Quick (29 page)

Claude remembers. ‘Oh right.’ Then he realises unhappily: ‘That’s not good, Billy.’

‘No, it isn’t.’

Dieter finishes dialling, hits the speaker button and holds out the phone so they can all hear it ring. The German turns to Billy. ‘So, you have a choice. Take the drive or I tell Allen everything about you and the investigation. I’ll even throw in the fact you were the one who saved Franka today. That should make for a heartfelt human interest story on his website, I should imagine.’

‘You just gave me your word you wouldn’t tell anyone.’

He pulls an exaggerated sad face. ‘I lied.’

‘I could charge you with obstructing the investigation.’

Dieter grins at this. ‘Best of luck with that. And it won’t change anything because everyone will still know who you are and what you are doing.’

‘If you expose me it won’t make me drive for you.’

‘But you’re not going to drive for me anyway so it doesn’t matter. The team still gets the exposure.’

The phone continues to ring.

Billy glares at the old man. ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘The team comes first. Always. It’s not personal. I have five hundred people working around the clock to win
one
race, something we have never done. I have spent seven years of my life and two point one billion dollars on this sport and I have never won a race, never come second, never come third. Once, during a race in Japan when half the field crashed out during a freak downpour, we finished fourth. One fourth place finish and that is
it.’

‘And you really think I’m going to change that?’

He shrugs. ‘You couldn’t do any
worse.
And nothing else has worked so I may as well give it a try —’

‘Hello?’ The phone is answered and James Allen’s clipped British accent reverberates across the cabin. ‘Dieter? You must be halfway to Monaco by now. I should have asked for a ride.’

The German looks at the Australian, and the Australian looks at the German, while the Frenchman looks from the German to the Australian then back again. There’s no sound except for the low throb of the G650’s twin turbo fans behind them.

‘Dieter? You there?’

Dieter regards the Australian and mouthes the words: ‘What’s it going to be?’

Billy takes a breath, grits his teeth—and nods.

Dieter hangs up the phone with a grin. ‘See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Now what about payment?’

‘No money. I’m still working undercover. The only thing that changes is that I’m no longer a reserve driver. And we keep it quiet until I’m in the car for the first practice session.’

Dieter nods, more than happy to agree to the request. ‘Sounds like a plan.’ He points to the door at the rear of the cabin. ‘You can begin working out in the next room.’

‘You have a gym in the plane?’

‘I thought you might want to get started on your conditioning as soon as possible.’

~ * ~

Five minutes later Billy is forty-thousand feet above the Indian Ocean working out on a small hydraulic resistance machine situated in the tiny rear cabin of the G650.

The specific exercise he’s performing right now will strengthen his left leg in preparation for the astonishing pressure needed to operate the brake pedal. His thigh muscles are screaming but he blocks out the pain and keeps at it. Dieter was right, there is no time like the present. He’ll be in the car in four days for the first practice session, which happens on a Thursday in Monaco, as opposed to a Friday at the other races on the calendar. They don’t have practice on the Friday because, with the eyes of the world on them that week, the day becomes a celebration of the tiny principality, including a ball hosted in the evening by the royal family and its patriarch Prince Alfred.

The Prince is an infamous character in European royal circles. Billy has heard bits and pieces about the fifty-year-old over the years, especially how he was a shocking pants man in his youth. And why the hell not? Bald and overweight, he may not have been the shiniest trophy in the cabinet but he was the only one made of solid gold. The genealogical lottery had dealt him a royal flush which he had used to full advantage with the ladies. In the sporting arena, Alfred was best remembered for his steadfast leadership of the Monaco bobsled team during which they not only failed to qualify for the medal round at three consecutive Winter Olympics but crossed the finish line either backwards or upside down on every run.

Billy works the machine hard, feels the burn in his thighs. Dieter played him like a dime store ukulele but Billy can’t help but think the joke will be on the old geezer soon enough. As much as he respects the German’s ability to pick motor racing horseflesh, the Australian is sure he’s blown his hammy on this one. No matter how hard he tries Billy will not be quick because he isn’t fit and has never driven an F1 car before. Yet, he will try because he doesn’t want to embarrass himself in front of the motor racing world. Once Dieter realises Billy’s having a red-hot go but is still slow, and the data coming back from the car will confirm that Billy is not loafing, he’ll replace him and that will be the end of that. The old man will have a fall-back position, some junior driver he’d identified earlier who will be waiting in the wings and ready to step in. Guys like Dieter always have a fall-back position. Billy’s almost certain he won’t make it through the first ninety-minute practice session without being replaced. He wonders how long it will actually take before he’s a goner. Fifteen minutes? Twenty?

That said, just driving the first practice session may actually work to Billy’s advantage. It will give him a credibility he does not have in the F1 paddock. Even if he isn’t quick Iron Rhino will be able to say he was testing new parts for durability and reliability rather than speed, as is often the case during a first practice session. Perhaps he can use this to his benefit. Could it, in some way, generate an ‘in’ that he wouldn’t otherwise have? He sure hopes it does lead somewhere because at this point they have no leads except a single tattoo on the arm of one curly-haired Spaniard.

~ * ~

19

Monaco.

It reeks of money, both old and nouveau, its architecture is a strange mishmash of ancient palace and modern highrise, it has the most exorbitantly priced hotels on the planet plus
three
casinos, and it’s all tightly stacked on the tiny slope of a coastal mountain barely two kilometres square. Billy finds it an intriguing place, but what really grabs his attention are the motor vehicles. He’s never seen so many expensive cars in one place. Not
BMW
expensive but
Bugatti
expensive. They’re everywhere. Oh, and he likes that Mediterranean too. It’s so blue it makes his eyes hurt.

He’s been here for a day and has just finished his seat fitting, so he’ll be comfortable sitting in the cockpit of the Iron Rhino car, though it’s still extremely tight for his six-foot frame. He enters the Iron Rhino pit garage and takes in the vehicle up close for the first time, all gold and red like a big can of the caffeinated fizzy water. From a distance it looks like any other sharp-nosed, open-wheel, single-seat racing car, with a large wing high at the back and an even bigger one low at the front. Only up close does he understand the intricacy of its design, how every nook and cranny of the bodywork, every edge and curve of the wings, has been painstakingly, obsessively shaped with just one thought in mind: aerodynamic efficiency. It has been built to cut through the air as cleanly as possible while pressing itself onto the track with as much downforce as probable.

Roger Thorne, the young Brit who runs the team and gave Billy lip in Malaysia, approaches the Australian. He resembles a floppy-haired Hugh Grant from the mugshot years. ‘I don’t know how you did it but it worked.’

Billy turns to him. ‘Did what?’

‘Bamboozled the old man into giving you the seat.’

Billy smiles wearily. ‘If you think I had any choice in the matter then you don’t know him very well.’

‘I’m sure. A driver who’s never raced a Grand Prix car and hasn’t been on track for six years is at the top of every Formula One team’s wishlist.’

Billy steps forward so he’s only a foot away from Thorne. ‘I gotta tell you, I’m not loving this attitude. If we’re gonna work together you’ll need to adjust it.’

Thorne recoils. No one speaks to him like that. ‘Excuse me?’

‘You heard. Your team hasn’t won enough races for you to be this arrogant. Or
any
, actually.’

Thorne shifts on the spot, looks at his feet, tries to contain his anger. ‘You’ve got some nerve —’

‘Hey, didn’t your mother teach you it was rude not to look at someone while you’re speaking to them?’

Thorne looks at him. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’

‘The guy your boss thinks can make the car go faster. You don’t want me here? Join the club. I don’t want to be here either but we’re stuck with each other so if you don’t lose that tone it’s going to get real unpleasant real fast, be assured of that. So my advice is to shake hands and find a way to make this work.’ Billy extends his hand.

Thorne stares at it for a long moment.

‘I’m only offering once, mate.’

Thorne exhales, takes a moment—then shakes it begrudgingly.

‘Good.’ Billy turns and looks at the Iron Rhino car. ‘Now show me how to drive this thing.’

~ * ~

20

‘Who knew a Spaniard could be this dull?’ Claude speaks into his phone as he sits at a table outside a small cafe, a long black in front of him. He studies Juan-in-a-million, who sits at a table on the other side of the street with a small group of people.

‘There must be something.’ Billy’s voice rattles in the Frenchman’s phone earpiece.

‘I’m telling you, I’m bored to drinking and I’m a teetotaller. He’s spent the whole day window-shopping. Not
actual
shopping but
window-
shopping. The most exciting thing he’s done is eat frozen yoghurt. I feel like booing him. But what’s strange is that he doesn’t
look
boring. He’s wearing a blue blazer with red shorts and white sandals. I swear it looks like he’s been run over by a clown car. I had to check my calendar to make sure it wasn’t April first. I mean how did he land on that ensemble—oh, wait. In a shocking development he’s
going back for another yoghurt.
That’s his fourth for the day. And it’s
vanilla. Again.
For heaven’s sake, man, try another flavour.’

‘You just need to stay on him.’

‘I’ve been following this dork for two days. When is it your turn?’

‘I’ll take over tonight.’

‘Why not now?’

‘Because I’m walking the track.’ Billy talks into his iPhone as he strolls down the middle of the Monaco pit straight. He has thirty minutes for lunch, the only part of the day he doesn’t have to deal with Thorne, so he thought he’d use it to check out the track up close.

‘Why on earth would you do that?’

‘It gives me a sense of the road surface and the camber of the corners —’

‘
Merde
. You’re even duller than the Spaniard.’

‘That tattoo is our only lead, Claude.’

‘Again with the damn tattoo. You’re overstating the importance of the tattoo. I ran him through the database and nothing came up. Just like Kurt. These are boring people who drive in circles for a living. They’re not executing high value robberies.’

‘Unless you come up with something else he’s the only game in town. I’ll call you at five to see where you’re at, then I’ll take over. Try not to lose him before that.’

‘Christ —’

Billy hangs up, and can’t help but smile at the Frenchman. ‘Clown car.’ Yes, undercover work can be deadly dull but it is a necessary evil of which Billy will get plenty tonight.

Franka.

He sees her enter the pit straight just ahead of him. It looks like she’s about to walk the track too. He hasn’t seen her since he was going to spill his guts at the hospital. He has been actively avoiding her because he needs to concentrate on what he’s doing. He’s also been trying not to
think
about her, which means all he’s been doing is thinking about not thinking about her. But here she is. Just a couple of car lengths ahead, heading up the hill towards the Grand Casino. He can either peel off the track and avoid her, or catch up and speak to her, or continue following her in this extremely creepy way.

Oh, she just turned and saw him. And now she’s stopped walking. She’s waiting for him. Is that a smile? Yes, yes it is. And it’s dazzling.

‘Hey there.’

‘Hey yourself. You feeling better?’

She nods. ‘I am indeed. It’s good to see you.’

‘Me too. I mean it’s good to see
you
too, not me—obviously, because I see myself all the time—in mirrors and reflected in shiny surfaces ... so it would be—weird if I thought it was good . . .’ He trails off.

Good Lord, what the hell am I talking about?

She makes the snaky hand movement and smiles. ‘You are funny.’

He shakes his head, mortified. ‘Not intentionally.’

‘So, you’re walking the track?’