by Nick Hale
But Jake couldn’t relax. He’s wrong. I know he is. He felt helpless. But who could he tell? Not the security teams. They all worked for Popov. There was only one person who could help: Christian Truman. He could step up security for himself and the AEB.
Jake sprinted to the elevators and punched the button for the third floor. The lift was full of well-dressed table staff moving supplies up to the restaurant. He almost collided with an attractive waitress carrying a tray of glasses filled with bubbling champagne. As the lift ascended he was plagued by doubts. What would his dad say if he found out what Jake was doing? He’d been so angry with Powell when he risked blowing their cover. Wasn’t Jake doing the same thing now?
But Jake wasn’t going to sit back and let more innocent people die. Not like Dr Dowden.
When the lift doors opened he found the office-like space he had been in a few days before. Only now it was teeming with activity. Behind the glass partitions workers tapped away at keyboards and babbled into headphones. The whole operations team behind the broadcasting and organisation of the game going on below. No one batted an eyelid at the boy hurrying along the corridor. A security guard stood at the end of the passage leading to Popov’s office. He placed his bulk in the centre of the carpet.
‘Can I help you?’ he said in an American accent.
‘I need to see Mr Truman,’ replied Jake.
‘He doesn’t want to be disturbed,’ said the man. His voice and body language left little room to negotiate.
‘Can you at least tell him Jake Bastin is here to see him? I’m the coach’s son.’ He flashed his pass. ‘It’s an emergency.’
The security guard stared at the card. ‘Wait here,’ he said.
He lumbered off towards the door, knocked twice, then entered. A few seconds later he re-emerged, his face impassive.
‘Mr Truman will see you,’ said the guard, stepping aside.
Jake squeezed past and hurried into the office. Christian Truman was sitting in Popov’s leather chair, a cigar fixed in his jaws. ‘Hey, Jake, shut the door. What can I do for you?’
Jake started speaking before the door clicked shut. ‘Mr Truman, I think the AEB scientists are in danger. I think someone is going to kill them –’
‘Whoa!’ Truman interrupted, taking out his cigar. ‘Steady on there, kid. What do you mean?’
Behind him, Jake could see the stadium alive with flags and banners. Muted cheering penetrated the thick glass viewing panel of the office.
Jake tried to explain, without blowing his father’s cover, but it was hard. Almost impossible. Truman wore a patient smile as Jake came to the end of his reasoning.
‘Kid, Dr Dowden was a freak accident,’ he replied. ‘A tragedy, yes. Unusual, yes. But he wasn’t killed. The doctors said he died from a hypothermic reaction.’
‘But what about Hector Elisandos?’
‘Missing,’ said Truman. ‘But he isn’t dead. He’s probably on the run from the tax officials, for all I know. These South Americans. They’re great fun, but the politics down there . . .’ He shook his head, as if that finished his sentence.
‘Aren’t you listening?’ said Jake. ‘Powell, the journalist, he died too.’
‘Yes, he did,’ said Truman. ‘But the papers in the States are saying he went through a bad divorce. Lost custody of his kids. It’s awful when that happens, but it can drive people to do desperate things. Sometimes suicide seems like the only way out.’
It was like talking to a brick wall. ‘Mr Truman, I really think you should at least be concerned.’
Truman half turned and gestured out on to the pitch. ‘Jake, this is a massive day, not just for Truman Oil – I mean Truman Energy – but also for our relationships with the former Eastern Bloc. I’m not going to cancel anything.’
Jake didn’t know what else he could do, or say. Unless . . .
‘It’s not just me,’ said Jake. ‘My dad’s worried, too.’
Truman took a very deep breath and shook his head in what looked like dismay.
Now he’s taking it seriously, Jake thought.
‘You spoke to your dad about this?’
Jake nodded eagerly. ‘Yeah. He sent me.’ The lie tripped out easily. ‘He couldn’t come himself because he had to stay with the players.’
‘OK, Jake. OK. Let me handle this . . .’
As he spoke the words, Jake’s mouth went dry. Truman opened his desk drawer and even before he raised his hand, Jake knew what he would be holding.
A gun.
As Jake stood still. Truman’s thumb jabbed a button on the desk intercom. ‘This is Truman. We’ve been compromised. Steve Bastin needs to be . . . relieved of his position.’
17
Jake had seen this scene in the movies a thousand times, but that was nothing compared to the reality of staring down at the barrel of a gun. Fear spread like cold fire over his skin. He wanted to run, to warn his father, but there was nowhere for him to go. The gun seemed to pin him to the spot.
‘I’m sorry, Jake,’ said Truman. His gravelly voice had lost all its warmth.
Jake couldn’t work it out. ‘What . . . I mean . . . What’s going on?’
‘You couldn’t keep your nose out, that’s what,’ said Truman. ‘I tried to give you an out. I tried to be a good guy. But you wouldn’t let me . . . You just had to keep on meddling. Well, you’ve kicked your last soccer ball, kid.’
‘It was you all along,’ said Jake. His eyes darted over the office, looking for something to use as a weapon. Nothing.
Truman chuckled. ‘I’m afraid I can’t take all the credit, Jake. I don’t like to get my own hands too dirty, so I pay professionals for the nasty stuff.’
‘Dr Dowden?’ said Jake.
‘And Elisandos,’ replied Truman. ‘Once he was in the water bleeding, I heard the sharks did the rest.’
Jake shivered inwardly. ‘But why? You need those guys. Without their expertise Truman Energy will fail.’
‘And that’s exactly what I want it to do.’ Truman grinned. ‘Have you any idea how much money the international community is willing to donate to renewable energy initiatives like mine? Billions. Governments all over the world, the US especially, have found ways to get round the carbon targets, or straight-up ignore them. All I have to do is a good job of acting like I give a damn, and I get money thrown at me. It’s simple and brilliant.’
Now Jake understood. ‘So you get all the cash, but don’t deliver the goods.’
Truman laughed loud, deep from his belly, and the gun wobbled off target. Jake backed up slightly, but Truman snapped the barrel back on to him.
‘Bingo,’ said Truman. ‘When a Texan comes along and says he wants to change – really change – well, let’s just say, they’ve been falling over their feet to give me their dollars.’
It all made sense. ‘You’re like a parasite,’ said Jake. ‘Leeching off good will. You have no intention of delivering on your promises.’
‘Of course I don’t,’ said Truman. ‘The future’s oil. Always has been. Always will be.’
‘The oil is running out,’ said Jake. ‘It has seventy, a hundred years at most.’
‘That’s good enough for me and my nearest,’ said Truman. ‘The winners will be the guys with enough money to find it and exploit it.’
Jake felt sick as he realised the full depravity of Truman’s plan. ‘So you got the AEB together to show you were serious and get the funding, but you always knew you’d have to kill them.’
‘It had to be done,’ said Truman. ‘Or should I say, it has to be done.’
‘But the whole world’s watching.’
‘That’s the beauty of it, don’t you see? I’m the last person the world will suspect. We’re in Russia, for Chrissakes. Sitting on top of enormous oil and gas reserves. There are plenty of people here who’d be only too happy to see the AEB six feet under.’
‘Everyone will think it’s Popov,’ said Jake.
‘Just like you did,’ laughed Trum
an. ‘If you think I’m slimy, get a load of this guy. He’d sell his own grandma if he thought he could make a profit. He’s the perfect scapegoat.’
Jake couldn’t see a flaw. Everyone would suspect Popov. The dodgy businessman, the Russian oligarch, the guy with so much to lose. Truman could leak stories to the American press, make sure the right evidence reached the right desks, and . . .
‘Popov will be public enemy number one,’ he murmured.
‘Not just in Russia, but the entire world,’ said Truman proudly.
Truman leant down to the drawer again and took out what Jake thought was a cigar case. Only when Truman began screwing it into the barrel of the gun did he realise what it actually was. A silencer. He was running out of time.
‘You won’t get away with it, you know,’ said Jake. His fear had gone, replaced with anger. ‘People like you always get caught. Other people know about this.’
‘What, like Daniel Powell?’ said Truman. ‘I thought I’d taken care of that little bastard on the flight over. Didn’t know your old man could fly planes.’ Truman laughed. ‘He’s really something, huh?’ The Texan gestured with the gun. ‘Now turn round and put your hands up.’
Jake did as he was told, slowly. He was facing the cabinet lined with photos and trophies. Maybe he could use one as a weapon. He eyed the centrepiece of the display: a huge trophy with a metal football on a silver stand.
No real match for a gun.
Through the office window Jake could see the digital clock set high in the stadium, counting down to the inaugural match. Just over a minute left.
‘My dad knows I’m here,’ he said.
He could hear Truman’s movements as he walked out from the other side of the desk. In the reflection of one of the photo frames, he saw the American position himself behind him.
‘What makes you think your dad’s still alive?’
Truman levelled the gun at his head.
Now or never.
Jake ducked and drove an elbow into Truman’s groin. The gun gave a soft pfft, and Jake heard the bullet ricochet off a surface. He grabbed the trophy with his right hand and twisted, swinging it at Truman’s head just as he brought the barrel round for another shot. The metal football came loose from the trophy and thudded into Truman’s cheekbone. He staggered backward, flailing his arms. Jake turned the trophy stand in his hand and swung again, this time hitting Truman’s chin. Another pfft sounded as Truman span round. He crumpled on to the floor, his mouth hanging open. Out cold.
Jake looked around, breathing heavily. The first bullet had embedded in the wall, the second in the glass viewing panel, sending out a web of cracks in all directions.
That could have been my head. Once again he’d been only inches from death.
The gun was still in Truman’s limp hand. Jake kicked it away.
There was a huge roar from the stands and Jake rushed to the viewing window. It was directly opposite the coaches’ dugouts, and he could see both the Tigers and their opposition, the All-Stars, running out on to the pitch. There was nothing in the players’ faces to suggest anything was wrong.
And there, following the team out, was his dad. He was waving to the crowd. He was safe, for now.
The teams formed two lines as the announcer introduced the day’s special guests: the remaining members of the AEB. As the three scientists took the field, the announcer said there’d be a minute’s silence for their deceased colleague, Dr Ian Dowden.
Jake held his breath. Camera flashes went off all over the stadium. Jake flinched. It would only take one to be the glint from a rifle sight. But the minute ended and the players broke from the centre circle and ran to to their respective halves. The AEB members were escorted off the pitch.
Truman had given the order to ‘relieve’ Jake’s dad of his position. It did not mean that he was getting the sack – it meant that he was marked for death. But Jake knew that the AEB were in danger too. He had a choice.
My dad or the scientists?
18
Truman groaned on the carpet. Jake rushed to the side of the desk and picked up the gun, but Truman wasn’t moving. Jake thought about taking the weapon with him, but it was too big a risk. He inspected the mechanism and flicked the release switch. The clip dropped out. Jake pocketed it and took the gun through the side door into a small bathroom area. He dropped it into the toilet. Even if Truman had another clip, the wet gun would be useless.
Jake headed back to the main office door and slipped through as Truman shifted a fraction on the floor, still moaning softly. The security guard was standing at the end of the corridor, oblivious. Jake walked as calmly as possible past him and back along the corridor towards the lift. He didn’t look round until he stepped into the elevator. The security guard hadn’t moved.
As the lift descended, Jake’s mind was doing calculations. It would take a good five minutes to reach his dad on the other side of the stadium. Perhaps two and a half to get to the spectator box where the AEB would be watching.
What would my dad do?
His dad was at the pitch side, surrounded by journalists and the public. The AEB were on their own, or perhaps chaperoned by Truman’s men. His dad knew how to look after himself, but the scientists had no idea what they were involved in. Jake made his decision.
But how could he get to the VIP box? If Truman was planning to kill the AEB in there it would be heavily guarded by his men. By now, they’d know that his dad, and probably Jake too, were trouble. He probably wouldn’t get in through the front door.
Jake exited the lift and headed for the stands, dropping the magazine of bullets into a bin on the way. He walked out through a small tunnel and found himself in one of the corners where the visiting supporters were seated. The game was already in progress and Jake saw the goalkeeper, Emery, launch a long throw to Benalto in midfield.
The VIP box was about fifty yards away and positioned above the main stands. Maybe if he could get below it he could somehow raise the alarm, or climb up. He began to thread his way past grumbling spectators, who had to shift backward to let him pass by. Halfway along, the crowd all stood in unison and let out a collective gasp. Janné was standing with his head in his hands on the pitch, and the ball was in the stands behind. Jake guessed he’d just missed a sitter.
As the crowd took their seats again, Jake spotted one of Truman’s security team emerging from an entrance tunnel ahead. He was easy to pick out – huge and dressed in black. He was speaking into a walkie-talkie and scanning the stands with a small pair of binoculars. Jake joined the end of a row of seats, pretending to watch the game. From the corner of his eye, he saw more security emerging across the stands.
It looked like Christian Truman had woken up.
The man next to Jake had left his Tigers scarf and hat draped over the back of his seat. While he sat forward and watched Calas chasing a ball towards the corner flag, Jake casually leant behind him, took the scarf and hat, then stood and headed up for the next tier. He wrapped the scarf around his neck and pulled the hat down as low as he could. Now he blended in with the thousands of spectators.
The VIP box was only about twenty yards away and Jake could make out a couple of shapes through the tinted glass. It made perfect sense. Whatever Truman was planning, no one would see the assassin.
The crowd volume was rising. One of the All-Stars raced down the near wing. Another player was waiting in the centre for a pass that would split the Tigers’ defence in two. But Devon Taylor was tracking back with the winger, just a couple of yards behind and gaining. Then he lunged.
The tackle was dreadful. Two-footed, high and from behind. The All-Stars player crashed to the turf, rolling over several times and gripping the back of his knee. Devon stayed down too. The referee sprinted over, reaching for his top pocket. He flourished a red card.
Jake saw his dad shaking his head and talking to the assistant coach. He would be furious. The game was only a friendly – there was no need to tackle like that. What had got i
nto Devon? Had he been watching videos of Roy Keane, or something? Still, though, he didn’t get up. The All-Stars player was now limping away, trying to run off the injury.
Security guards were still scouring the stands, and one brushed right past Jake without spotting him. To move now would be a mistake. Everyone else was in their seats watching the drama unfold below.
Stretcher-bearers had rushed across the field for Devon. It looked like he’d paid a high price for his dangerous tackle.
Taylor was helped on to the stretcher and carried off the pitch. Jake watched his dad give the stricken player a pat on the shoulder and share a few words, before Devon was taken down the tunnel.
The game settled down again and Jake waited to make his move. It came when the Tigers won a free kick, twenty-five yards out.
Just the kind of distance we were practising the other day, Jake thought. But didn’t that feel like a long time ago?
Benalto stood over the ball as the wall assembled. The crowd hushed.
He ran up, looking to blast it, but instead kicked it with the outside of his boot, square to Lee Po Heng. The defenders and the keeper were completely wrong-footed and the Korean slid the ball neatly along the ground inside the far post. The crowd erupted as Heng lifted both arms and ran towards the dugout in celebration.
One-nil to the Tigers.
Jake took his chance and moved back towards one of the empty exit passages near the VIP box. He got as far as the end of the passage, before a hand landed on his shoulder.
‘Can I help you?’ said the security guard in his native language.
Jake shook his head and pointed to the lavatories. He said ‘toilet’ in Russian.
But the guard was peering at him more closely now and asked to see his ticket.
Reluctantly, Jake pulled out his pass. The guard took one look at the name and gave an ugly smile. He stepped forward and pushed the hat off Jake’s head. ‘Hello, Englishman,’ he said. ‘You are coming with me.’
Behind them, the holding area they were in was completely empty. No one was watching. The guard was only Jake’s height, but probably four stone heavier.
