Eye of the Cobra (36 page)

‘I think it’s unfair,’ Bruce said. ‘A temporary suspension for one race, yes, but the whole season . . .?’

‘So you’re objecting to the decision?’

‘Of course I am. It costs a great deal of money to put a driver on the circuit. Formula One’s not like soccer where you’ve a whole team, and one suspension doesn’t really have that much effect on your performance. We’ve just lost fifty per cent of our potential because the people who organise Formula One are afraid of bad publicity. What about all the good publicity Ricardo’s given them?’

‘On that note, Bruce, let’s take a look at a documentary we’ve put together on Ricardo Sartori’s racing career.’

It was an impressive film, both from an editing standpoint and from the overwhelming testimony it gave to Ricardo’s genius on the track. Wyatt felt uneasy. Ricardo’s behaviour had been unforgivable, and Bruce’s arguing against his suspension was pretty pointless - FISA had said that they weren’t going to back down on their decision. Anyway, the interview so far was totally one-sided. Wyatt suspected it might have unpleasant repercussions for the team.

The camera cut to a close-up of Robin Cox.

‘But of course there are two sides to every story. Our second guest tonight, Vanessa Tyson, needs no introduction.’

Wyatt sat up as the camera swung across to capture Vanessa walking into the studio and sit down opposite Bruce de Villiers.

‘Thank you, Robin,’ she said. ‘As my US viewers know, I conduct investigations on a regular basis into controversial matters. First, I’d like to show you a film I’ve put together over the past few weeks.’

The title of the film came up on the screen: ‘The Way of Death: Cancer and Speed.’

Wyatt’s blood froze as he watched: shots of people dying of lung cancer intercut with glamorous cigarette ads of Grand Prix racing, and then film of some of the gruesome accidents from the last twenty years of Formula One. It was all beautifully held together with a tight-lipped commentary from Vanessa. It was brilliantly done, but like Bruce’s previous argument for Ricardo’s reinstatement, it was totally one-sided. Wyatt felt for Bruce. Vanessa had nailed him on two counts, questionable sponsorship and the danger of the sport.

The documentary drew to a close with a shot of Vanessa stepping onto the track at Rio. So that was what she’d been doing in Rio - she hadn’t given a damn about Suzie after all. She had used him.

‘Millions and millions of dollars,’ Vanessa was saying ‘are poured into motor-racing by the big cigarette companies, whose ruthless entrepreneurs - like Jack Phelps of Calibre - can no longer use conventional advertising. It is a dangerous sport funded by a dangerous habit. Can we continue to support an activity that encourages the man on the street to drive irresponsibly, and to take up a habit that can cut twenty years off his life?’

The film ended, and the camera focused on Bruce de Villiers, who was icy cool. Out of camera, Vanessa’s voice cut across the stillness of the studio.

‘Bruce de Villiers, you are now challenging the governing bodies of Formula One. You want a driver who is dangerous on the track reinstated?’

Bruce gave a tight-lipped smile to camera.

‘Everyone is entitled to their own viewpoint. I live Formula One. My drivers are in it because they want to be. They know the risks. Our sponsors are giving the world something it wants to see. Formula One is life at the sharp end. Only thirty men in the world can ever sit in the driving-seat of a Formula One car, and only about five of them can ever hope to feature high in the points. I’m in this business to win, so are my drivers. Yes, I do have a responsibility to my sponsors. I also have a responsibility to my team and to Ricardo. Suspended for one race - I couldn’t argue with that. But a whole season? No way.’

Vanessa smiled demurely.

‘How do you feel about the two drivers you’ve killed in the past ten years?’

Wyatt wanted to strangle her. She was baiting Bruce - de Villiers’ temper was legendary.

Bruce replied, his face red and his fingers tapping on the edge of the chair.

‘
I
killed? They died where they wanted to live, behind the wheel. You take your risks with a TV camera, you never put your life on the line. Where are you at the start of a race? Where are you during the sweat of preparation, when my men work without sleep to make the car as perfect as possible? I suggest you get off your fat arse and get in the seat of a Formula One car, see if you can take it for one lap.’

Vanessa’s eyes flashed and her face was white.

‘You were born a bully, Mr de Villiers, and you have no manners. Drivers are for killing, are they? But no, don’t ask any difficult questions, because this is a man’s business, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.’

Vanessa was shouting now.

‘I don’t buy it, Mr de Villiers, and I’m not scared of you or your sponsors. You don’t care, but I do. It’s time some questions were asked, and I’m going to ask them.’

There was a quick glimpse of de Villiers’ angry face, then the camera cut back to Robin Cox.

‘Only the men who run Formula One can decide if the decision they made against Ricardo Sartori three days ago is just. However, you the viewer can make your own decision, and then perhaps ask yourself a question: Is Formula One all that sporting?

‘
Thank you, Bruce de Villiers and Vanessa Tyson, for being with us here tonight on “Straight Talking.” Next week’s interview will be with Austrian climber, Reinhold Meissner.’

Wyatt switched off the set and walked about in a daze. The images from the documentary flashed through his mind. He thought of his mother by his father’s graveside, then his uncle’s; he thought of the long, winding road in Monaco and the memories that refused to come back.
You killed him. You killed him.
The words echoed through his mind.

He felt he was losing control, cracking u
p. He changed into his karate-
gi
and moved into his training ritual. In half an hour the thoughts were forgotten and he went through the elaborate sequences of several
katas.

The phone broke the inner peace. He lifted the receiver and heard Vanessa’s voice.

‘Wyatt, I’m sorry but . . .’

‘Go to hell!’

As the first rays of sunlight passed through the window, Ricardo looked down at the blonde woman who lay sleeping on his chest. They’d made love passionately for hours. Earlier, the previous evening, she’d taken a line of coke to heighten the experience, and she’d exhausted him.

He pushed her away. He was still numbed, both by his suspension and the way Bruce had told him that without the right to race, his contract was null and void. But money would not be a problem, Phelps had spoken of higher earnings than he had achieved in Formula One. But at what price? Ricardo asked himself. He had lived to race.

In a day’s time he wou
ld be appointed executive vice-president of Calibre Worldwide. His yearly salary wouldn’t be close to what he was earning in Formula One, but with the perks it included, and the profit potential of the deals Phelps had hinted at, it could net him far more.

In the two days he’d spent so far in New York, Ricardo knew he’d been constantly assessed by Phelps’s partners. He guessed that there was more to the deal than met the eye and he wondered when Phelps was going to enlighten him.

The phone next to his bed rang and he snatched it up.

‘Sartori? The board-meeting will begin in thirty minutes.’

Ricardo felt a moment’s hesitation. Maybe he should leave New York, sell his island villa and his jet, and pay off his tax debts. He could spend the rest of the year as a test driver, and then re-emerge on the Formula One circuit. But perhaps the other teams would be reluctant to take him on in case he lost his cool again? Anyway, he definitely did not want to lose the villa or the plane.

He looked at his watch.

‘The meeting is now?’ he said into the phone. It was six in the morning.

‘Yes, at six thirty. We’ll see you there - in a suit please. A chauffeur will collect you in ten minutes.’

Twenty minutes later Ricardo strode into the enormous foyer. The words ‘Phelps Plaza’ were emblazoned in silver over a huge waterfall that cascaded down over marble blocks piled four storeys high. He liked it. And he was sure that whatever it was Mr Phelps wanted, he could accommodate it. The lift took off like a jet, taking only a few seconds to reach the top floor. The doors opened and Ricardo was greeted by the smell of coffee - and a very attractive woman in a tailored suit.

‘Good morning, Mr Sartori. Welcome to Calibre. First let me show you your office suite. Mr Phelps and his board have another matter to discuss before it will be necessary for you to join them.’

‘That’s fine with me.’

He followed her down a series of dark, oak-panelled passages, walking on a carpet that was as thick as uncut grass. He admired the line of her long, athletic legs in expensive silk stockings.

They walked into a large room with a curved ceiling, lit on either side by concealed neon lights. At each end of the room were double doors, and on the walls hung a series of original paintings by Salvador Dali. The receptionist’s desk was Geor
gian with a black leather surface.

‘This is your reception area,’ the elegant woman said. ‘Anyone coming into your office will be screened. Naturally, you will choose your own personal secretary. There is also a hidden TV camera at the back of the wall, so that you can always see who is in the reception area.’ Her voice reeled off further information with computer-like precision.

He came up to her and touched her arm.

‘Your name?’

She hesitated. ‘Lauren, Mr Sartori.’

‘How would you like to be my secretary?’

She moved discreetly away from him.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Sartori, but I’m Mr Phelps’s personal assistant.’ She spoke very quietly. ‘I appreciate your offer very much, but I suggest you don’t mention it to Mr Phelps.’

Lauren opened the doors to the main office area and Ricardo found himself looking out across the New York skyline. She switched on the lights and the room took on a different quality. The main desk was a giant marble slab perched on a granite pedestal, and there were two leather couches and a long, flat coffee table. The room had an overall feeling of space, and suggested immense power.

‘Hidden behind the mirrors along the wall are a bathroom and sauna, also a filing room and a walk-in safe.’ As Lauren spoke she pushed a button underneath the desk, and two of the mirrors slid back to reveal a boardroom.

‘This is for any private discussions you might wish to conduct.’

Another set of mirrors slid quietly back to expose a suite of private rooms. Sartori followed her through the doors.

‘This is a self-contained living-area. If you wish to live here some of the time, you can, quite comfortably. A personal chef is on twenty-four-hour stand-by.’

‘Where does this go?’ he asked, pointing to another lift inside the private suite.

‘To the helipad. There’s also an entrance to it in the lobby. However, you might want to leave discreetly.’

Ricardo nodded his approval. He walked back out to the main office.

‘Who used this office before me?’

Lauren appeared to be slightly embarrassed by this ques
tion.

‘The office was completely redecorated for you, Mr Sartori. It has not been occupied for a while.’

‘Yes, but when it was, who sat here?’

‘Mr Ambrose. He held the position you are about to take
over.’

‘Which is?’

This line of conversation was broken by the purr of a concealed telephone. Lauren went behind the desk and lifted out the receiver from underneath.

‘Yes, Mr Phelps, I’ll send him through now.’

Ricardo felt his confidence evaporate as he walked into the oval boardroom. There was a deathly silence as he contem
plated the faces at the table, headed by Jack Phelps.

There was one empty place and he moved silently towards it. He felt he was being examined - quietly assessed. He was about to sit down when Phelps gestured for him to remain standing.

‘Gentlemen. I stated last year that I would handle special operations myself, but now I have found a successor to our previous special operations executive. The man you see before you is Ricardo Sartori. With his assistance, over the next six months we will establish an unprecedented hold over the world market. He will take on the anti-tobacco lobby and win.’ He paused for a moment, and surveyed the faces around the table before delivering his final sentence. ‘Those in favour, raise their hands.’

Every hand at the table was raised. Ricardo guessed that anyone who didn’t raise his hand would be looking for a new job.

Phelps looked over to him.

‘Mr Sartori, you are now a board-member of Calibre. I will not ask you to sit in on this particular meeting as your full portfolio is still to be decided. I will speak to you later.’

Ricardo correctly interpreted this as an order to leave and walked smartly out of the boardroom. Immediately he was through the door he heard a heated discussion erupt.