on today. And if he and Dunnet are so thick then they’re both up to the same funny thing. But Dunnet’s only a journalist. What can a journalist and a has-been driver be up to?’
Has-been? Did you see his times this morning?’
‘Has-been I said and has-been I meant. You’ll see — he’ll crack tomorrow just as he’s cracked in the last four GPs.’
‘Yes. Another strange .thing. Why is he so good in practice and such a failure in the races themselves?’
‘No question. It’s common knowledge that Harlow’s pretty close to being an alcoholic — I’d say he already is one. All right, so he can drive one fast lap, maybe three. But in an eighty-lap Grand Prix —how can you expect an alco to have the stamina, the reactions, the nerve to last the pace? He’ll crack.’ He looked away from the other cafe and took a morose sip of his drink. ‘God, what wouldn’t I give to be sitting in the next booth to those two.’
Tracchia laid a hand on Neubauer’s forearm. ‘Maybe that won’t be necessary, Willi. Maybe we’ve just found a pair of ears to do our listening for us. Look!’
Neubauer looked. With what appeared to be a considerable degree of stealth and secrecy Rory MacAlpine was edging his way into the booth next to the one occupied by Harlow and Dunnet. He was carrying a coloured drink in his hand. When he sat it was with his back to Harlow : physically, they couldn’t have been more than a foot apart. Rory adopted a very upright posture, both his back and the back of his head pressed hard against the partition: he was, clearly, listening very intently indeed. He had about him the look of one who was planning a career either as a master spy or a double agent. Without question he had a rare talent for observing — and listening — without being observed.
Neubauer said: ‘What do you think young MacAlpine is up to?’
‘Here and now?’ Tracchia spread his hands. ‘Anything. The one thing that you can be sure of is that he intends no good to Harlow. I should think he is just trying to get anything he can on Harlow. Just anything. He’s a determined young devil —and he hates Harlow. I must say I wouldn’t care very much myself to be in his black books.’
‘So we have an ally, Nikki, yes?’
‘I see no reason why not. Let’s think up a nice little story to tell him.’ He peered across the street. ‘Young Rory doesn’t seem too pleased about something.’
Rory wasn’t. His expression held mixed feelings of vexation, exasperation and perplexity: because of the high back of the booth and the background noise level created by the other patrons of the cafe, he could catch only snatches of the conversation from the next booth.
Matters weren’t helped for Rory by the fact that Harlow and Dunnet were carrying on this conversation in very low tones indeed. Both of them had tall clear drinks in front of them, both drinks with ice and lemon in them: only one held gin. Dunnet looked consideringly at the tiny film cassette he was cradling in the palm of his hand then slipped it into a safe inside pocket.
‘Photographs of code? You’re sure?’
‘Code for sure. Perhaps even along with some abstruse foreign language. I’m afraid I’m no expert on those matters.’
‘No more than I am. But we have people who are experts. And the Coronado transporter. You’re sure about that too?’
‘No question.’
‘So we’ve been nursing a viper to our own bosom - if that’s the phrase I’m looking for.’
‘It is a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?’
‘And no question about Henry having any finger in the pie?’
‘Henry?’ Harlow shook his head positively. ‘My life on it.’
‘Even though, as driver, he’s the only person who’s with the transporter on every trip it makes?’
‘Even though.’
‘And Henry will have to go?’
‘What option do we have?’
‘So. Exit Henry — temporarily, though he won’t know it: he’ll get his old job back. He’ll be hurt, of course -but
Has-been? Did you see his times this morning?’
‘Has-been I said and has-been I meant. You’ll see — he’ll crack tomorrow just as he’s cracked in the last four GPs.’
‘Yes. Another strange .thing. Why is he so good in practice and such a failure in the races themselves?’
‘No question. It’s common knowledge that Harlow’s pretty close to being an alcoholic — I’d say he already is one. All right, so he can drive one fast lap, maybe three. But in an eighty-lap Grand Prix —how can you expect an alco to have the stamina, the reactions, the nerve to last the pace? He’ll crack.’ He looked away from the other cafe and took a morose sip of his drink. ‘God, what wouldn’t I give to be sitting in the next booth to those two.’
Tracchia laid a hand on Neubauer’s forearm. ‘Maybe that won’t be necessary, Willi. Maybe we’ve just found a pair of ears to do our listening for us. Look!’
Neubauer looked. With what appeared to be a considerable degree of stealth and secrecy Rory MacAlpine was edging his way into the booth next to the one occupied by Harlow and Dunnet. He was carrying a coloured drink in his hand. When he sat it was with his back to Harlow : physically, they couldn’t have been more than a foot apart. Rory adopted a very upright posture, both his back and the back of his head pressed hard against the partition: he was, clearly, listening very intently indeed. He had about him the look of one who was planning a career either as a master spy or a double agent. Without question he had a rare talent for observing — and listening — without being observed.
Neubauer said: ‘What do you think young MacAlpine is up to?’
‘Here and now?’ Tracchia spread his hands. ‘Anything. The one thing that you can be sure of is that he intends no good to Harlow. I should think he is just trying to get anything he can on Harlow. Just anything. He’s a determined young devil —and he hates Harlow. I must say I wouldn’t care very much myself to be in his black books.’
‘So we have an ally, Nikki, yes?’
‘I see no reason why not. Let’s think up a nice little story to tell him.’ He peered across the street. ‘Young Rory doesn’t seem too pleased about something.’
Rory wasn’t. His expression held mixed feelings of vexation, exasperation and perplexity: because of the high back of the booth and the background noise level created by the other patrons of the cafe, he could catch only snatches of the conversation from the next booth.
Matters weren’t helped for Rory by the fact that Harlow and Dunnet were carrying on this conversation in very low tones indeed. Both of them had tall clear drinks in front of them, both drinks with ice and lemon in them: only one held gin. Dunnet looked consideringly at the tiny film cassette he was cradling in the palm of his hand then slipped it into a safe inside pocket.
‘Photographs of code? You’re sure?’
‘Code for sure. Perhaps even along with some abstruse foreign language. I’m afraid I’m no expert on those matters.’
‘No more than I am. But we have people who are experts. And the Coronado transporter. You’re sure about that too?’
‘No question.’
‘So we’ve been nursing a viper to our own bosom - if that’s the phrase I’m looking for.’
‘It is a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?’
‘And no question about Henry having any finger in the pie?’
‘Henry?’ Harlow shook his head positively. ‘My life on it.’
‘Even though, as driver, he’s the only person who’s with the transporter on every trip it makes?’
‘Even though.’
‘And Henry will have to go?’
‘What option do we have?’
‘So. Exit Henry — temporarily, though he won’t know it: he’ll get his old job back. He’ll be hurt, of course -but
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