never questioned.
Ambrose found his office stripped. Sitting outside was a new secretary in place of his own. He stared hard at her.
‘Where are my things?’
‘They’ve been trashed,’ she replied with a sly smile.
‘I demand to see . . .’
Two security men approached from the passage. ‘Sir, you must leave the building.’
The secretary held her smile.
Ambrose made to resist, and the larger of the two men gripped his arms firmly.
‘Out, sir. Now.’
A few minutes later he staggered out of the revolving doors of Phelps Plaza and took one final look up at its mirrored walls. Then he began to calculate how he’d get his revenge. He did not see a tall, blond man drop into step behind him.
Yes, with the things he knew about Phelps, he co uld cause a lot of trouble. Big trouble.
The light turned to green and he stepped off the pavement.
He never saw the car coming fast from the side-street, but he felt the punch that hammered into his back, and staggered forwards. As far as the watching pedestrians were concerned, he walked right into the speeding car.
The Pan American jet touched down at Narita airport in Tokyo at nineteen hundred hours. Aito Shensu, owner and founder of Shensu, one of Japan’s biggest car manufacturers, stood on the tarmac waiting for the first-class passengers to disembark. He was dressed simply but expensively in a hand- tailored dark suit. He hated to admit it, but he was nervous. He didn’t have much time. The deal that Phelps had proposed had to go through.
Aito Shensu was of medium build, with a lean, athletic body. His smooth skin and chiselled features gave him the appearance of a man in his early fifties, though in reality he was over seventy. He stood straight and moved determinedly.
As he caught sight of his distinguished visitor, his mouth broke into a smile, revealing his pearl-white teeth. He walked slowly across the tarmac, his two personal assistants trailing him, and stopped at the base of the gangway and stood at ease.
As Phelps walked down the steps, it struck Aito that he looked the typical American, well-groomed, tall and exuding confidence. Perhaps he looked a little like Richard Nixon?
‘My pleasure, Mr Phelps.’
He bowed. Phelps followed suit - rather awkwardly. Aito knew how much he needed what this man had, but he did not want Phelps to realise this. Letting your competitors sense your weakness gave them an advantage - and for the moment Jack Phelps was competition.
‘You will follow me please, Mr Phelps. Special arrangements have been made for your convenience. Please hand your belongings to my men. It is not correct that you should have to carry them.’
‘As you say,’ Phelps replied gruffly.
They walked briskly across the tarmac towards a section of the customs and were greeted courteously by the officials. Phelps showed his passport, its examination a mere formality, and his briefcase went through unexamined. Aito Shensu smiled at him yet again.
‘I have informed the officials that you are a very important man. Jack Phelps, Tokyo welcomes you.’
Aito’s English was faultless, with only a faint accent.
‘I am most impressed by your welcome.’
‘Now we travel to your hotel.’
Phelps felt better every minute. A relationship that had started six months ago, with a short phone conversation, had blossomed. Phelps was now confident of signing a deal with Shensu to co-sponsor a new Formula One racing team.
The benefits would be mutual. Jack wanted Shensu’s technology - their engines and their design ability. He was offering a complete Formula One team in the UK, Chase Racing, and one of the world’s greatest racing-drivers - Ricardo Sartori. He had just signed up Bruce de Villiers, the ex-manager of McCabe, whose team had won the driver’s and constructor’s championships for the last three seasons. As Jack knew, although the driver’s championship was the one that the world really cared about, to the teams whose life was
Ambrose found his office stripped. Sitting outside was a new secretary in place of his own. He stared hard at her.
‘Where are my things?’
‘They’ve been trashed,’ she replied with a sly smile.
‘I demand to see . . .’
Two security men approached from the passage. ‘Sir, you must leave the building.’
The secretary held her smile.
Ambrose made to resist, and the larger of the two men gripped his arms firmly.
‘Out, sir. Now.’
A few minutes later he staggered out of the revolving doors of Phelps Plaza and took one final look up at its mirrored walls. Then he began to calculate how he’d get his revenge. He did not see a tall, blond man drop into step behind him.
Yes, with the things he knew about Phelps, he co uld cause a lot of trouble. Big trouble.
The light turned to green and he stepped off the pavement.
He never saw the car coming fast from the side-street, but he felt the punch that hammered into his back, and staggered forwards. As far as the watching pedestrians were concerned, he walked right into the speeding car.
The Pan American jet touched down at Narita airport in Tokyo at nineteen hundred hours. Aito Shensu, owner and founder of Shensu, one of Japan’s biggest car manufacturers, stood on the tarmac waiting for the first-class passengers to disembark. He was dressed simply but expensively in a hand- tailored dark suit. He hated to admit it, but he was nervous. He didn’t have much time. The deal that Phelps had proposed had to go through.
Aito Shensu was of medium build, with a lean, athletic body. His smooth skin and chiselled features gave him the appearance of a man in his early fifties, though in reality he was over seventy. He stood straight and moved determinedly.
As he caught sight of his distinguished visitor, his mouth broke into a smile, revealing his pearl-white teeth. He walked slowly across the tarmac, his two personal assistants trailing him, and stopped at the base of the gangway and stood at ease.
As Phelps walked down the steps, it struck Aito that he looked the typical American, well-groomed, tall and exuding confidence. Perhaps he looked a little like Richard Nixon?
‘My pleasure, Mr Phelps.’
He bowed. Phelps followed suit - rather awkwardly. Aito knew how much he needed what this man had, but he did not want Phelps to realise this. Letting your competitors sense your weakness gave them an advantage - and for the moment Jack Phelps was competition.
‘You will follow me please, Mr Phelps. Special arrangements have been made for your convenience. Please hand your belongings to my men. It is not correct that you should have to carry them.’
‘As you say,’ Phelps replied gruffly.
They walked briskly across the tarmac towards a section of the customs and were greeted courteously by the officials. Phelps showed his passport, its examination a mere formality, and his briefcase went through unexamined. Aito Shensu smiled at him yet again.
‘I have informed the officials that you are a very important man. Jack Phelps, Tokyo welcomes you.’
Aito’s English was faultless, with only a faint accent.
‘I am most impressed by your welcome.’
‘Now we travel to your hotel.’
Phelps felt better every minute. A relationship that had started six months ago, with a short phone conversation, had blossomed. Phelps was now confident of signing a deal with Shensu to co-sponsor a new Formula One racing team.
The benefits would be mutual. Jack wanted Shensu’s technology - their engines and their design ability. He was offering a complete Formula One team in the UK, Chase Racing, and one of the world’s greatest racing-drivers - Ricardo Sartori. He had just signed up Bruce de Villiers, the ex-manager of McCabe, whose team had won the driver’s and constructor’s championships for the last three seasons. As Jack knew, although the driver’s championship was the one that the world really cared about, to the teams whose life was
Similar Books
