapped his old friend hard on the back.

‘You are the most enigmatic man I have ever met, Carlos. This woman, she is a prisoner?’

‘Please, it is better that you do not know.’

He drove home very fast, but it was still two hours from the university to his estancia. After forty-five minutes the concrete turned to grass and the paved side-streets to dirty lanes. At the side of the road were little outdoor grill restaurants - sometimes no more than card-tables and a portable kitchen. He breathed in deeply, enjoying the smell of grilled meat.

Then came the first pastures, dotted with cattle. In this area many people owned holiday houses where they came from the city for the weekend. Another hour, and the air smelt fresh. Now in the moonlight he saw the typical scenery of the pampas, a landscape of endless grass pastures broken only by trees and the occasional house.

He smelt the air again as he came onto his land, and felt very good. A long drive, lined with blue-gums, led up to his estancia.

He pulled up outside the long, sprawling courtyard and turned off the engine. He listened to the noise of the cicadas.

Estelle came out, a shawl wrapped round her shoulders, and he embraced her and felt the tears on her face.

‘Oh God, Carlos,’ she sobbed.

‘What’s wrong, my love?’

‘They’ve arrested Wyatt for assault.’