Free Eye of the Cobra by Christopher Sherlock

took a scalding-hot shower, then turned the water on cold, feeling his body stiffen and resisting the urge to shiver. He stepped out and towelled himself dry. Then he slipped on the white robes, the karate-gi, tying them together with the black belt embroidered with the words of a language that was almost more familiar to him than English. That belt, signifying his status as a Seventh Dan, was the most valuable thing he owned. He had spent nearly ten years of his life earning it.
    Then there came the moment he always savoured, the feeling of emptiness, the memories of the dojo in Tokyo and the Shihan, the supreme instructor.
    He began with a series of warming-up exercises, then moved into heavier training for the next hour. After that came a session of punching against the makiwara, a long, sprung wooden plank fixed upright, its base planted in the floor. Then followed some work on a punch-bag that hung suspended from the rafters close to the window.
    Then he performed a series of katas, formal movements against an imaginary opponent that focused the karate-ka’s competitive and co-operative spirit. The swift, flowing movements were like a form of meditation to Wyatt, and his concentration never wavered.
    At six he showered again, then changed into his favourite clothes, a black T-shirt and black cotton trousers. He made himself a simple breakfast and switched on the television for the morning news.
    Through the procession of bulletins, he thought about his fight up the racing ladder: the careful instructions he had received from his father; how he had won the British karting championship at fifteen; the travelling he had done with his mother and father, the glamour and excitement of it all.
    Then the pain. The memories of the accident in Monaco. The turns of the steeply climbing road, the swift and deter mined gear-changes that took full advantage of the car’s power in the corners . . .
    But at that point the memories always faded, and the next thing he remembered was waking up in hospital, Estelle at the side of the bed, screaming hysterically as the doctor pulled her back.
    He gripped the sides of his chair. The pain was still there, the words indelibly etched in his memory. ‘You killed him! You killed him!’ And he had loved his father more than he loved anyone in the world. He still didn’t understand what had happened on that lonely mountain road.
    He thought of the German woman, Suzie, and the climb in Yosemite Valley, two months after the accident, when he’d made his decision to move to Japan. She had disappeared the day after the climb. He hadn’t been able to find out any more about her, who she was or where she lived.
    He left her memory behind and focused on the present. Now he was without a drive in Formula One. He had heard people saying he was past his prime - look at what he could have done if he was still in his early twenties.
    Staying on with Chase in an unreliable machine for another year would have been a complete waste of time. But he had expected a lot of money from his uncle as a pay-out for his share in the team - enough money to buy him a drive with the French team. But he hadn’t got the money and so he couldn’t drive for them. He knew he was running out of time, and the frustration was getting to him.
    He could go to the United States and compete on the NASCAR circuit. But that wasn’t sport to him, going round in perfect ovals. He just wanted to drive in Formula One. And no one would give him a drive. No one would take him seriously since he’d driven for Danny’s team.
    Ricardo Sartori, the number one, had always got the better machine. He’d nearly won the championship with it. And Wyatt had been far out of the points in what the outside world saw as essentially the same machine. Painful though it was, he had to admit that he was considered a has-been even though he’d won a Grand Prix in his first season.
    The next item on the television news suddenly caught Wyatt’s