Close Range

by Nick Hale

  Jake rolled off the bonnet, and brought up his fists. His blood was pounding. He moved sideways to keep one attacker in front of the other, and sent a jab at the closest. The thief weaved. Jake followed up with a feint, then sent a blow into the guy’s stomach. It connected with a satisfying thump. With a grunt, the thief doubled up. Jake was following with a knee to the face when the second attacker twisted and sent a roundhouse kick into his jaw. Jake had no chance. He spun round, lost his balance and managed to get a hand out before he hit the tarmac. His shoulder crunched into the ground, but he kept his head up. As he rolled over, he watched the black-clad assailants sprint off through a flowerbed. More car horns blasted.

  The security guards arrived at his side as Jake steadied himself on an elbow. The camera, with the lens broken into several pieces, lay on the ground in front of the stalled taxi, whose driver was standing amazed behind his open door.

  ‘Va bene?’ said one of the guards. ‘You OK?’

  Jake stood up and brushed the grit off his clothes. His jaw felt like someone had hit him with a sledgehammer.

  No, he thought, stooping to pick up the wrecked camera, I’m not OK.

  Who the hell were those people?

  *

  Back in the terminal building, the security guards were speaking with his mum.

  ‘I’ve told you,’ she said. ‘I don’t know who they were.’

  Jake held the pieces of camera in his open hands. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. I couldn’t stop them.’

  Her face fell as she spotted the camera. ‘Oh, it’s ruined!’ she cried. ‘Are you all right, though?’

  ‘I’ll live,’ he said.

  His dad arrived at their side. ‘Sorry I took so long.’

  Jake tried to catch his dad’s eye to see what was up, but his mum got in first. ‘Never there when you’re needed …’ she sighed.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ his dad asked, stepping forwards and reaching for Jake’s mum. ‘Are you all right? What’s happened?’

  She batted his arms away. ‘We were attacked,’ she said.

  Jake’s dad looked at the security guards, then Jake.

  ‘They were trying to steal Mum’s camera,’ Jake said.

  ‘We have many pickpockets in the airport,’ said the security guard. He motioned to the camera, or what was left of it. ‘It is best not to have such expensive objects on display.’

  His mum’s face flushed. ‘If you did your job better …’

  While his mum started ranting, Jake pulled his dad aside. ‘They weren’t pickpockets, Dad.’ He remembered how the attacker had vaulted over the luggage trolley, their clothes, the way they’d fought. ‘They were professionals.’

  His dad’s tongue played inside his cheek as he thought. He looked over at Jake’s mum, who was still arguing with the security guards.

  ‘Dad, what’s going on?’ hissed Jake.

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

  Jake’s temper flared once more. His dad was clearly holding something back.

  ‘And what happened to you?’ he said. ‘Who were those people you went off with?’ He added, sarcastically, ‘People from Sky Sports?’

  The security guards were taking some details down from his mum who stood with arms akimbo looking ready to blow her top again.

  ‘Very funny,’ whispered his father. ‘They were immigration people – just had a couple of things to check with my papers.’

  Jake could tell when it was no use pushing.

  ‘Come on,’ said his mum, walking over. ‘I’ve had about enough of airports for today.’

  His dad seemed only too happy to oblige, and muttered something to his mum about Italy having a bad reputation for pickpockets. Jake trailed after them, replaying the attack in his mind. Pickpockets didn’t wear balaclavas. Nor were they typically trained in ju-jitsu, or whatever it was. This had something to do with his dad’s mission, for sure, but it seemed to have taken everyone by surprise.

  3

  ‘Hi, this is Steve Bastin. I can’t take your call at the moment, but …’

  Jake hung up for the third time that morning. Why had his dad switched off his phone? He was probably doing some sort of covert work. But after all they’d been through in Russia he wouldn’t let himself be shut out.

  Equally, his dad might be in the studio, going through technical checks and preparing for his commentary duties on the Brotherhood Tournament. Either way, it didn’t make Jake’s day any less boring. His mum had woken him up at the crack of dawn saying she needed an assistant on her latest shoot.

  Hayley was in the kitchen of her tiny Milan apartment – Jake could hear the Gaggia machine gurgling from the lounge. This flat was in the Zona Tortona, an up-and- coming area of high-end fashion boutiques and cafés. Most people in the street below looked like they belonged on the catwalk, and Jake guessed that appealed to someone like his mother.

  Jake tried his dad again with the same result. He’d do anything to get out of this photo shoot. Standing around while his mum took pictures was not how he planned to spend his time in Milan.

  Hayley walked into the sitting room, sipping her coffee. She’d tied her hair back, and was dressed simply in jeans and T-shirt, which looked plain but Jake knew had probably cost hundreds of euros. ‘You ready?’

  ‘Do I have to?’ Jake asked, giving his best cheeky grin – the one he used to pull when he was eight and she didn’t want to let him out to play football. ‘I could just stay here and watch TV.’

  ‘No way,’ Jake’s mum said. ‘Your dad might be happy to leave you alone in strange cities, but I’m not. And I might need your muscles to shift a few things for me. There’ll be models there …’ She left it hanging.

  Jake saw it was useless to resist. ‘Well, if you really need me.’

  ‘Thanks, Jake.’ She ruffled his hair like he was a kid. He guessed he deserved that for the eight-year-old grin. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘it would be good to spend more time together, wouldn’t it?’

  She also knew how to play the guilt trip.

  ‘I guess so,’ Jake said, peeling himself off the sofa.

  ‘Good,’ she said, then pointed to a bag near the coat stand. ‘Since you’re such a strong lad, you can carry my camera case.’

  Last week he was dodging bullets in a rooftop restaurant. This week he was a carthorse. How things had changed.

  His mum drove like a maniac, even by Italian standards. She threw the little Fiat 500 round corners as though she was in a rally, finding gaps in the traffic where Jake couldn’t see one. For the most part, Milan could have been any other commercial European city, but Jake saw occasional signs to galleries and museums and other tourist attractions. He caught glimpses of the Duomo – the main cathedral – rising above the buildings around.

  ‘You’ll be learning to drive soon, I guess,’ she said. ‘You’re seventeen next year.’

  Jake gripped the door for support as she squeezed the car between a truck and a 4x4. If either had swerved, they’d have been crushed like a tin can.

  ‘I might ask Dad to teach me,’ he replied.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asked, glancing at him with the hint of a smile.

  They left the main road, and headed between tall office blocks.

  ‘Will there be anything for me to do at this shoot?’ Jake asked.

  ‘You can help dress the models, if you want,’ his mum said, winking.

  ‘Mum!’ Jake protested. He squirmed in discomfort.

  ‘I’m just saying, no drooling, no trying to chat them up.’ She was smiling a little. ‘These girls are professionals.’

  Were all mothers like this? ‘I’m not going to hit on them.’

  Soon the office blocks gave way to smaller shops, and the architecture became more traditionally Italian. Stucco buildings, washing hanging out across the street.

  ‘Seriously, I need you to be on your best behaviour,’ his mum said, as they stopped at a crossroads. ‘This Granble shoot is a big
deal.’

  ‘Who’s Granble?’ asked Jake. ‘Some up-his-own-arse designer?’

  ‘Far from it,’ his mum said, suddenly very businesslike. ‘Anders Granble owns the Granble Diamond Company. He’s South African. A very, very wealthy man.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him,’ Jake said.

  ‘That’s not surprising,’ his mum replied. ‘It’s quite a new company. He used to be in marketing at De Beers diamonds, but he’s gone his own way. Found new mines on the border with Botswana. No one thought there were any diamonds there at all …’

  ‘But they were wrong?’ Jake asked. This, at least, sounded vaguely interesting.

  ‘Wrong in a big way. Apparently, Granble’s rocks are flawless, which is rare. It makes them extra-prized and much more valuable.’

  ‘So this is about showing them off,’ Jake said.

  ‘The main photo shoot is tomorrow, at the church we’re heading to now. Then there’ll be a flashier show at the last football game of the tournament.’

  ‘England–Italy. At the San Siro?’ Jake asked.

  His mum nodded. ‘I don’t know if Granble is a big football fan, but he’s an astute businessman. He knows the money in football. There’s going to be a catwalk set up at halftime. Models will wear designer clothes as well as Granble’s diamonds. He hopes to get some of the players’ partners involved too.’

  ‘Oh, please!’ said Jake. ‘WAGs strutting their stuff? It sounds like a nightmare.’

  ‘Watch it, mister,’ said his mother, laughing. ‘You’re talking to an ex-WAG, right here.’ She turned into a cobbled square with a fountain in the centre. One side was dominated by a beautiful old church. She pulled up outside.

  The stone of the church façade was pale, with a hint of ancient redness, blushed like a peach. The gable was cracked, with a fissure running diagonally through the bell-tower.

  ‘Why here?’ Jake asked, getting out. ‘There must be a thousand actual studios in Milan.’

  His mum started unpacking things from the boot of the car.

  ‘Mr Granble’s team wants to base the campaign around the idea of worshipping the perfect diamond. It’s hard to get permission to photograph in a normal church, but this one’s not used.’

  ‘It looks like it’s about to fall down,’ Jake said.

  ‘This place has been here for two hundred years,’ his mum said, passing Jake a tripod. ‘It’s survived two earthquakes. I think it’ll take more than a photo shoot to finish it off.’

  The side door to the church was already open, and a man in a boiler suit stood at the side smoking. When he saw Jake and his mum approach, his flicked the butt to the ground and crushed it with his heel.

  ‘Buongiorno, Signorina Maguire.’

  ‘Ciao, Hector,’ replied his mum. ‘The lighting up and running?’

  ‘Sì,’ he replied.

  Jake’s mum him into the dark interior, where the air was much cooler. The church smelled musty and abandoned, and a bird of some sort fluttered across the beamed roof. Rows of pews and small chapels were arranged on both sides. The only light came from the slightly grubby stained-glass windows at the far end and along both sides. Most had bars covering the lower half inside. Choir stalls backed a large altar, and beside that was an enclosed lectern reached by a short set of steps. A mezzanine level loomed over the rear of the church.

  Several people milled around the altar end, and from the assorted wires Jake guessed they were technicians. His ears picked up the chatter of female voices from a room off at one side, and his eyes caught the flash of flesh through a crack in a door. That must be where the models were getting changed.

  He glanced away quickly, feeling his face redden. He didn’t want to look like a pervert.

  ‘So what do you think?’ his mum asked.

  ‘Uh … it’s creepy,’ said Jake, his voice echoing. ‘You sure you want to do the shoot here?’

  His mum laughed. ‘Just wait,’ she said. ‘Hector, can you give us some light?’

  ‘Sì,’ said the Italian.

  He barked an instruction, and one by one the lights flicked on. Jake squinted for a second while his eyes adjusted. Spotlights on the floor sent shafts of light into the roof space, picking out the spinning columns of dust. Rigged on scaffolds around the walls, lamps blazed.

  His mum clapped her hands together. ‘Good, huh?’

  Jake nodded slowly. The interior still looked neglected, but goth and cool.

  ‘It certainly is,’ said a voice from behind them.

  Jake turned and saw two men. One, the taller, wore an expensive suit, and had fair hair and a reddish complexion. His companion was dressed all in black, with what looked like military trousers and, despite the weather outside, a thick turtle-neck sweater. He was carrying a silver briefcase, which Jake noticed was cuffed to his wrist.

  Jake’s mum walked right up to the first man and they kissed cheeks.

  ‘Mr Granble, what an … unexpected pleasure,’ she said.

  Granble looked past her at Jake, and smiled. ‘Well, you know how it is, Ms Maguire. I wanted to make sure my advertising dollars are being put to good use.’

  His mum laughed, but Jake thought she sounded nervous.

  ‘Today’s just about getting the lighting right and setting up a few shots with the girls,’ his mum explained. ‘You really didn’t have to come.’

  Granble patted Jake’s mother on the arm. ‘Hayley, you know me. I’m putting a lot of faith into this campaign. Into you. Everything has to go to plan.’ Jake could feel the threat that lingered beneath the words, and bristled. Granble added with a smile, ‘And I wanted to make sure Jaap here doesn’t lose my diamonds.’

  So that was what was in the case.

  Again, his mother laughed nervously. Jaap, Jake noticed, didn’t crack a smile.

  ‘And who’s this young man?’ Granble asked, gesturing to Jake. His eyes travelled up and down his frame as though wondering what to make of him. There was nothing friendly in the look.

  Hayley beckoned Jake to come over. ‘Mr Granble, this is my son, Jake. He’s staying with me for a few days. I brought him along to help out.’

  Jake walked forwards and held out his hand. Granble tipped his chin, and looked down his nose. He didn’t offer his hand in return. ‘As long as he doesn’t get in the way …’

  His mum’s brow creased a little, but she managed to keep the cheer in her voice.

  ‘Right then, I best get on,’ she said.

  Jake held Granble’s stare until the South African looked away. He wasn’t going to let anyone push his mother around, even if he owned all the diamonds in South Africa.

  *

  Over the next half-hour more people arrived: two make–up artists, a florist, a hair-stylist and several assistants. Jake tried helping position things for the shoot, but with his shoddy Italian it was hard work. He felt he was just getting in the way. In the end, he settled for shifting unwanted pews to the back of the church.

  The stylists all went through to where the models were sorting themselves out. Jake wondered what priests would think of the world’s hottest women getting changed in their little dressing room.

  Granble had brought staff with him too, two women in sharp suits with faces like hatchets. It soon became clear that their role was to act as the liaisons between their boss and whomever he wanted to bother. Mostly Jake’s mum, it seemed. Jake had never seen her so anxious about work before. He realised for the first time what a big deal this was for her.

  ‘Mum,’ he said, after she’d spoken to Hector about moving some of the lights near the altar, ‘can I help with anything?’

  She twirled a loose ringlet of hair round her finger, and looked at something over his head. Jake saw out of the corner of his eye one of Granble’s pit bulls heading their way.

  ‘Sure, Jake,’ she said, biting her bottom lip nervously. She bent down and reached into her camera bag, and took out the battered camera that had been damaged in the airport attack. ‘Could you have
a look at this for me? I’ve got three days’ worth of pictures on here that I can’t afford to lose. It didn’t work when I tried it at home, but you’re better with technology than I am.’

  Granble’s raven-haired assistant arrived at their side ready with another question. Better to get out of the way for a while.

  ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘I’ll take a look.’

  ‘How can I help you, Marissa?’ he heard his mum say, her cheerfulness clearly fake.

  Jake retreated to one of the side chapels. It was dominated by a stone tomb containing the bones of some saint or other. Ragged prayer cushions were stacked in one corner, so Jake took a couple and sat on the floor. He switched on the camera. The cracked screen lit up.

  He scrolled through the pictures, but for some reason they weren’t resolving properly on screen. Patches came up from each picture, but not the whole thing. One showed just the left side of Jake’s body in the airport, but other parts were concealed in a haze of pixels. Was the problem with the digital file itself, or just the camera’s display? The only way to find out would be to get the pictures on to a laptop and check them out. But Jake’s computer was at his mum’s apartment.

  Outside, he heard his mother directing someone – a model. ‘That’s right – on one knee … Close your eyes …’

  Jake wondered what his dad was doing at the stadium. If that’s where he was. His mission in Milan might not even have anything to do with the Brotherhood Tournament. But why else would MI6 send an ex-footballer on the mission? It was the perfect cover. It had fooled Christian Truman in St Petersburg, and Igor Popov.

  A bolt of excitement sparked through Jake’s frustration. Had Popov resurfaced in Milan? Perhaps he was fixing matches, or something worse? No … Jake guessed Popov would be lying low for a while. He’d been cocky when they last saw him in Russia, but he wasn’t stupid.

  I’m wasting my time here! There’s something big going on, and I’m sitting in an abandoned church fiddling with a broken camera.

  Maybe this mission was something completely different. Terrorists? The Brotherhood tournament would be the perfect place to stage an attack, with the world watching. He wondered how tight security was at the San Siro.