Quick Page 13

  What’s that?

  He notices headlights on the far side of the circuit. They’re stationary.

  Kurt.

  Billy saw him slide off the track after he passed him so he must have beached the. car in the kitty litter and now can’t get it out. ‘Damn it.’ The Australian really wants to head back to the pit lane and capitalise on this moment but he can’t leave his mate stranded out there. He’ll quickly help him then get back, hopefully, before the crowd disperses.

  He turns out of the pit lane and accelerates, pushes the Gullwing around the track as fast he can until he reaches Kurt’s car. It is, indeed, stranded at the edge of a sand trap. Billy parks in front of it, leaves the headlights on to illuminate the scene, jumps out and moves to the Austrian. The poor bastard kneels by the rear of the car and uses his hands to dig gravel away from the right wheel, which has sunk six inches into the kitty litter.

  Billy takes in his old mate. He’s still the strapping bloke he knew as a teenager, probably too tall and therefore too heavy to race in F1, the ‘packaging’ of the driver within the car so crucial that every gram of weight and millimetre of height must be completely justified.

  Kurt looks at him. ‘I know that face. You beat the uppity Spaniard.’

  Billy nods. ‘Barely.’

  Kurt grins. ‘An inch is as good as a mile. He try to run you off the road?’

  ‘Into the pit wall.’

  ‘Fucker.’ Kurt says it to the night sky, then his head drops to his chest. ‘How much damage?’

  ‘None to my car ‘cause I managed to —’ Billy makes a slicing action with his hand, ‘but I think you might need to replace the right side wing mirror on his.’

  Kurt exhales then continues digging. ‘That guy is such a tosspot.’

  ‘You still use it!’ Billy is delighted. ‘Tosspot’ always sounded amusing with Kurt’s Schwarzeneggerian accent. It was a term Billy taught the Austrian when he was billeted with his family back in the day. Kurt had been sent to Oz to pick up racing experience away from the spotlight of the European motorsport community. ‘So, you know Juan-in-a-million very well?’

  Kurt smiles at the nickname. ‘Not really. Just around the paddock. He started halfway through last season with Marussia. Another guy who’s young, dumb and thinks he’s the next Ayrton Senna.’ Kurt pauses to think about this. ‘Hold on, didn’t that used to be me?’

  Billy smiles and holds up a hand. ‘And me. Does he pay for his seat?’

  ‘Think so. But he’s pretty quick.’

  ‘Well he burned through his tyres pretty quick, that’s for sure.’ Billy’s struck by a thought: if Juan needed to find, say, two million bucks a year to pay for the privilege of being a reserve driver, then he could raise it through the heists, and even partner with two other drivers in a similar situation. There was always plenty of those around.

  Billy turns to the Austrian. ‘So, need some help, big fella?’

  Kurt stops digging and claps his hands together to remove the gravel dust. ‘Indeed I do. Start it up then gently feed in the power. I’ll push.’

  ‘Okey-doke.’ Billy opens the driver-side door on the stranded Gullwing, slides in, lowers the window, pushes the starter button, twists the V8 to life, engages first gear, then gently presses the accelerator. The engine spins up and he can hear the wheels turn in the gravel, then feel the car rock back and forth.

  ‘More power!’

  The Australian gives it some more herbs, the rocking increases and the car pops out of the gravel. It slithers to the edge of the track and he pulls it to a stop, engages the park brake, pushes the door open and climbs out. ‘Nicely done. You’ve got the job —’

  Billy stops dead.

  Kurt walks towards him, his sleeves pulled up as he brushes his hand over his forearm to remove the gravel dust.

  A tattoo.

  It’s visible on his forearm, just above his large Panerai watch. Is it the same as the one Billy saw this afternoon, on the arm of the guy in the Schumacher helmet? The position is the same, it seems to be a similar shape, but then he can’t be one hundred per cent sure because the guy is five metres away and his arm is covered in a fine white dust. Billy tries to focus on it without looking like he’s focusing on it, but before he can make a positive identification Kurt slides into the Merc.

  ‘Let’s head back.’

  Billy forces a smile. ‘Lead the way, good sir.’

  ~ * ~

  Jeezus. Is Kurt the guy I’m after?

  Billy stares at the glowing brake lights of the Austrian’s Gullwing as they drive back to the pits. Kurt can’t be involved with the Three Champions. Surely. Billy knows him too well, lived with the guy for the better part of six months. Admittedly he hasn’t seen much of him recently, ‘recently’ meaning the last six years, but still, when you know someone you know someone, right? Kurt’s just not the kind of guy to get involved in illegal shenanigans. He’s a Captain Sensible who didn’t have enough aggression to be a successful racing driver let alone pull multiple armed robberies.

  But people change. Kurt didn’t have any tattoos when Billy knew him, but he has one now. On his arm, in exactly the same place as Schumacher. And there’s something else, something in his eyes, a— weariness? Or maybe it’s disappointment. Not making it as a driver in F1 then having to watch, day in, day out, as other guys lived your dream would be extremely tough.

  Billy follows Kurt’s Gullwing into the pit lane and along the narrow strip of tarmac that will be filled with the rumble and throb of twenty-two fire-breathing turbocharged V6 monsters tomorrow. The crowd that watched Billy win the race have left. Not a big surprise, though he no longer cares about the missed opportunity of properly introducing himself to F1’s backroom staff. His mind is preoccupied with whether he has already found his man, a man who just happens to be an old mate. Billy could arrest him as soon as he steps out of the Gullwing, but he’s not going to do that. He wants solid evidence before he blows his cover.

  At the end of the pit lane the Gullwings pull up at the entrance to the safety car garage. Juan’s ride is already parked there, and, as Billy reported, its right wing mirror dangles halfway down the driver-side door, held on by the cable that controls its electric positioning motor. Juan-in-a-million’s good self is nowhere to be seen.

  Kurt steps out of his Gullwing and inspects the damage. ‘Prick didn’t even wait to apologise.’ He turns to Billy as he climbs out of his Merc. ‘I think I can fix it though. I’m pretty sure I have the parts here.’

  Billy approaches. ‘Need a hand?’ The Australian thinks that if he helps him repair it he might get a better look at that dust-covered tattoo.

  ‘No no, I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Really, I’m happy to pitch in. I kinda feel responsible.’

  Kurt grins. ‘You’ve helped enough tonight, thanks. It won’t take long.’

  Billy doesn’t push it. ‘Okay. Well, I should get rolling.’ He makes a going gesture with his thumb. ‘You staying at the Hyatt?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Cool. Well, I’ll probably see you there.’

  Kurt nods and turns towards the open garage, then stops and looks back at Billy. ‘It’s great to have you here. I’m really glad you made it.’

  Billy can see the sentiment is genuine. ‘Thanks, man.’

  Kurt turns and moves into the garage. ‘Catch you later.’

  The Australian watches him go. ‘Not if I catch you first.’

  ~ * ~

  It takes Billy five minutes to find his way back to the security centre. As he pushes open the door to the tiny office he hopes to find Claude methodically trawling through the video files.

  He does not.

  The Frenchman is slumped across the desk, dead to the world.

  Billy claps his hands. ‘Hey Jethro, wakey-wakey, hands off snaky!’

  Claude jolts awake. ‘Thank you, Stefan, I’ll have the veal piccata.’ He looks around, bleary eyed and con
fused, no idea where he is or what he’s doing, then remembers and looks at the Australian, embarrassed. ‘I was taking a gentleman’s interlude.’

  Billy points. ‘You drooled on the mouse.’

  ‘What? No I didn’t.’ Then Claude sees that it’s true and recoils. ‘Errr, that’s disgusting.’ He wipes at it with his sleeve. ‘I have jet lag.’ He glances at his watch to change the subject. ‘Christ, it’s been an hour. Where were you?’

  ‘Long story.’

  The Frenchman nods at the computer monitor. ‘Well, while you were gone I found something interesting.’ Claude works the keyboard and a video plays.

  Billy studies a wide, high-angle shot of the long roadway behind the pits. The Frenchman pauses the video and points at the bottom right-hand corner where a figure carries a large bag, partially opened at the point where its two zips can’t pass over the large item inside. ‘There.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘A Schumacher helmet.’

  ‘How can you tell?’ The image is black and white and the only part of the helmet that is visible is a small section at the top.

  ‘The markings are the same. I downloaded a picture of the original Schumi helmet from the web.’ Claude clicks a jpeg on the screen and a picture of the red Schumacher helmet pops up. There are a series of silver painted stars on the top of helmet that are the same as the ones on the top of the helmet in the video still.

  Billy studies one, then the other, then clicks the video and lets it play. The figure holding the bag walks on, then turns and glances to the left momentarily, one side of their face visible to camera. The Australian pauses it and takes in the person with a nod. ‘Right.’

  Claude is curious. ‘What? What’s “right”? You know who this is?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Remember the long story I mentioned earlier?’

  ‘It was three minutes ago.’

  Billy points at the man holding the bag within the paused video. ‘Well he’s the story. His name is Kurt Falandek and I’ve known him for a decade.’

  ‘So, we need to investigate this guy?’

  Billy nods. ‘Yep, and I know just how to do it.’

  ~ * ~

  9

  It’s almost midnight when the Hyundai pulls up in front of the Grand Hyatt Hotel. Located in the centre of Kuala Lumpur, the towering glass edifice is an odd collision of bling and foreboding.

  Claude hands the keys to the parking valet as Billy grabs their bags from the boot and they enter the hotel’s sprawling, tastefully opulent lobby. The Frenchman turns to the Australian. ‘So, what’s your plan?’

  ‘We talk to the hotel management, explain we’re from Interpol and need access to Kurt’s room. They either let us in or we organise a court order. If he’s involved there will be something in there that incriminates him.’

  Claude grimaces. ‘Okay.’

  ‘What’s that face?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You think there’s something wrong with my plan?’

  ‘No no. It’s great.’ A moment passes. ‘Though we could make one slight adjustment.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘We don’t talk to the hotel management, we find out which room Kurt’s staying in, we wait until he’s not there and enter quietly.’

  Billy stares at the Frenchman, confused. ‘Did you just say “enter quietly”?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Which actually means “break and enter”. You realise we work for Interpol, right?’

  ‘There’s no way the hotel will let us into his room and it will take at least twenty-four hours to get a court order and he will have checked out by then. And just by saying we want to get in there or want a court order, it means there’s a chance he finds out, or the real perps find out about our investigation.’

  ‘But it’s not legal.’

  Claude dismisses the concern with a wave of the hand. ‘Legal schmegal.’

  ‘Really? “Legal schmegal”?’ Something tells me that’s not going to hold up in court: But Judge, legal schmegal! Oh, legal schmegal? Well why didn’t you say. You’re free to go!’

  ‘It’s a grey area.’

  ‘No it’s not. It’s the black side of the black and white area. It’s the breaking and entering area.’

  ‘Or is it just an innocent guy accidentally walking into the wrong room?’

  ‘It’s breaking and entering.’

  ‘But is it? Isn’t it just entering without any breaking?’

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘I have no idea what that means.’ Claude rubs his face, frustrated. ‘Look, you think this is the guy, right?’

  ‘I think he might be. Perhaps.’

  ‘So we have an opportunity to know for sure. We go up there, find something incriminating and then we know he’s the guy and we focus the investigation on him and don’t waste time on anyone else. But if we don’t find anything we continue looking for the right guy.’

  Billy studies the Frenchman for a moment, both appalled and intrigued, but mostly appalled. ‘Is this something you often do?’

  ‘Just when I want to solve the case. Look, you said you wanted us to be equal partners who listen to each other’s ideas, well this is my idea and I think you should listen to it.’

  Billy regards him for a long moment, then nods reluctantly. ‘Okay. How do you propose we find out his room number? And how do we get into the room if we do?’

  The Frenchman motions towards a piano bar on the other side of the foyer. ‘He’s the tall guy who looks like Dolph Lundgren’s little brother, right?’

  Billy follows the nod and sees Kurt sitting at a table with two other people. ‘Yes, yes he is.’

  Claude subtly directs Billy to the side of the lobby and a spot behind a large potted ficus, out of Kurt’s view. ‘Back in a moment.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Watch and learn, young man. Watch and learn.’

  The Frenchman moves off as Billy watches and learns.

  ~ * ~

  In the far corner of the dimly lit bar an old guy in an older tux delicately tinkles the ivories and creates an elegant, old school atmosphere. The Frenchman enters and sees Kurt’s table and clocks something on top of it. The way he walks subtlety changes from a confident, free-spirited Parisian strut to the rambling shuffle of a drunk uncle.

  He shuffles towards the table of three. One of Kurt’s party, a young guy with dark hair, sees him coming and recoils at the sight of the intoxicated man.

  The Frenchman registers his reaction and couldn’t be happier. He trips over his own feet, sets his arms windmilling, but not too theatrically, then stumbles and crashes into the side of the table, knocks over one drink, spills the other two and slumps to his knees.

  ‘Oh I’m so sorry thatsss really embarrassing.’ He says it in a loud, slurred whisper as he tries, and fails, then tries again, to lever himself off the ground using the table as support. It’s an extremely noisy process.

  ‘Sshhh!’ He says it to himself as he finds his feet and clumsily tries to dry the front of Kurt’s shirt with one of his sleeves. ‘I spilled the nice drinksss and made you damp!’

  ‘That’s okay. Really’ The Austrian is more surprised than upset. He looks down, scans the carpet, sees his iPhone and wallet have been knocked off the table, picks them up, then searches for something else.

  ‘Dag-jammit.’ Claude holds two identical room keycards in front of his face and studies them closely. ‘It’s like they’re twinsss. Only their mother can tell them apart!’ He laughs at this, then realises no one else is and stops. ‘I thought that wasss funny.’

  Kurt sees the cards. ‘I believe one of those is mine.’

  ‘It’s thisss one.’ Claude holds one of the keycards out to Kurt— then pulls it back. ‘No, it’s thisss one.’ He holds the other card out then pulls it back. ‘No, it’sss—oh man! I
got them confused.’ He looks like he’s about to cry.

  Kurt tries to console him. ‘It’s okay. Really. Don’t worry about it.’