Brazilian Conspiracy

I knocked on the door of the hotel room. It was opened by a red-haired man who nervously ushered me inside. "Mr Smith, so glad you could make it", he drawled, his American accent seeming strangely out of place. "Jaguar needs your help."

"I like a man who can get to the point Ressler", I returned. "You've got trouble and you've come to the best. Why didn't you use Jones, he's always popular in the motivation line?" I grinned, testing him.

"Jones had some.....unpleasantness." he stammered, "something about a public toilet. Some wanted to use him, but we knew he wasn't equipped.....not a man of action...like..." he left the sentence dangling in the air. We both knew how it would have ended. When the teams had troubles, real troubles, they came to me. I got things done, and when someone got in my way they regretted it. Lauda knew. Every time he looked in the mirror he would remember my words. "Accidents can happen Nicki."

I moved into the hotel room, removing my fedora and hanging it on a nearby hat stand. Nice room. The hat stand moved, shuffling apologetically. It wasn't a hat stand. It was a man, or a shell of one. Ressler waved his hand towards the figure. "Smith, I believe you know Mark."

I turned to face him. Webber. I looked into his face, noting how he flinched, unable to meet my gaze. "Mr Smith", he mumbled. Webber. No wonder I'd mistaken him for a hat stand. The last time I'd seen him he'd been a schoolboy, grovelling at my feet behind the weathersheds. I could still feel his pocket money in my fist. He glanced at me, rapidly looking away. We both knew what I was thinking, remembering. "Sit down Webber", I said abruptly "and do up your fly".

Embarrassed, he fumbled with his pants. "But it's not..." Got him again. He sat and for the first time I noticed a strange figure on the sofa. He looked about 12 years old and was wearing an aluminium foil hat, roughly moulded to his head. He looked at his feet, ignoring the others in the room, uncomfortable. "You must be Antonio" I said kindly, passing him a Mintie. He smiled up at me briefly and turned his attention to the lolly. "If you're a good boy, I'll give you a pencil." I said, turning my attention back to Ressler.

"Well you know the problem," he began. "Performance, consistency. Can you help?", he pleaded, his leprechaun eyes filling with tears.

Just then Pizzonia began to fidget with his cap, looking towards the ceiling. "I'm receiving another message boss, the foil's not working" he whined.

I moved into action. "So am I Antonio, and here's the message - you're fired!" He gasped as I strode across the room and swept the tinfoil from his head. Quickly, I searched his pockets, finding a small electronic device. Antonio tried to snatch it back, screaming "No! You don't understand!"

Ressler gaped. "What, what is that?" he asked, his eyes widening. I weighed the device in my hand. "Unless I'm very much mistaken, this is some kind of sabotage device." I returned.

Slowly, I pressed a button on the device. Miles away, in the Jaguar garages, mechanics leapt for their lives as Mark Webber's Jaguar disintegrated, wheels and body parts flying. Ressler's mobile rang. He listened, silently, then grimly nodded. "You were right Smith."

My crew entered the room, and held Pizzonia's arms. "Take him away boys. The mystery of Brazil has been explained."

"So it was my team-mate." exclaimed Mark, jumping to his feet. "Thank you, oh thank you."

I took two paces towards him, my hard gaze meeting his beaten eyes, taking in his chiselled jawbone. I slapped him across the face, twice, hard. "Don't thank me, you choker. Try to finish a couple of races."