by Tom Palmer
But it was too late.
The ball was in the back of the net.
The noise from the City fans was pouring down from the top tiers like a waterfall.
And Danny was on his feet shouting, ‘GOOO-OOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL!’
To their credit, many of the Italian journalists came over to Danny after the game and shook his hand.
Danny was moved by that. He doubted he’d have been so nice about it if City had gone out.
‘I’ll take you up to the players’ lounge,’ Holt said, in that quick voice he used when he was on a deadline to file his copy, write his match report and email it back to England. ‘Then I need to get back down here.’
They walked in silence into the stand, then up a flight of steps.
Halfway up, Holt stopped Danny. They were alone, briefly.
‘Don’t do anything or say anything,’ he said. ‘Once I’ve filed, once we’re back in your hotel, we’ll sort this out. The Fo stuff. OK?’
Danny shrugged.
‘I know you want to nail him,’ Holt insisted. ‘But we need to be sure of our facts.’
‘I am,’ Danny said.
‘Well, I’m not,’ Holt replied.
‘I’ll see you up here in …’
‘Less than an hour,’ Holt said.
Danny nodded, walked up the remaining steps, showed his pass to the man on the door, then entered the players’ lounge. At the invitation of Sam Roberts.
FO
Danny stood on his own for the first few minutes. There were no footballers in the players’ lounge yet, just a load of old men in suits and women in posh dresses. Several people had looked over at Danny. They must think I’m the son of a player or something, he thought.
He was happy to be on his own, though. He was still buzzing from the win. Now City were in the final of the Champions League. It was beyond his dreams for a football team like City to reach such heights.
After a while several waiters and waitresses arrived with food on trays. Danny knew there was a word for food served like this, but he could never remember it. He also knew that this meant lots more guests would be about to come into the room. This was a well-run operation and he knew the food’s arrival would have been timed perfectly.
And then he felt a tap on his shoulder.
Danny turned, expecting to see Anton Holt.
But it wasn’t. It was Sam Roberts.
‘Hello, Danny. Good mood?’
Danny grinned. ‘Hard luck,’ he said sheepishly, not sure what to say to a player who has just been robbed of a place in the Champions League final.
Roberts lowered his voice. ‘I think City had the hard luck. That was never a goal.’
‘No,’ Danny said, agreeing.
‘Still, I reckon our big boss will be fuming about the result.’
‘The manager?’
‘No, Mr Fo,’ Roberts said, still talking quietly.
Danny said nothing. Although he was bursting to tell Sam Roberts everything. Any mention of that man’s name made his hairs stand on end.
‘What’s he like?’ Danny asked, tentatively.
‘Mr Fo?’ Sam asked.
‘Yeah.’
Roberts paused to think. Danny took the time to check there was no one else nearby. Most of the other Forza players were in another corner of the room. There was nobody who could overhear them speaking.
‘He’s a friendly guy,’ Roberts said. ‘Chatty. Generous. A good host of a party …’ Roberts’ voice tailed off.
‘But?’ Danny asked, sensing Roberts had more to say.
‘But I wouldn’t want to get on his wrong side. Or anyone else’s wrong side around here. He … he reminds me a bit of you-know-who.’
‘Who?’
‘Our old friend from City.’
‘Sir Richard?’ Danny asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Why don’t you come back to City?’ Danny suggested. ‘Sir Richard is long gone.’
And he was surprised by Roberts’ response. He had said it as a joke, but Roberts looked genuinely sad.
‘I would,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s something …’
‘What?’ Danny pressed.
‘Nothing,’ Roberts said.
That was when Danny decided to take a risk. He knew he could trust Roberts. The player owed him for saving his life and had made it clear he wanted to repay that debt. And Roberts seemed to have a lot to say about Fo. Maybe he could help. Maybe he would want to help. Even though Danny knew that Anton would disapprove.
‘Look at this,’ Danny said. He took out his iPhone and showed Roberts the image he had found in Fo’s desk. ‘Does it look familiar?’
He had to pause for a moment as someone came over to talk to Roberts. But Danny was pleased that Roberts seemed to be trying to get rid of them quickly.
He took the time to check a text he’d had from Charlotte.
279 replies from the UK. 134 have satellite. And, this is weird, Danny, 123 of them support Forza. Out of the 145 who don’t have satellite, 5 support Forza. Love C x
Danny looked at the figures again and again. This proved it. People with satellite were hundreds times more likely to support Forza. Danny had seen the subliminal images on satellite. That meant that satellite TV was being used to brainwash people into supporting Forza.
When he had his attention again, Danny showed Roberts his phone again.
‘Maybe I do recognize it,’ Roberts said, putting his head to one side. ‘What is it?’
‘I think Fo is secretly using this message around the world to make everyone stop supporting their local teams, so that they follow Forza. I paused my TV at home and it came up.’
Roberts nodded. And Danny realized he’d gone too far. He must sound like a madman to Sam Roberts, making up crazy stories.
Then Roberts spoke, still quiet. ‘There’s more,’ he said.
‘What?’ Danny asked. Was Roberts about to give him some information?
‘More stuff like this,’ Roberts went on, pointing at Danny’s phone, which was still showing the image. ‘Things I’ve seen around the place.’
Suddenly there was a loud noise.
Danny and Roberts turned to see a group of men enter. The City squad. And Kofi was coming in first. The noise was the applause for him.
‘You’re mates with Danquah, aren’t you?’ Roberts asked loudly above the clapping.
‘Yeah. I’ve been to Ghana with him,’ Danny said, loudly too, putting his iPhone down on the table at his side so he could join in the clapping.
‘I’m going over to talk to some of the lads,’ Roberts went on. ‘Are you coming?’
Danny shook his head. ‘I’ll wait until it’s a bit quieter for Kofi, then go and have a word.’ He felt shy of just going over and talking to the City players. He could talk to Roberts and Kofi, but that was because he knew them.
‘OK,’ Roberts said. ‘But we need to talk about that stuff later. Don’t go until we have. I’ll talk to you later. Yeah?’
‘Can we talk to Anton Holt about it?’ Danny asked. ‘He might do a story.’
Roberts frowned. ‘Can I think about it? Just for a few minutes?’
Danny nodded.
Then he watched Sam Roberts walk over to his old City team-mates. He was received with hugs and slaps on the back.
Kofi caught his eye and waved Danny over.
Danny nodded. He stepped back to pick his iPhone up off the table.
Then he was pushed. Only gently, but pushed all the same.
And a hand moved to grab his iPhone off the table.
Danny turned to try to work out what was going on.
A waiter was walking quickly through the crowd. With Danny’s phone.
He’d been robbed! He couldn’t believe it.
Danny started to push his way through the crowd of people. Jus
t as he saw the thief going through a door on the far side of the room.
FO’S CRONIES
Danny moved as quickly as he could across the crowded players’ lounge. He knew that if he went out of this room he was putting himself in danger. He would be away from the media and from other English people. But what else could he do? His iPhone had the image from Fo’s office on it. Without that he had nothing.
Meaning Fo might get away with it.
Meaning his chance to save City FC was gone.
He had no choice.
Danny went through the door the waiter had disappeared through and found himself in a quiet area, made to seem especially quiet after the noise of the players’ lounge. Straight ahead, there was a long corridor. To his left, a staircase down. To his right, a staircase up.
At first Danny felt like chasing after the thief, shouting. But he knew that would be a mistake. So, even though someone was getting away from him with all the evidence, Danny stopped dead.
Then he listened.
He had got this trick from a crime story he had read to his dad. A detective who, rather than run around shooting, or arriving in noisy cars, would arrive in places on foot, very slowly, very quietly, so that he could listen.
And, over the beating of his heart, Danny heard footsteps descending a staircase.
It was unmistakable. The rhythm of the footsteps. Faster. Heavier. Definitely someone going down the stairs rather than up.
Now Danny was running.
He hammered down the stairs as fast as he could. A tight corridor. No pictures on the walls. He wanted his phone. He wanted that image.
When he hit the bottom step he looked to his right and to his left. It was a white corridor with portraits of footballers painted on to the walls. There was a murmur of voices down here. Not the silence of the floor above.
Then Danny saw the waiter. Disappearing into a room at the right end of the corridor, the flash of Danny’s iPhone unmistakable in his hand.
Danny was just about to go after him, when the murmur of voices he had heard exploded into the corridor. Another door had opened and a group of men and women were moving towards him, filling the width of the corridor. Danny moved backwards and up on to the bottom step to get out of their way.
He had no choice. He had to delay and let the group pass.
They were all in suits.
All carrying files or papers.
All talking at once in fast Italian.
But one man among them was not carrying papers. And he was not talking. But he was looking straight at Danny. And his face was like thunder.
Salvatore Fo.
Fo scowled at Danny, but carried on walking. Danny knew why. He was with other people. He could not be seen to be having an argument with a fifteen-year-old boy. He would leave that to someone else.
But Danny knew that he would be feeling bad about losing. Really bad.
So Danny smiled at him. A mock smile that he knew the Italian would interpret as We won, you lost.
Danny stood and watched and did nothing. The two people at the front of the group each opened one of the double doors ahead. The rest of the group – Fo included – moved through them.
As the doors closed Danny saw a sign in two languages: LA SALA DELLA CONFERENZA STAMPA in Italian, PRESS CONFERENCE ROOM in English.
Once the group had passed, Danny jogged to the door at the right end of the corridor.
That was weird. The man he was trying to bring down had just walked past him, seen him and done nothing. And neither had Danny.
But Danny knew Fo would have someone else coming after him. He was the kind of man who never did his own dirty work. And Danny was pretty sure the Italian’s expression had meant something too. Something to do with his iPhone and the picture he needed.
Danny walked past the images of players. They were all greats of the Italian game: Paolo Rossi, Paolo Maldini, Francesco Totti, John Charles.
But he didn’t have time to congratulate himself about footballers he could identify. He had to get his phone back. And he had already lost a lot of time.
He gently pushed the door the waiter had gone through.
There was no light on. But the floodlighting from the stadium outside illuminated what Danny could see was a small room. Like a hospitality box that looked out on to the pitch.
Danny stepped in, fumbling for a light switch.
When it came on he was alone.
Had he got the wrong room?
Had the waiter gone through another door and made his escape?
Was there a way out into the stands?
Damn it! he thought. He’d lost the waiter. And lost the phone.
Then he felt a sharp jab in his back.
He didn’t react by moving. There was no point. He knew what this was.
He was being held.
At gunpoint.
No question.
A voice said, ‘Andiamo!’
Danny moved into the room. He knew what was meant. Move! Let’s go!
In the reflection of the glass through which Danny could see the stadium, lights flickering out, empty now of fans and stewards, Danny saw who had him at gunpoint.
Not Salvatore Fo.
It was the waiter.
And Danny knew he’d been lured into a trap.
CERTAIN DEATH
Danny knew he was in big trouble.
As the waiter had come up behind him, having tricked him into the room first, this, Danny thought again, was clearly a trap. And because it was a trap that made things worse than just being caught. If someone went out of their way to capture you, it meant they probably had plans for you. And not nice plans.
Danny walked across the room, watching the waiter’s reflection in the window. They were in a hospitality box, its glass front looking out into the stadium. But Danny could not see beyond the reflection now. The stadium and all its trappings meant nothing. He knew he had to wait for instructions. And they came quickly.
‘Sit.’
Danny sat, turning to look at his captor.
He was tall and wiry, with black hair and a thin moustache. He wore a black suit and a white shirt. And, in his hand, he held one of the large semi-automatic machine guns Danny had seen at Fo’s villa.
Not good.
The man had said nothing since ordering Danny to sit down. But Danny was feeling anxious. So anxious that he decided to speak. Because he couldn’t bear doing nothing: he would rather be running away from this man, climbing the floodlights. Anything but sitting here.
‘Why are you holding me here?’ he asked.
‘I am told to keep you here,’ was the short reply.
‘By who?’
‘You know.’
‘Fo?’
The man stared at Danny. But he didn’t reply.
‘What’s he going to do with me?’ Danny asked, leaning forward.
The man ran his finger across his throat and grinned. Then he said, ‘Wait to see.’ And the gunman abruptly cut the lights.
Danny closed his eyes. Now what?
Think.
That was what now was about.
Don’t panic. Calm down. Ask yourself questions.
First of all, how long did he have?
If Fo had been going into the press room it was likely he was giving a press conference. How long would that take? Fifteen minutes? Maybe less because his team had lost. He might not be in the mood to talk to the media.
So what should Danny do?
How could he escape?
How should he think about this?
Calmly, he told himself again. That was the main thing.
He had read about a trick in another of his dad’s crime books. A private investigator had always got out of scrapes by imagining he was someone else. So, if he was trapped in a room with a gunman, he would think about how another m
an, just like him, could escape. That way, the investigator had worked out, it felt less desperate, less personal. And therefore calmer.
So, as the gunman stared blankly at him, Danny closed his eyes and thought.
What were the facts?
A boy in a room.
A man with a gun keeping him there.
Someone coming in five or ten minutes who wants to silence – quite possibly kill – the boy.
A window out on to a massive stadium.
No lights on in the room, so no one can see them from outside.
Three large chairs and a medium-sized table. A bar of bottles and glasses.
Two doors to the room. Both doors closed.
Voices in the corridor.
Danny’s mind moved into a higher gear.
Voices?
Fo coming to kill him now?
No. They were English voices.
Danny looked around the room again.
What should the boy do?
Make some noise.
When?
Now.
So Danny jumped to his feet, picked up the table with all his strength and threw it at the window.
For a second it looked like the table had just bounced off the glass, but then there was a spectacular crash, as the window burst out into the stadium.
Danny heard the voices outside get louder as he saw his captor turn first to him, then the door.
The gunman was confused, unsure what to do.
That gave Danny another second.
He leapt over to the bar. He wasn’t thinking in a detached way now. There was no need. He was in the moment.
As the gunman turned back to Danny, Danny started his assault, throwing bottle after bottle at the man. Bottles of wine. Bottles of lager. Bottles of anything. And because he threw them so quickly, the gunman could do nothing. He couldn’t aim his weapon. He couldn’t even look up, as he cowered by the main door. And that was what helped Danny.
Two doors.
Danny threw three more bottles at the man, who was bleeding around his neck and face, and then burst through the side door.
He found himself in an exact replica of the hospitality room he’d just come from. Only without the reek of alcohol and the gunman.
