ADAM HALL
The Kobra Manifesto
"I'm in this trade to prove myself. I'm frightened of pushing things to the
point where they might blow up — so that's what I go on doing,
to prove I'm not frightened…"
Chapter One: ZARKOVIC
This year they'd added another layer of Armco on the outside of the bends and joined the two bottom rows with massive steel flitch plates to stop people forcing the rails apart and this must have saved a lot of injuries when Hans Strobel came round three laps from the finish and hit one of the uprights and bounced off it and spun twice and caught fire.
There wasn't a lot of noise from the crash itself, just a low roaring as the flames bannered back in the slipstream; but some people down there had started screaming and there was a kind of whimpering noise as the first of the emergency vehicles wheelspun on the hot tarmac as it pulled away from the pits.
'Oh God,' Marianne said and buried her face against me.
'He's all right,' I told her, but of course she knew he wasn't. He'd been hurled clear but the flames had caught him and he was rolling over and over like a small quiet fireball along the guard rails with no one to help him.
Up to now we'd all been cheering him on. This was Strobel's third year at Monaco and he'd been steadily getting the hang of the gear ratios and the characteristic front-end problem as the weight came off past the Casino, and in practice he'd notched up a diabolical 1 min. 25.35 sec. just before he came in, and for most of the time it had looked like his race and in another few minutes we would have heard the corks popping but now he was rolling along the guard rails, orange and black and flickering, le pauvre, the man next to me kept saying monotonously, oh mon Dieu, le pauvre, till he got on my nerves.
The B.R.M. wasn't in the way and the rest of the field were coming past in a strung-out line, slowing under the brakes and losing some of their traction on the hot tarmac. Rizzoli and Marks had begun shunting and one of the team Ferraris lost the back end and did a complete spin and tore off its nose aerofoil and that was about all I saw because Marianne had gone dead white and I wanted to get her away from the stands before the shoving and pushing began. People were standing on the benches to get a better view of the mess down there and that made it easier for me and we were going down. the steps to the harbour car park as the P.A. system began sending out its near-unintelligible echoes round the circuit.
They didn't mention Strobe! but just said the race was being abandoned and this wasn't surprising because even if he were still alive they couldn't bring the thing to a decent conclusion with wreckage and fire-foam all over the finishing-straight. A lot of people were already coming down from the stands, because there'd only been three laps to go and they wanted to avoid the traffic jam.
'It looked worse,' I said, 'than it really was.'
'Yes,' Marianne said, 'yes of course.'
She clung to me as far as the entrance to the harbour car park and then freed herself and walked, apart from me for a little way, as if ashamed of her behaviour. I didn't know her very well but I knew she had pride. She walked very straight but with her head down, the snakeskin bag swinging from her tanned hand, the gold bracelet sparkling in the sun. In a minute I put an arm round her and she brought her head up and we walked in step to the line of cars along the harbour's edge where I'd left the Lancia.
'Vous avez vos papiers, m'sieur?'
Two Monegasque motards, their bikes heeled over on their stands, one in front of the Lancia and one behind. I showed them my passport and driving licence and left them reading the things while I opened the door for Marianne. She looked up at me and managed a slightly lopsided smile.
'C'est la vie,' she said, and I nodded. She was talking about Hans Strobel, and she probably meant, c'est la mort. The loudspeakers were still echoing around the buildings but I couldn't make out what they were saying because the Radio Monte-Carlo helicopter was making some low passes across the circuit where the crash had been. A whole crowd of people were moving into the car park now and the traffic police were taking up stations.
'Merci, m'sieur.'
He gave me back my papers and it occurred to me that the whole thing was a bit odd because you can't break many regulations leaving your car parked in a nice neat row with the others; but I wasn't really interested because I wanted to start battling a gangway through the traffic till we got to a quiet bar where I could give Marianne a cognac.
'Eh bien, m'sieur,' the big one said, 'il y a un Monsieur Steadman qui vous attend a I'Hotel Negresco, a Nice. C'est assez urgent, et vous n'avez que nous suivre,vous savez?'
'Okay,' I said, and got into the Lancia.
'What is happening?' asked Marianne.
'They're going to give us a hand getting through all the traffic.'
She kept her green eyes on me for a moment and then looked down and didn't ask anything else. I'd told her I was in the diplomatic corps, one of the routine covers when we're hanging around foreign parts between missions. There was the prescribed plate on the back of the car and I'd telexed the number to London and that was routine too. We're never asked to report at intervals or tell them where we're staying because we're meant to relax between missions but we have to tell them the country we're in and the car we're driving, so that they can get their hooks on us if something blows up.
The two motards had got their hee-haws going and the whistles began shrilling ahead of us as the traffic police began pulling the line of cars to one side to let us through. Marianne lit a cigarette and leaned her head back and closed her eyes and we didn't talk until the cops had taken us in a loop along the Boulevard des Moulins to the frontier by the bus terminal. A pair of French motards were waiting for us there with their bikes ticking over and the Monegasques peeled off and left us to it. The main street through Beausoleil was almost deserted because everyone was down there by the sea, and the French cops put on a bit of speed, using their klaxons on the rising 'hairpin bends to the Grande Corniche.
'Will you have to go?' asked Marianne. She was leaning her dark head sideways, watching me.
'Probably.'
Because London doesn't grab you just for a giggle. I didn't know who Monsieur Steadman was because it'd be a code name and it could be Ferris or Loman or Comyngs or anyone at alclass="underline" it didn't have to be a director in the field at this stage; it could simply be a contact. During the last few hours something had come up on the board and they'd flown this man out and asked Interpol in Paris to pick up the driver of the car with the number I'd given them and tell him where the rendezvous was: the Negresco, Nice, That is a shame,' Marianne said.
She always tried to speak English to me, because I said I liked her accent.
'Yes.' I turned to look at her, then away again.
We'd planned three more days together before she had to go back on duty handing out trays at thirty thousand feet and I wouldn't have let anything bust into a situation like that in the ordinary way, but this wasn't the ordinary way: it looked as if the Bureau had a mission for me and all I could think about now was what I was going into and whether I was going to get out.
They've got some trouble,' I told her, 'in French Guinea, and the UK has been asked to mediate.' We were going through La Turbie at the correct speed and there wasn't any traffic so they weren't using their klaxons, which was. a relief. 'It just means they'll want me back in Paris.'