by Nick Hale
Together, the three survivors climbed from the back of the plane into the cold night. The tarmac of the road had been chewed up like earth by a plough. The long trail of debris was mostly pieces of the plane, but Jake noticed one of his shin-pads, singed at the edges, discarded on the improvised runway.
Welcome to Russia, he thought.
Less than five minutes later, Jake heard the distant thudding of helicopter blades. In that time, his dad had managed to fashion a sling for Powell from a torn piece of upholstery. Jake found some bottles of water in the dented fridge, which was lying on its side on the road.
‘Wait here,’ his dad said. ‘I’ll be back in a moment. There are some things I need.’
He limped along to the remains of the cargo hold and began searching. What was so important? Jake sipped water and shivered. Finally his dad returned, holding the battered box marked ‘Personal’, just as two choppers with the Popov Industries logo touched down at the top of the roadside bank.
How did they know where we landed? Jake wondered.
One man, wearing a black suit and sunglasses, despite the darkness, ran over. Another four scattered to different parts of the wreckage.
‘Is anybody injured?’ shouted the first man as he approached.
‘Just a broken arm,’ Jake’s dad said, gesturing to Powell, ‘and minor cuts and bruises. The pilots are dead.’
The man nodded but didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘You will come with us.’
Jake’s dad seemed to deliberate for a second, looking first to the shattered plane, then to the helicopters up on the bank. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
Jake tugged his dad close. ‘What are you talking about? We almost died just now. That was Popov’s plane! His flight attendant killed the pilots – and she tried to kill you, me and Powell. Now you want to get into one of his helicopters?’
His dad breathed deeply. ‘We need to do as this man says, Jake. We can’t stay out here in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Yes, we can,’ said Jake. He pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket. The screen was cracked, but it seemed to work otherwise. And he had a couple of bars of signal. ‘We can phone the police. This needs to be reported.’
Popov’s man shot out a hand and grabbed the phone.
‘Hey!’ Jake said. ‘Give that back!’
‘I have orders from Mr Popov. You will come on the helicopter. Now.’
His dad didn’t say anything, but instead walked away and climbed the bank to the chopper. Jake saw there was little he could do but follow. Powell, pale and shivering, did the same.
After they were on board, the thug barked something in Russian to the pilot, and the helicopter climbed into the sky.
A sudden boom made Jake’s head jerk round. A blast of heat bathed his face as the main part of the plane erupted in a huge fireball.
‘What about the bodies?’ Jake asked.
‘The fuel tanks must have exploded,’ said his dad.
‘In the front of the plane?’ said Powell, raising an eyebrow.
Has my dad destroyed more evidence? Just like the napkin. No traces, thought Jake.
The helicopter circled once and Jake saw the devastation. The wreckage from the plane was scattered over a wide area in smouldering heaps. The ‘PI’ on the tail was the only part that seemed undamaged. Despite himself, Jake wondered if that was some sort of omen.
As the helicopter glided up and away, Jake couldn’t quite process what had just happened. So many questions. Was Helga working for Popov? She had to be. It was his plane. She followed his orders. But why would the Russian want to kill his new coach and scout? And what about Daniel Powell? The man who turned up at the scene of Andrew Chernoff’s murder, almost before the man had died. Was he Helga’s real target? It seemed strange that he was now doing a profile on Popov’s team after some of the things he’d written about the ‘businessman’ in the past.
Keep your enemies close, they said.
It was too noisy to think clearly in the back, and despite his mind racing, exhaustion overtook Jake and he only woke when the helicopter rails touched down at a small airfield near some low industrial buildings. From the lead-grey tint of the sky, he guessed it was nearing dawn.
‘Where are we?’ Jake asked sleepily. His body ached from head to toe.
‘The outskirts of St Petersburg,’ his dad replied. He was wide awake.
Powell was helped on to a stretcher, then wheeled into a waiting ambulance. Jake was escorted into the back of another. He sat still while a nurse cleaned, then applied mastic tape to the cut on his head. All the time, Popov’s henchman watched from behind his sunglasses.
‘You may have some mild concussion,’ said the nurse. ‘Make sure you rest for a couple of days, yes?’
Jake and his dad were ushered into a waiting limousine.
As they drove along an almost deserted motorway, Jake went over the details of the crash again.
‘Dad,’ said Jake. ‘The flight attendant . . .’
His dad shook his head. ‘It was a terrible accident. We were very fortunate.’
‘Luck had nothing to do with it,’ said Jake. He noticed the driver watching him in the rear-view mirror. ‘If you hadn’t been able to fly the plane –’
‘But I was,’ his dad said. ‘I don’t want to talk about it now.’
Jake remembered the carnage in the cockpit, the spattered blood from the co-pilot. Perhaps I don’t want to talk about it either . . .
Twenty minutes in, the driver spoke for the first time.
‘If you look to your right, you’ll see the new stadium Mr Popov has built.’
Jake wound down the window to let in some fresh air. The stadium was huge. Bigger than Old Trafford, Jake guessed. With its curved sides and soaring support stanchions, it looked a bit like a giant sixteenth-century galleon at anchor. But this was undoubtedly a modern building. It was all steel and glass, and as the sun rose over the hazy eastern mountains, it glittered like gold. There was still some scaffolding along one wall of the stadium, but otherwise it looked complete.
‘It’s incredible,’ Jake said.
His dad leant past him. ‘It certainly is.’
The car took them along a forest road and up a gradual incline. With the cool morning air in his face, Jake wasn’t sleepy at all now. They emerged into a clearing with a gate ahead. The driver must have pressed a button, because the gate swung open automatically to admit the car. A building became visible over the brow of a small hill: single storey for the most part, with a single second-floor turret at one end. The whole thing was built of pale wood, with huge floor-to-ceiling windows along the front.
‘Welcome to your new home,’ said the driver, swinging the limousine round in front. ‘Mr Popov hopes you find it adequate.’
Jake slowly exited the car to take in the building better. The forest stretched out below, but beyond that was the stadium, two miles or so downhill, still glittering in the morning rays. Past that were the apartment blocks and offices of St Petersburg, and then the sea.
His dad came to stand beside Jake and put his arm round his shoulders.
‘Maybe the worst is behind us. I hope you’re glad you came?’
Jake could only nod.
The house inside was a mixture of traditional and modern. The front door opened directly into the kitchen. Jake noticed an espresso maker, juicer, ice machine. Above the oven was an entertainment unit. Jake only noticed it when the screen came to life and Popov’s face appeared.
‘Hi, Steven,’ Popov said, ‘and welcome to your new home. I hope you find it to your satisfaction.’ While the sight of Popov filled Jake with unease, the crisp image of what he assumed was a videophone call was damn impressive.
Popov continued: ‘Karenya is your maid and will help you find your way around the house, and she can also help with any immediate problems. If you need me, any time, day or night, my number is programmed into the in-house systems. For now, rest and explore. I’ve heard about your accident. I am pleas
ed you are both OK. I’ve taken the liberty of providing some additional items of clothing and other things to make your stay more comfortable.’
‘Thank you, Mr Popov,’ his dad said, positioning himself in front of the screen. ‘When can I see the stadium and meet my team?’
‘I’ll send a car tomorrow at ten. For now, do svidanya.’
The screen went blank.
Do svidanya. The farewell greeting flashed an image of Helga, perched by the emergency exit, into Jake’s mind. He pushed it away.
‘Why don’t you go and look around?’ his dad said, surveying the stack of binders. ‘I need to do some work.’
Jake paused in the kitchen doorway. With the new house it was too easy to forget the extraordinary events of the night before.
If it wasn’t for their quick thinking and a hefty dose of luck, they’d both be corpses on a lonely road outside St Petersburg. If his dad was a killer, then someone else knew and was also trying to kill him. And without knowing who was pulling the strings, Jake was more in the dark than ever.
He decided to explore the house and grounds. The lounge area, lined with the glass windows, was sunk into the floor Huge, deep leather sofas surrounded a low slate table. Jake pressed a couple of the buttons discreetly embedded into a side-table. A motor whirred and a large modernist painting along one wall rose into the ceiling to reveal a home cinema system. Plants revolved to reveal four-foot speakers in each corner of the room. Experimenting with the buttons, Jakerealised the system contained all the latest movie releases and a catalogue of close to 40,000 songs.
His bedroom was located on the second floor, up a spiral staircase in the turret. In the wardrobe, Jake found several items: jeans, shirts and smarter clothes. All tasteful, high-end fashion. His mother would have approved. The drawers were stocked with brand new T-shirts and underwear.
‘How did Popov know my size?’ Jake muttered to himself.
There was even a football kit. Jake lifted the shirt up. St Petersburg Tigers, sponsored by Popov Industries.
Lining one side of the room, close to the door of the ensuite bathroom, were several shoe boxes. Converse pumps, Nike trainers, smart shoes in brown and black – and a pair of Predator football boots. The same model worn by Devon Taylor.
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.
7
The 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 rec
tangle 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?
