Authors: Christopher Sherlock
There was a knock at his office door and his secretary came in. ‘Mr Mishima wishes to see you.’
‘In five minutes.’
Once his secretary had left, Aito rose from his desk and walked through a door at the back of his office. He entered a mirrored walk-in cupbard that led through to an
en suite
bathroom. The cupboard contained many different outfits, and Aito now changed out of his elegant suit and into one that was identical, but slightly more worn-looking. He also changed his tie for a less distinguished one, and his glasses for an older pair. Thus dressed, he returned to his desk and pushed the intercom buzzer.
Mr Mishima entered the office and bowed low. He was a short, bald man who in some ways resembled the great humanist, Ghandi. The perfect employee, reflected Aito; a man whose loyalty he would never question.
Aito bowed slightly, then gestured for Mishima to sit down at his desk. ‘How is he?’ he asked.
‘This American giant does not tire,’ Mishima said.
‘Take him to the research and development centre. Then take him to dinner with the development team. I want him to know just how far our development of the Formula One engine has progressed. But do not mention our design link-up or the progress we have made in that direction. Tell him I will see him at his hotel at six tomorrow morning.’
‘Very good, sir.’
When Mishima had left, Aito Shensu leant back in his chair and let his mind wander. He would dearly have liked to run the team on his own, but Shensu was a public company and he was accountable to his shareholders and his board of directors. From his investigations he realised that the top teams in Formula One operated on unlimited budgets, and to embark on such a venture alone would be considered extravagant by his board, especially when rival Japanese manufacturers had already proved they could work successfully with European teams.
Shensu had already invested a small fortune on the devel
opment of an engine chassis and gearbox. By going to the board with another partner to shoulder the burden of further research, he would have more funds available to compete at the top end of Formula One.
Phelps would be totally exhausted by the time they came to tie up the deal. Aito planned to structure it with maximum benefit to Shensu . . . Yes, everything was proceeding as he’d planned.
Jack was more and more excited by what he saw. After inspecting Shensu’s engine development facility he was pretty sure that it must be amongst the finest in the world. He also knew that this was Shensu’s tenth year of building racing engines, but that they had never competed outside Japan.
The test area looked like a high-technology cathedral - a huge, airy room with gigantic stainless-steel pillars soaring upwards to a glass roof. Shafts of sunlight shone down onto a podium that looked like an altar. Noise reverberated through the room, more like a spiritual chant than the sound of machinery.
The glass and metal reflected the sunlight, creating a rain
bow of grey and silver colours that seemed to flash before his eyes. The size of it, the financial investment it represented, took Jack’s breath away. He had to have these engines.
There were ten on test, all V12s of 3500 cc capacity, thundering away without a break. These units were forced to perform under the same loading and changing revs as an engine in a Formula One Grand Prix. A bank of computers transmitted information so that each engine was loaded and stressed appropriately.
If an engine broke down, it would be taken to the research centre and replaced with another one, all vital information having been recorded on computer. The goal was single-minded - to produce the most powerful, most reliable Grand Prix engine ever.
After an hour, Phelps felt his concentration beginning to lag. He was pleased to see Mr Mishima walking swiftly towards him through the pools of sunlight, past the line of thundering engines.
‘Thank you. Very impressive,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Now I must return to my hotel.’
Mishima gazed across at him, exuding an almost missionary zeal. ‘But Mr Phelps, a meeting has been arranged for you with our director of research. He is honoured to tell you that this will be followed by dinner.’
Phelps finally made it back to his room at half past two that morning and collapsed on the bed. He had never met people who could drink so much at a sitting. However, everything was going as anticipated, he reflected, as he dropped off into a deep sleep.
He awoke at five thirty and took a cold shower. He had no doubt that Aito would be at the hotel to collect him at six on the dot.
As he towelled himself down, he reread the details on his air ticket, just to make sure. Yes, everything was in order.
He dressed and waited. There was no call at six. He smiled. Aito was really cutting it fine.
Finally, at ten past seven, there was a call for him. He picked up the phone. Aito was waiting for him in reception. He took the lift down and prepared himself to look as agitated as possible.
‘A thousand apologies, Jack. I was delayed in the traffic.’
Jack glared at Aito, reflecting, he hoped, a suitable level of irritation. ‘My plane leaves at nine!’
‘Don’t worry. I have the agreement in my car. It is essentially the same as the one you drew up, with a few minor changes. You can check them on the way to the airport.’
‘My bags?’
‘They are being collected from your room. Shall we go to my car? We can discuss the final aspects of the contract on the way to the airport. Then you can sign.’
Once they were inside the comfortable confines of the car, Aito handed him the agreement - over two hundred pages of it.
‘I have highlighted the important sections for you, Jack.’
‘I haven’t got time to read the whole thing.’
‘It’s not necessary, there are only minor changes.’
Jack read the beginning of the document very carefully. He circled anything that he found difficult to interpret, or unac
ceptable. He admired the way that Aito had had the whole thing carefully restructured - but some of the clauses were now a little too much in Shensu’s favour for his liking.
The car was almost at Narita airport. Jack glanced across at the digital clock in the centre of the dashboard.
‘Relax, Jack. Just read the relevant sections, then sign. I need to have the agreement for a crucial board meeting tomorrow morning. Otherwise, I do not know if we will make our deal before the season begins - then it will be another year . . .’
Jack ignored this and returned his attention to the agree
ment. Everything else ceased to be important to him, only the printed words mattered. This was what he enjoyed - playing out a deal. He admired Aito Shensu’s artistry. Nothing particularly wrong with the agreement, just that it slanted all the advantages to the Japanese company.
He felt the car draw up, heard the noise of the arrivals hall. Did not look up but carried on reading.
‘You’ll miss your plane,’ Aito whispered.
‘I’ll miss my plane.’
A faint smile crossed Jack’s lips. He continued reading, sensing Aito’s surprise.
‘You wish to return to the hotel, Jack?’
‘No, let’s go to your offices. As you said, your board meeting’s tomorrow and we have to be in agreement on this. I’m sure we can have it ready for then,’ Jack said, his eyes still on the document.
The section on sponsorship was particularly interesting. The present structure of the agreement would leave him with little say in how the team was run. He ringed the whole section . . .
He finished his reading in Aito’s office at half past ten. He turned to his host.
‘In principle I agree with what’s here. But I want far more say in the running of the team, and I also want to discuss the ambiguities that I have ringed. Once all that’s resolved, I’ll sign.’
‘You will not sign now?’
‘No. I will fax certain sections to my lawyers in New York, and they can work on them immediately. We can discuss the sponsorship section while that’s being done.’
‘But Jack, that will take days.’
‘No, it can be done in twenty-four hours. Your secretary can fax my lawyers immediately. In the meantime, perhaps you can arrange a few more tours and dinners for me?’
Aito chuckled. When he turned to Jack, his face had lost every trace of oriental inscrutability.
‘I see I have chosen a worthy partner in Formula One!’
Now they could get down to the hard facts of the business. There were only eighteen teams in Formula One. Jack owned one of them - Chase Racing, bought out from Danny and Wyatt Chase. He’d also bought Bruce de Villiers from McCabe, thus securing the best manager in the business. And through a separate deal he had Ricardo Sartori, the former world champion and that year’s runner-up, signed up to drive for him in the next season.
Aito had Formula One engines and gearboxes that were ready to race. He had also done a lot of work on chassis and body design with a European consultant he refused to name to Jack.
They worked through the day and into the night, arguing and negotiating. Chase Racing would lose its name, replaced by Calibre-Shensu. Phelps Co. would own forty per cent of the company, and get half of the surface area of the machine for Calibre Lights branding. Shensu badging would cover the rest of the machine. Shensu would also get a forty per cent shareholding, the other twenty per cent going to Bruce de Villiers.
They would appoint an independent consultancy to handle all the promotional work for their brands. The Shensu advertising account, worth five hundred million US dollars, would be handled by this consultancy, as would the Calibre Lights account. Phelps did not want any advertising agency involvement. There were people gunning for cigarette companies, and one of the main areas of attack was their advertising. If he wasn’t seen to be advertising in the conventional sense, Jack reasoned, he would be safer from this kind of attack.
Aito insisted that he must have the final say on who the second driver would be. Jack argued this point for some time, then gave in. He realised that Aito might want a top Japanese driver in the seat of the number-two machine. He could understand that. Still, with Sartori in the number-one machine he didn’t have anything to worry about.
They worked through the night, finally signing in the early hours of the morning.
Jack shook hands with Aito at the airport departure building.
‘To winning, Jack.’
‘To success, Aito.’
They bowed to each other, and parted.
Jack walked into the first-class lounge, well pleased. It was going to be a very profitable, very successful 1991.
Wyatt was awake at four in the morning. That was a ritual he had kept to since he was seventeen and had moved to Japan.
His house was part of a converted warehouse on the south bank of the Thames. The main room was enormous, with curving white walls that soared up to a vaulted roof of reinforced glass. The sprung wooden floor yielded as he walked across it to the bathroom. Everything was white, and he glanced out of the big picture window that filled one of the narrower walls, revealing a shadowy view of the Thames with the skyline of the city in the distance.
He followed the Japanese style. All the spare furniture in this room was against the walls, encircling the empty centre. The predominant motif through the house was circles. In Japanese decor, geometric mirroring and straight lines are practically non-existent; evil spirits, according to Shinto belief, travel in straight lines.
He stood for a moment, taking in the early-morning dark
ness and the silence. Then he looked up to where his Japanese water-colours hung on the high wall above him.
He took a scalding-hot shower, then turned the water on cold, feeling his body stiffen and resisting the urge to shiver. He stepped out and towelled himself dry. Then he slipped on the white robes, the
karate-gi,
tying them together with the black belt embroidered with the words of a language that was almost more familiar to him than English. That belt, signifying his status as a Seventh Dan, was the most valuable thing he owned. He had spent nearly ten years of his life earning it.
Then there came the moment he always savoured, the feeling of emptiness, the memories of the
dojo
in Tokyo and the
Shihan,
the supreme instructor.
He began with a series of warming-up exercises, then moved into heavier training for the next hour. After that came a session of punching against the
makiwara,
a long, sprung wooden plank fixed upright, its base planted in the floor. Then followed some work on a punch-bag that hung suspended from the rafters close to the window.
Then he performed a series of
katas,
formal movements against an imaginary opponent that focused the
karate-ka’s
competitive and co-operative spirit. The swift, flowing movements were like a form of meditation to Wyatt, and his concentration never wavered.
At six he showered again, then changed into his favourite clothes, a black T-shirt and black cotton trousers. He made himself a simple breakfast and switched on the television for the morning news.