by Nick Hale
Reading over the email, he thought of several new questions he wanted to ask. Small ones like: was Lester really the electrician who’d looked after their London house? Big ones like: did you and Dad break up because of the pressures of football, or because you found out something about him? But all his questions would arouse his mum’s suspicions – and if that happened, she’d probably fly straight to Russia and drag him all the way back to Milan. He pressed send.
Lying on his bed, Jake thought of another question, more important than all the others. Can I trust my dad?
Perhaps she wouldn’t be the best person to answer that.
Jake was awoken by the sound of a raised voice. His dad’s. It sounded like he was arguing with someone. Jake checked his watch. 3.14 a.m.
He shivered and climbed off the bed. As he padded down the stairs, the voice was louder still.
‘Negative. I’m not ready for that. The window is still open, and until it closes, I keep looking.’
He found his dad standing by the front door, his back to Jake. He was holding the phone to one ear and something in his other hand.
‘I’ve risked everything coming out here. Everything. I’m not leaving without a result. You need to back me up.’
His dad spun round and spotted Jake. A glass of amber liquid sloshed in his hand. Ice cubes rattled inside. On the table, just behind him, Jake could see a bottle of Jameson’s.
‘Listen, it’s late. I’ve got to go.’ He snapped the phone shut. ‘Jake,’ he snapped. ‘I need some damn privacy. Don’t sneak up on me like that!’
‘You woke me up,’ Jake retorted, ‘shouting down your phone.’
His dad knocked back the whiskey in a mouthful. ‘Don’t talk back, Jake, I’m warning you.’
‘Or what?’ said Jake. ‘You’ll send me home?’
‘That’s enough! I knew I shouldn’t have brought you here.’
‘Just a burden, am I?’ Jake shouted. He didn’t care if Karenya heard him.
His dad’s shoulders lifted, as though he was going to yell back, but then sagged. He sighed.
‘I shouldn’t have said that, Jake. I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. Now I’m trying to sort out a couple of new players from La Liga and Serie A before the transfer window closes, and the owners are talking about cutting spending – bureaucracy, that’s all. Can we forget this happened?’
Jake’s anger cooled a few degrees. He counted to ten while he watched his dad’s face. Getting into a fight wouldn’t help him find the truth. ‘Sure,’ he said.
His dad crossed the lounge and gave Jake a tap on the shoulder.
‘I appreciate it, son.’ Jake could smell the stale whiskey on his dad’s breath. It obviously wasn’t the first of the evening. ‘Better get some sleep,’ he continued. ‘Big day tomorrow. Facing the sharks.’
‘The sharks?’ Jake asked.
‘A major press conference,’ his dad said. And then, trying to lighten the mood, ‘Why don’t you come along and make sure your dad doesn’t get eaten alive?’
‘Yeah, OK.’ Jake went back to his bedroom, feeling drained. Before he climbed back under the sheets, he switched on his computer. No reply from his mum, but that wasn’t what he wanted to check. He quickly Googled the Russian Premier League transfer regulations.
As the details came up, Jake’s heart fell again.
The transfer window had ended a week before. There was no way that phone call had been about new players. Not from La Liga. Not from Serie A. Not from anywhere.
His dad was lying again.
10
The flashes were going off outside the car like muzzle flares. One photographer pressed the lens right up to the window, and Jake wondered if they’d catch anything at all through the tinted glass. Stefan drove swiftly along, seemingly undaunted by the press pack gathered around the vehicle. They were finally admitted to the peace of the stadium’s underground car park.
‘Thank God for that,’ Jake’s dad said, fiddling with his tie.
Jake thought his dad looked anxious, though he had no clue why. As a respected elder statesman of the game, and a regular commentator on Sky, he had faced the studio lights hundreds of times. Today, though, his suit looked uncomfortable, his eyes nervous and darting.
They left the car and were led by an escort through to a holding area near one of the larger conference rooms. As a young woman fitted Jake’s dad with a microphone and transmitter, the door opened and Igor Popov entered. Jake hadn’t seen him properly since their brief meeting in London two weeks before. Popov looked different here, his skin more tanned, his eyes less . . . hungry. ‘Jake, how wonderful to see you again! Everything at the house to your satisfaction, I hope?’
‘The house is great,’ Jake said. It’s everything else that sucks. He was about to mention the plane crash – the night they’d almost died – but Popov had quickly switched his attention to Jake’s dad.
‘Ready, Steven? The press are dying to meet the coach.’
‘Ready, Mr Popov,’ Jake’s dad said, standing up and straightening his jacket.
Jake followed them to the conference room. There were no seats left. The front row was all cameramen, kneeling with their equipment. Ranks of journalists lined up behind, all clutching dictaphones and notepads. Jake’s dad seated himself with the club spokesman and the assistant coach. A translator sat to one side, relaying messages from English to Russian and vice versa. Jake spotted Christian Truman standing off to one side. Popov joined him.
The questions started off tame enough. One of the journalists asked about team selection. Would the final choices rest with the manager or the owner? Jake’s dad replied charmingly that as coach he would always choose the team, but would be happy to discuss it with Popov, who was himself a very good judge of the game. Someone asked about possible rivalry with St Petersburg Zenit, the other big team in the city. Jake’s dad replied that the people of St Petersburg deserved a choice, and that ticket prices at the Truman stadium would be competitively priced.
Only when another journalist followed up with a question suggesting that Popov’s team should have started the season in the second league, rather than the top tier, did Jake’s dad looked flummoxed. The club spokesman leant in to answer, saying that the Russian Football Federation had allowed the move to maintain competition in the country’s relatively small Premier League and to acknowledge the obvious investment Igor Popov was dedicating to the great cause of Russian football. The PR person followed up with a request to keep the conversation focussed on football, rather than politics.
The next question didn’t need a translator, as the voice that asked it was American.
‘Mr Bastin, I have a question.’ Jake moved a few paces to the side to confirm the identity of the interrogator was as he suspected – Daniel Powell.
Powell was wearing his arm in a sling, but otherwise seemed to have recovered fully from the plane crash. He continued: ‘Mr Bastin, some commentators have expressed doubt about the relationship between one of Russia’s top oil barons, Igor Popov, and an American bastion like Truman Oil. For years, two such business entities wouldn’t even have sat across a table from each other. Now they’re working together in the “great cause of Russian football”. Isn’t that surprising, to say the least?’
A hush fell over the room, though camera flashes still went off, illuminating the unimpressed faces of the panel. Jake saw Popov speaking behind a raised hand to Christian Truman, who nodded gravely. Popov signalled with his eyes to catch the attention of the monolithic security guards.
‘Any answer?’ Daniel Powell asked hopefully, before two suited henchmen reached his side. They took hold of both arms lightly, but their body language was anything but gentle. Powell looked half-ready to resist, but instead allowed himself to be led away. He managed to shout one more question before he was taken through a door.
‘Did Andrew Chernoff advise you to take this job, Mr Bastin?’ Powell called. ‘Before he was murdered?’
Jake’s eyes g
lanced at Popov, who gave a curt shake of his head in the direction of the speakers. The PR spokesman stood up beside Jake’s dad. ‘I’m sorry, Ladies and Gentlemen, this press conference is now concluded.’
The translator relayed the message in Russian and the room broke out in muttering and groans. Jake’s dad was ushered out of the side door followed by Popov. Jake watched the crowd talking and gesticulating to one another in confusion. Jake was troubled too. Daniel Powell clearly knew something. There was a web of motives here – something dodgy involving Popov and his dad. Maybe Truman too. So far the web had claimed Chernoff’s life, and both pilots. And nearly Jake.
Just which side was Steve Bastin on?
Popov was furious.
‘Who does this man think he is?’ said the Russian. The vein on his forehead was prominent and a lock of his dark hair had fallen out of place. They had retired to an anteroom. Christian Truman, Igor Popov, Steve Bastin and Jake. Jake was pretty sure he wasn’t actually allowed or wanted in the anteroom, but he had followed too closely for them to shake him off.
‘I invite him here, to my country, and my stadium,’ Popov was saying, ‘and this is how he repays me. By embarrassing me in front of the press!’ He held out his hands towards Jake’s dad, who was looking at his mobile phone. ‘Steven, what should I do with this man? In the Soviet days, well, that was different. I would have . . .’
Popov stopped talking abruptly and fixed Jake with a stare. ‘I get carried away. Nothing can be done now. The game is on Saturday and then everything will be OK again. I’m very sorry, Christian, that this countryman of yours has been allowed to spoil the day.’
Christian Truman nodded. ‘That’s quite all right, Igor,’ he said in his Texan drawl. ‘We have plenty of problem journalists Stateside, too.’
Both men continued talking, but Jake’s dad seemed distracted. Jake watched as he turned away from Popov and Truman and checked his phone for messages. He tapped a few buttons and then shoved his phone in his jacket pocket.
‘Everything OK, Steve?’ Truman asked, finally noticing that Jake’s dad had disengaged from their conversation.
‘Gentlemen, I’ve just remembered I left some documents in the car. Will you give me a moment?’
You’re up to something right now, thought Jake as he watched his dad slip out of the room. Jake waited a few seconds and then excused himself as well.
The lift doors were just closing on his dad. Jake sprinted to the stairwell. He took the steps three at a time, vaulting over the rail where it turned. He covered the three flights down to the car park in less than ten seconds, and shoved open the door into the underground area. Half a second later, the elevator pinged, and the doors opened.
Jake ducked behind a column and tried to still his breathing.
He leant out and saw his dad stride purposefully across the parking bays. Jake’s blood was pulsing across his temples. His dad was almost at the car when another figure stepped out in front of him. Powell. What was he doing down here? Hadn’t security escorted him out? The American’s lips were moving, but Jake was too far away to hear what he was saying.
Suddenly Jake’s dad lunged forward, shoving Powell in the chest. The journalist crashed backward on to the bonnet of the car, with Jake’s dad’s hands at his throat. Jake couldn’t help the gasp of astonishment that left his lips.
His dad was leaning over Powell, who squirmed helplessly underneath him, one arm still in the sling. Jake didn’t know what to do. Should he run over and help? Let his dad know he was spying on him? His dad raised a fist.
Jake stepped out, but the punch never came. Instead Daniel Powell stopped writhing. Jake had seen his dad provoked before, on the pitch. Never, in all that time, had Steve Bastin ever raised his hands to hit someone. They used to call him a gentle giant. Despite all the abuse that came his way, all the niggling kicks and dirty tactics from opposing players, nothing could rile him to react. Yet here he was, behaving like a thug on the street.
Jake crouched low and darted behind a row of cars. Thankfully the parking bay was poorly lit, so he could stick to the shadows.
He peeked through the windows of a 4x4 and saw that Powell was now standing shakily in front of his dad, straightening his shirt with his good hand. Jake’s dad’s fists were still clenched on Powell’s collar. Their faces were three inches apart, and Jake had to strain to hear the low voices.
‘. . . a lot we have to talk about,’ Powell was saying.
‘Just stay away from me,’ Jake’s dad replied. ‘And my son.’
‘We both have a job to do,’ said Powell. ‘I intend to do mine.’
Jake’s dad slammed Powell back on to the bonnet. ‘Don’t push me, Powell,’ he shouted. ‘This is bigger than you, and you’ll get hurt.’
Jake couldn’t hear what the American said back, but his eyes caught a swift movement. Powell reached into his pocket. A gun, Jake thought. But it wasn’t. The object looked like a stick of chewing gum.
In a single, fluid motion, Powell dropped whatever it was into the side pocket of Jake’s dad’s jacket.
‘OK, OK,’ said Powell. ‘You’re right. I’ll keep my distance.’ Jake’s dad seemed to relax.
They separated. Powell held up his palm in a defensive posture. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Bastin. I guess my instincts got the better of me.’
‘Be careful, Powell,’ Jake’s dad said. The words were almost more threatening for the flat tone in which they were uttered.
Powell just nodded and walked off towards the car park exit. Jake’s dad stood motionless until Powell had left. Then he slammed his fist on to the bonnet of the car. ‘Damn it!’ he shouted. The sound echoed off the concrete walls.
Jake used the opportunity to make his exit. He dashed towards the stairwell, slipped through the door and hurried up the stairs. There was too much to take in.
First my dad’s lying to me, now he’s threatening reporters. Can this really be him?
Jake stepped back out into the conference room, where the last of the journalists and cameramen were clearing out, heading down to the pitch to set up for the practice session. His dad arrived in the lift a few seconds later. He was carrying a document case and looked surprised to see Jake.
‘What are you doing in here?’ he asked.
‘Couldn’t hang out with Popov and Truman all day. I got the feeling they wanted to be alone,’ Jake replied. ‘What took you so long?’
His dad grinned. ‘Y’know, couldn’t remember for the life of me where the car was parked.’ He tapped his temple with an index finger. ‘Guess the brain is getting old like the rest of me.’
He walked over and mimed a light punch to Jake’s chin. ‘Sorry if I seem anxious, Sport. It’s just the job. It’ll be all sorted soon.’
Jake decided to return his dad’s new-found affection and lay it on thick too. He hugged his dad, squeezing hard. It was an awkward embrace. His dad stood motionless for a second but then leant in and patted Jake on the back. But Jake had an ulterior motive. He slipped his hand into his dad’s pocket and felt for the object.
They drew apart.
‘Anyway, Jake, I’ve got to get changed for practice. Why don’t you go to the stadium cafeteria, get something to eat. I don’t think the main restaurant is open yet.’
‘Sure thing, Dad,’ said Jake.
‘And, one more thing –’ his dad started.
But Jake finished the thought – ‘Stay out of trouble?’
His dad grinned. ‘You know me too well.’
Do I? Jake thought as he watched his dad walk away. When he was on his own, he opened his hand to look at the object in his palm. A computer pen-drive. What was on it? And why had Powell slipped it to his dad?
11
Jake had no intention of going to the cafeteria.
The last of the players were heading out towards the pitch. A security guard stood outside his dad’s office.
‘Steve Bastin – my dad – said I should wait for him here,’ he said, trying to sound as
natural as possible. The guard nodded and waved him through.
Jake switched on the laptop on his dad’s desk and waited for it to boot up. None of this made sense. One moment Daniel Powell was about to get his jaw broken, the next he was handing over information to Jake’s dad. Jake was pretty sure his dad hadn’t noticed the pen-drive being slipped into his pocket – Powell had done it so covertly – so what was going on?
He wasn’t surprised to see that the screensaver was an image from his dad’s playing days. It was the team photo of the 1988 England squad. Steve Bastin, square-jawed and long-haired, stood in the back row alongside his team-mates. It must have been taken a few days before he was stretchered off with the torn ligaments that ended his career. Jake shook away any sympathy. His dad was no legend.
Jake inserted the drive into the USB socket. The drive contained a single pdf file, called ‘Elisandos’. Jake double-clicked on the document icon.
The file was an article from O Globo, a Brazilian newspaper published in Rio. There was a picture of a round-headed man with a neat beard. Beside it was a shot of a forty-foot yacht being towed by a coastguard vessel. The man’s picture was labelled ‘Prof. Hector Elisandos’. Jake knew a little Spanish, but no Portuguese. He couldn’t understand the article, but he recognised one name immediately. Christian Truman.
Jake opened a translation programme from the Internet, highlighted the article text and dropped it into the programme. It took the computer a couple of seconds to convert the article into English. It wasn’t perfect, but it gave him the gist:
Hector Elisandos was the world’s leading authority on tidal energy. His yacht had been recovered off the coast of Jamaica with no one on board. Recently he’d been consulting for Christian Truman on energy projects.
There was a knock at the door. Jake quickly flipped the laptop closed. ‘Come in,’ he said.
