Sudden Death (14 page)

‘You’re welcome,’ Jake said.

As the doctor was wheeled to a ward for monitoring, Jake and his dad were led to a treatment room. A nurse cleaned Jake’s wound. While he worked, neither Jake nor his dad spoke.

‘I go bring somebody for stitching,’ said the nurse in broken English.

As the door closed behind him, Jake spoke up. ‘Why should I believe you?’

His dad was silent for several seconds, then put his hand on Jake’s shoulder. ‘Because I’m your dad. And I would never do anything to harm you.’

Jake resisted the urge to shrug off the hand. He thought back to all the sneaking around and spying he’d done since they came to Russia, and even before that, in London. And his dad had done his best not to bring Jake with him. The only reason he had was because Jake had played on his sense of guilt.

‘It’s the truth, Jake. You have to trust me.’

Jake remembered the pain on his dad’s face when Andrew Chernoff had died in front of them. He remembered the fear he’d shown when he raced up the turbine ladder.
There was nothing false there. But MI6! A secret agent? It was too much to take in.

His dad slid his hand off Jake’s shoulder and held it out. ‘No more secrets.’

Jake looked at his dad’s face. The emotion in his eyes wasn’t like anything he’d seen before. It wasn’t the look a dad gave his son. It was an unblinking stare that said ‘trust me’.

He took the hand and squeezed. ‘No more secrets.’

After Jake’s hand was stitched up and he was released, his dad asked about Dr Dowden in the hospital reception. He was told the doctor was recovering on the third floor, and that he was allowed visitors. As they climbed into the lift together, Jake’s mind focused again on the incident in the wind turbine. It was definitely foul play. But who stood to gain from Dr Dowden’s death? Was someone trying to sabotage Christian Truman’s renewable energy initiatives?

The pen-drive. Hector Elisandos. Two scientists linked to Truman. One missing, the other almost killed. Suddenly Jake was flooded with guilt. Powell was handing information to another agent, his equivalent in MI6. He, Jake, had got in the way.

What have I done?

He was about to say something when the doors pinged
open on the third floor.

They stepped out and a tall nurse brushed past into the elevator. Jake’s nostrils caught the ghost of her perfume lingering on the air. His eyes stung and he coughed to clear his throat.

Strong perfume. Just like when . . .

Jake spun on his heels as the lift doors were closing. It was only for a split second, but he saw the nurse’s face clearly enough: pale skin, blue eyes, a plump lower lip.

It was a face he’d last seen leaping from a burning aeroplane at something close to 10,000 feet.

Helga.

‘What’s wrong, Jake?’ his dad said.

‘It’s the flight attendant from the plane crash,’ he mumbled. ‘We’ve got to get to Dowden!’

Jake ran towards the wards, with his dad close behind. He heard the panic before he rounded the next corner. Doctors and nurses speaking urgently. The squeal of wheels on the linoleum floor. Electronic whining.

It’s a flatline.

Half a dozen medical staff surrounded the bed. One was greasing a defibrillator while a nurse pulled a hospital garment aside to reveal Dr Dowden’s chest. A doctor shouted and everyone made space. The paddles were
placed on Dr Dowden’s chest and his body arched as the current was applied. Jake saw the flat green line on the monitor arc, then fall back to horizontal. The doctors repeated the procedure with the same effect.

He’s gone . . .

After the third attempt, the doctor with the paddles shook his head. He spoke a few words in Russian, which Jake recognised as the time. A nurse scribbled it on Dr Dowden’s chart.

The time of death.

J
ake’s dad hurried them out of the hospital by the stairs and into the car park. They took a taxi back to the house. Jake noticed his dad eyeing the driver suspiciously, and took the hint not to speak. He found he was shaking, but not with fear: with anger. He’d saved Dr Dowden the first time; the second he’d arrived perhaps half a minute too late.

At the house, his dad paid the driver and went straight through to his son’s bedroom. Jake followed. His dad pulled out a suitcase from under the bed and immediately began throwing clothes into it. His mouth was set in a grim, determined line.

‘Dad, what are you doing?’

‘It’s not safe for you here any more, Jake,’ he said, stuffing Jake’s jeans into the case. ‘I can’t protect you. It’s time to go.’

Jake grabbed the lid of the case and closed it.

‘What are you talking about?’ he protested. ‘I can’t go now.’

‘Wrong,’ his dad said. ‘You’ll be on the next flight to Milan.’ He yanked the wardrobe door open and began taking the shirts off the hangers.

‘Dad, wait,’ said Jake. ‘You need me here. Another pair of eyes.’

‘Wrong again,’ said his dad. ‘Dr Dowden was murdered. You almost died. This isn’t a game. Damn it! I
knew
I shouldn’t have let you come.’

There was no room for compromise in his dad’s voice. Jake had to think fast.

‘I think I know what’s going on,’ he said. ‘I think Popov’s behind it.’

His dad shook his head. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

Jake swallowed. ‘Have you heard the name Hector Elisandos?’

His dad stopped the frenzied packing and looked up.

‘No. What’s he got to do with all this?’

Jake’s heart was thumping as he told his dad about the pen-drive. About seeing Powell place it in his jacket pocket. About the article. He went over and took the small pendrive out of the toe of his football boot. His dad stared at it in bewilderment, then held out his hand.

‘You stole from me?’ his dad said.

‘I thought you were a criminal,’ Jake replied, handing
it over. ‘I’m really sorry.’

His dad’s face was flushed with anger, and Jake could see the emotions fighting inside him.

‘Do you realise what you’ve done?’ he said quietly. ‘If I’d known this, I could have looked out for Dr Dowden. He might still be alive.’

Jake felt a huge wave of shame wash over him. He couldn’t think of anything to say apart from ‘I’m sorry’ again.

His dad walked out of the room and shut the door behind him.

Jake sat on the bed and put his head in his hands. He’d messed up. Big time.

It was about twenty minutes later when his dad knocked on the door again. Jake asked him to come in, and watched him walk stiffly over to the window.

‘Jake, about before,’ his dad said, sitting beside him. ‘It was my fault. If I hadn’t kept so many secrets from you, this never would have happened. Dr Dowden’s dead because of
me
– not you.’

It was big of his dad to apologise, but Jake wasn’t going to let him take the blame.

‘Dr Dowden’s dead because of Popov,’ he said. ‘He ordered that woman to kill him, I know he did.’ Jake looked towards his half-packed case. ‘Listen, Dad, why not let me stay at least for
the game tomorrow? If you send me back now, it’ll only raise suspicions. Nothing can happen in the next day or so, can it? There’ll be eighty thousand people watching.’

His dad hesitated. ‘All right. But after tomorrow, that’s it. Understood?’

Jake tried not to let his jubilation show. ‘Understood.’ As his dad stood up to leave, he added: ‘Anyway, it’s nearly nine. I can’t leave in the middle of the night.’

His dad paused, hand on the doorframe. ‘Son, MI6 could get you to Antarctica tonight if they really wanted to. Sleep well.’

Jake woke the next day aching all over, but alert. Over breakfast, he and his dad discussed plans. If anything looked wrong at the ground Jake was to let his dad know immediately.

‘I want to know where you are at all times,’ he said sternly. ‘You do
nothing
without telling me first. Got it?’

Jake nodded. ‘Do you think it’ll be OK today?’

‘I hope so,’ his dad said. ‘Popov would be crazy to try anything. He’s got too much to lose.’

They left the house just after one o’clock, and were running late by the time they arrived at the stadium forty minutes later. It was a glorious day, without a cloud in sight. The programme sellers and fast-food stands had already
set up outside, and fans were streaming into the ground.

‘Perfect football weather . . .’ said his dad wistfully. For a fleeting moment, Jake wondered just how much he missed playing.

The driver took a private approach road. They reached the northern side of the stadium and found a temporary stage that had been set up in the VIP car park. Above them, the last bits of scaffolding had been removed, revealing a large rectangle of material suspended over the top part of the stadium wall, covering something. Ropes dangled either side and were tied off behind the stage. His dad explained that Christian Truman was supposed to be making a big announcement outside the stadium before the game.

A crowd had gathered around the stage. There were even more journalists than at the press conference two days before, as well as plenty of men in flash suits with glamorously–dressed wives and girlfriends. Christian Truman was standing with Igor Popov beside a podium at one end. Jake’s dad handed him a pass. ‘This is your ticket. Access all areas. You best get out of the car here.’

‘What about you?’ Jake asked. ‘Don’t you want to hear the speech?’

His dad checked his watch. ‘No time. I have to go and prep the team.’

As Jake popped the door, his dad leant across and made a fist. Just like he used to do when he came off the bench in big games. ‘Be careful, son,’ he said. ‘And stay –’

Jake smiled as they bumped knuckles. ‘I know, out of trouble.’

He shut the door and watched the car descend the ramp to the underground car park. He turned his attention to the stage. Igor Popov spotted him from the podium and gave a nod of acknowledgement. Jake had never liked him, but now he was one hundred per cent sure he was staring into the eyes of a cold-blooded killer. He waved back as naturally as possible.

Christian Truman approached the microphone and gave it a couple of taps. The sound reverberated through the speakers. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, it’s an honour to be here today at the inaugural match of this magnificent new stadium. Truman Oil has always been a big supporter of sports, and soccer especially represents many of the values dear to my company: teamwork, trust, determination.’

And money,
thought Jake.

‘But there’s more to it than that,’ said Truman. ‘Soccer represents the future too. Bringing people from all over the world together. This match will be watched on international satellite networks, from Austin, Texas, to Sydney, Australia. From Chile to China. More than ever we live in a global community.
The world doesn’t belong to one company, or one country; it’s shared by all of us. And we need to look after it.’

Here it comes
, thought Jake.

‘Our vital resources won’t last forever. Maybe not this year or the next, but slowly, steadily, the oil and natural gas our planet has stored over millions of years will run out. That’s why I’m here to announce that I’m closing down Truman Oil.’ He paused, letting the murmur of surprise spread across the crowd. ‘As of today, we have a new venture. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you . . .
Truman Energy
!’

On the outer wall of the north stand the great sheet dropped away, revealing a huge logo. Two letters – a T and an E – painted green and interlocked inside a circle. The symbolism was crude, but effective. Green technology.

The crowd applauded for a few seconds and cameras clicked away at the display. Jake supposed it had to be a good thing if a man as wealthy as Christian Truman was willing to change course so dramatically for the sake of the planet.

‘It won’t be easy,’ said the American. ‘There will be opposition. But together, we can get across the message that change is possible. That’s why, over the past two years, I’ve been working with the greatest scientific minds in their respective fields. Together they form the AEB, the “Alternative Energy Board”.’ He paused and nodded towards the edge
of the stage. Two women and a man climbed the steps and stood beside him, looking slightly uncomfortable in the limelight. ‘May I introduce Dr Farrah Evans, leading expert in the use of biofuels, from Cambridge University; Professor Nakata Rei, whose papers on geothermal energy have made her famous in Japan and across the globe; and last, but not least, Dr Sebastian Groeber, whose work with solar panels has revolutionised the way we gather energy from the sun.’

The crowd applauded again and the scientists clapped too, bobbing their heads in acknowledgement. Rei was probably in her late thirties, while Evans and Groeber were significantly older, both with grey hair.

Truman held up a hand to curtail the applause. He wore a sombre look. ‘Sadly, this is also a day of mourning. Two people can’t be with us. I had planned for the AEB to be a meeting of five great minds. But Hector Elisandos, the world’s authority on tidal energy, is still missing. We hope he is found safe as soon as possible. And as you may have heard, another of our partners, Dr Ian Dowden, passed away yesterday as the result of a freak accident.’ Truman’s voice became choked with emotion. ‘I worked closely with Ian, and he was a dear friend. He was looking forward to today even more than me. So it’s to him that I’d like to dedicate this celebration.’ He left a moment’s pause.

If only you knew
, thought Jake.
Popov killed both of them. So much for East and West as one world.

‘There will be a minute’s silence at the start of the match, when the AEB members and myself will gather in the centre circle with the players,’ Truman continued. ‘I call on all fans of soccer to respect it. Please, I hope you all enjoy the magnificent game we have planned today.’

Jake joined in the clapping as Truman and the scientists climbed down the steps. But from the corner of his eyes he saw Igor Popov and four of his hulking security men. He was whispering to them and pointing in various directions. They all nodded menacingly.

Five scientists. One definitely dead. Another almost certainly floating in the Caribbean Sea. Now the other three, the key to the AEB and to Truman Energy, were gathered in one place.