Eye of the Cobra (24 page)

‘
What that bitch needs is a good fuck,’ he roared at his chief aide.

He’d asked Cleaver to ask the men on Capitol Hill some questions. In particular, Calhoun wanted to find out how the President was reacting to his chairing of the Senate Committee that was investigating possible flaws in the American legal system.

David Cleaver was a thin, bespectacled, twenty-five-year-old Harvard legal graduate, with a nose like a hawk and a mind like a razor.

‘So, David, give me the low-down.’

‘Well, sir, the President obviously knows that you and he are closely allied in the eyes of the voting public - the public believe that whatever you say is endorsed by the President. The economy is in poor shape, we’re being annihilated by the Japanese in our traditional export markets, our motor industry is under attack. Now, you are seen as having destroyed Jeff Sutherland ... Of having sided with the big corporations to take out a young entrepreneur.’

‘It was perfectly legal,’ Calhoun snorted. ‘The man didn’t protect himself from liability action.’

You bastard, thought David Cleaver. But he said: ‘He would never have had the capital to open his factory if he had, sir. That’s what the President is saying. Sir, I think compromise is the order of the day.’

‘Jesus Christ! What the hell is this country coming to when some fat British reporter who looks like she needs a first-rate fuck can dig holes in our great legal system?’

David Cleaver refused to answer his employer. Personally, he thought the Senator had played right into Vanessa Tyson’s side of the court.

‘So, David, what do I do?’

‘I think, sir, you should announce that the committee has found there are certain areas that require special investigation, and that if these areas are found to be problematic, changes should be made.’

Calhoun’s glass was shaking, the ice rattling noisily.

‘The bitch has beaten me.’

‘This way, sir, you come out clean. You never told me about your son evading a Vietnam call-up. What other dirty linen will she dig up if you don’t back down?’

Calhoun looked away from his aide. What other dirty linen? Cleaver was right - his only way out was to back down.

‘All right. Phone her up at WWTN and tell her that I’ve decided she has a point and we will be reviewing certain laws in a serious light.’

‘You’ve made the right decision, sir.’

‘Just shuddup and m
ake the call.’

Vanessa walked into the main office, smiling from ear to ear. The head and founder of Worldwide Television News, Jay Levy, was waiting for her.

He’d asked her out many times, but had always received a pleasant rebuff. He had to admit he was infatuated with her. She wasn’t attractive in the conventional sense, though the camera loved her: the full, sensuous lips, the dark arched eyebrows and her olive complexion made her irresistible on the screen. But he longed to know what lay behind that incisive mind. He guessed she might be passionate, but she certainly didn’t show it. And he also knew that she didn’t have a lover. Yet every time he made the slightest effort to get closer to her, he had received that ever so pleasant, ever so polite rebuff. It was frustrating, to say the least.

He kissed her softly on the cheek. ‘Congratulations, Vanessa! You’ve done it again!’

‘Thank you, Jay, but really it’s Burt Calhoun we’ve all got to thank. He played right into our hands,’ she said softly.

You could get anyone to play into your hands if you just used your looks instead of your mind to win an argument, thought Levy.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘our ratings have never been higher.’

‘Jay, the point is, I was right. There are genuine holes in your legal system. I hope that what I’ve done goes a long way to repairing them.’

That was one of the reasons why Jay had hired her. She wasn’t in this for the money and the fame, she was in it because she believed in what she was doing.

‘So, Vanessa, what about your next assignment?’

‘Ah ha. Formula One. Smoking and death.’

Jay nodded, wanting to hear more. Her first report from Kyalami in South Africa had researched excellently. It was media dynamite.

‘It’s controversial, don’t you worry. And it’s something I’ve been interested in exposing for a long time. We’re off to Rio tomorrow.’

‘But Burt, surely you know how to handle her?’

Jack Phelps thought Burt Calhoun seemed to be making a helluva fuss about nothing - but the Senator’s reply wiped the smile off his face.

‘What do you mean, you can’t help
me with this one?’ Jack roared.

‘Hell, I pay you a fortune in legal fees every month - you’re making a fortune off all these claims smokers are making against my company.’

Jack slammed down the phone. He wanted to strangle Vanessa Tyson. He guessed the fat bitch was out to cause havoc. He’d never known Calhoun to be so cautious.

Well, Vanessa Tyson had better watch out, because he wasn’t going to be a pushover.

He picked up the publicity reports that Don Morrison had sent him, a broad grin spreading across his face. It was paying off. All the effort and all the work were showing a handsome dividend.

He reread the
New York Times
item on the forthcoming Brazilian Grand Prix - a full-page article. They were playing up the competition between Sartori and Chase, and there was a full-colour picture of the machine - in jet-black livery with silver highlights. Suzie von Falkenhyn’s design work was faultless, but the byline on her affair with Wyatt made him furious. He wanted Suzie himself; he needed to have her.

He lay back in his chair, contemplating the New York skyline and the success of Calibre-Shensu. Aito Shensu had proved to be the perfect business partner. The man rarely asked questions, and when he did, it was only about technical
ities. Aito had been as good as his word, so that he, Jack Phelps, was the one who was running the team. The only thing that still rankled was Aito’s appointment of Wyatt Chase.

Jack checked his watch. He would be in Rio in twenty-four hours’ time, ready to watch the Saturday practice and make sure everything was running smoothly.

He switched on the video unit that was hidden behind the end wall of his office and watched the endorsement commercial that had just arrived from his ad agency. It was good, very good - the work was of outstanding quality. He always let the creative director have total control; he found he got a far better product that way. If he didn’t like what was produced, he just the fired agency and appointed another one. Advertising people were simple to control. One fed them money to keep them thinking, and fired them when they stopped delivering.

Of course, the commercial was basically supposed to sup
port Shensu, because cigarette advertising had been outlawed from the TV networks years before. Quite why, he had never been able to understand; he felt that freedom of will should include the choice to smoke or not smoke. One’s death was a personal matter. But the commercial was deliberately designed to look as though it was for Shensu rather than for Calibre.

He watched it through once more, and smiled. Wyatt Chase might not be world champion, but he was a natural television star. He would exploit Wyatt to the full. Besides, Wyatt had Suzie, and he wanted Suzie. Forcing Wyatt to make commer
cial appearance after commercial appearance would pull him away from Suzie, giving Jack a chance to move in on her. Contractually, he had Wyatt by the shorts.

With Ricardo it was a different matter. His contract was far more specific, limiting the number of commercial appearances he had to make. Wyatt’s contract contained no such protection and obliged him to do almost whatever Phelps wanted him to.

He’d get Suzie von Falkenhyn. It was just a matter of timing. He smiled, and watched the commercial through again.

Debbie got back to the hotel after having a cup of tea at the circuit with the rest of the team. She was still smarting from Ricardo’s behaviour on the beach that morning. She went straight up to their room, and saw to her annoyance that the bed still hadn’t been made. She reached for the phone to call room service, and then decided against it. She didn’t want to have to sit around waiting for the maid to come and make up the bed.

Anything that smacked of disorder irritated her. She hated Ricardo’s messiness - though she had to admit he did dress perfectly. She pulled back the duvet cover and straightened the sheets beneath it. Next she plumped up the pillows, and arranged the duvet beneath them. As a last touch, she pulled the duvet out at the edges. It was then that she felt something beneath the duvet cover.

Carefully she undid the buttons that fastened the cover and reached down. Her hand found something and pulled it out. She was looking at a pair of pale-blue silk panties, and they weren’t hers. There was a noise outside the door and she realised that Ricardo had returned. She threw the panties on one of the chairs and went to the mirror, pretending to make up her face.

Ricardo burst into the room. Obviously he had been plan
ning to tidy up the bed before she returned. He turned with shock as he saw her at the mirror.

‘Debbie?’

‘Yes?’ she replied, as demurely as possible.

‘You surprised me.’ He came over and kissed her on the back of the neck.

‘Have you been busy?’

‘Er, yes. I’ve been shopping,’ he lied.

‘What did you buy?’

‘Er, window-shopping. You understand.’

She saw his eyes dart around the room and eventually light on the panties, lying brazenly on the chair. He sauntered towards them.

‘Ricardo.’

She rose, forcing him to turn his gaze to her. She could see the agitation on his face. She touched the dark skin of his cheek and looked into his eyes. Now she wanted to see him lie.

‘Do you love me?’

‘But of course. There has never been anyone quite like you.’

Not quite like me, thought Debbie; but similar, apparently. She could see his eyes, looking at the panties. She walked over to the chair and picked them up.

He coloured. ‘I can explain!’

‘Explain what? That the cleaners must have left them here?’

‘No . . . Yes . . . You’re right. I’ll phone the manager and complain.’

As she watched him make a fool of himself on the phone, she quietly undressed and got into the bed. If he was going to make love to anyone else that day, it was going to be her.

He put the phone down angrily. ‘They said they already cleaned the room, can you believe it?’

‘No. Come to bed . . .’

If she hadn’t known, she would have never guessed that he had slept with another woman only hours before. She gripped the headboard in ecstasy. Sure, he was a bastard, but an irresistible bastard.

The sun rose over Rio, the Sugar Loaf mountain standing supreme over the city; the slums lay sprawling the distance. This was a world where poverty and wealth walked hand in hand.

The car-crazy locals were expectant. The glamour of For
mula One attracted them - especially to cheer on the three Brazilian drivers. The searing summer heat added to the carnival atmosphere, and cars raced madly along the bumpy road towards the circuit.

At the Autodromo Internacional do Rio du Janeiro, Baix- ada de Jacarepagua, conditions were perfect for the practice session.

Bruce de Villiers looked down at his non-existent fingernails and cursed his nervousness. So far, everything was fine. The two cars looked immaculate and so did the team, out in their livery for the first time in public. The press photographers were loving it. Bruce had to admit that Suzie had done her job very well. He felt entirely comfortable in the jet-black and silver jumpsuit; it breathed well, and despite the heat he didn’t feel at all restricted. Ricardo and Wyatt were keeping their distance from each other, like two fighting-cocks, eyeing each other out before the contest.

He saw Mickey Dunstal strolling over to him, clipboard and calculator in hand. He liked the way Mickey got involved with the pit crew and didn’t stand aloof from them. His long blond hair was not plaited up as usual, and he looked like a rock star about to grab a microphone and give a performance.

‘Nervous, are you, Bruce me boy?’

Bruce laughed. Mickey had just
as much to be concerned about.

‘How could I be worried, with your car?’

‘You’re a sly fellah, to be sure.’

Wyatt came over to them, and
Mickey slapped him on the back.

‘Tense?’

‘I just want to get going. It’s bloody hot.’

Bruce looked closely at his driver.

‘Everything OK for you, Wyatt?’ he enquired casually. ‘Just take it easy to start with.’

‘Relax, I’m not going to put your car into the concrete.’

Bruce shuddered. Even the thought of it was bad enough. In the distance he caught sight of a bevy of Brazilian beauties handing out packets of Calibre Lights to the spectators.

‘When they die of cancer in forty years’ time, who will they have to thank?’