The Edge (16 page)

They cut across other cars, changing lanes with abandon and having several near misses. Popov kept shouting for the driver to go faster, and Jake clicked his seatbelt into place.

At the complex, the security barriers were down, and a security guard stepped out of his cabin. The driver pushed his foot on the accelerator and the 4x4 smashed through the bar, sending it spinning off to one side. Jake directed them to the medical centre and laboratories.

Popov was peering at his watch every few seconds, as if willing the seconds to tick slower. ‘Not much time,’ he said.

Jake was out of the door before the vehicle had even stopped, and running towards the entrance to the medical centre. His feet crunched on broken glass as he pushed inside. Last time he’d been here, he was running away with bullets flying.

‘Veronika!’ he shouted. ‘Vron!’

The place seemed silent.

He ran along the corridor and into the main lab. Empty. Popov was somewhere behind him shouting his daughter’s name. The Russian pushed into the rooms off each side, his normally greased-back hair hanging over his panicked face.

‘Where is she?’ he shouted. He pulled out his phone again, and quickly dialled. Seconds later, a faint tinkling tune answered somewhere above their heads.

‘Upstairs!’ Jake screamed.

He had one foot on the steps, when the whole building seemed to shift beneath his feet. A fraction of a second later, his eardrums felt the answering thud of an explosion and he was thrown back against the wall. It was like the sound of a car crash, only a hundred times worse. A pall of darkness spread over everything as smoke spread down the stairwell and dust and debris rained down on his head. The ceiling cracked, and began to fall. Instinctively Jake pushed Popov aside, and heard the Russian bellowing in the gloom. The ceiling sagged more, then collapsed with a roar. A huge section crashed down. Jake put up his hands to protect himself, thinking it could never be enough.

H
is body felt like a rag doll as the ceiling panels thundered down on top of him. He rolled into a ball to protect his head. It seemed to take minutes, but it could only have been a few seconds. He tried to suck in a breath, but there was no air, only thick smoke and dust. Bracing himself, Jake pushed upwards, and managed to reach a hand through the weight of debris on top of him. He cleared some room, twisting his neck to find something close to fresh air.

When he’d clambered up he saw his arms were streaked with blood. Above, fire crackled on the first floor. Not that there really were floors any more. Much of the ceiling had come down, and half the stairs had been blown out; the remaining portion hung perilously. Thunder-like percussions drifted from above.

Through the gloom, he saw shadows moving. Not Popov. These guys were dressed in shiny black body-suits, head to
toe, with gas masks. One pushed past the other, and reached Jake. Even before he flicked back his mask, Jake knew it was his dad.

‘Are you all right?’ he shouted, helping Jake stand.

Jake nodded. ‘Vron’s upstairs.’ His voice echoed in his head.

‘We’ll take care of it,’ his dad said, steering Jake away.

Jake pulled back. ‘It’s my fault she’s here,’ he said. ‘I’m not leaving her.’

‘Steve!’ shouted one of the other agents. ‘We’ve got Popov.’

As soon as his dad turned, Jake went back to what remained of the stairs. Kicking a clump of flaming papers off the step, he picked his way up, using the wall as a support. Sprinklers had kicked in, sending out a fine spray that would never quench the devastation of such a large explosion.

‘Come back!’ called his dad hoarsely. ‘It’s not safe!’

Jake ignored him and reached the top. The first floor was laid out differently, with a large central hall surrounded by anterooms. Half the floor was gone, revealing wiring and steel girders, as well as charred joists. Gaps in the ceiling gave a view of clear daylight above. The furniture had been tossed, and scattered fires burned everywhere. It was hard to see anything at all in the shifting clouds of rolling black smoke. Heat baked his face. His dad was coming up the stairs behind him.

Across the other side was a room blazing more brightly than the rest – Dr Chow’s private office. The partition wall wasn’t there any more, and a few of the studs which had supported it were hanging loose. It was obviously the source of the explosion. Choosing bits of the flooring that appeared most secure, Jake navigated a path across the central hall. Fragments of broken lab equipment and burning tables blocked his way.

‘Jake!’ his dad yelled. ‘This is suicide!’

Jake was almost there, but couldn’t see Veronika anywhere. He allowed himself a second of relief. Maybe she wasn’t here after all, but he had to be sure.

He placed his foot on what looked like a joist, but it gave way, and he plunged into the abyss below. His hands reached for anything and found the arm of a fallen office chair. It scraped across the ground and lodged in the gap. Jake’s legs dangled into emptiness, but he managed to hold on, and drag himself back up. The smoke boiled thicker than ever. Struggling to see, he pulled his T-shirt up over his nose and mouth.

He glanced back, and saw his dad sticking to the edges of the room, coming carefully after him. A few more steps and Jake finally reached the office. He saw Dr Chow straight away. She was buried under a heap of ceiling masonry.
Her eyes were open and she was dead. Jake couldn’t find any sympathy in his heart.

His eyes picked up a shock of blonde hair.

‘Veronika!’ he shouted, stumbling over. She too was lying beneath part of a fallen wall, her phone still clutched in her hand. Her eyes were closed and much of her hair had been burned away. Jake braced his legs and got his fingers under the section of plaster and wood that covered her. He heaved, and managed to toss it aside. But her legs were still pinned by a larger beam from the ceiling. Jake’s eyes were watering so badly he could only open them for a second. He shook Veronika and shouted her name. She didn’t move at all. Jake gripped the beam and pulled with everything he had to try to free her body, but it wouldn’t budge. He pulled again, but this time lost his grip and fell back.

His dad dropped beside him, and felt Veronika’s wrist.

Jake reached for her again, but his dad snaked a strong arm round his chest and held him back. ‘She’s dead, Jake!’ he shouted. ‘We need to get out of here.’

Jake fought against him. ‘Let me go!’

She couldn’t be dead. Not after all they’d gone through.

‘Jake,’ his dad said, pointing across the room where the flames were licking up alongside a pile of metal canisters. ‘That’s nitrogen. If it goes, everything goes with it.’

Finally, Jake’s legs started to work. But as they reached the top of the stairs, the flames suddenly burst higher. Jake and his dad fell back, shielding their faces. There was no way down.

Jake scanned the blazing room. There was another door, off to the left.

‘This way!’ he shouted.

The door was locked. Jake took a step back, and slammed his shoulder into it. Not enough.

‘Let me!’ his dad said. He took a bigger run-up and the door splintered open with a crunch under his greater weight. They were in a tiny office with a window, undamaged by the bomb. Billowing smoke followed them in. Jake picked up a chair, and hoisted it over his head. He launched it at the window, and the glass exploded outwards. Jake climbed on to the sill, and helped his dad up beside him. Below, Popov’s 4x4 was parked just off to one side. It was a long drop, but what choice did they have.

‘Let’s do it,’ he said.

Jake jumped a fraction ahead of his dad, just as a second explosion lifted him from behind.

The air blasted through his hair as he fell, and his feet crunched on to the metal of the car roof, making deep dents. Jake rolled off, and tumbled to the tarmac. Smoke
and dust spilled out over the road, and flakes of ash, caught on the wind, were carried off over the trees nearby. Jake saw his father sprawled over the bonnet of the car. He slid off weakly.

‘Dad!’ Jake rushed to his side, and turned him over. ‘Dad!’

His father opened his eyes slowly, blinking. He stared up at Jake, confusion creasing his face. Another black-suited agent crouched beside them, his mask pulled aside to reveal a young man with ginger stubble.

‘Are you OK, Steve?’ he said.

His dad sat up slowly, and pointed to his ears. A trickle of blood stained his jawbone. ‘I think my eardrums are busted!’ he shouted.

The agent nodded, and together they helped Jake’s dad to his feet.

‘Will he be all right?’ Jake asked.

‘Should be,’ the agent replied. ‘Come on, let’s get help.’

They rounded the corner, Steve Bastin limping for real, but came to a halt as they saw the true scale of the devastation. The front wall of the building had completely collapsed, revealing the chaotic mess of the interior. Fires blazed everywhere. His dad had been right: nothing could have survived the force of the gas explosion. Even Veronika’s body would have been turned to ash.

A small team of the black-clad commandoes was surrounding Igor Popov and his men, their guns drawn. Popov himself was covered in soot, but otherwise unharmed. When he saw Jake, he lunged at him, eyes bright white in his dirt-streaked face.

‘You!’ he hissed. ‘You killed her! You killed my little girl!’

His own men held him back, but Jake still thought he might break free. His mouth was flecked with spit as he cursed Jake, and the veins in his neck stood out like cords under his skin.

‘You got her involved! You brought her into this!’

Jake broke away from his father, who tried to hold him back. He approached until he was only a metre away from Popov’s straining face.

‘You caused this,’ Jake said, trying to keep calm. ‘You planted the bomb that killed her, because you had to prove who was boss. Just like you had to finish Christian Truman and his son in St Petersburg.’ He couldn’t prevent his voice rising to a shout. ‘Veronika would be alive if it wasn’t for you.’

Popov roared and fought, but there was no way he was getting away from his men. ‘Let me go!’ he shouted. ‘Let me go!’

They loaded him into the back of the 4x4. As they did so, he strained, shouting out: ‘I’ll hunt you down, Jake Bastin!
I won’t ever stop coming after you. I’ll kill –’

His voice was cut off as the doors slammed shut.

Sirens sounded in the distance. ‘We have to vacate,’ said the agent who’d helped Jake’s dad. The others were already climbing into the back of a white van.

‘We can’t just leave her,’ said Jake, pointing back to the building.

His dad tugged at his arm. ‘We have to, son. Come on!’

The Rolex, encrusted with diamonds and platinum, the watch Popov had used to track him, sparkled on Jake’s outstretched arm. The weight of it, what he’d done, what Popov had done to bring this fiery end was overwhelming. Jake ripped the watch off his wrist and hurled it into the burning rubble. He didn’t want anything to remind him of the mess he’d made. Even without the watch, Jake knew Popov would hunt him down.

Jake’s dad pulled him into the back of the van. Before the door shut they were speeding away. Distant sirens grew louder.

‘There’ll be a lot of explaining to do,’ his dad said.

Jake leant back in his seat as they passed an approaching fire engine. He shut his eyes and saw Veronika’s body lying crushed and surrounded by the debris of the lab. If only he’d been quicker. If only he’d figured it out sooner.

As he opened his eyes again, he felt the sting of tears. Not from the fire or the smoke, but from grief.

‘I should have saved her,’ he said.

W
hen he drilled the ball into the bottom corner of the net in the thirty-ninth minute, Jake didn’t celebrate, even though the crowd was going wild. He turned and jogged back to the halfway line, accepting the pats on his back from the rest of the team. Even Oz muttered, ‘Great goal, Jake’. They were playing a defensive strategy and the Australian had agreed to drop back into midfield so Jake could play up front on his own. His sudden change of heart had been a surprise, but the last few days had put things into perspective for everyone.

A week ago, playing against the US team would have been a dream, but after what had happened that day at the lab, all Jake’s senses seemed dulled. Krantz, grasping at whatever straws remained, had insisted that the game go ahead. They were all wearing black armbands, a symbol that this year’s Olympic Advantage camp had been marked by tragedy.
The papers were already saying the same arrangement next year was unlikely. Jake hardly knew what to think.

As he waited for the restart, he took in the rest of the packed stadium. Sure, most of the people were here to see the US first eleven, rather than the successful squad picked from the camp, but there were plenty of scouts and journalists too. Jake saw a couple of the TV cameras trained on him, and had to tell himself this could be the start of something really special. But his heart wasn’t in it.

The game restarted, and Jake’s team were 3–1 down. Not bad against the professionals. He saw his dad standing on the sidelines, a bandage wrapped round his head. Only one of his eardrums had been properly perforated, the other was only bruised. He gave Jake a fatherly thumbs-up.

The explanations had been easier than expected. MI6 had leaked news of Dr Chow’s testing to the police, and her death was still being investigated alongside the CIA. His dad had already assured him that the official finding would be an accidental death.

Another cover-up that got Igor Popov off the hook. Easier that, his dad said, than exposing MI6’s involvement.

As the half-time whistle sounded, Jake trudged off the pitch with the rest of the team to the dressing room.
Camera flashes were going off everywhere, so he did his best to paste a smile on his face. He was at the back of the group as they entered the tunnel, and he felt a hand on his shoulder.

‘Let’s talk,’ his dad said. He turned to his assistant. ‘Jerry, can you take the team brief?’

‘Sure, Coach,’ Jerry said.

Jake’s dad led him past the dressing room to a physio room. He held the door open, and gestured to the treatment table. ‘Sit down.’