Sudden Death Page 6

  Dad’s definitely here for something other than coaching. I want to know what it is.

  He took the elevator to the third floor. This was clearly the administrative hub of the stadium. Glass-panelled walls formed offices, and there were computers and desks everywhere. Three people sat hunched over keyboards in one of the offices and Jake heard the gentle tapping of their fingers. The smell of strong coffee reached his nostrils.

  No sign of his dad.

  Jake headed in the opposite direction, taking a corridor lined with meeting rooms. The floor was carpeted and there were pictures on the walls. He reached a dead end.

  He was about to head back when he noticed another set of stairs, with a door at the top. Curiosity got the better of him and he went up. There was a gold panel on the door. IGOR POPOV, CHAIRMAN. There was a video camera angled at the door from above, but Jake saw that the connecting wire was hanging free.

  I guess Popov’s not worried about security.

  Jake knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again.

  His dad’s words were fresh in his head. Don’t get into any trouble.

  But it was too good an opportunity to pass up. If Popov was his enemy he wanted to know about it. If his dad was hiding something he wanted to know what it was. And if his dad and the Russian were in on something together, then they were crooks, and anything Jake did to uncover their crimes was fair game.

  A voice in his head said: Turn round, Jake. He is your father. Go back downstairs.

  He ignored it, and opened the door.

  Inside, Popov’s office looked quite old-fashioned: a large leather-topped desk, neat piles of papers, a spot-lamp, a closed laptop computer, an ashtray. There was a door to a small anteroom, where Jake guessed there would be a toilet. A bookshelf, filing cabinets and low cupboards lined the wall nearest to the door. The far wall was a massive window with vertical blinds. When he peeked through the blinds, he realised where he was: the suspended room he’d seen from the stands below.

  Jake closed the door behind him. There was a series of black and white pictures along the wall showing the stadium at various stages of completion. The first showed what looked like a disused factory or power station. In the next shot it was being levelled with demolition balls, then foundations were being put in, then you could see the gradual rising of the new stadium. The final picture, in colour, showed Popov standing on the pitch itself. Beside him was a face that Jake would know anywhere: Devon Taylor. He was holding up a St Petersburg shirt with his name on the back. There was another, older man beside him who Jake didn’t recognise.

  He heard a noise in the hallway. A voice. ‘. . . my thoughts exactly.’

  It was Popov.

  Jake’s insides squirmed as he surveyed his options.

  There were none.

  8

  In half a second Jake was at the window. He pulled aside the drawn vertical blinds and slid the huge pane across, then using the desk chair, he hopped up on to the sill and climbed out. The ledge was only about four inches wide and extended a few inches either side of the window. Reaching up, he found the top of the window frame with his fingertips. Jake looked down and immediately wished he hadn’t. The office overlooked the pitch and the drop to the stands below was around fifty feet, if not more. He pulled the window closed, leaving a tiny crack open so he could hear what was going on inside. Thankfully the blind concealed him.

  He heard the office door open, and Popov’s voice. ‘Of course it will be ready on time, Christian. My people know the price of failure, I assure you.’

  Jake edged further out to the end of the sill. Sweat broke out across his forehead. His throat was dry.

  ‘Oh, I know the price of failure,’ said a deep American voice. ‘After all, I’m paying for this, my Russian friend.’

  Popov gave a mirthless laugh. ‘As you never tire of reminding me. Cigar?’

  Jake leant across slightly to peer inside. Popov had his back to the window, and the man opposite was using a cigar cutter to chop off the end of a Cuban cigar almost a foot long. Jake immediately recognised him as the man in the photo with Devon and Popov.

  Christian Truman, Jake recalled. CEO of Truman Oil. The stadium sponsor.

  ‘And everything is arranged for the opening match,’ said the American, evidently chewing on his cigar.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Popov replied. ‘The American All-Stars will land mid-week and use the FC Zenit training ground. The Tigers, with Devon of course, are all free of injury. It should be a fantastic game to open the stadium.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Truman impatiently. ‘I’m sure the spectacle will be fine, but the detailed matters . . . the announcement about Truman Oil . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Popov. ‘All of Russia’s top business leaders will be here, as will the scientists. Nothing can go wrong.’

  Jake felt himself frown. Scientists? Just what was going on here?

  Truman snorted. ‘Igor,’ he said. ‘If there’s one thing thirty years in business have taught me, it’s that something can always go wrong.’

  ‘Tell me, Christian,’ said Popov, ‘would you like to meet the new coach, Steve Bastin?’

  Jake pressed closer to the glass to hear.

  ‘The English footballer?’ Truman replied.

  ‘Yes, he arrived yesterday. A great player in his day. A great man.’

  Truman nodded. ‘By all means, lead the way,’ he said.

  A moment later, he saw a hand a few feet away through the glass. Popov closed the window completely, and his voice became muffled. ‘Remind me to sack the cleaner, Christian.’

  Oh no! There was no way back inside the office.

  Jake heard the sound of a door closing and waited. Silence. When he was sure they had gone, Jake edged back along the sill, blood pounding across his temples like a jackhammer. As he expected, there was no way he could get back into the office – the window was securely fastened from the inside. He thought about breaking it, but then he was sure to be discovered. He wasn’t even sure if he’d be able to break it and keep his balance. The glass was double-glazed.

  Jake took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down and think logically.

  The office was isolated, lodged high up from the ground. On either side were sheer windowless walls. Nothing to grab on to. He couldn’t go up either. The frame he clung to was less than an inch wide – there was no way he could pull himself up.

  That left only one option. Down.

  The office would have to be supported on steel legs. Jake let go of the top of the frame, and kept his body pressed against the glass. Thank God there was no wind inside the stadium today.

  Gingerly, and keeping his palms on the glass, he crouched down. One wrong move, or a gust of wind to overbalance him, and they’d be scraping him off the stands below. He put one hand then the other on the sill beside his feet, gripped on as tightly as he could. He went down on one knee, then lowered himself off the ledge, so his legs were hanging free into the space below the office.

  His shoulders started to burn almost immediately, but Jake hung on. He used to complain about the pull-ups Mr Gill, his old football coach, made him do, but now the tough training was actually keeping him alive.

  Jake spied the stanchions that supported the office – thick steel A-frames jutting from the stadium wall. He twisted in the air perilously, trying to swing his legs round one of them. The first time his legs were just short. The second he managed to kick the stanchion, but with each movement his fingers were slipping.

  One last time. He swung, stretching his legs, and managed to lock his ankles around the metal support. One hand came loose and for a terrifying moment he thought he’d lost it. But he frantically grabbed the stanchion and held on.

  Sweat dripped freely from his head as he got both hands round the metal beam and gripped like a monkey. He half slid, half climbed down the diagonal support. Nearly there. When he reached the bottom near the inside of the stadium wall there were plenty of handholds in
the form of huge bolts embedded in the cladding. He climbed quickly down then dropped the last six feet. He was right at the back of the top stands. The front of his T-shirt was streaked black from the filthy stanchion.

  Jake found an exit passage and made his way back to the lower floors using the stairs. He went cautiously – the last thing he wanted to do was bump into his dad or Popov. The best thing to do would be to head back to the house now, clean up and act like nothing had ever happened.

  A door in the passage opened and a group of young men came through, laughing and joking. They were all dressed in the same blue tracksuit, but they were all different nationalities – Jake recognised Lee Po Heng, the Korean international at the front, then behind him Devon Taylor.

  Jake stopped dead in his tracks and his mouth hung open.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, and immediately felt foolish.

  ‘You know the way to the changing rooms?’ said Heng.

  ‘Er . . . yeah,’ said Jake. ‘Straight along past the gym. It’s the third door.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said the Korean.

  As the players walked past, Devon Taylor stopped and looked at Jake quizzically. He was shorter than Jake had imagined; they were almost the same height.

  ‘Say, kid,’ he said in a strong American accent, ‘you look a lot like Steve Bastin did twenty years ago.’

  This is it, thought Jake. Make a good impression.

  ‘He’s my dad,’ said Jake as nonchalantly as possible.

  ‘No way,’ said Devon. He called to the rest of the team, who’d moved on. ‘Hey guys, this is the new coach’s son.’

  The players all stopped and said hi. Jake stuck out his hand. ‘I’m Jake.’

  The American smiled broadly and pumped his hand. ‘Devon. Devon Taylor,’ he said. ‘Say, Jake, the guys and I are going for a kick-around. Test out this new pitch everyone’s going nuts for. D’you wanna join us?’

  Training with Devon Taylor! ‘You bet!’

  Devon found Jake a spare kit. As Jake pulled on the jersey with ‘Taylor’ written across the back, he couldn’t quite believe it.

  The others were almost as excited as they ran down the tunnel and out on to the virgin pitch. Jake hadn’t realised this was the first practice they’d ever had as a team; the Tigers had all been brought together by Popov at short notice. None had played together before. All were under twenty years old.

  Not much older than me, Jake realised.

  Devon, he knew, was nineteen and a multi-millionaire. His sponsorship deal with Adidas alone was worth nearly five million.

  The young Ukrainian, Babiak, carried out a net full of balls for the practice. Each one had the PI logo. They warmed up with some shuttles back and forth across the pitch, then some one-touch, quick-fire passing. Jake hit a pass wide to the Argentine winger, Benalto, formerly of Corinthians.

  ‘Sorry!’ he said. ‘That was awful.’

  ‘Hey, chill,’ said Devon, at his side. ‘We all make mistakes.’

  ‘And Bennie makes more than most,’ chipped in Calas. He’d played for the Spanish under-21s in the World Cup.

  Benalto chased Calas across the length of the pitch, both players laughing.

  As the practice went on, Jake started to relax. He kept his passing short and crisp. Nothing fancy, he told himself. Keep it simple.

  They moved closer to practise short headers in groups of three. Jake was with Devon and the massive French defender called Janné.

  ‘So,’ Devon said, ‘what’s it like to have Steve Bastin as a dad?’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Jake said. ‘I’ve been mostly living with my mum though. Dad’s so busy, y’know.’

  ‘Must be tough,’ Devon said. ‘I don’t see my dad much either.’

  Jake concentrated and didn’t miss a single header.

  After a while Devon called to his team-mates, ‘Let’s go two on two.’ He turned to Jake. ‘Jake, you wanna play with me?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, trying to keep his composure.

  They squared off against Benalto and Calas, passing back and forth, trying to keep the ball from their opposition. Jake took the ball through Calas’s legs and the Spaniard came after him. He clipped Jake’s ankle with his boot, but Jake managed to slip a backheel to Devon. Benalto got there first and for a few passes the other two had the ball. When Calas tried to chip a cheeky ball to Benalto, Jake intercepted, taking the ball on his chest and laying it off to Devon. A second later the Argentine came steaming in, catching him full on with a shoulder. Jake sprawled on the turf, his anger flaring. He sprang up, fists clenched.

  ‘What the hell was that!’ he shouted.

  Benalto raised his hands in a defensive posture. ‘Hey, chill out,’ he said in a thick Argentinian accent. ‘It was just a barge.’

  Jake took a step forward and realised the others had turned to face them. Calas was grinning like an idiot.

  ‘Relax, dude,’ said Devon, coming up behind him. ‘It was an accident, wasn’t it, Bennie?’

  Benalto nodded.

  Jake’s own face flushed with shame as his anger dissipated.

  One by one, the other players returned to their passing, and he tried to do the same. Benalto went easy on him now, which made it even worse.

  When they wound up and jogged over to the upright goal for distance shooting practice, Devon slapped him on the back.

  ‘Looks like you could give your dad a run for his money, Jake.’

  It was the greatest compliment Jake had ever received, but he laughed it off. He couldn’t help thinking Devon was treating him with kid gloves.

  Suddenly, there was a commotion on one side of the ground, and a man was shouting. Two security guards were struggling with a shaven-headed man, prising a camera from his fingers.

  ‘Damn paparazzi,’ said Devon. ‘How did he even get in?’

  The security guard finally got hold of the camera and threw it on to the ground, smashing it into several fragments. The owner brought his hands to his head in dismay, then glumly scooped up the pieces. He was escorted roughly through one of the tunnels.

  ‘Apparently, Mr P wants everything kept private until opening night,’ said Devon. ‘Paps aren’t allowed in till then.’

  The goalkeeper, all six-foot-seven of him, was standing between the posts, stretching his massive frame. Australian Brad Emery, formerly reserve keeper for Barcelona. Jake knew he was a great shot-stopper, if not the best tactical player.

  ‘We’ll line up thirty yards out,’ said Devon. ‘One guy lays off the ball, the shooter shoots, then takes on the laying-off role. Got it?’

  Everyone nodded.

  Jake passed the ball first into Janné’s path. The big defender skied it way over the bar.

  ‘This is soccer,’ laughed Devon, ‘not rugby!’

  Janné grumbled and passed a new ball into Devon’s path.

  He curled a beauty towards the top corner, but it didn’t have the pace. Emery tipped it wide of the post with his fingers. And so they went on, with Jake getting closer and closer to the front of the shooting queue. He didn’t know where he was going to put the ball yet. The keeper seemed to fill the goal with his imposing frame, and none of the shooters managed to score.

  When his turn came, it was Benalto who knocked the ball to him. Jake decided to go for power rather than finesse. He swung his right boot through the ball, catching it sweetly. It turned slightly in the air and screamed under Emery’s outstretched arm. The net ballooned and the other players went wild. They gathered round Jake, whooping and howling, slapping his back and the side of his head.

  ‘Beaten by the coach’s son!’ shouted Devon at Emery, who was glumly plucking the ball out of the net. ‘Great work, Jake.’

  Jake nodded and held up a hand to coolly acknowledge the cheers of the Tigers, but inside his heart was close to bursting. I’ll know this is definitely a dream if Keira Knightley emerges from the dugout and pushes past Devon to get to me!

  They finished up the session with some set-piece practice, a
nd after two hours Jake was ready to drop. Though he had the skills, his stamina was no match for older guys who trained five times a week.

  His legs were like lead as they headed to the changing rooms. They showered and dressed. Some of the guys were heading into St Petersburg that evening for dinner and Jake almost wished he could join them. They made their way to the car park together.

  ‘You want to come for a spin on the bike?’ asked Devon. He pointed to the sleek red Yamaha resting in the parking bay.

  Jake gulped. Yesterday he’d only seen Devon Taylor on TV. Now they were . . . well, like mates.

  ‘Dad would want me to stick around, I think,’ Jake said.

  ‘No worries,’ said Devon. ‘I’ll have you back here in half an hour tops.’ He popped out the spare helmet. ‘Come on, it’ll be fine. I’m not going to let anything happen to the chief’s son, am I?’

  So Jake climbed on to the bike and they roared out of the underground car park. It was almost four o’clock and the sun was dipping, but the air was still warm outside. There were several more motorbikes and cars which hadn’t been there that morning. They all started their engines as Devon and Jake swept past. Paparazzi, Jake thought.

  The American twisted the throttle and they left the entourage behind, but soon they were amongst the rush-hour traffic. Devon pushed the bike between the cars and buses, but the paparazzi bikes kept pace. Two on each, a rider and a cameraman.

  They passed grim apartment blocks on either side of the road, then crossed the bridge over the Neva River, which glittered in the late afternoon sun. The city seemed to Jake to be a mass of criss-crossed identical streets. At a traffic light, several paparazzi bikes pulled up beside them.

  Devon lifted his visor.

  ‘Why don’t you find something better to do?’ he shouted.

  The only answer he got was more flashes.

  As soon as the light was amber, Devon turned the bike left, despite the road sign forbidding such a manoeuvre. The paparazzi were almost all flummoxed, and stalled. Only one bike came after them.

  ‘Lost them!’ Devon shouted triumphantly.