The Way To Dusty Death Part 1

The Way to Dusty Death.

ALISTAIR MACLEAN.

CHAPTER ONE

Harlow sat by the side of the race-track on that hot and cloudless afternoon, his long hair blowing about in the fresh breeze and partially obscuring his face, his golden helmet clutched so tightly in his gauntleted hands that he appeared to be trying to crush it: the hands were shaking uncontrollably and occasional violent tremors racked his entire body.

His own car, from which he had been miraculously thrown clear, uninjured, just before it had overturned lay, of all places, in its own Coronado pits, upside down and with its wheels spinning idly. Wisps of smoke ware coming from an engine already engulfed under a mound of foam from the fire extinguishers and it was clear that there was now little danger of an explosion from the unruptured fuel tanks.

Alexis Dunnet, the first to reach Harlow, noticed that he wasn't looking at his own car but was staring trance-like at a spot about two hundred yards farther along the track where an already dead man called Isaac Jethou was being cremated in the white-flamed funeral pyre of what had once been his Grand Prix Formula One racing car. There was curiously little smoke coming from the blazing wreck, presumably because of the intense heat given off by the incandescent magnesium alloy wheels, and when the gusting wind occasionally parted the towering curtains of flame Jethou could be seen sitting bolt upright in his c.o.c.kpit, the one apparently undamaged structure left in an otherwise shattered and unrecognizable ma.s.s of twisted steel: at least Dunnet knew I knew I was Jethou but what he was seeing was a blackened and horribly charred remnant of a human being. was Jethou but what he was seeing was a blackened and horribly charred remnant of a human being.

The many thousands of people in the stands and lining the track were motionless and soundless, staring in transfixed and incredulous awe and horror at the burning car. The last of the engines of the Grand Prix cars - there were nine of them stopped in sight of the pits, some drivers standing by their sides - died away as the race marshals frantically flagged the abandonment of the race.

The public address system had fallen silent now, as did a siren's ululating wail as an ambulance screeching to a halt at a prudent distance from Jethou's car, its flashing light fading into nothingness against the white blaze in the background. Rescue workers in aluminium asbestos suits, some operating giant wheeled fire-extinguishers, some armed with crowbars and axes, were trying desperately, for some reason wholly beyond the bounds of logic, to get sufficiently close to the car to drag the cindered corpse free, but the undiminished intensity of the flames made a mockery of their desperation. Their efforts were as futile as the presence of the ambulance was unnecessary. Jethou was beyond any mortal help or hope.

Dunnet looked away and down at the overalled figure beside him. The hands that held the golden helmet still trembled unceasingly and the eyes still fixed immovably on the sheeted flames that now quite enveloped Isaac Jethou's car were the eyes of an eagle gone blind. Dunnet reached for his shoulder and shook it gently but he paid no heed. Dunnet asked him if he were hurt for his face and trembling hands were masked in blood : he had cart-wheeled at least half a dozen times after being thrown from his car in the final moments before it had upended and come to rest in its own pits. Harlow stirred and looked at Dunnet, blinking, like a man slowly arousing himself from a nightmare, then shook his head.

Two ambulance men with a stretcher came towards them at a dead run, but Harlow, unaided except for Dunnet's supporting hand under his upper arm, pushed himself shakily to his feet and waved them off. He didn't, however, seem to object to what little help Dunnet's hand lent him and they walked slowly back to the Coronado pits, the still dazed and virtually uncomprehending Harlow, Dunnet tall, thin, with dark hair parted in the middle, a dark pencil-line moustache and rimless gla.s.ses, everyone's idealized conception of a city accountant even though his pa.s.sport declared him to be a journalist.

MacAlpine, a fire-extinguisher still held in one hand, turned to meet them at the entrance to the pits. James MacAlpine, owner and manager of the Coronado racing team, dressed in a now stained tan gaberdine suit, was in his mid-fifties, as heavily jowled as he was heavily built and had a deeply lined face under an impressive mane of black and silver hair. Behind him, Jacobson, the chief mechanic and his two red-haired a.s.sistants, the Rafferty twins who for some reason unknown were invariably referred to as Tweedledum and Tweedledee, still ministered to the smouldering Coronado, while behind the car two other men, white-coated first-aid men, were carrying out more serious ministrations of their own : on the ground, unconscious but still clutching the pad and pencil with which she had been taking lap times, lay Mary MacAlpine, the owner's black-haired, twenty-year-old daughter. The first-aid men were bent over her left leg and scissoring open to the knee wine-red slacks that had been white moments ago. MacAlpine took Harlow's arm, deliberately shielding him from the sight of his daughter, and led him to the little shelter behind the pits. MacAlpine was an extremely able, competent and tough man, as millionaires tend to be: beneath the toughness, as of now, lay a kindness and depth of consideration of which no one would have dared to accuse him.

In the back of the shelter stood a small wooden crate which was, in effect, a portable bar. Most of it was given over to an ice-box stocked with a little beer and lots of soft drinks, chiefly for the mechanics, for working under that torrid sun was thirsty business. There were also two bottles of champagne for it had not been unreasonable to expect of a man who had just reeled off a near-impossible five consecutive Grand Prix victories that he might just possibly achieve his sixth. Harlow opened the lid of the crate, ignored the ice-box, lifted out a bottle of brandy and half-filled the tumbler, the neck of the bottle chattering violently against the rim of the gla.s.s: more brandy spilled to the ground than went into the gla.s.s. He required both hands to lift the gla.s.s to his mouth and now the rim of the tumbler, castanet-like fashion, struck up an even more erratic tattoo against his teeth than the bottle had on the gla.s.s. He managed to get some of it down but most of the gla.s.s's contents overflowed by the two sides of his mouth, coursed down the blood-streaked chin to stain the white racing overalls to exactly the same colour as the slacks of the injured girl outside. Harlow stared bemusedly at the empty gla.s.s, sank on to a bench and reached for the bottle again.

MacAlpine looked at Dunnet, his face without expression. Harlow had suffered three major crashes in his racing career, in the last of which, two years previously, he had sustained near-fatal injuries: on that last occasion, he had been smiling, albeit in agony, as his stretcher had been loaded aboard the ambulance plane for the flight back to London and the left hand he had used to give the thumbs-up signal - his right forearm had been broken in two places -had been as steady as if graven from marble. But more dismaying was the fact that apart from a token sip of celebration champagne he had never' touched hard alcohol in his life.

It happens to them all, MacAlpine had always maintained, sooner or later it happens to them all. No matter how cool or brave or brilliant they were, it happened to them all, and the more steely their icy calm and control the more fragile it was. MacAlpine was never a man to be averse to the odd hyperbolic turn of phrase and there was a handful -but only a handful -of outstanding ex-Grand Prix drivers around who had retired at the top of their physical and mental form, sufficient, at any rate, to disprove MacAlpine's statement in its entirety. But it was' well enough known that there existed top-flight drivers who had crashed or who had suffered so much nervous and mental fatigue that they had become empty sh.e.l.ls of their former selves, that there were among the current twenty-four Grand Prix drivers four or five who would never win a race again because they had no intention of ever trying to do so, who kept going only in order to sh.o.r.e up the facade of a now-empty pride. But there are some things that are not done in the racing world and one of those is that you don't remove a man from the Grand Prix roster just because his nerve is gone.

But that MacAlpine was more often right than wrong was sadly clear from the sight of that trembling figure hunched on the bench. If ever a man had gone over the top, had reached and pa.s.sed the limit of endurance before tumbling over the precipice of self-abnegation and hapless acceptance of ultimate defeat, it was Johnny Harlow, the golden boy of the Grand Prix circuits, unquestionably, until that afternoon, the outstanding driver of his time and, it was being increasingly suggested, of all time : with last year's world championship safely his and the current year's, by any reasonable standards, almost inevitably his with half the Grand Prix races still to run, Harlow's will and nerve would have appeared to have crumbled beyond recovery : it was plain to MacAlpine and Dunnet that the charred being who had been Isaac Jethou would haunt him for however long his days were to be.

Not that the signs hadn't been there before for those with eyes to see them and most of the drivers and mechanics on the circuits had the kind of eyes that were required.. Ever since the second Grand Prix race of the season, which he had easily and convincingly won unaware of the fact that his brilliant younger brother had been forced off the track and had telescoped his car into a third of its length against the base of a pine tree at something over a hundred and fifty miles an hour, the signs had been there. Never a sociable or gregarious person, he had become increasingly withdrawn, increasingly taciturn and when he smiled, and it was rarely, it was the empty smile of a man who could find nothing in life to smile about. Normally the most icily calculating and safety-conscious of drivers, his impeccable standards had become eroded and his previous near obsession with safety dismayingly decreased while, contradictorily, he had consistently kept on breaking lap records on circuits throughout Europe. But he had continued on his record-breaking way, capturing one Grand Prix trophy after the other at the increasingly mounting expense of himself and his fellow compet.i.tors: his driving had become reckless and increasingly dangerous and the other drivers, tough and hardened professionals though they all were, began to go in fear of him for instead of disputing a corner with him as they would normally have done they had nearly all of them fallen into the habit of pulling well in when they saw his lime-green Coronado closing up on their driving mirrors. This, in all conscience, was seldom enough, for Harlow had an extremely simple race-winning formula-to get in front and stay there.

By now more and more people were saying out loud that his suicidally compet.i.tive driving on the racetracks signified not a battle against his peers but a battle against himself. It had become increasingly obvious, latterly painfully obvious, that this was one battle that he would never win, that this last ditch stand against his failing nerve could have only one end, that one day his luck would run out. And so it had, and so had Isaac Jethou's, and Johnny Harlow, for all the world to see, had lost his last battle on the Grand Prix tracks of Europe and America. Maybe he would move out on the tracks again, maybe he would start fighting again: but it seemed certain then that no one knew with more dreadful clarity than Harlow that his fighting days were over.

For a third time Harlow reached out for the neck of the brandy bottle, his hands as unsteady as ever. The once-full bottle was now one-third empty but only a fraction of that had found its way down his throat, so uncontrollable were his movements. MacAlpine looked gravely at Dunnet, shrugged his heavy shoulders in a gesture of either resignation or acceptance and then glanced out into the pits. An ambulance had just arrived for his daughter and as MacAlpine hurried out Dunnet set about cleaning up Harlow's face with the aid of a sponge and & & bucket of water. Harlow didn't seem to care one way or another whether his face was washed: whatever his thoughts were, and in the circ.u.mstances it would have taken an idiot not to read them aright, his entire attention appeared to be concentrated on the contents of that bottle of Martell, the picture of a man, if ever there was one, who desperately needed and urgently sought immediate oblivion. bucket of water. Harlow didn't seem to care one way or another whether his face was washed: whatever his thoughts were, and in the circ.u.mstances it would have taken an idiot not to read them aright, his entire attention appeared to be concentrated on the contents of that bottle of Martell, the picture of a man, if ever there was one, who desperately needed and urgently sought immediate oblivion.

It was as well, perhaps, that both Harlow and MacAlpine failed to notice a person standing just outside the door whose expression clearly indicated that he would take quite some pleasure in a.s.sisting Harlow into a state of permanent oblivion. Rory, MacAlpine's son, a dark curly-haired youth of a normally amiable even sunny, disposition had now a dark thundercloud on his face, an unthinkable expression for one who for years, and until only a few minutes previously, regarded Harlow as the idol of his life. Rory looked away towards the ambulance where his unconscious and blood-soaked sister lay and then the unthinkable was no longer so. He turned again to look at Harlow and now the emotion reflected in his eyes was as close to outright hatred as a sixteen-year-old was ever likely to achieve.

The official inquiry into the cause of the accident, held almost immediately afterwards, predictably failed to indict any one man as the sole cause of the disaster. Official race inquiries almost never did, including the notorious inquiry into that unparalleled Le Mans holocaust when seventy-three spectators were killed and no one was found to blame whereas it was common knowledge at the time that one man and one man only - dead now these many years - had been the person responsible for it.

This particular inquiry failed to indict, in spite of the fact that two or three thousand people in the main stands would unhesitatingly have laid the sole charge at the door of Johnny Harlow. But even more d.a.m.ning was the incontrovertible evidence supplied in the small hall where the inquiry was held by a TV playback of the entire incident. The projection screen had been small and stained but the picture clear enough and the sound effects all too vivid and true to life. In the re-run of the film - it lasted barely twenty seconds but was screened five times - three Grand Prix cars, viewed from the rear but being closely followed by the telescopic zoom zoom lens, could be seen approaching the pits. Harlow, in his Coronado, was closing up on the leading car, a vintage privately-entered Ferrari that was leading only by virtue of the fact that it had already lost a lap. Moving even more quickly than Harlow and well clear on the other side of the track was a works-entered fire-engine-red Ferrari driven by a brilliant Californian, Isaac Jethou. lens, could be seen approaching the pits. Harlow, in his Coronado, was closing up on the leading car, a vintage privately-entered Ferrari that was leading only by virtue of the fact that it had already lost a lap. Moving even more quickly than Harlow and well clear on the other side of the track was a works-entered fire-engine-red Ferrari driven by a brilliant Californian, Isaac Jethou.

In the straight Jethou's twelve cylinders had a considerable edge over Harlow's eight and it was clear that he intended to pa.s.s. It seemed that Harlow, too, was quite aware of this for his brake lights came on in keeping with his apparent intention of easing slightly and tucking in behind the slower car while Jethou swept by.

Suddenly, incredibly, Harlow's brake lights went out and the Coronado swerved violently outwards as if Harlow had decided he could overtake the car in front before Jethou could overtake him. If that had been his inexplicable intention then it had been the most foolhardy of his life, for he had taken his car directly into the path of Isaac Jethou who, on that straight, could not have been travelling at less than 180 miles an hour and who in the fraction of the second available to him had never even the most remote shadow of a chance to take the only braking or avoiding action that could have saved him.

At the moment of impact, Jethou's front wheel struck squarely into the side of Harlow's front wheel. For Harlow, the consequences of the collision were, in all conscience, serious enough for it sent his car into an uncontrollable spin, but for Jethou they were disastrous. Even above the cacophonous clamour of engines under maximum revolutions and the screeching of locked tyres on the tarmac, the bursting of Jethou's front tyre was heard as a rifle shot and from that instant Jethou was a dead man. His Ferrari, wholly out of control and now no more than a mindless mechanical monster bent on its own destruction, smashed into and caromed off the nearside safety barrier and, already belching gouts of red flame and black oily smoke, careered wildly across the track to strike the far side barrier, rear end first, at a speed of still over a hundred miles an hour. The The Ferrari, spinning wildly, slid down the track for about two hundred yards, turned over twice and came to rest on all four wrecked wheels, Jethou still trapped in the c.o.c.kpit but even then almost certainly dead. It was then that the red flames turned to white. Ferrari, spinning wildly, slid down the track for about two hundred yards, turned over twice and came to rest on all four wrecked wheels, Jethou still trapped in the c.o.c.kpit but even then almost certainly dead. It was then that the red flames turned to white.

That Harlow had been directly responsible for Jethou's death was beyond dispute but Harlow, with eleven Grand Prix wins behind him in seventeen months was, by definition and on his record, the best driver in the world and one simply does not indict the best driver in the world. It is not the done thing. The whole tragic affair was attributed to the race-track equivalent of an act of G.o.d and the curtain was discreetly lowered to indicate the end of the act.

CHAPTER TWO

The French, even at their most relaxed and unemotional, are little given to hiding their feelings and the packed crowd at Clermont-Ferrand that day, which was notably unrelaxed and highly emotional, was in no mood to depart from their Latin norm. As Harlow, head bowed, trudged rather than walked along the side of the Coronado pits, they became very vocal indeed. Their booing, hissing, cat-calling and just plain shouts of anger, accompanied by much Gallic waving of clenched fists, was as threatening as it was frightening. Not only was it an ugly scene, it was one that looked as if it would only require one single flash-point to trigger off a near riot, to convert their vengeful emotions towards Johnny Harlow into physical action against him and this, it was clear, was the apprehension that was uppermost in the minds of the police, for they moved in close to afford Harlow such protection as he might require. It was equally clear from the expressions on their faces that the police did not relish their task, and from the way they averted their faces from Harlow that they sympathized with their countrymen's feelings.

A few paces behind Harlow, flanked by Dunnet and MacAlpine, walked another man who clearly shared the opinions of police and spectators. Angrily twirling his racing helmet by its strap, he was clad in racing overalls identical to those that Harlow was wearing: Nicolo Tracchia was, in fact, the No. 2 driver in the Coronado racing team. Tracchia was almost outrageously handsome, with dark curling hair, a gleaming perfection of teeth that no dentifrice manufacturer would ever dare use as an advertis.e.m.e.nt and a sun-tan that would have turned a life-guard pale green. That he wasn't looking particularly happy at that moment was directly attributable to the fact that he was scowling heavily: the legendary Tracchia scowl was a memorable thing of wonder, in constant use and held in differing degrees of respect, awe and downright fear but never ignored. Tracchia had a low opinion of his fellow-man and regarded the majority of people, and this with particular reference to his fellow Grand Prix drivers, as r.e.t.a.r.ded adolescents.

Understandably, he operated in a limited social circle. What made matters worse for Tracchia was his realization that, brilliant driver though he was, he was fractionally less good than Harlow, and even this was exacerbated by the knowledge that, no matter how long or desperately he tried, he would never quite close that fractional gap. When he spoke now to MacAlpine he made no effort to lower his voice which in the circ.u.mstances mattered not at all for Harlow could not possibly have heard him above the baying of the crowd: but it was quite clear 'that Tracchia would not have lowered his voice no matter what the circ.u.mstances.

'An act of G.o.d!' The bitter incredulity in the voice was wholly genuine. 'Jesus Christ! Did you hear what those cretins called it? An act of G.o.d! An act of murder, I call it.' Did you hear what those cretins called it? An act of G.o.d! An act of murder, I call it.'

'No, lad, no.' MacAlpine put his hand on Tracchia's shoulder, only to have it angrily shrugged off. MacAlpine sighed. 'At the very outside, manslaughter. And not even that. You know yourself how many Grand Prix drivers have died in the past four years because their cars went wild.' MacAlpine sighed. 'At the very outside, manslaughter. And not even that. You know yourself how many Grand Prix drivers have died in the past four years because their cars went wild.'

'Wild! Wild!' Tracchia, at a momentary and most uncharacteristic loss for words, gazed heavenwards in silent appeal. 'Good G.o.d, Mac, we all saw it on the screen. We saw it five times. He took his foot off the brake and pulled out straight in front of Jethou. An act of G.o.d! Sure, sure, sure. It's an act of G.o.d because he's won eleven Grand Prix in seventeen months, because he won last year's championship and looks as if he's going to do the same this year.'

'What do you mean?'

'You know d.a.m.n well what I mean. Take him off the tracks and you might as well take us all off the tracks. He's the champion, isn't he? If he's that bad, then what the h.e.l.l must the rest of us be like? We know that's not the case, but will the public? Will they h.e.l.l. G.o.d knows that there are already too many people, and d.a.m.ned influential people as well, agitating that Grand Prix racing should be banned throughout the world, and too many countries just begging for a good excuse to get out. This would be the excuse of a lifetime. We need need our Johnny Harlows, don't we Mac? Even though they do go around killing people.' our Johnny Harlows, don't we Mac? Even though they do go around killing people.'

'I thought he was your friend, Nikki?'

'Sure, Mac. Sure he's my friend. So was Jethou.'

There was no reply for MacAlpine to make to this so he made none. Tracchia appeared to have said his say, for he fell silent and got back to his scowling. In silence and in safety -the police escort had been steadily increasing-the four men reached the Coronado pits.

Without a glance at or word to anyone Harlow made for the little shelter at the rear of the pits. In their turn n.o.body - Jacobson and his two mechanics were there also - made any attempt either to speak to or stop him, nor did any among them do even as much as trouble to exchange significant glances : the starkly obvious requires no emphasis. Jacobson ignored him entirely and came up to MacAlpine. The chief mechanic - and he was one of acknowledged genius - was a lean, tall and strongly built man. He had a dark and deeply lined face that looked as if it hadn't smiled for a long time and wasn't about to make an exception in this case either.

He said : 'Harlow's clear, of course.'

'Of course? I don't understand.'

'I have to tell you? you? Indict Harlow and you set the sport back ten years. Too many millions tied up in it to allow that to happen. Isn't there now, Mr. MacAlpine?' Indict Harlow and you set the sport back ten years. Too many millions tied up in it to allow that to happen. Isn't there now, Mr. MacAlpine?'

MacAlpine looked at him reflectively, not answering, glanced briefly at the still scowling Tracchia, turned away and walked across to Harlow's battered and fire-blistered Coronado which was by that time back on all four wheels. He examined it leisurely, almost contemplatively, stooped over the c.o.c.kpit, turned the steering wheel which offered no resistance to his hand, then straightened.

He said : 'Well, now. I wonder.'

Jacobson looked at him coldly. His eyes, expressing displeasure, could be as formidable and intimidating as Tracchia's scowl. He said : 'I prepared that car, Mr. MacAlpine.'

MacAlpine's shoulders rose and fell in a long moment of silence.

'I know, Jacobson, I know. I also know you're the best in the business. I also know that you've been too long 'in it to talk nonsense. Any Any car can go. How long?' car can go. How long?'

'You want me to start now?'

'That's it.'

'Tour hours.' Jacobson was curt, offence given and taken. 'Six at the most.'

MacAlpine nodded, took Dunnet by the arm, prepared to walk away, then halted. Tracchia and Rory were together talking in low indistinct voices but their words didn't have to be understood, the rigid hostility in their expressions as they looked at Harlow and his bottle of brandy inside the hut were eloquent enough. MacAlpine, his hand still on Dunnet's arm, moved away and sighed again.

'Johnny's not making too many friends today, is he?'

'He hasn't been for far too many days. And I think that here's another friend that he's about not to make.'

'Oh Jesus.' Sighs seemed to be becoming second nature to MacAlpine. 'Neubauer does seem to 'have something on his mind.'

The figure in sky-blue racing overalls striding towards the pits did indeed seem to have something on his mind. Neubauer was tall, very blond and completely Nordic in appearance although he was in fact Austrian. The No. 1 driver for team Cagliari - he had the word Cagliari Cagliari emblazoned across the chest of his overalls - his consistent brilliance on the Grand Prix tracks had made him the acknowledged crown prince of racing and Harlow's eventual and inevitable successor. Like Tracchia, he was a cool, distant man wholly incapable of standing fools at any price, far less gladly. Like Tracchia, his friends and intimates were restricted to a very small group indeed : it was a matter for neither wonder nor speculation that those two men, the most unforgiving of rivals on the race-tracks were, off-duty, close friends. emblazoned across the chest of his overalls - his consistent brilliance on the Grand Prix tracks had made him the acknowledged crown prince of racing and Harlow's eventual and inevitable successor. Like Tracchia, he was a cool, distant man wholly incapable of standing fools at any price, far less gladly. Like Tracchia, his friends and intimates were restricted to a very small group indeed : it was a matter for neither wonder nor speculation that those two men, the most unforgiving of rivals on the race-tracks were, off-duty, close friends.

Neubauer, with compressed lips and cold pale-blue eyes glittering, was clearly a very angry man and his humour wasn't improved when MacAlpine moved his ma.s.sive bulk to block his way. Neubauer had no option other than to stop : big man though he was MacAlpine was very much bigger. When he spoke it was with his teeth clamped together.

'Out of my way.'

MacAlpine looked at him in mild surprise.

'You said what?'

'Sorry, Mr. MacAlpine. Where's that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Harlow?'

'Leave him be. He's not well.'

'And Jethou is, I suppose? I don't know who the h.e.l.l or what the h.e.l.l Harlow is or is supposed to be and I don't care. Why should that maniac get off scot-free? He is is a maniac. You know it. We all know it. He forced me off the road twice today, that could just as well have been me burnt to death as Jethou. I'm giving you warning, Mr. MacAlpine. I'm going to call a meeting of the GPDA and have him banned from the circuits.' a maniac. You know it. We all know it. He forced me off the road twice today, that could just as well have been me burnt to death as Jethou. I'm giving you warning, Mr. MacAlpine. I'm going to call a meeting of the GPDA and have him banned from the circuits.'

'You're the last person who can afford to do that, Willi.' MacAlpine put his hands on Neubauer's shoulders. the last person who can afford to put the finger on Johnny. If Harlow goes, who's the next champion?'

Neubauer stared at him. Some of the fury left his face and he stared at MacAlpine in almost bewildered disbelief. When his voice came it was low, almost an uncertain whisper. 'You think I would do it for that, Mr. MacAlpine?'

'No, Willi, I don't. I'm just pointing out that most others would.'

There was a long pause during which what was left of Neubauer's anger died away. He said quietly: 'He's a killer. He'll kill again.' Gently, he removed MacAlpine's hands, turned and left the pits. Thoughtfully, worriedly Dunnet watched him leave.

'He could be right, James. Sure, sure, he's won five Grand Prix in a row but ever since his brother was killed in the Spanish Grand Prix - well, you know.'

'Five Grand Prix under his belt and you're trying' to tell me that his nerve is gone?'

'I don't know what's gone. I just don't know. All I know is that the safest driver on the circuits has become so reckless and dangerous, so suicidally compet.i.tive if you like, that the other drivers are just plain scared of him. As far as they are concerned, the freedom of the road is his, they'd rather live than dispute a yard of track with him. That's That's why he keeps on winning.' why he keeps on winning.'

MacAlpine regarded Dunnet closely and shook his head in unease. He, MacAlpine, and not Dunnet, was the acknowledged expert, but MacAlpine held Dunnet and his opinions in the highest regard. Dunnet was an extraordinarily shrewd, intelligent and able person. He was a journalist by profession, and a highly competent one, who had switched from being a political a.n.a.lyst to a sports commentator for .the admittedly unarguable reason that there is no topic on earth so irretrievably dull as politics. The acute penetration and remarkable powers of observation and a.n.a.lysis that had made him so formidable a figure on the Westminster scene he had transferred easily and successfully to the race-tracks of the world. A regular correspondent for a British national daily and two motoring magazines, one British, one American - although he did a remarkable amount of free-lance work on the side -he had rapidly established himself as one of the very few really outstanding motor racing journalists in the world. To do this in the s.p.a.ce of just over two years had been a quite outstanding achievement by any standard. So successful had he been, indeed, that he had incurred the envy and displeasure, not to say the outright wrath, of a considerable number of his less gifted peers. national daily and two motoring magazines, one British, one American - although he did a remarkable amount of free-lance work on the side -he had rapidly established himself as one of the very few really outstanding motor racing journalists in the world. To do this in the s.p.a.ce of just over two years had been a quite outstanding achievement by any standard. So successful had he been, indeed, that he had incurred the envy and displeasure, not to say the outright wrath, of a considerable number of his less gifted peers.

Nor was their minimal regard for him in any way heightened by what they sourly regarded as the limpet-like persistency with which he had attached himself to the Coronado team on an almost permanent basis. Not that there were any laws, written or unwritten, about this sort of behaviour, for no independent journalist had ever done this sort of thing before. Now that it had been done it was, his fellow-writers said, a thing that simply was not done. It was his job, they maintained and complained, to write in a fair and unbiased fashion on all all the cars and the cars and all all the drivers in the Grand Prix field and their resentment remained undiminished when he pointed out to them, reasonably and with unchallengeable accuracy, that this was precisely what he did. What really grieved them, of course, was that he had the inside track on the Coronado team, then the fastest burgeoning and most glamorous race company in the business : and it would have been difficult to deny that the number of off-track articles he had written partly about the team but primarily about Harlow would have made up a pretty fair-size volume. Nor had matters been helped by the existence of a book on which he had collaborated with Harlow. the drivers in the Grand Prix field and their resentment remained undiminished when he pointed out to them, reasonably and with unchallengeable accuracy, that this was precisely what he did. What really grieved them, of course, was that he had the inside track on the Coronado team, then the fastest burgeoning and most glamorous race company in the business : and it would have been difficult to deny that the number of off-track articles he had written partly about the team but primarily about Harlow would have made up a pretty fair-size volume. Nor had matters been helped by the existence of a book on which he had collaborated with Harlow.

MacAlpine said: 'I'm afraid you're right, Alexis. Which means that I know you're right but I don't even want to admit it to myself. He's just terrifying the living daylights out of everyone. And out of me. And now this.'

They looked across the pits to where Harlow was sitting on a bench just outside the shelter. Uncaring whether he was observed or not, he half-filled a gla.s.s from a rapidly diminishing brandy bottle. One did not have to have eyesight to know that the hands were still shaking: diminishing though the protesting roar of the crowd still was, it was still sufficient to make normal conversation difficult: nevertheless, the Castanet rattle of gla.s.s against gla.s.s could be clearly heard. Harlow took a quick gulp from his gla.s.s then sat there with both elbows on his knees and stared, unblinkingly and without expression, at the wrecked remains of his car.

Dunnet said: 'And only two months ago he'd never touched the hard stuff in his life. What are you going to do, James?'

'Now?' MacAlpine smiled faintly. 'I'm going to see; Mary. I think by this time they might let me in to see her.' He glanced briefly, his face seemingly impa.s.sive, around the pits, at Harlow lifting his gla.s.s again, at the red-haired Rafferty twins looking almost as unhappy as Dunnet, and at Jacobson, Tracchia and Rory wearing; uniform scowls and directing them in uniform directions, sighed for the last time, turned and walked heavily away. around the pits, at Harlow lifting his gla.s.s again, at the red-haired Rafferty twins looking almost as unhappy as Dunnet, and at Jacobson, Tracchia and Rory wearing; uniform scowls and directing them in uniform directions, sighed for the last time, turned and walked heavily away.

Mary MacAlpine was twenty-two years old, pale complexioned despite the many hours she spent in the sun, with big brown eyes, gleamingly brushed black hair as dark as night and the most bewitching smile that ever graced a Grand Prix racing track: she did not intend that the smile should be bewitching, she just couldn't help it. Everyone in the team, even the taciturn and terrible-tempered Jacobson, was in love with her in one; way or another, not to mention a quite remarkable number of other people who were not in the team : this Mary recognized and accepted with commendable aplomb, although without either amus.e.m.e.nt or condescension: condescension was quite alien to her nature. In any event, she viewed the regard that others had for her as only the natural reciprocal of the regard she had for them: despite her quick no-nonsense mind, Mary MacAlpine was in many ways still very young. help it. Everyone in the team, even the taciturn and terrible-tempered Jacobson, was in love with her in one; way or another, not to mention a quite remarkable number of other people who were not in the team : this Mary recognized and accepted with commendable aplomb, although without either amus.e.m.e.nt or condescension: condescension was quite alien to her nature. In any event, she viewed the regard that others had for her as only the natural reciprocal of the regard she had for them: despite her quick no-nonsense mind, Mary MacAlpine was in many ways still very young.

Lying in bed in that spotless, soullessly antiseptic' hospital room that night, Mary MacAlpine looked younger than ever.. She also looked, as she unquestionably was, very ill. The natural paleness had turned to pallor and the big brown eyes which she opened only briefly and reluctantly, were dulled with pain.. This same pain was reflected in MacAlpine's eyes as he looked down at his daughter, at the heavily splinted and bandaged left leg lying on top of the sheet. MacAlpine stooped and kissed his daughter on the forehead.

He said: 'Sleep well, darling. Good night.'

She tried to smile. 'With all the pills they've given me? Yes, I think I will. And Daddy.'

'Darling?'

'It wasn't Johnny's fault. I know it wasn't. It was his car. I know it was.'

'We're finding that out. Jacobson is taking the car down.'

'You'll see. Will you ask Johnny to come and see me?'

'Not tonight, darling. I'm afraid he's not too well.'

'He-he hasn't been-'

'No, no. Shock.' MacAlpine smiled. 'He's been fed the same, pills as yourself.'

'Johnny Harlow? In shock? I don't believe it. Three near-fatal crashes and he never once -'

'He saw you, my darling.' He squeezed her hand. 'I'll be around later tonight.'

MacAlpine left the room and walked down to the reception area. A doctor was speaking to the nurse at the desk. He had grey hair, tired eyes and the face of an aristocrat. MacAlpine said : 'Are you the person who is looking after my daughter?'

'Mr. MacAlpine? Yes, I am. Dr Chollet.'

'She seems very ill.'

'No, Mr. MacAlpine. No problem. She is just under heavy sedation. For the pain, you understand.'

'I see. How long will she be -'

Two weeks. Perhaps three. No more.'