Eye of the Cobra (4 page)

His eyes swept around the oak-panelled boardroom and then looked out across the grey skyline.

‘Have you discussed my possible involvement with any of the guys on the team?'

Danny looked slightly put out. ‘I wanted to keep it a surprise.’

‘Don’t you think they might be a little pissed off at not being involved?’

‘Jack, I
am
Chase Racing. What I say, goes.’

Danny was feeling confident. He could sense Phelps was eager to close the deal, and he wasn’t going to be pressurised.

‘With your nephew’s departure, you’ve only one driver left in the team . . .’ Jack stared hard at Danny Chase, loosening him up for the big punch.

‘I’ve just signed a contract tying in Ricardo and Carvalho,’ Danny said with satisfaction. ‘I’m not desperate for other sponsors.’

‘Listen, buddy. I’ve just bought and taken over Carvalho. The deal you signed is void.’

Danny’s hand tightened on the coffee cup, and Phelps moved in. ‘Without that deal you’re bankrupt. I’m buying you out!’

‘I’m the owner and I'm not about to sell. . .’ Danny parried desperately.

Phelps put his hands on his hips.

‘Oh, really? I’m sure Wyatt and Estelle will sell out to me.’

Danny swayed on his feet. ‘No . . .’

‘Oh yes they will. Especially when they discover you’re a million pounds in the red. Without the Carvalho sponsorship you can’t roll your debt over. You’re finished.’

‘Oh God, Jack, be reasonable,’ Danny stammered, avoiding Phelps’s eyes. ‘The audited value of the business is one-and-a- half million pounds in assets alone.’

Jack Phelps laid his hands on the smooth surface of the table. Then his voice filled the silence.

‘When you’re bankrupt, I’ll buy everything you’ve got, including this building, the test circuit and all your equipment. Wyatt and Estelle will get nothing.’

Danny was shaking. Phelps had changed, or maybe he’d never really known the American that well. He needed James now, and James was dead.

‘What are you saying?’

‘You sell to me now - all your shares - and I promise I’ll pay out Wyatt and Estelle.’

‘How much?’ Danny stammered.

Phelps grinned. He reached inside his jacket, taking out a stiff manilla envelope.

‘Your cheque,’ he said, tossing it onto the boardrooom table in front of Danny.

Danny tore open the envelope and stared at the cheque.

‘Fifty thousand pounds! Jesus Christ!’

‘It’s a lot, lot better than fuck-all. Estelle and Wyatt’ll get the same. The other way, they’ll each be liable for a quarter of a million pounds of your bad debts when the business goes down.’

Danny felt the room spinning. Phelps took out a printed agreement and laid it in front of him.

‘Sign here and here. Very good. Now please, I think it’s time you left.’

Revenge felt sweet to Jack Phelps. He might never have got the better of James Chase, but he’d certainly screwed his brother.

Wyatt ran his eyes over the woman in the too-short skirt at a nearby table in the crowded restaurant.

‘So,’ he said, ‘now I get to be paid out in full for my share of Chase Racing.’

An uncertain smile crossed Danny’s face.

‘As stipulated in my father’s will,’ Wyatt continued.

Danny nervously pulled out an envelope and handed it to Wyatt, who tore it open.

‘Fuck! What’s this, a joke?’

‘Wyatt, we’re bankrupt.’ Danny blurted out what he’d been too scared to say during lunch. ‘The company was over a million pounds in debt. Jack Phelps bought out Carvalho last week and cancelled the sponsorship deal with Sartori. I couldn’t carry the debt over, I had to sell. I’ve never been any good with money. Our creditors would have annihilated us - they’d have taken you alone for over a quarter of a million. This way, at least you get something.’

‘Fifty thousand pounds. The French team want at least two hundred thousand if I’m to get a drive with them. Fifty thousand? Are you crazy?’

‘That’s all Phelps gave me.’

‘Phelps . . . You sold out to Jack Phelps! Carlos would have lent us the money. Why didn’t you ask him?’

‘Oh God, Wyatt, I couldn’t . . .’

He watched Wyatt’s hands open and close against the tablecloth.

‘You jerk,’ Wyatt said.

Danny got up. ‘Don’t you understand, I’m ruined.’

Wyatt remained seated and looked up at his uncle with contempt. ‘Leave me alone. Just get out of here.’

Danny sat in the darkened room and listened to the sounds of the traffic. He felt totally alone.

Wyatt could at least have appreciated the fact that he’d saved him from debt . . .

He eased the service revolver out of the top drawer and laid it on the desk top. Then he pulled out a piece of paper, switched on the lamp and began to write.

It took him a while, and then he sat back, tears running from his eyes. All he’d wanted was a bit of bloody sympathy. Wyatt might as well have kicked him in the balls.

He picked up the revolver, eased back the hammer, pushed the muzzle into his upper palate and squeezed the trigger.

Wyatt felt almost as devastated as when his father had died. The emptiness was the worst part of it.

Perhaps he should have gone easier on Danny. But he’d been furious, he’d just never thought Danny would take it that badly. He couldn’t help over-reacting in the restaurant - he’d been banking on the money from the business. With that money, he had calculated that he could buy a drive in the French team.

Formula One racing was expensive, and for the top five teams with the biggest sponsors, money was in plentiful supply. But the other teams fought a continuous battle to raise enough cash to run their operation. If you had shown talent and were prepared to pay a substantial sum of money for the privilege, you could buy a drive with a team that was desperate for cash.

Wyatt knew it would only take him a year to prove his worth. But now that option was closed. He could not afford to buy the drive. He could not borrow money from his stepfather, his mother would never allow Carlos to support Wyatt in the sport she hated so much.

His chances of getting a drive in Formula One now looked about zero. Perhaps the lawyer facing him across the desk might turn the tables on Jack Phelps and get him his rightful inheritance.

John Farqharson, QC, took off his reading-glasses and stared at the powerfully built man opposite him. He’d watched James Chase win at Monaco - he’d respected the man for his talent and his friendship. James’s death had come as a shock. Now, over ten years later, he was only too glad to offer assistance to his son.

Wyatt, he reflected, might not look like his father but he had the same strength of character. John drew in a deep breath, for what he had to say was not particularly pleasant.

‘Wyatt. First, you mustn’t blame yourself for Danny’s suicide. I’m sorry, I understand how you feel, but it was his decision to take his life. And as to the other matter . . .

‘Frankly, you’d be throwing good money after bad. A cursory investigation reveals that under your uncle’s management Chase Racing was close to bankruptcy for years. If it hadn’t been Phelps, it would have been someone else.’

Wyatt nodded grimly and rose. ‘Thank you for your time, John.’

‘Wyatt, a word of advice. You’re well clear of Phelps, he’s not a pleasant fellow. You’re like your father - I know you’ll make it.’

When Wyatt left the Inns of Court, the sky was overcast and a light drizzle was falling. He thought of all the times his uncle had been with him during his childhood. If only he’d known how Danny was feeling inside. His father must have known the weaknesses in Danny’s character, that was why he’d always helped him.

First his father’s death, now his uncle’s. And he had been instrumental in both. It didn’t bear thinking about.

He took lunch at a nearby pub and then caught a cab to the cemetery.

Wyatt nodded to a few close friends, then joined the pallbearers at the hearse. He hadn’t gone to the burial service: the stark ritual appalled him - and he didn’t need to be reminded of his father’s death.

The coffin was heavy. Danny had been a big man, but a weak one. Suicide, as far as Wyatt was concerned, was the coward’s way out; everything in his own life had driven him to confront danger, not to avoid it.

It wasn’t a long walk to the grave and he felt relieved when they let the coffin into the ground. The priest gave a brief service and then Estelle took the spade and threw the first sods over the oak case.

Wyatt stared at her. It was hard to believe she was his mother. She might be in her late forties, but she had the face and figure of a young woman. She was here on her own - Carlos wasn’t with her.

She looked up and stared back at him - a hard, uncompromising stare. He couldn’t resist his feeling for her, and walked over. He kissed her on both cheeks, but her look did not soften.

‘Wyatt, why did you not come to the service?’

‘I had business . . .’

‘You are lying. You never tell me the truth.’

She stood very close to him, the long blonde hair falling across her perfect shoulders and the tailored black suit accentuating her curvaceous figure. He loved her. He hated what he had done to her by killing James in the accident.

Her blue eyes flashed, and she took his arm and guided him away from the rest of the party. He felt her strength, and he knew that she was as much a part of him as his father.

Behind some trees, she let go of his hand, then in a flash she raised her own, attempting to slap him hard across the face. She didn’t get near; he blocked her instinctively with a blow that bruised her forearm - an action that hurt him deep inside.

‘Merde
!’
she spat. ‘It is you who are responsible for this!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘’E left a note for me. ’E said you treated him like a dog and he was ashamed.’

Her throaty voice tore at him. ‘It’s not my fault that he was a failure,’ he said defensively.

‘’E loved you. ’E kept that team for you. You broke him, saying those things!’

Wyatt felt terrible, but contrived to appear cold and unmoved, unable to display the deep emotion he felt inside.

‘And what did you think I felt,’ he said, ‘when you accused me of killing Father? How do you think I felt?’

She stood her ground. Most women were afraid of him when he was angry, but she was different, she always had been.

‘You are strong, Wyatt. But you should have cared. Don’t lie to yourself. You killed Danny with your words, as you killed James with your driving.’

Wyatt gripped her arms and drew her to him. He wanted her to say that she cared for him. Deep down, he still hurt from the things she’d said over ten years before.

‘It was an accident.’ He enunciated each word bitterly.

‘You were driving too fast. That’s what the police said.’

He let go of her hands, breathing deeply. ‘You can’t really blame me for Danny’s suicide?’

‘My God, Wyatt, do you think I am a fool? I can guess what you said to him. Don’t you understand, he was no match for Jack Phelps. He was just trying to do his best for you, as he always did. Danny loved you!’

‘I know, but I couldn’t forgive him for wrecking the business.’

‘He wanted you to stay with him, help build it up again.’

‘I need to win. Chase Racing was losing.’

‘Oh, it is so simple for you, is it not? There are winners and losers. It’s just bad luck if you happen to be a loser . . .’

‘I wanted a competitive drive, not a lame dog.’

‘Is this the way they taught you to behave in Japan?’

He turned away from her and walked into the trees. He’d had enough.

She called after him. ‘Wyatt, you’re not a man. You don’t have any feelings. I don’t want to see you again unless you can learn to feel.’

The rain began to fall. A chapter of his life was closed for ever.

Sunday January 6th

Bogota

Colombia

From the shelter of the doorway, Kruger watched the front doors of the church and glanced down at his wrist-watch. Nine o’clock. The bastard should be coming out any moment now.

He drew up the zip on the black windcheater and watched the vapour rise as his breath hit the cold air. His right hand felt inside the airways carry-bag that hung from his shoulder and touched the ice-cold metal of the barrel of the Browning Hi-Power.

Across the road, near the doors of the church, stood one of Ortega’s two bodyguards - smart suit, dark glasses, and an Uzi carbine in his hands. A faint smile crossed Kruger’s face. This was better than he had hoped for: he had been briefed to pull off a stylish job, but this was going to be good fun. ‘Arsehole,’ he said very quietly as he looked over at the other bodyguard, who was waiting in a doorway to his left.

In his ear, the tiny hearing-aid crackled. ‘We’re ready for him.’

Kruger smiled again. Two other men besides himself were to assist in the assassination; both were on the rooftops and armed with untraceable South African-made R4 assault rifles. Good men.

A woman walked past, a tiny child following her.

‘Get out the fucking way . . .’ Kruger willed them on, out of the killing-field. He had to admit it was fucking dangerous. But that was the brief - to hit the bastard close to home. There was no questioning this kill, it was logical and correct. This man deserved to be terminated, along with all the vermin who worked for him.

It gave Kruger satisfaction that few of the professionals would have taken this job. Ortega was dangerous. Kruger knew that even if he killed him, Ortega’s men would exact their revenge on whoever had dared to take his life.

The church door opened and the smile went from Kruger’s face. The headphones crackled into life.

‘Condition red.’

His hand closed around the butt of the pistol and he started to drop down very slowly, ready to sprint. Other men would have used a rifle or a machine-gun, but Kruger preferred a pistol. He liked to get in close, to deliver what he defined as a guaranteed termination.

First out of the church were the women and children; the men would be talking to each other inside. The sound of the church bells filled the air, and for a moment Kruger was reminded of his own childhood, the lonely farm and the little close-knit town.

Ortega was coming out, flanked by his wife and two other women. Shit.

Kruger knew it was now or never. His two assistants were ready to open fire the moment he gave the command.

‘Go!’ he screamed into the microphone concealed in the lapel of his windcheater.

He pushed his feet hard against the tarmac, every nerve in his body keyed up. He saw the bodyguard across the road clutch at his chest and crumple to the ground - he couldn’t see the other one, but guessed he’d gone the same way.

The women were parting, he was closing, drawing, levelling, seeing the fear in Ortega’s eyes. Ortega’s wife was coming across his line of fire, silly bitch.

Crack.

Ortega’s wife’s face erupting in blood . . .

Crack.

The woman collapsing . . . Orte
ga reaching for his handgun ...

Crack.

Ortega clutching at his chest . . .

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Ortega dead.

Kruger felt coherent thought return as he sprinted behind the church and onto the waiting motorcycle-scrambler. He smelt the fresh air. It was over.

Half an hour later a car drew up outside the back door of the church. The door opened cautiously and a man slipped out, darting into the back seat of the car. He whispered a command to the driver, who pulled away very slowly.

The man dropped down below the level of the window, and cursed silently. It had been planned so carefully, but of course they’d had to take the risk with his wife. It wouldn’t have looked authentic unless she’d been there.

Ortega grunted. He was now officially ‘dead’, the price had been his wife’s life and the life of the actor who’d imperson
ated him. Still, it had been a small price to pay. Now he, Emerson Ortega, owner of the biggest drug cartel in South America and perhaps one of the wealthiest men in the world, was free from persecution by the CIA.

His wife’s life - a small price to pay for such security.

And the actor, well, he’d earned his fee.