Sudden Death (7 page)

This is a bit creepy
, thought Jake.
But it’s pretty cool too.

He took a shower and changed out of his filthy clothes.

When he came back downstairs to the kitchen there was a middle-aged woman there with his dad. Plump, with curly brown hair. She was loading food into the fridge, and a fruit bowl was piled high.

‘Jake, this is Karenya,’ his dad said.

‘Hello,’ said Jake.

‘Hello, Mr Bastin,’ she replied with a kind smile. ‘Can I make
you something to eat?’

Jake didn’t much like being waited on hand and foot.

‘Please, call me Jake,’ he said. ‘And I’m fine with an apple, thank you.’ He took one from the fruit bowl.

His dad had spread papers across the counter and was reading them closely.

‘I’m gonna check out the pool,’ Jake said.

His dad grunted absent-mindedly as Jake headed out of the kitchen.

Five minutes later, he was on his fifth lap.

The swimming pool was located beneath the house, almost right along its length. Subdued lighting beneath the water made it feel like a cave lit with candles. As Jake swam, he noticed his body was covered in bruises from the crash.

His dad wanted to work through dinner, so Jake fixed himself a snack and ate it watching
The Bourne Identity
on the home cinema. After the movie ended, he surfed the listings, looking for something else, and came across a documentary about the tragic Busby Babes – eight members of the Manchester United side, managed by the great Matt Busby, who died back in 1958 . . . in a
plane crash.
Jake shuddered as he switched off the TV. He decided to look around the house some more, but his initial wonder had been replaced by persistent unease.

He found his dad sitting at a desk in his bedroom, wearing his glasses. He was stroking his chin, deep in thought. The light from a lamp illuminated the lines of his face. He hadn’t noticed Jake watching him. Jake coughed and his dad jumped.

‘Hey, Jake, you shouldn’t sneak up on your old man like that.’

‘I just came to say goodnight,’ said Jake.

‘Oh, sure. Have a good sleep. Remember we’re going to the stadium tomorrow.’

‘We?’ said Jake. ‘You mean I can come too?’

His dad smiled. ‘Of course you can. You’ll be bored out of your mind here.’

Jake’s heart leapt. ‘Awesome!’ Sure, he wanted to see the stadium and meet the team, but more importantly, he wanted answers. He wouldn’t find them in their plush new home. People had started dying the minute they got mixed up with the Russian billionaire and his new football team. Maybe the stadium was the right place for Jake to find those answers.

T
he limousine arrived at ten on the dot and Jake was already outside. The driver was the same guy who’d brought them to the house the day before, but today he introduced himself as Stefan. They cruised down the hill to the stadium, under a clear blue sky. Jake had slept like a log and was feeling great. Even his dad seemed excited as the limousine banked into the stadium’s underground car park.

‘This place cost four hundred million to put together,’ his dad said.

One of Popov’s representatives, a thin, suited man called Yvgeny, met them and directed them to an elevator. There were four floors in addition to the underground car park, numbered one to three, and then R. Yvgeny explained that the fourth floor was the exclusive restaurant and helipad, and there was a reception for corporate guests on floor 1. Forty five-star hotel rooms were situated behind the south stand.

The elevator carried them to the second floor and into the area behind the south stand. It was like an office complex, with soft music playing in the corridors, potted-plants lining the walls, and doors leading off to the executive boxes like meeting rooms. There were a few signs that the stadium wasn’t quite finished: electricians up ladders and fiddling with wiring in the walls; the general smell of fresh paint.

‘I’ve got back-to-back meetings today,’ said Jake’s dad, ‘so you’ll have to keep yourself busy.’

‘No problem,’ Jake said.

‘And don’t get into trouble,’ warned his dad. ‘Remember we’re Mr Popov’s guests. If you’re bored, Stefan can take you back to the house.’

Bored?
It would take him most of the day just to explore the second floor.

Jake’s dad walked off down the corridor with Yvgeny. Jake was alone. He slipped into one of the boxes. There was a boardroom table and comfy seating. Slatted blinds were lowered over the viewing panel, so Jake flicked the switch to make them retract. As the stadium was revealed, his breath caught in his throat.

It was immense. The stands on both sides were three tiers high. 80,000 capacity, his dad had said. The far stand was dramatically steep, a traditional Kop design, meant to create
a thunder of sound when the fans were cheering. There were ten wide passages leading into the stands, four down each side and one at each end. These would filter the fans from the gates and holding areas to their seats. Jake had never seen a ground so empty before. Despite the silence, the place felt heavy with the weight of potential – all the highs and lows it would witness. It was immense.

To the left, above one corner of the stands, was a single glass-fronted structure. It was perched on steel supports, like a giant bird-box. Jake wondered what it could be.

Opposite, above the hotel rooms Yvgeny had mentioned, was the restaurant. Jake could just about make out the tables inside. What a view! A blue and red helicopter suddenly appeared above the stadium and descended on to a landing pad beside the restaurant, the rotors spinning to a stop. It looked like a bird, perched so high up in the stadium.

Someone certainly wants people to see them arrive
, thought Jake.

The pitch was a rectangle of lush, flawless green. Two groundsmen were walking rollers along either side, laying down the painted markings. Only one goal was erected, the other lying flat at the opposite end. Jake could only imagine what the ground would be like when it was full; what it’d be like playing in front of that many people. Scoring and hearing
the cheers. It gave him goosebumps just thinking about it.

He left the room and padded along the corridor. Most of the spectator boxes were of a similar design, give or take a few metres in size. One was particularly impressive: twice the size of the others, executive leather seating, modern art on the walls. Jake guessed it must be for the VIPs. The door said it was called the Truman Suite.

Jake wandered out into the stands, where the regular spectators would sit, then down the passage that led to the concrete holding areas, toilets and bars that would cater for them before the match and at half-time. His footsteps echoed as he walked.

Further down still, he came to the hub of the ground – the physio rooms and player facilities: a new gym, the running machines and weight apparatus all spotless; the home team dressing room, the door marked with the Tigers’ crest. He walked on until he found what he was looking for.

The Tunnel.

Jake’s footsteps quickened into a jog as he imagined himself running out on to the pitch on match day. The rectangle of light grew larger as he burst through on to the sidelines. The morning sun was peeking over the tops of the stands. The coaches’ dugouts were either side. Deafening silence, interrupted only by the squeak of the roller laying
down the throw-in lines. An old Russian with a cigarette in his mouth gave Jake a nod of greeting, then trundled on.

Jake walked out on to the springy turf, turning round and round to take it all in.

What a ground!

His roving eye caught the windows to the offices set into the tiers. A man like Popov could run his whole empire from a place like this, under the guise of simply watching his football team play. Jake felt the now-familiar prickles of curiosity and confusion. Was all of this just a front? He had promised to stay out of trouble, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do a
little
investigating, right?

Dad’s definitely here for something other than coaching. I want to know what it is.

He took the elevator to the third floor. This was clearly the administrative hub of the stadium. Glass-panelled walls formed offices, and there were computers and desks everywhere. Three people sat hunched over keyboards in one of the offices and Jake heard the gentle tapping of their fingers. The smell of strong coffee reached his nostrils.

No sign of his dad.

Jake headed in the opposite direction, taking a corridor lined with meeting rooms. The floor was carpeted and there were pictures on the walls. He reached a dead end.

He was about to head back when he noticed another set of stairs, with a door at the top. Curiosity got the better of him and he went up. There was a gold panel on the door.
IGOR POPOV, CHAIRMAN.
There was a video camera angled at the door from above, but Jake saw that the connecting wire was hanging free.

I guess Popov’s not worried about security.

Jake knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again.

His dad’s words were fresh in his head.
Don’t get into any trouble.

But it was too good an opportunity to pass up. If Popov was his enemy he wanted to know about it. If his dad was hiding something he wanted to know what it was. And if his dad and the Russian were in on something together, then they were crooks, and anything Jake did to uncover their crimes was fair game.

A voice in his head said:
Turn round, Jake. He is your father. Go back downstairs.

He ignored it, and opened the door.

Inside, Popov’s office looked quite old-fashioned: a large leather-topped desk, neat piles of papers, a spot-lamp, a closed laptop computer, an ashtray. There was a door to a small anteroom, where Jake guessed there would be a toilet. A bookshelf, filing cabinets and low cupboards lined the
wall nearest to the door. The far wall was a massive window with vertical blinds. When he peeked through the blinds, he realised where he was: the suspended room he’d seen from the stands below.

Jake closed the door behind him. There was a series of black and white pictures along the wall showing the stadium at various stages of completion. The first showed what looked like a disused factory or power station. In the next shot it was being levelled with demolition balls, then foundations were being put in, then you could see the gradual rising of the new stadium. The final picture, in colour, showed Popov standing on the pitch itself. Beside him was a face that Jake would know anywhere: Devon Taylor. He was holding up a St Petersburg shirt with his name on the back. There was another, older man beside him who Jake didn’t recognise.

He heard a noise in the hallway. A voice. ‘. . . my thoughts exactly.’

It was Popov.

Jake’s insides squirmed as he surveyed his options.

There were none.

I
n half a second Jake was at the window. He pulled aside the drawn vertical blinds and slid the huge pane across, then using the desk chair, he hopped up on to the sill and climbed out. The ledge was only about four inches wide and extended a few inches either side of the window. Reaching up, he found the top of the window frame with his fingertips. Jake looked down and immediately wished he hadn’t. The office overlooked the pitch and the drop to the stands below was around fifty feet, if not more. He pulled the window closed, leaving a tiny crack open so he could hear what was going on inside. Thankfully the blind concealed him.

He heard the office door open, and Popov’s voice. ‘Of course it will be ready on time, Christian. My people know the price of failure, I assure you.’

Jake edged further out to the end of the sill. Sweat broke out across his forehead. His throat was dry.

‘Oh, I know the
price
of failure,’ said a deep American voice. ‘After all, I’m paying for this, my Russian friend.’

Popov gave a mirthless laugh. ‘As you never tire of reminding me. Cigar?’

Jake leant across slightly to peer inside. Popov had his back to the window, and the man opposite was using a cigar cutter to chop off the end of a Cuban cigar almost a foot long. Jake immediately recognised him as the man in the photo with Devon and Popov.

Christian Truman,
Jake recalled. CEO of Truman Oil. The stadium sponsor.

‘And everything is arranged for the opening match,’ said the American, evidently chewing on his cigar.

‘Absolutely,’ Popov replied. ‘The American All-Stars will land mid-week and use the FC Zenit training ground. The Tigers, with Devon of course, are all free of injury. It should be a fantastic game to open the stadium.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Truman impatiently. ‘I’m sure the spectacle will be fine, but the detailed matters . . . the announcement about Truman Oil . . .’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Popov. ‘All of Russia’s top business leaders will be here, as will the scientists.
Nothing
can go wrong.’

Jake felt himself frown. Scientists? Just
what
was going on here?

Truman snorted. ‘Igor,’ he said. ‘If there’s one thing thirty years in business have taught me, it’s that something can
always
go wrong.’

‘Tell me, Christian,’ said Popov, ‘would you like to meet the new coach, Steve Bastin?’

Jake pressed closer to the glass to hear.

‘The English footballer?’ Truman replied.

‘Yes, he arrived yesterday. A great player in his day. A great man.’

Truman nodded. ‘By all means, lead the way,’ he said.

A moment later, he saw a hand a few feet away through the glass. Popov closed the window completely, and his voice became muffled. ‘Remind me to sack the cleaner, Christian.’

Oh no!
There was no way back inside the office.

Jake heard the sound of a door closing and waited. Silence. When he was sure they had gone, Jake edged back along the sill, blood pounding across his temples like a jackhammer. As he expected, there was no way he could get back into the office – the window was securely fastened from the inside. He thought about breaking it, but then he was sure to be discovered. He wasn’t even sure if he’d be able to break it and keep his balance. The glass was double-glazed.