Eye of the Cobra (27 page)

Ricardo began walking back to the pits. He had no wish to talk to de Villiers any further; he would have to devote all his energies to inspecting the new car.

Back in the pits five minutes later, he saw that Phelps had arrived. Ricardo liked the big confident American, especially Phelps’s special aura of wealth and power. Phelps was talking to Suzie von Falkenhyn, and couldn’t resist touching her every so often; it was obvious that he wanted her. Good, thought Ricardo. That would upset Wyatt.

‘Hi there, Ricardo - things are not going well today?’

‘You judge correctly, Mr Phelps.’

‘Jack, please.’

They shook hands and Ricardo returned Phelps’s penetrating stare. Phelps averted his eyes and ran them over the pits, looking for Wyatt.

‘Where’s Chase?’

Suzie said, ‘He’s finished for today - now he’s doing some promotional work.’

This pleased Ricardo. Such pointless activities would wear Wyatt down before the race. Ricardo had his own attitude to promotion - he would lend his name, but not his body.

Jack put his arm around Ricardo, who was conscious of expensive after-shave and a surprisingly taut body beneath the businessman’s shirt. The grip was not kind, it was more an extension of Jack’s power over him.

‘Ricardo. I can see you’re concerned about your perform
ance here today. But you’ll have to drive faster tomorrow. I’m paying you a lot of money and I expect you to deliver. I want you and Wyatt in the number one and number two positions. Get it?’

Jack’s words fanned the fire that burned within him. He was not a loser, and he hated being treated like that. He could see Jack was trying to belittle him in Suzie’s eyes, and he pulled away from Phelps and turned to face him squarely.

‘I decide whether or not I drive tomorrow. No one else. I am not afraid. I am going to win.’

‘Suit yourself, buster. Just remember who’s the boss.’

Ricardo kissed Suzie on the lips, ignoring Phelps. His attractiveness to women had always given him the opportunity to rile other men, and as he had expected, he saw sparks of anger in Phelps’s eyes.

‘Just make sure you don’t kill yourself, Ricardo.’ There was a distinct snarl in Phelps’s voice. ‘I’ve heard that this isn’t your favourite circuit.’

Several of the mechanics looked round, including Reg Tillson. It was unheard of to threaten a driver. De Villiers had also come into the pits, and Ricardo guessed that he must have heard the earlier part of their conversation: Bruce was obviously bristling.

‘Ricardo,’ Bruce said, ‘why don’t you go and talk to Mickey about the new Shadow? He’s made plenty of modifications to her, based on what we’ve learnt already.’ Brushing beads of perspiration off his forehead, he turned to Phelps.

‘Jack, let’s go over to the motorvan.’

‘I’ve gotta leave,’ Phelps said.

‘No,’ Bruce insisted. ‘Come.’

Phelps followed him to the Calibre-Shensu motorvan, an air-conditioned motor-home that the team used as a conference-centre at the track. Bruce closed the sliding door behind them as Phelps settled into one of the body-hugging chairs that were set into the floor.

‘Bruce,’ Jack Phelps said easily, ‘just relax.’

Bruce felt as if he was being treated like an over-strung adolescent, but he kept his rage under control.

‘Jack,’ he said, ‘we made an agreement. You supply the money, I do the racing. Your wires are getting crossed.’

Phelps stretched out and put his hands behind his head. He did not seem in the least put out. ‘That doesn’t preclude me making casual conversation with Wyatt or Ricardo.’

‘Oh
ja
it fucking well does, man. Especially when you threaten them!’

‘You don’t need to shout, friend. I’m paying for results, not hot-headed behaviour.’

‘Every goddam race counts. Every chance has to be taken. Of course I want two front-runners - just as much as you do. Even a fucking idiot would know that’d push your fag sales through the roof.’

‘I’ve got the money. I don’t need losers. Chase is doing wonders for Calibre Lights in America, and if Ricardo can’t deliver, I’ll order you to cut him.’

‘And what about Shensu? Does he agree with your shotgun management?’

It was as if a cloud had passed over Phelps’s face and taken the sunshine from it. He appeared agitated. Sensing his advantage, Bruce pressed on. ‘Shall I tell Shensu what you said just now?’

He had Phelps now. He couldn’t quite work out what sort of hold Shensu held over Phelps, but it didn’t really matter. At least he had a way of controlling the American.

‘Let’s get on with the job. Are you unhappy with the Shensu relationship?’ Phelps replied guardedly, changing the subject.

‘I’ve got twelve Shensu mechanics working night and day on the engines. Cut the crap, Jack. What’s your game?’ Bruce deliberately played his hand hard. He was glad to have found something with which he could rile the usually imperturbable Phelps.

‘I spoke out of turn, Bruce.’ Phelps seemed to change gear as he was speaking; de Villiers could imagine the devious cogs in Phelps’s brain turning over another well-oiled plan.

‘Well, Jack, I’ll be interested to hear Shensu’s views on your attitude to racing.’

‘What we discuss here is between ourselves.’

Bruce laughed. He wanted to smash Phelps in the face, wanted to pulverise him into the ground.

‘No it’s not. This isn’t power politics. Anything that affects my chances of producing a winner is Mr Shensu’s business.’

‘You tell him a word of this, and you’re gone.’

Bruce gauged the situation carefully. If Phelps succeeded in railroading him now, he would be under his whip for the rest of the season. It was all or nothing. Better to get it over with now.

‘OK, Jack, I’ll tell Shensu I’m out.’

Bruce got up. He felt like screaming. He knew this would probably destroy his career, but he wasn’t going to be kicked around like a second-rate player.

As he was about to open the door, Phelps held his arm. To his surprise, Bruce saw a look of almost desperate concern on the American’s face. He couldn’t believe it. He had obviously touched some vulnerable spot in the man; made him feel threatened.

‘Cool it, Bruce. Let’s just . . . talk this out?’ Phelps’s tone was unmistakably conciliatory.

Bruce settled back into the chair facing Jack. He felt a surge of relief but didn’t let it show on his face.

‘I’m a businessman,’ Phelps said. ‘I tend to be abrupt; I’m just used to getting my own way. You were right, Bruce, and I was wrong.’

‘OK. Then you agree to work with me, not against me?’

Phelps nodded his head reluctantly.

‘All right,’ Bruce said briskly. ‘Then the first thing you do is phone Ricardo. I want you to apologise to him.’

He could see that Phelps was desperately trying to control himself - but he didn’t care. Phelps had done the damage, now he must rectify it. He could see the blood suffusing
Phelp’s face, the immaculate edifice looked as if it was about to explode.

‘I’ll phone him tonight,’ Phelps said.

‘You do that.’

Phelps stormed out of the motorvan in a blind rage. He had totally underestimated de Villiers. He could not remove him, and even worse, he could not manipulate him.

The chauffeur held open the door to the air-conditioned car, and he stepped inside quickly. Immediately he was in the cooler climate of the car he began to feel better and to think more logically. A plan began to form in his mind that could give him exactly what he wanted: the power to control and manipulate de Villiers. Of course, if it didn’t work out there were other options, for there were plenty of other people in the team who could be effectively used to get at de Villiers.

And, Jack thought, he had one big advantage over Bruce de Villiers - because, in the end, he wasn’t in Formula One for the racing.

Bruce de Villiers watched the jet-black executive jet coming in to land on what he estimated to be one of the worst runways in the world. An accomplished flyer himself, he admired the precision with which the pilot put the plane down. And as it taxied towards him across the runway, he thought about his two drivers.

Ricardo was still the better driver of the two, through sheer experience, but Wyatt was the young lion, anxious to make a kill. And what really set Wyatt apart from Ricardo was his attitude. Although Wyatt was ruthless in his determination to win, he knew that he relied on the team to get him first across the finish-line. And Bruce could see that the mechanics, and Mickey Dunstal, sensed Wyatt’s respect for them. They wanted to help him - and there was no doubt that more care was lavished on Wyatt’s car than on Ricardo’s.

The tiny door in the fuselage of the plane swung open, and a team of ground-staff quickly pushed the mobile stairs closer to the door.

Bruce was feeling pretty good. He had figured out a few things about Phelps, and now he felt more in control of the team. He was pleased that Phelps had not come. There were one or two things he wanted to discuss in private with the Japanese entrepreneur.

Aito Shensu came quickly down the steps of the plane. Bruce was struck by the similarity between him and Wyatt in the way they moved - purposefully, with economy of movement.

‘Bruce, it is good to see you. You did not have to come to the airport, you know.’

‘Welcome to Rio, Aito.’

They walked together across the tarmac and through the customs area. A Shensu car was waiting for them outside the airport foyer, and the chauffeur drove them smoothly off.

‘Is Jack here?’ Aito asked, as if mirroring Bruce’s thoughts. ‘Yes. He was at the practice this morning.’

‘Is he pleased?’

‘I think so.’

Aito looked quickly across at him.

‘There’s something wrong?’

‘Ricardo spun his car and damaged it,’ Bruce said. ‘He’ll have to use an untried car.’

Aito weighed his words before he spoke.

‘Ricardo is a superb driver,’ he said. ‘Why should he have an accident in a qualifying event?’

‘A superb driver, yes, but he’s also human. Wyatt achieved the fastest qualifying time - Ricardo was simply trying to better it.’

‘Surely an easy task for the former world champion?’

‘I feel Ricardo is less at home with the Shadow than Wyatt. But that’s just a teething problem.’

‘Ah! I understand.’ He paused. ‘And what about you? You are happy?’

It was odd, the way Aito asked the question. It sounded like something a psychiatrist might ask.

‘I’ll be happy once the race is over and we have two front positions.’

‘And the engine?’

‘Faultless. But then it’s only in the race that it will really prove its reliability.’

‘You find the back-up you are getting from my people OK?’

Aito looked at him intensely, and Bruce could not help smiling.

‘Relax, Aito. I’ve never had better back-up from an engine manufacturer. Everything from your side has been done in the best possible fashion. At this stage we just have to keep our fingers crossed and hope that nothing’s been left out or forgotten.’

‘I am sure you have done a fine job.’

The car pulled up outside the hotel, and the chauffeur leapt out and opened the side door.

‘You will join Jack and myself for dinner tonight?’

‘Thank you, but no. I have to be at the circuit. The last- minute preparation is critical. But I’ll see you at the start tomorrow - and I look forward to bringing you victory.’

Bruce watched Aito disappear into the hotel, and then the chauffeur pulled off and headed towards the circuit. It was time to get down to the real business of racing.

Wyatt sat in the pits, enjoying the coolness now that the sun had gone down. He could feel himself tensing up. He tried not to think about the race, but it was impossible.

Memories came flooding back. He had been here in 1978, for the Grand Prix at the then brand-new circuit. It had been hot then; his father had been at the front of the grid, and was tipped to win the race by a wide margin. The day itself had been sweltering, and the Brazilians wild with excitement. James had led the field for twenty devastatingly fast laps. Then, without warning, his car had careered off the circuit and into a barrier of tyres. When they dragged him out, he was a wreck. The incredible heat had caused him to black out. He was lucky to be alive.

Wyatt could understand his father a lot better now, under
stand the constant tension he’d been under in those days.

He looked across at Reg. He could see the excitement in his eyes, and could feel it mirrored in his own. Here, competing in the intense world of Formula One, this was living. Reg met his stare.

‘Relax, Wyatt, you’re at the front of the grid.’

‘I want to be first over the finish-line - it’s sixty-one laps, it’s hot, and it’s hard on the car. Relaxed is the last thing I am.’

‘I was there when your father went off as well - forget about it. The Shadow isn’t as cramped as his machine was, you won’t get as hot.’