Authors: Christopher Sherlock
Wyatt went cold.
Further memories of the ‘accident’ that had never surfaced till now, flooded back to him. The car going over the cliff; his father taking off his own seat-belt and pulling himself over Wyatt, shielding him from the rocks and the debris . . .
He felt the metal pressed against his spine.
‘Don’t turn round, either of you. My men are now in control.’
Wyatt was perplexed. How had they known? Carlos and he had climbed up the side of the building under cover of darkness.
‘My watch, you jerks, contains a micro-transmitter. I never travel alone, even when I’m almost naked. I must say, Wyatt, I’ll enjoy killing you almost as much as I enjoyed disposing of your father.’
Wyatt breathed evenly and watched Carlos. The Argenti
nian was in a similar predicament to himself, with the barrel of a sub-machine-gun pressed into his back.
‘And you, Carlos Ramirez. Pity about your brother, but then he learned a little too much for his own good.’
‘You were responsible for his death as well, you bastard!’
‘Well, let’s say I had an interest in it. I really enjoyed the video, by the way, just as I shall enjoy watching the accident you two are going to have a few moments from now. It’s never a good idea to climb up tall buildings, you can so easily fall off . . .’
Imperceptibly, Wyatt eased his hand across the webbed belt of his climbing-harness and pulled the pin out of the grenade that was attached to it. The guard training the gun on him didn’t see the slight movement.
‘You’re an evil man,’ Wyatt said softly. Phelps smiled at him as he swam towards the side of the pool.
In one flowing movement Wyatt whipped out the grenade, skimmed it across the surface of the pool and dropped down, kicking the gunman’s legs from under him.
Wyatt knew what he was doing. The grenade would create an incredible amount of pressure on the outer wall of the pool - that was the weakest section of the structure.
Phelps laughed, then ducked under the water as the grenade bounced against the side of the pool and exploded under the water, blowing a little over the side. Carlos took advantage of the other gunman’s surprise and wrestled with him for the gun.
Phelps was pulling himself out of the water now, as cracks exploded across the glasswork on the outer side of the pool where the force of the explosion had been greatest. Water started to pour out of the cracks and down towards the street far below. The cracks got wider, and the water was sucked out. Phelps tried to grip the side of the pool but lost his hold. Then, screaming, he was sucked with the water through a huge crack that had now developed in the wall. He plunged into the void.
The
New York Times
the following day noted the tragic death of Jack Phelps. He had died when his roof-top pool burst open without warning.
In a shock revelation, Chief Inspector John Tennant of New Scotland Yard linked Phelps to illicit business activities in Europe, including the laundering of drug money. Phelps’s name was also linked with a Colombian drug-trafficking ring making inroads into the European market.
The suicide of General Hal Wright caused some concern in the Pentagon. A congressional commission of enquiry was established to investigate allegations that the CIA had been involved in drug-smuggling operations and supplying weapons to pro-United States groups in South America.
Ecologists criticised a practice exercise by the Brazilian airforce which had involved the shooting of missiles at Mount Roraima, deep in the Amazon basin. Investigation of the damage to the environment was unfortunately impossible, due to the inaccessibility of the location.
The Brazilian government issued an official apology and promised that the exercise would not be repeated.
Formula One sponsors, Carvalho Tyres of Brazil, went into provisional liquidation. A spokesman for Calibre-Shensu said that the company had signed a five-year contract with Pirelli.
A memorial service was held for Suzie von Falkenhyn in Munich. The fashion designer had been presumed dead after efforts to locate her in Brazil had failed.
Formula One ace Wyatt Chase attended the ceremony, along with controversial British reporter, Vanessa Tyson, who had been found entirely innocent of the drug charges pressed against her earlier in the year. New findings had resulted in Vanessa Tyson’s re-trial, and she had been acquitted.
The charges of assault against Wyatt Chase were withdrawn.
Carlos Ramirez, whose wife, society beauty Estelle, had been attacked in the Dorchester hotel, London a month previously, was elected President of the International Polo Federation.
Ricardo Sartori was found guilty by a Milan court on twenty-two different charges relating to drug-trafficking, the laundering of drug money, and income tax avoidance. He was sentenced to a total of twenty years’ imprisonment.
November
Wyatt stood in the pits on Saturday afternoon, feeling distinctly down at heart. It was now four months since Phelps’s death. It had been four months of fighting for him. He’d got back his place as the lead driver for Calibre-Shensu but it had taken him a long time to recover his form. Suzie’s death still haunted him.
He was lying in tenth place on the grid. The Shadow that had performed so well for him throughout the season had been behaving erratically. There were problems with the engine management system that defied the continued attempts at diagnosis by the British and Japanese engineers.
Mickey Dunstal was close to tearing his hair out. Aito Shensu main
tained his characteristic calm between long chats with Professor Katana, his head of design.
The Japanese Suzuka Grand Prix circuit had originally been a Honda test circuit designed in 1962 by Dutchman, John Hugenholtz - it combined an amusement park with a training facility. Wyatt felt it was a bit like staging a race in Disneyland.
That Sunday the weather was cool and the air filled with exhaust fumes. Already long lines of cars snaked back along the outlying roads around Suzuka, and outside the turnstiles people were queueing to get into the circuit. When the circuit was filled, the crowd would number over 100,000.
The Japanese, thought Wyatt, were crazier about motor- racing than any other people on earth. But what made them different was the dedication and dignity with which they pursued their passion.
He stepped out of the pits and walked across to the helipad. Vanessa was waiting for him beside the chopper. It seemed strange to see her without her assistants or her cameraman: she had come alone to Japan. He kissed her on the lips and felt her tongue caress his own.
They parted, and Wyatt slipped into the pilot’s seat, having done his pre-flight inspection. Vanessa buckled in next to him, her dark skirt riding up to reveal her shapely legs. He ran his hand over them.
‘Are you going to break your own rules?’ she asked teasingly.
He never made love the night before a race. He felt that he needed to conserve every ounce of energy for the challenge that lay ahead. He thought of the one time with Suzie, in the motorvan, just before the race began. Why couldn’t he just forget her?
They hovered over the circuit - a figure-of-eight, with one section of track crossing the other over a bridge. Wyatt was psyching himself up for the race, and pictured himself leading for the full fifty-three laps. The Suzuka circuit was fast - the top drivers clocking in average times of over 120 mph.
This was the final race of the year. Wyatt had missed two races, but had fought his way to second place on the championship ladder, just one point behind Roger de Rosner in the McCabe. To win the championship Wyatt had to win this race, or hope that de Rosner might break down, with Wyatt finishing in the points. But de Rosner’s McCabe had never broken down before, so the chances of that happening at Suzuka were negligible.
De Rosner had taken pole position on the grid, and he held the lap record for the circuit. Lying tenth on the grid, Wyatt knew he could catch and pass de Rosner, but he knew it wouldn’t be easy. De Rosner, the previous year’s champion, was hungry to make it two in a row.
The number two driver for Shensu-deVilliers lay right behind Wyatt on the grid. If Danny Yoshida could finish in the points and Wyatt could win, then Shensu-deVilliers would take home the world championship and the constructor’s championship.
When Wyatt had been brought back as the number one driver, de Villiers had had to ask Mike Young, the talented American driver who had taken Wyatt’s place, to stand down.
Fortunately Young hadn’t made too much of a performance about it - he’d already been talking to another team and they took him on. Danny Yoshida had been retained in the number two slot on Aito’s firm instruction.
It had been a hard year for all of them. Bruce was determined that McCabe wouldn’t take the driver’s championship; he wanted the constructor’s trophy and the driver’s trophy for Shensu-deVilliers.
Bruce had a lot to prove, as well as a personal score to settle with McCabe. Bruce’s name had taken a hammering, what with disqualifications, accusations that he couldn’t control his drivers, the fatal accident involving Ibuka, and his links with Phelps and Sartori - both implicated in drug-trafficking.
Wyatt and Vanessa were back at the hotel as the sun set. It was quite cold, and they enjoyed a simple meal in their room. A knock on the door interrupted them, and Wyatt opened it to find Carlos outside with Estelle. They embraced, and he showed them into the room. Carlos kissed Vanessa on both cheeks.
‘Still as beautiful. You are not covering the race?’
Vanessa looked at Carlos and Estelle.
‘No, I chose not to. I’m too involved personally this time. A lot of people have died, and there is more at stake here than just a simple race - especially for Wyatt.’
Carlos took a parcel from inside his overcoat and handed it to Wyatt.
‘This is from Estelle and me. Unwrap it now, please.’
Wyatt stripped the cover-paper off the parcel and uncovered an old rosary.
‘The Jesuit priest I told you about - the one who had the affair with the woman from whom I’m descended - it was his. I do not have a son, so it is yours. I hope it brings you luck tomorrow. I know that many things are against you.’
Wyatt handled the string of faded beads and then looked up into Carlos’s eyes.
‘I know what this means to you - and I can’t thank you enough.’
They talked for a little while longer, then Carlos and Estelle got up to leave. Estelle hugged Wyatt long and hard.
‘When the season is over, I would like you to come and stay on the estancia. I have ... Oh Wyatt, I have so much to make up to you, I feel so guilty ... It was not your fault. Will you forgive me?’
‘I always forgave you. I could never forgive myself.’
The door closed and they were gone.
Vanessa held the rosary between her fingers.
‘You must carry this with you tomorrow.’
He took the rosary from her, laid it in its box and slowly, very slowly, began to peel off her clothes.
‘But what about tomorrow?’ she said, smiling.
‘Rules are made to be broken.’
He rose in the first light of the Japanese dawn and showered in cold water. Then he put on the simple white jacket and trousers, the
karate-gi,
tying the folds of the jacket together with the thin black cotton belt that was worn and faded with use.
He caught the lift down, walked out of the foyer of the hotel and into the chill morning air. He started to run on bare feet, turning down the narrow streets and eventually heading upwards toward the mountain.
The
dojo
lay on the slope. Already the place was alive with the noise of students in training, the
sensei
putting them through their paces. Wyatt went through the open doors and joined them.
It was as if he had never been away. His body reacted instinctively to the commands of the
sensei,
and soon he was sweating profusely.
Wyatt stood a foot higher than the
sensei
and his students, but this gave him no feeling of superiority, for in the
dojo
all else is sublimated into the quest for perfection of control over mind and body.
Aito ordered the class to kneel.
‘We have a visitor,’ he said. ‘Someone who left us, and has now returned.’ Wyatt stood up and felt the eyes of the class move to the embroidery on his belt, the markings of the holder of the Seventh Dan.
Aito continued: ‘Today our visitor faces a great test. With me he will now practise
kihon-kumite
to hone his senses.’ Wyatt moved forward, conscious of the years he had spent away from the
dojo,
yet knowing too, that during all those years he had continued training.
Aito’s black belt was similar to his own, yet the markings were subtly different. Aito Shensu held the highest grade, the Ninth Dan. Some said it was an honorary grade, but those who worked within the tight disciplines of karate knew that it was only conferred on the most expert.
They moved forward onto the wooden floor, in the centre of the class, and bowed, looking each other in the eye. Then Aito moved in, his closed fist striking Wyatt in the solar- plexus. If the blow had been full-strength it would have permanently crippled him. Wyatt staggered back and looked into Aito’s eyes. There was no mercy in them.
The next blow came across his feet, but now he was ready, leaping into the air and aiming a kick at Aito’s skull. His opponent had moved a millisecond before connection. The roundhouse caught Wyatt by surpirse, sending him sprawling across the floor.
The anger flared through him. He was up again and moving in, every sense keyed up. Now Aito’s blows failed to make contact, yet every counter Wyatt made was blocked. Then, suddenly, he caught an opening, and landed a blow to Aito’s chest.
The
sensei
drew back, smiled and bowed. The
kumite
was over.
Later, alone in the sauna, Wyatt felt the energy coming back. He had not realised how slow he had become, and how arrogant.
The door opened and Aito stepped in, his body naked, revealing the tightly-knit muscles of a man who looked as if he was in his thirties rather than his seventies. He offered his hand to Wyatt, then sat down next to him.
‘You thought you were as good as when you left.’
‘I thought I was better.’
‘Why did you come?’
‘You asked me to.’
‘I have asked many times before and you have not come.’
‘I was afraid. That was why I left. I am not Japanese.’
‘My friend, that is irrelevant. You had a problem that you could not solve, a thing you could not live with. I think you have worked that thing out.’
‘You are right, Aito.’
‘You will train with me again?’
‘Let me win the race.’
‘You can still race, but when you are forty it will no longer be possible.’
‘Why?’
‘I will sponsor you every year till you are forty. Then you will come back here. You will eventually be my successor.’
‘After I let the style down? It would not be fitting.’
‘You are more like us than you realise. It would be most fitting.’
Wyatt nodded.
‘Then you agree,’ Aito said with quiet satisfaction.
‘I do.’
‘Come, I will take you back to the hotel.’
It was comfortable in the cockpit of the Shadow. The cool weather meant that, for once, the fireproof suit was pleasant to wear. In front of him was the portable computer screen, giving a last-minute read-out of all the essential engine functions.
Bruce leaned over. ‘Good luck, Wyatt.’
Then the monitor was gone and the one-minute signal came up. The Shensu V12 fired into life and Wyatt’s mind focused on the start. The green flag appeared, and he moved off with the pack for the warm-up lap. In tenth position he didn’t have any room for complacency - the entire race was going to be a fight for survival.
Just over a minute later he was back on the grid, his eyes focused on the starting-light. With the first flash of green he was off, moving down the straight and heading for the first curve. He moved in on the car in front, but the driver swung over to block him, striking the nose of his car. Pieces flew up into the air and debris was scattered round the edge of the track.
The damage was not critical, but it would slow him down. Wyatt powered on through the curves, sick in the knowledge that at the end of the first lap he was going to have to come in to have a new nose fitted.
Bruce was pushing the pit crew to the limits of their ability. The nose was out and ready, along with a fresh set of tyres.
The dark livery of Wyatt’s car shot down the pit lane and the crew swarmed over it. In twenty seconds the new nose and tyres were fitted, and the car blasted off, back into the race, Wyatt now lying sixteenth.
There was no way he could win.
Aito took off his jacket and walked down to the pits. He exchanged worried glances with Bruce, then gestured for Katana to move aside from the computer control-system.
Aito punched in a series of commands. Bruce hunched over him.
‘What are you doing, Aito?’
‘You think he has little chance of winning?’
‘It will be the fight of his career - unless half the cars in front break down, and at this stage of the season that’s highly unlikely.’
Aito looked at the different read-outs.
‘We have never allowed the engine to be stressed to its absolute limit. At the moment the electronic management chip is programmed to peak at 13500 rpm . . . But I can change that through our remote-control system.’