just under nine million US dollars, all on race weekends during the F1 season, all stolen diamonds. What we do know is that every place that was hit was insured by the same company, Crown, based in Monaco.’
‘Is it an inside job?’
Claude answers that. ‘We looked into it but there’s nothing there. Crown has a huge, worldwide risk portfolio. It’s just a coincidence as far as we can tell.’
‘So, what, you need someone to go undercover as an F1 driver?’
‘Reserve F1 driver, yes. For Iron Rhino. In a purely observational capacity. I know you raced V8 Supercars, and before your accident you were a prospect to drive in Europe, so you would, I believe, fit into that world without many questions being asked, certainly better than any agents we have.’
The Australian takes this in. ‘Righto.’
Marcellus studies him.
So, is he the right man for the job?
The German won’t rush the decision. Something will tip him off, one way or the other. He just needs to go with his gut. It’s always worked in the past.
Billy nods. ‘It does make sense.’
‘What does?’
‘That they’re involved in F1. I’m sure one of them was wearing a Michael Schumacher helmet, the red one, from the time he drove for Ferrari. And I’m almost certain one was wearing a yellow Ayrton Senna helmet, and I think the other was wearing a black helmet, like the one that British guy used to wear —’
‘James Hunt.’ Marcellus and Billy say it together.
The only reason Marcellus knows anything about James Hunt, the charismatic British driver, a tall blonde Adonis known as much for his hard partying as for being the 1976 world champion, is because he’d seen Rush, the movie about his battle for the championship with Niki Lauda, just last week. Interestingly Hunt was played by Chris Hemsworth, another Australian. ‘Are you sure about that?’
Billy nods. ‘Think so. Three helmets, three champions.’
Marcellus smiles. ‘The Three Champions.’ He glances at Claude. ‘I like it. That’s what we’ll call them from now on.’ The German regards Billy for a moment. Is this information the ‘something’ he was waiting for? Sure, the Australian wasn’t that experienced but his work record was excellent, if you didn’t count all the reprimands and being forced to resign, and he had once been a racing driver.
Go with your gut.
‘Do you speak French or German?’
Billy shakes his head. ‘Just English, mate.’
‘Okay.’ Marcellus turns to Claude and speaks French. ‘I like him.’
Claude speaks French too. ‘I do not.’
‘You’re only saying that because he made you look foolish.’
‘No. He’s a hothead.’
‘You attempted to tackle him in the middle of a packed lobby as he arrived for the biggest job interview of his life during his first visit to a foreign country. You’d have been a “hothead” too.’ The old German takes a moment. ‘And what was that about anyway?’
Claude studies the floor, sheepish. ‘I thought he was carrying a weapon. I’m rusty.’
‘Well I need you not to be, and fast.’
‘He has no experience.’
‘Neither did you when you started.’
Billy grins. ‘You guys are talking about me, aren’t you?’
Marcellus nods and speaks English: ‘Absolutely.’
Billy grins. ‘Cool beans.’
Marcellus looks back at Claude and continues in French: ‘I think he’s the right man.’
Claude does not. He can barley disguise his disdain for the Australian. “‘ Cool beans, mate, righto .” What kind of language is this?’
‘I want you to guide him, lend him your experience, help him where you can —’
‘I’m not a babysitter —’
‘— like I did when you were starting out.’
That shuts Claude up. The two men study each other for a long moment, then Marcellus breaks the silence. ‘So, are we agreed?’
‘Do I
‘Is it an inside job?’
Claude answers that. ‘We looked into it but there’s nothing there. Crown has a huge, worldwide risk portfolio. It’s just a coincidence as far as we can tell.’
‘So, what, you need someone to go undercover as an F1 driver?’
‘Reserve F1 driver, yes. For Iron Rhino. In a purely observational capacity. I know you raced V8 Supercars, and before your accident you were a prospect to drive in Europe, so you would, I believe, fit into that world without many questions being asked, certainly better than any agents we have.’
The Australian takes this in. ‘Righto.’
Marcellus studies him.
So, is he the right man for the job?
The German won’t rush the decision. Something will tip him off, one way or the other. He just needs to go with his gut. It’s always worked in the past.
Billy nods. ‘It does make sense.’
‘What does?’
‘That they’re involved in F1. I’m sure one of them was wearing a Michael Schumacher helmet, the red one, from the time he drove for Ferrari. And I’m almost certain one was wearing a yellow Ayrton Senna helmet, and I think the other was wearing a black helmet, like the one that British guy used to wear —’
‘James Hunt.’ Marcellus and Billy say it together.
The only reason Marcellus knows anything about James Hunt, the charismatic British driver, a tall blonde Adonis known as much for his hard partying as for being the 1976 world champion, is because he’d seen Rush, the movie about his battle for the championship with Niki Lauda, just last week. Interestingly Hunt was played by Chris Hemsworth, another Australian. ‘Are you sure about that?’
Billy nods. ‘Think so. Three helmets, three champions.’
Marcellus smiles. ‘The Three Champions.’ He glances at Claude. ‘I like it. That’s what we’ll call them from now on.’ The German regards Billy for a moment. Is this information the ‘something’ he was waiting for? Sure, the Australian wasn’t that experienced but his work record was excellent, if you didn’t count all the reprimands and being forced to resign, and he had once been a racing driver.
Go with your gut.
‘Do you speak French or German?’
Billy shakes his head. ‘Just English, mate.’
‘Okay.’ Marcellus turns to Claude and speaks French. ‘I like him.’
Claude speaks French too. ‘I do not.’
‘You’re only saying that because he made you look foolish.’
‘No. He’s a hothead.’
‘You attempted to tackle him in the middle of a packed lobby as he arrived for the biggest job interview of his life during his first visit to a foreign country. You’d have been a “hothead” too.’ The old German takes a moment. ‘And what was that about anyway?’
Claude studies the floor, sheepish. ‘I thought he was carrying a weapon. I’m rusty.’
‘Well I need you not to be, and fast.’
‘He has no experience.’
‘Neither did you when you started.’
Billy grins. ‘You guys are talking about me, aren’t you?’
Marcellus nods and speaks English: ‘Absolutely.’
Billy grins. ‘Cool beans.’
Marcellus looks back at Claude and continues in French: ‘I think he’s the right man.’
Claude does not. He can barley disguise his disdain for the Australian. “‘ Cool beans, mate, righto .” What kind of language is this?’
‘I want you to guide him, lend him your experience, help him where you can —’
‘I’m not a babysitter —’
‘— like I did when you were starting out.’
That shuts Claude up. The two men study each other for a long moment, then Marcellus breaks the silence. ‘So, are we agreed?’
‘Do I
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