The Driver by Alexander Roy Page A

at this hour.
    â€œMy God,” he groaned, his fiancée snoring in the background, “what time is it?”
    â€œSix-thirty New York time. Aren’t I a nice guy? One quick question. How do you say ‘enemy drivers’ in German?”
    â€œDie Fiend-Piloten.” Then he hung up.

CHAPTER 7
Die Fiend-Piloten
    WEDNESDAY, APRIL 16, 2003
GUMBALL -1
MORNING
    I periodically strolled outside for a cigarette and to play a game indulged in by car lovers—the identification, by sound alone, of approaching cars. The Fairmont sat atop Nob Hill, one of San Francisco’s tallest, and with every distant roar of large engines in the city below, my heart raced at what my foes might bring to battle.
    I strolled back inside as a large group of rowdy high-schoolers on a class trip was checking in.
    Suddenly, through a gap in the mass of writhing teenagers, I caught a glimpse of a girl so exquisitely gorgeous that I was stunned at my failure to spot her entering the hotel.
    â€œThat chick is soooo hot,” one teenager said to another.
    I hated the thought of hitting on someone’s girlfriend, more so if he enjoyed working out, especially if he had a bad temper, and certainly if he had a criminal history.
    But no single red-blooded American male could pass up a chance like this. I walked over to her.
    â€œIt’s getting messy in here,” I said. “Do you have a light?”
    I buried my lighter behind the keys in my pants pocket so that she couldn’t see the Bic’s distinctive outline.
    â€œOf course,” she said in the Queen’s English, bemused smile spreading across her face. A Gumball driver, I hoped, and not merely a rally girlfriend.
    â€œAlex Roy.” I smiled back. “Join me?”
    â€œKira,” she said, “and yes, thank you.”
    Even in sneakers she was nearly six feet tall, and with unexpected and temporary strength, I pushed and held open the heavy glass door, watched with delight how her loose black track pants tightened with each long stride, and followed her outside.
    â€œBy the way,” she said, turning toward me with lighter in hand, “my boyfriend will be here any minute.” But of course he would. “Perhaps”—her smile widened as I searched for a response of appropriately tactical nonchalance—“you know him?”
    Since I didn’t know who she was, I couldn’t possibly guess. “I think so,” I lied.
    â€œCharles Morgan?”
    I knew this name, but couldn’t place it.
    â€œKira, darling!” came a grown Englishman’s voice over my shoulder. “Who’s your new friend?”
    Once I turned, I knew that the English gentleman before me—a slender fiftyish man with short hair having just begun to gray, as understated, handsome, and charismatic as Sean Connery’s Bond in his prime—was in fact the Charles Morgan, grandson of the venerated H.F.S. Morgan, founder of Morgan Motor Cars, manufacturers of the delightfully bizarre three-wheeled Morgan driven by Peter Sellers in the 1968 movie The Party . Founded in 1910, the pace of Morgan’s design evolution was charmingly glacial—wing-fendered roadsters of enormous power mated to ultra-light chassis of wood, steel, and now, aluminum.
    â€œThis is Alex,” she said without hesitation.
    â€œWell, jolly good!” He smiled warmly, pumping my hand. “But I’m afraid Kira and I must be off! Shall we see you later? But of course we will!”
    This would be the last time I spotted a woman on a rally and assumed she was available, unmarried, unpaid and/or not spoken for in some way—legally or financially.
    Â 
    I love cars. I love sports cars. I love racing. I’ve even come to love watching car racing on TV—sometimes, and only for up to the ten-minute limit tolerated by any of my girlfriends. But Gumball wasn’t taking place on a track—a short, specialized loop with fuel,