The Romanov succession

Going into the ninetieth lap. He took his foot off the accelerator, easing for the turn. In the mirror Franke’s green panzer was still riding his rear end like a hungry barracuda. He saw the Mercedes’s nose dip when Franke braked. The Mercedes would have to drop to a slower speed than the Bugatti to make the turn; Franke would have to stay to the outside and he would have the inside to himself. That was how he judged it and he drove accordingly, braking hard when he came into the curve along the inside rail.

Then he heard the sliding scrape of tires and in the mirror he saw the green Mercedes’s snout yaw toward the center of the glass and he realized that Franke was still there, still crowding him into the inside of the turn, and he knew there was only one reason for Franke to do that.

Franke was going to ram him from behind, break his wheels loose in the turn and toss him tumbling off the track.

He hit the accelerator and straightened the wheel.

It sent him careening toward the outside of the turn. His outside wheels rode up on the steep embankment. In the mirror the Mercedes was still there, swaying because he’d taken Franke by surprise and Franke had been forced to correct his steering.

At the top of the turn he was bending in along the very outside rim of the track and his wheels barely had purchase. Either the Bugatti would grip or it would slide off the track.

The seat bucketed under his rump, off-wheels juddering on gravel. You couldn’t touch the brake because that would be death. You just had to hope the frame would take it, stay flat enough for traction. Anything less low-slung than the Bugatti wouldn’t have the slightest chance.

With two wheels off the track surface the Bugatti held the curve and he skittered onto the verge of the straightaway, accelerating hard and eating toward the center track.

That was when the green Mercedes behind him broke loose. Centrifugal force pulled it right off the track and he glimpsed it up in the air, tail high. In the mirror it executed a ponderous somersault right over the astonished faces of the Italian pit crew in their dugout. It slammed down just beyond the dugout, flat upside-down and when it burst into an enormous sheet of flame he knew there was no chance Erich Franke would come out alive.

But Franke must have known that anyway. From the outset. Because once he’d committed himself to the ramming attack there’d been no way for the Mercedes to get through the turn.

Under the eyes of flagmen and race officials the cars idled around the course one half-lap, keeping their positions until the crash trucks and firemen had rushed across the oval.

Through some blind trick of fate the machine had arced clear of the eight men in the Italian dugout and crashed directly behind it in a place where there were no spectators because from that place the roof of the dugout would have obscured their view of the race. No one was hurt except Erich Franke.

Less than twelve minutes after the crash the flagman ordered the race to continue.

On the ninety-fourth lap he passed the Invicta on the straightaway and bluffed an SSK out of the inside position on the far turn. The Talbot-Lago and the Auto Union went into the pits, out of the race. Streicher was in the open, trailed by the one-off-the-pace Alfa Romeo, with Felix closing the margin in grim earnest now because the bloody Fuehrer was not going to win this race; Felix wasn’t dead yet and there were six laps left to decide it.

High anger had infected the Alfa Romeo’s driver and Felix saw him skid too fast through the lap turn, roaring relentlessly in pursuit of the red Mercedes-pure rage driving the car, the search for some obscure vindication because even if the Alfa overtook Streicher it would mean nothing in the record books: Streicher was on his ninety-fifth lap, the Alfa on its ninety-fourth.

The Alfa swung into the far turn beside the Mercedes; the Mercedes gave ground gracefully and the Alfa shot out ahead of it onto the straight. There was something sardonic in the way Streicher lifted his left hand off the wheel for a moment-as if in benediction to the charging Alfa Romeo.

That left nothing between Felix and the German except space: a half dozen car-lengths which Felix made up in the turns, two steps forward in each turn and one step backward in the straightaways where the Mercedes’s superior power took it away from him. On the lap turn with two full laps remaining in the race Felix was within a single car-length of Streicher’s rear hub.

Then he was approaching his own pit dugout and he saw Sergio DeFeo standing on the verge making semaphore Waves of his arms.

Felix ignored the pit boss and pushed the fuel pedal to the floor.

In the far turn Streicher accelerated hard and his tires almost broke loose but he held his lead. But Felix saw his head cock to the side as he went through the turn and that meant something significant: an alert driver normally didn’t do that. It meant Streicher was tired.