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  The Frenchman sees two people onboard the golf cart. The one wearing a red helmet is one of the Three Champions. The other, who is wearing some kind of scary ceremonial mask, he is also sure, is the Australian. The Frenchman is impressed. He was a long way behind Claude on the gravel road but now he’s ahead of him. He’s got to hand it to the kid, he’s extremely good at the ‘hot pursuit’ thing. But why is he wearing the mask? Then Claude remembers he had said something about making sure they covered their faces, which, now he thinks about it, is a good idea. Where his partner was able to procure a mask at such short notice Claude can only imagine.

  Time speeds up.

  The Hyundai continues to skid towards the golf cart and Claude realises it’s not going to stop in time.

  Damn, I really am rusty.

  ~ * ~

  Bam.

  The Hyundai hits the golf cart side on and catapults the electric vehicle into the sky. Billy holds on for dear life, then realises that’s probably not such a good idea as the cart turns over in midair. He releases it and drops to the ground.

  ‘Uuh!’ He hits the grass with a sharp exhalation of breath then watches the golf cart land on its side, bounce once and disappear into the overgrown thicket that lines the edge of the fairway.

  Billy turns to see the Hyundai skid across the grass towards him, his head in line with the wrecked radiator out of which whistles a jet of steam. He raises a hand in a vain attempt to stop the vehicle —

  It slides to a halt with his palm touching the front bumper. Billy scrambles to his feet and glares at the Frenchman behind the steering wheel, his voice a low, furious whispered hiss: ‘What the hell are you doing man? I bloody had him!’

  ‘The grass was slippery.’

  ‘It’s grass. It’s always slippery when you’re braking from a hundred kilometres an hour.’’ Billy points at Claude’s face. ‘And cover your bloody mug, they can’t know what we look like.’

  The Australian turns, scans the fairway behind him, searches for Schumacher’s pistol, can’t see it anywhere. He needs a weapon and he needs it now.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  Billy glances at the Frenchman sheepishly, doesn’t want to tell him but realises he must. ‘I need a gun. I left mine back at the track.’

  Claude reaches down to his right ankle, pulls an item from the holster strapped there and passes it to the Australian. ‘Use this.’

  Billy studies the X26c Taser unhappily. ‘You carry two of these things?’

  ‘Instead of being critical I’d prefer you just thanked me and went on your way.’

  Billy takes a moment then nods. ‘Yes, of course. Thank you.’ It’s extremely hard for him to say. To end the moment as quickly as possible he pivots towards the thicket, taser raised, and scans the tangled mass of foliage. It’s dark and foreboding. He can see no sign of the golf cart.

  The Frenchman exits the car and falls in beside him. He has his taser in hand and a handkerchief tied over his nose and mouth.

  Billy sees it and whispers: ‘You look like the cowboy from the Village People.’

  Claude whispers too: ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Not a compliment.’

  Claude’s confused. ‘The Village People were created by Jacques Morali and Henri Belolo.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘They’re regarded as national treasures in my country —’

  ‘Omigod, would you concentrate on what we’re doing please?’

  ‘You were the one who bought it up.’

  A large bush shakes to the left two metres away. They swivel towards it. Finger tight on the taser’s trigger, Billy grins. ‘I got you now you mutha —’

  The plant explodes in flurry of movement—and a red squirrel leaps out and bounds across the fairway.

  ‘Jeezus!’ Startled, Billy watches it disappear up a tree. ‘Bastard.’ He takes a breath. ‘Man.’ Weapon up, he takes a step into the thicket, then another, scans the foliage—and sees the rear of the golf cart. It’s tipped on its side and empty. He surveys the brush around it, notices a two-metre-high chain-link fence behind the thicket. The chain-link has been pulled away from the fence post, allowing access to a gravel roadway on the other side.

  ‘Bugger!’

  The Frenchman sees it to. ‘He slipped through the fence.’

  ‘We gotta go. He’s on the move —’

  ‘Drop your weapons down! Hands up to the air!’ It’s English as a second language but the message is clear.

  Billy turns, sees the Frenchman drop his taser then raise his hands as a trio of Malay police officers sprint across the fairway towards them, pistols raised.

  ‘We’re from Interpol and in pursuit of a fugitive.’

  ‘Drop your weapons down! Hands up to the air!’

  The Australian takes a moment then complies, furious.

  ~ * ~

  It takes a good fifteen minutes to explain to the head of the local police department who they are and what they’re doing. Unfortunately by then Schumacher is long gone, presumedly to meet up with his Three Champion mates Hunt and Senna.

  After Billy and Claude get the all clear from the Malaysian coppers Billy replaces the devil mask on the wall of the clubhouse and apologises to the club president for driving the dirt bike through the building. He also says sorry to the old couple for hijacking the golf cart and destroying their five iron. He buys them a new one at the pro shop, where he also purchases a polo shirt to replace the one he gave the old man for the bike. Claude pays for the damage to the cart with his Interpol credit card, which also pays for the insurance excess on the damage to the Hyundai when it’s replaced by the rental company. Overall it’s a pretty expensive afternoon.

  On the upside, the officer in charge of the robbery’s investigation pledges to share anything that might come up during his investigation, including information regarding fingerprints lifted from the parachute, the motorbike or the combination lock. He even allows Billy and Claude to visit the jewellery trader whose office was robbed at Petronas Towers. Unfortunately, it quickly becomes apparent that, as usual, the Three Champions have not left any clues.

  Billy is unhappy to realise that after being so close to capturing them twice he has just one, extremely tenuous, lead: the tattoo he saw on Schumacher’s forearm.

  ~ * ~

  7

  The hotel room is dark except for a sliver of light that steals in between the drawn curtains.

  ‘That was too close.’ Schumacher sits on the edge of the bed. ‘If it hadn’t been for that car the guy would have had me.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  Schumacher shakes his head, turns to Hunt who sits on the lounge. ‘Don’t know, but he was wearing this, I don’t know, it was like a tribal mask, like something you’d buy as a souvenir. Very odd.’

  ‘How did he even know to follow you? And who was in the car?’

  Schumacher shakes his head. ‘No idea either way.’

  Senna leans against the far wall. ‘We have to presume he’s a police officer of some kind.’

  ‘Christ.’ Hunt is extremely concerned by this, tries to think it through: ‘Could he know who we are or —’

  Schumacher shakes his head. ‘If anyone knew anything about us we’d already be under arrest. We just have to be careful next time.’ He glances at Senna. ‘How much did we get today?’

  Senna turns to the large black swathe of velvet on the desk in front of him, studies the mound of sparkling, loose diamonds. He runs his hand across them, inspects them with a practised eye. ‘Low ball? Four million.’

  Schumacher takes this in with a satisfied nod. ‘So, what’s the total so far?’

  ‘Twelve, give or take.’

  ‘And we need fifteen, so we’re so close.’

  Hunt turns to Senna. ‘But not that close. I just—it can’t be a coincidence that we’ve had these . . . difficulties, for want of a better word, twice in a row?’ />
  ‘It is a coincidence, but even if it wasn’t, again, it doesn’t matter. We’re almost done.’

  Hunt isn’t convinced. ‘I just have a bad feeling about it.’

  Senna turns to him. ‘You have a bad feeling about everything. It’ll be fine.’

  Hunt takes a breath. ‘I think we should postpone.’

  Senna shakes his head. ‘Impossible.’

  ‘We should vote on it.’

  ‘There’s no point. You will lose. We continue as planned.’ Senna stares at Hunt for a long moment. ‘I promise it will be okay.’

  Hunt nods but clearly doesn’t believe it.

  ~ * ~

  8

  The sun drops towards the burnt-orange horizon as Claude drives back to the Sepang track—five kilometres an hour below the speed limit.

  ‘If you’d been going this slowly on the golf course he wouldn’t have got away.’

  Claude turns to Billy. ‘The grass was slippery.’

  ‘Are you going to apologise?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For what? Blowing the arrest.’

  ‘The grass was slippery.’ Yes, Claude knows he’s dissembling. The truth is it happened because he was rusty, not because the grass was slippery. The Frenchman now understands he can’t crack this case on his own. Knowing this and realising he needs to solve it to win Marcellus’s job makes him a lot more amenable to working with the Australian, whose involvement, he now accepts, will greatly increase the chance of success. Yes, the old German was right, there’s something special about this kid—not that Claude will ever let him know it. ‘So, you’re telling me that if you hadn’t left your pistol back at the track we would have that guy under arrest right now?’

  ‘Absolutely. It would have been all over before the guy climbed on the motorcycle. It was a huge screw-up and it’s on me.’ Billy stares at Claude expectantly. ‘So, are you going to apologise?’

  ‘The grass was slippery.’

  ~ * ~

  The Australian turns and looks out at the passing countryside. What he has to do is stop worrying about the Frenchman’s lack of good manners and work out a way to catch Schumacher. So how does he do that? How does he use that tattoo, which is his only lead? What exactly is his plan?

  I don’t bloody have one.

  The car pulls into the Sepang circuit car park as the last of the spectators amble to their cars. Racing for the day is over and the place is almost empty.

  Something catches Billy’s attention above the entry gate to the racetrack. He looks up and takes in a long row of flags. They’re from the twenty different countries Formula One will visit this year, everywhere from Australia to the United States to Italy —

  ‘Stop the car.’

  The Frenchman does it. ‘What?’

  Billy pushes open the door and steps out of the hatchback, moves to the gate, eyes glued to one of the flags high above. It is red and white with a crest in the centre. The crest depicts two men, dressed in robes, each holding a sword with a large crown between them. He points at it. ‘What country is that?’

  ‘Monaco.’

  Billy glances at Claude as he exits the car. ‘You sure?’

  He nods. ‘It’s on the French Riviera. Why?’

  Billy studies the Frenchman. Should he tell him? Can he trust this guy? A couple of hours ago the bloke was talking about blowing Billy off and solving the case on his own. The Australian can’t help but wonder if he won’t will take what he’s told and leave Billy swinging in the breeze. On the other hand Billy would like to talk to someone with experience about the case. From his point of view, two heads are better than one and spitballing ideas with someone can often uncover something useful.

  ‘If I tell you, there’ll be no more of that “I’m-going-to-solve-it-on-my-own” bullshit you were banging on about earlier. We’re equal partners and we listen to each other’s ideas.’

  The Frenchman thinks about this for a moment then nods. ‘Oui, I agree.’

  Billy steps forward and stares Claude straight in the eye. ‘I’m not joking, mate. Screw me over and I will fuck you up. Is that clear?’

  Claude takes it in with a grin. If the warning concerns him it doesn’t show. ‘Relax, no one’s going to screw you over.’

  ‘Really? As far as I can tell you’re making a career out of it. I’ve know you for less than a day and you’ve tried to arrest me, have me thrown off the case and obstructed my arrest of the prime suspect.’

  The Frenchman looks at him with a level gaze. ‘Just tell me what this earth-shattering piece of information is.’

  The Australian takes a breath, then: ‘I saw a tattoo, on the right forearm of the guy with the Schumacher helmet.’ Billy points to the spot, above the wrist.

  ‘So?’

  ‘It was that crest.’ Billy nods at the Monaco flag which flutters in the breeze above.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He nods. ‘Two guys holding swords with a big crown between them. It’s not something you see every day, unless you live in Monaco, I guess.’

  Claude stares up at the flag and thinks aloud. ‘Why would someone want that tattoo?

  ‘They were born there? They live there? A lot of drivers do. They want to win there? It’s the only F1 race that really matters.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Yeah, I say so. Christ, visit Wikipedia occasionally would you? You might learn something, like Monaco is the biggest race of the year. By far.’ The Australian turns and takes in a CCTV security camera that is perched above the entrance gate and below the line of flags. ‘That camera must link back to a control room, right?’

  ‘Why don’t you visit Wikipedia and find out.’

  Billy ignores him and moves through the front gate, gestures for the Frenchman to follow. ‘Come on.’

  Claude takes a moment, then follows. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To find the control room.’ Billy dials his phone.

  ~ * ~

  There’s definitely an upside to owning a Formula One team. People pick up the phone when you call and they almost never say ‘no’ when you ask a favour.

  After speaking to the Australian, Dieter rang Kellen Stockton, the longstanding head of security for the F1 championship, and organised for Billy and Claude to visit the security centre to review CCTV footage from the previous two days. Dieter lied to Stockton by telling him they needed to look at the footage because a development part had gone missing from the Iron Rhino garage and he wanted to see if any of the cameras had picked up what had happened to it.

  ~ * ~

  Billy and Claude arrive at the large motorhome that houses the security centre and the prematurely bald Kellen Stockton ushers them into a small back room. He points them towards a computer terminal then shows them the desktop folder that contains all the security footage video files for the last two days.

  ‘We have thirty cameras overlooking the circuit, but only six point towards the pit paddock. You’ll need to look at footage from cameras nine through fifteen. There’s about three hundred hours in total, give or take.’

  Billy nods. ‘Better get to it then. Thanks.’ Stockton takes his leave as the Australian takes a seat and works the computer terminal’s mouse. The first video file pops up and begins to play.

  Claude sits next to him and studies the black-and-white image. ‘What are we searching for?’

  ‘The tattoo, and a helmet, either Schumacher or Hunt or Senna.’

  Claude looks at Billy like he’s crazy. ‘That’s why we’re here?’

  ‘That’s why we’re here.’

  ‘The security cameras will be too far away to pick up a small tattoo on a wrist and the images are in black and white so we won’t be able to identify the colour of the helmets.’

  ‘Do you have a better idea?’

  ‘Umm—well, no.’

  ‘Then let’s watch these until you do.’

  ~ * ~

&nb
sp; The Frenchman stifles a yawn. ‘That’s three hours I’ll never get back.’

  Billy rubs his face, both surprised and dispirited. ‘Christ, we didn’t see diddley.’

  ‘I told you we wouldn’t.’

  Billy nods. ‘We should call it a night.’ He stands and stretches his arms, clearly exhausted. ‘I need to take a slash. I’ll be back in a sec then we should head to the hotel.’