Eye of the Cobra (53 page)

It was going to be a very hard race to win.

Bruce de Villiers sat looking at the bank of TV monitors, smoking a Calibre cigarette. Reg came up behind him, ill at ease.

‘What’s the matter?’ Bruce barked.

‘Fucking tyres. One container caught fire. I’m not sure about the wet-weather tyres - they were salvaged in the blaze. The Carvalho guys are examining them now, but they look fine to me.’

A Carvalho official ran up behind him.

‘The tyres, they are OK,’ he stammered.

Bruce turned to the pit lane and breathed a sigh of relief. There would be tyres for Charlie Ibuka when he came in. As for the Carvalho bugger-up, he’d have words with Ricardo after the race.

But he quickly forgot his anger as he watched Ricardo fighting his way towards the front. It was as if the whole focus of the race was upon the Italian. There was a feeling that Ricardo was the true challenger, and that till he was right behind de Rosner, the race for first place had hardly begun.

Bruce was cooling down. He was glad he hadn’t shouted at Ricardo on the grid, because the Italian had obviously recovered his style. It seemed almost inevitable, the way he passed each of the cars in front of him. Bruce knew Ricardo could do it. He also knew that, for Ricardo, every second in the cockpit was a lifetime.

Each time he heard the thin, shapeless noise of the Shensu V12 he felt his heart beat faster. The noise would rise in volume, and it would become the centre of his existence. Then it would come close, the scream of twelve pistons straining to the limit as they tried to go even faster; and then the black shape would rocket past and the sound of the engine would be more pure, lingering on until the Shadow was out of sight.

By the twenty-fifth lap Ricardo was placed just behind the fourth man, and ready to start catching the front-runners. Bruce looked up at the sky. The clear blue expanse was gone, now filled with patches of ominous dark cloud that were mustering in intensity every minute.

He glanced at the timer. Ricardo had set a new lap record. He had passed the fourth man. Now he was ready to do battle with the three front-runners.

Ricardo felt himself on a high. He had never driven this fast at Monza, and was using all the tricks of his lengthy career to keep going faster. The Shadow was holding in the corners like a magnet. He could feel himself moving in towards de Rosner, actually see the back of the McCabe in its distinctive red and white colours.

This was his best race yet, everything was happening magically. The engine sounded beautifully strong behind his neck.

The crowd were clearly excited. Italians have always been passionate about two things -
la donna e la macchina
- women and cars.

He was going to win. He knew it.

He heard Bruce’s voice bark in the headphones as the rain started, telling him to come in for new rubber on the next lap. He couldn’t argue. He held his position right behind de Rosner and whipped into the pits on the next lap.

The old tyres were off and the new ones on in a record 7.8 seconds. He roared back on the track with the quiet satisfaction of knowing that the others had to come in, and that they couldn’t have their wheels changed any faster than that.

He concentrated on reeling in de Rosner. One lap later de Rosner went in for rubber, but the Frenchman was out of the pits before Ricardo could gain the lead. The spray from the water on the track was making things very difficult.

Now, with ten laps to go, Ricardo knew he’d have to push himself harder. De Rosner was driving like a demon - the Frenchman was inspired, there was no other word for it. As fast as Ricardo went, de Rosner went faster.

Bruce felt his pulse quickening as Charlie Ibuka came in for his wet-weather tyres. Ibuka was out in under eight seconds. Everything was going splendidly.

Ricardo decided to push for the lead on the Curva Parabolica. He braked late, coming towards the inside of the track, aiming to cut past de Rosner before he switched to the inside.

Now. Now. Foot off the brake. Flat down on the accelerator.

Fight it. Don't let him in. God, we’re going to smash. No, I’m not going to give way.

I’m out. I’m in front.

Senses reeling, he swept out of the corner in front. The roar of the crowd was in his ears.

His people. His victory.

He screamed down the straight, pushing the Shadow as hard as she would go.

He braked as he approached the Curva Grande, and the car began to break away. He fought with the wheel and the accelerator to regain control. What the hell was going wrong?

Then he was spinning uncontrollably across the track at over 150 mph.

Everything slowed down for him. The Armco on the corner came up too fast. The car broke into splinters. He was flying through the air, terrified and unable to do anything.

He struck something, and blacked out.

Charlie Ibuka was lying in third place as he screamed down the main straight. He felt the instability start to develop as he was travelling at nearly 180 mph.

He went cold as he lost control of the car. He couldn’t understand what was wrong. Then the wheel was wrenched from his hands and he flew off to the side.

The impact was deafening.

Estelle just kept looking at the television screen.

‘This is a terrible traged
y,’ the commentator was saying.

‘Fortunately, Ricardo Sartori has only minor concussion.

‘But I am reminded of the death of the late Jim Clarke - though this is perhaps far more unfair. Charlie Ibuka had yet to complete his first race. De Rosner’s victory seems curiously irrelevant.’

Estelle felt unsteady on her feet. It could so easily have been Wyatt.

Bruce smashed his foot through the computer screen in anger. He bunched up his fists in fury, and tears of rage ran from his eyes.

Mickey went cold. Both cars at once. It could only be a design fault. His fault.

He looked out across the wet tarmac. Inside his soul he felt an emptiness, a void.

Although he was walking down the hotel corridor with Elvira Jones, it was Charlie Ibuka Ricardo was thinking about - that hard oriental face that gave nothing away. It was difficult to believe that Charlie was dead. What if it had been him? Jesus, he had been lucky.

Outside his room, Elvira Jones’s hand traced a line across the inside of his thigh.

‘Dinner was wonderful,’ she said.

He made to kiss her on the cheek, but she shifted her lips to meet his. A little later, she led him to her room and undressed slowly in front of him. He looked at the red bush between her legs; he had never had a redhead before.

‘I want this to be a special experience for you. I know you are a sexual athlete and I think we should try something a little different.’

The excitement surged within him. He had had many women, but never a woman like this.

‘Why not?’ he replied softly, intrigued to know what she had planned.

He took out the flat silver compact that contained his supply of cocaine.

‘Join me?’ he asked casually.

‘Of course. However, first I must prepare things.’

She went to one of the cupboards and took out long pieces of braid rope. At the end of each was a hangman’s noose. She stood on a chair and attached the ropes over the beam that ran the length of the room, knotting them expertly in place so that each noose hung approximately a metre and a half above the double bed.

Ricardo looked on, intrigued.

‘You propose we hang ourselves?’

‘Yes. You know what happens when a man is hanged?’

‘He dies?’

‘Not immediately. It is all a matter of timing. Just before death he experiences an erection - and a woman experiences the same surge of excitement.’

‘Fascinating,’ Ricardo said softly as she began to unbutton him.

‘With this technique, we both hang while making love. It is an experience that is like nothing on earth.’

He moved away from her and poured out a thin line of coke. Then he handed her the golden tube, and she took it from him and inhaled deeply. When he had done the same, she led him over to one of the nooses. He felt himself getting an erection as she passed it over his head. The excitement of the unknown, he thought. She tightened the noose expertly.

After that, she passed the other noose over her own head and hung from it, her legs apart as she straddled him. He penetrated her, and felt a soaring sensation as the noose tightened around his neck. This was like nothing he had ever experienced.

For five minutes he rocked backwards and forwards with her in sheer ecstasy. Then she shifted her weight, resting more heavily on him, and the noose tightened even more.

He tried to pull away. He could not, his erection stayed rock-hard and he stared into Elvira Jones’s eyes in terror. All her weight was on him now, the tension was off her neck altogether.

He could not speak. She rocked backwards and forwards in a series of intense orgasms, and he began to choke. She lifted herself up slightly.

‘The Mafia do not like you,’ she said.

He went cold, his arms were powerless. She shifted again, so that his choking increased.

‘I work for
Il Capo
,’ she said. ‘I am killing you for smuggling cocaine into our country. You have been a naughty boy. At least, however, you will die happy.’

His body began to convulse uncontrollably now, and she was laughing. He reared up, choking, desperately - and as he did so, she slipped and sagged on the noose. The weight came off his legs and he managed to raise himself, coughing and wheezing. Desperately, he pulled the noose off his head and stared at Elvira - she was limply hanging from her noose.

He staggered back and ran into the bathroom. Grabbing a towel, he ran back into the room and started to clean everything - frantically, frenziedly, obsessively.

Then he began to think logically again. He forced himself to breathe deeply, and stared around the room. Then he took the towel again and dusted wherever he might have left any fingerprints. After that he dressed slowly, dreading that the phone might ring or that there’d be a knock on the door.

Then he went out, closing the door behind him, and walked unsteadily back to his room.

The suicide of the redheaded Mrs Elvira Jones did not even make the front page of the local paper.

Talbot straightened the fingers on his right hand. The attack on him had been disastrous: when the grenade went off inside the container, the entire shipment had been destroyed. And Ricardo did not seem to be even remotely concerned about the loss of the merchandise. He doubted if the Italian realised its true value.

Ricardo’s usefulness, he decided, was at an end. But Talbot could not dispose of Ricardo. Those were his orders. Because now, with Ibuka dead, Calibre-Shensu only had one remaining driver - Ricardo.

Talbot turned from these thoughts to the open folder on his desk. The grand plan he had been ordered to implement was falling into place. In twenty-four hours there would be a revolution in Colombia and a military dictatorship would be established. The end of the Ortega Cartel would be announced and the new military rulers would launch a war against drug- smuggling that would be applauded by the rest of the world.

Talbot would become a multi-millionaire overnight. After that, his orders were to establish a new and very secret cartel, from which each of the new ruling generals would draw an astronomical salary. For this they would prevent any other cartels from operating in Colombia.

The street price of cocaine would rocket because of the short supply. His orders were then gradually to expand his supply monopoly - supplying smaller quantities for a bigger profit.

Talbot looked down at his watch. In twenty-four hours he would have his fee - and to his employer he would hand over control of the most advanced cocaine manufacturing plant in the world.

Wyatt felt the sweat trickle down his forehead as he looked up at the barren rock wall above him. They were almost at the top.

‘Choto!’
he heard Carlos exclaim. ‘There is no way we can get past that.’

Wyatt stripped off most of his equipment, including his shirt. The rope dangling slenderly from the harness round his waist, he inched himself slowly upwards.

‘You come off, my friend, and you die!’ Carlos cried out.

‘Wyatt, come back!’

Wyatt moved up, his fingers caressing the cold rock, searching for hairline cracks. The two days of almost continuous climbing had brought him up to the level of awareness that he needed for this.

The rubber-soled climbing-boots pressed against the smooth surface at the outer limits of adhesion. He paused for a moment and glanced down at the rope that connected him to Carlos, who was belaying him. Eighty feet of rope stretched between them like a thin umbilical cord. If Wyatt came off, it meant one hundred and sixty feet to fall - eighty feet down to Carlos, and then another eighty feet before the rope took the strain. The impact would most likely wrench Carlos from the face, hurling them both to their deaths in the leafy jungle far, far below. And Wyatt still had at least another twenty feet to
go
.