Foul Play: Dead Ball Page 6

Danny looked back for Holt, but was quickly told – in hand gestures – to move on, by one of the machine-gunners.

  So he kept walking, down a corridor, through a hall, a string of people passing ahead of and behind him.

  Where was he going?

  Where was Holt?

  He was starting to wish Holt had put him back on the plane. He felt out of his depth. And all he was doing was walking through an airport. What would he be like in the city? At the football stadium?

  He came to another corridor. Two automatic doors opened to let him through. There was a blur of faces. Signs. Colour. Light.

  Danny went to stand at the side of what was clearly the arrivals hall. He’d wait there.

  He walked through a cluster of men, each offering him a taxi, in English. He shook his head. He wanted to say ‘Nyet’ but worried that ‘no’ alone sounded rude. Not knowing how to say ‘No, thank you’, he preferred to shake his head. One of the taxi-drivers smiled at him – as if he understood.

  With time to spare, Danny took out his phone, set up the video and – holding the phone in front of him – began to film the airport. The strange alphabet. The strange hats on the soldiers. The people.

  He’d promised Charlotte a video diary. This would be his first entry.

  Danny ended his film and sent it to Charlotte. Then he was relieved to see Holt coming over to him, smiling.

  If Danny had looked up at that moment, through the glass sides of Moscow’s Domodedovo International Airport, he’d have seen a small private plane banking right to head over the city.

  Inside the plane were two men. Dmitri Tupolev, Russian oligarch and football enthusiast. And a UK citizen, now known as Kenneth Francis, City trader.

  The inside of the private plane was spectacular. The main cabin was taken up by a large dining table, made of dark shining wood. Each of the men sat in a huge leather chair, which swivelled to face either of two giant TV screens. At one end was a doorway. Francis had already been through it, past a sprawling double bed, into a bathroom with a huge mirror, shower and sink. All – Francis suspected – with gold fittings. Real gold.

  The private plane was heading for a small airstrip adjacent to a large country estate and several thousand acres of wild land, stocked with deer, boar and salmon. Tupolev’s private hunting estate, fifty kilometres east of Russia’s capital.

  Both men were drinking champagne, served by a tall blonde woman in a smart black skirt and top. Francis was stunned by her beauty.

  He was trying to keep calm. Although he was a rich man, used to power and wealth, the man who had met him at the airport was in a different league. Dmitri Tupolev was worth somewhere near six billion dollars. He was one of the richest men in Russia.

  Francis was impressed by his clothes. A perfect suit in the finest materials. A crisp white shirt. And an enormously expensive tie. His shoes were long and thin, and made from shining crocodile skin.

  But the man inside the fancy clothes looked tired. Compared to the pictures Francis had seen of him. And slightly cross. As a result he looked like a man you should not disappoint.

  ‘I have created an opportunity to speak to Matt McGee,’ Tupolev said to Francis.

  ‘Good,’ Francis said. He was again impressed with Tupolev’s use of English.

  ‘I have invited the England players, the press and Football Association officials to a reception. Tomorrow. At my dacha… my country retreat.’

  ‘Excellent. And did they accept?’

  Tupolev looked at Francis like he was an idiot. ‘Yes. Of course,’ he said.

  ‘Good. Then we can talk to McGee.’

  Tupolev leaned across and summoned the woman in black, indicating their champagne glasses were nearly empty. She came quickly and filled them both. Tupolev nodded and patted the woman on the leg as she passed.

  ‘Tonight we will dine at my dacha,’ Tupolev exclaimed. ‘Tomorrow I will show you some of my… properties… in Moscow. My hotel. Yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Francis replied.

  ‘You have the portfolio?’ Tupolev said once the woman had moved away.

  Francis nodded. He handed Tupolev a thin file.

  ‘I have highlighted the main issues, as we discussed,’ Francis said. ‘McGee’s history. His links with criminal gangs in his youth. The counterfeit scam that I am confident he was involved in. Also, a record of his gambling activity in the last two years. His debts, as you can see, are…’ Francis paused. How could he call debts of £950,000 ‘huge’ to a man who had far more than that? He searched for the right words: ‘… a problem for him.’

  Tupolev nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘this is excellent. We can use this. And you think he will do as we want? You think he will accept the money?’

  ‘I think we should offer to wipe out his debts. Then, if he is not keen, talk to him about his past.’

  Tupolev guffawed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Then, if that doesn’t work, let us talk to him about his future.’

  Francis smiled at the man lounging on the other side of the plane. He knew what Tupolev meant. And he didn’t like the idea. He hoped they could stop short of murder.

  MOSCOW

  Danny sat on the bed in his hotel room and gazed around it in awe. The room was huge. The bed was huge. The mirror on the wall was huge. And through the huge window – seventeen floors up – he could see the city stretching into the distance. Churches. Statues. The river wide and long.

  The TV was on when he came into the room. There was a message:

  WELCOME THE PRESIDENT HOTEL, MR HARTE. PLEASE TO PHONE RECEPTION IF THE NEED FOR HELP ARISES.

  Danny smiled and took a photo of the screen with his phone.

  Then he noticed he’d had a reply from Charlotte. His heart skipped a beat when he saw her name.

  Why did she always make him feel like that?

  He read the text:

  Thx 4 vid. Cn’t u send anything more exciting? :-)

  C xxx

  *

  Yes, he could. He would. Because Moscow wasn’t like other cities he knew. There was something about it. It felt different. He wondered if it was all the stories his dad had told him. Or the things he’d read in books about spies and the KGB.

  For one thing, he definitely felt like he was being watched.

  But how could he put a feeling like that into a video for Charlotte? He had absolutely no idea.

  Danny jumped when his hotel room phone rang.

  He wondered, before he picked it up, if the phone was tapped. In fact, it occurred to him that there could be a camera in the room. In the TV maybe. Or hidden in one of the fifteen light fittings. Maybe someone had seen him taking photos? Maybe someone had intercepted his texts? Or even his thoughts?

  Danny smiled. He was being paranoid again. Trying to make his life more exciting, as if he was a character in a book.

  He picked up the phone.

  ‘Are you ready?’ a voice said.

  It was Holt.

  ‘For what?’ asked Danny.

  ‘Sightseeing.’

  ‘I thought you had to work,’ Danny said.

  ‘I’m done,’ Holt said. ‘So are you ready?’

  *

  They took a taxi across the city. The hotel was in a built-up area, all office blocks. The taxi moved slowly through the packed streets. At times there were six lanes of traffic going each way.

  Holt and Danny said nothing to each other until the car drew up at the foot of a large square on the other side of the river.

  Holt paid the driver and Danny joined him on the pavement.

  And there – above them – was a massive cathedral. Or was it a mosque? Danny wasn’t sure. It was huge. Several swirling domes that looked like ice creams. All red and white and green. Not like the parish church Danny had to walk past on his way to and from school.

  Then Danny saw Holt staring to his left. Across the square at a towering red wall. A city of yellow buildings behind it. A giant clock tower.

  ‘What’s that?’ Danny asked.
>
  ‘The Kremlin.’

  ‘Really?’ Danny stared.

  This was where the president of Russia lived and worked. One of the most powerful men in the world. And where the leaders of Russia from the past, that he’d read about in his dad’s books, had done their stuff.

  They stood in the oversized square. Millions of cobbles gently curving like a football pitch to huge buildings at either side.

  ‘Then this is Red Square?’ Danny said.

  ‘Yep.’

  They gazed around them. Everything was so big. The walls. The buildings. The square. Danny felt tiny. Like he was an ant. It made him feel edgy.

  And he couldn’t stop looking at the cathedral. He was used to churches that were small and one colour. This one was crazy.

  ‘What do you think of the cathedral?’ Danny asked. He wanted to see what Holt thought of it.

  ‘It’s St Basil’s.’

  ‘Right,’ Danny said. ‘But what do you think of it?’

  Danny didn’t want to say he thought it was ugly. But part of him thought that. From this side you could see six of the swirling domes, each brightly painted in different colours.

  ‘I…’ Holt paused. ‘It’s very impressive.’

  ‘It’s horrible,’ Danny said.

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘I do. It’s too fancy.’

  ‘It’s one of the most famous landmarks in the world,’ Holt said. ‘It’s just different.’

  ‘Right,’ said Danny. ‘I’m just saying what I think.’

  ‘Listen to this.’ Holt had his guidebook out now. ‘It was built by Ivan the Terrible. You’ve heard of him?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And he blinded the architect who made it because he didn’t want him to make anything so beautiful again.’

  ‘You sure he didn’t blind him before he built it?’ Danny muttered.

  Holt smiled. ‘And Napoleon – when he invaded – was going to blow it up. He filled it with gunpowder and set the fuses. But a miraculous rain shower put out the fires.’

  ‘Oh well,’ said Danny, shrugging. ‘Nice try.’

  ‘Jesus, Danny. You’re so down on it. It’s not that bad.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘I bet there’s loads of good stories about it,’ Holt said. ‘Most cathedrals act as a place of sanctuary – where people can hide if they’re in trouble with the law. I bet a cathedral sees some interesting things go on in a country like this.’

  Danny nodded. He was watching a line of soldiers walking towards them. All in long green coats and fur hats.

  One at the front was dressed differently. He had on one of the massive brimmed hats. And a camouflage jacket, rather than a long coat.

  The soldier – or was he a policeman? – gave Danny a hard stare.

  ‘I reckon it’d be worth hiding from someone like him,’ Holt said.

  Danny nodded. He wanted to make a move. Out of this square that was making him feel more and more uneasy.

  SECRET AGENTS

  The lobby of the President Hotel was fancy. Seriously fancy. Danny knew why the FA had chosen it for the England squad to stay in.

  This was as good as a hotel could get. Dozens of tables and comfortable chairs were set out on a plush red carpet. Overhead, tens of thousands of tiny lights glittered white and gold. There was a balcony above, leaves and flowers cascading down.

  He was sitting in an oversized armchair, trying to read The Spy Who Came in from the Cold. But he was mostly watching people come through the revolving doors, past two men in black suits with ties.

  Security, Danny assumed.

  In Danny’s book, the character he’d thought was good had turned out to be a traitor. And the character he’d thought was a baddy was the nicest character of all. He was seriously confused.

  In armchairs around the hotel lobby several groups of people were talking. Others were sitting alone. Reading newspapers. Stirring sugar into their drinks.

  When people came into the hotel, most of them just stopped and stared. At the waterfall of light suspended over the lobby. At the spectacular plants cascading from the balcony. At the impressive reception desk, where four smartly dressed receptionists beamed smiles at the hotel’s guests.

  Others walked straight past the spectacular entrance to the set of four lifts without even glancing at the foyer. They’ve been here before, Danny thought. Used to it. As if this was a normal kind of place to be in, a place you could ever get used to.

  Every few minutes Danny saw an England official. You could tell by the dark blue suit and FA badge they wore. Without exception. Most of them were quite old too. They looked unapproachable. Too important. Posh. Something like that.

  But Danny was off limits anyway. Anton had told him: don’t talk to anyone from the FA. And especially not the players. The press – and Holt included Danny in that – were not allowed to talk to the players. Not without an FA press officer there.

  Danny was feeling a bit flat after the trip round Moscow with Anton. It’d been fun. Seeing the sights. Hearing about the cathedral. There was something about Anton telling him interesting facts that was a lot easier to bear than his mum or his dad doing it.

  He’d wanted to know more.

  But halfway through the tour, Holt took a call on his mobile – and had taxied Danny straight back to the hotel. He said he had to go and do an interview. With a footballer. But he couldn’t say who. Danny could tell he wasn’t telling the whole truth. So he asked if he could come too. But Holt had said no. Too quickly. Treating him like a kid again, Danny felt.

  And now Danny was sitting in the hotel lobby, feeling left out. Still that sense that there was something funny going on.

  Where did Holt have to go?

  Why so suddenly?

  Who had called him?

  And what was so secret that Danny wasn’t allowed to go along too? He’d thought Holt was going to take him everywhere on this trip. It wasn’t like he didn’t know how to behave around footballers.

  Danny sat back in his seat. He was well aware that his week was getting stranger and stranger. First he witnessed what he was convinced was a murder attempt on an England goalkeeper. Then he was invited to Moscow for a World Cup qualifier as part of his school work experience. Now he was waiting for a journalist to return from a trip that Danny wasn’t convinced he was telling the truth about.

  For a moment a cloud passed through Danny’s mind again. Holt. Was he being straight? Was he somehow involved in all this weirdness?

  Then he told himself to shut up. He had to stop thinking like this. There was no way Holt would be messed up in something dodgy. Anton was the most straightforward man he knew. And hadn’t he supported Danny in the past?

  Three kilometres away in another opulent hotel lobby, Anton Holt was sitting alone.

  He was looking at people too. But not just any people. He was waiting for certain individuals in particular.

  Most of the tables in this foyer were taken up by groups of men. No women. Many of the men were leaning forward, talking. Some in loud voices, attracting attention. Others in quiet voices, keeping their conversations to themselves.

  Holt scanned each table.

  The people he was looking for were not here.

  But after waiting over an hour he saw a familiar figure. Tall. Thinner than he’d seen him before. With dark, not silver, hair. A deep tan. And dressed in a very expensive suit.

  It was him. Holt knew it instinctively.

  Although Holt had worked for weeks on the premise that this man was still alive, it was still a shock to see him. It was a man he knew well. A man he’d crossed swords with before. And he was sitting in a hotel that Holt had discovered, after much research, belonged to none other than Dmitri Tupolev, the Russian oligarch. That was what had brought the journalist here: knowing who owned the hotel and thinking that owner might be in league with an old friend.

  And now that Holt could see that this man was alive and well, he knew that his theory cou
ld be true. That the Englishman and Tupolev were in talks: talks to plan the take-over of City FC and pitch the club into years of scandal and dodgy dealings.

  Now he could write the story. The story of Sir Richard Gawthorpe’s return.

  Danny was getting bored in the England team hotel. No players to watch. No Holt. Told to wait here like a good little boy.

  But now he’d been sitting for more than two hours, some of the things he was looking at had begun to stand out.

  He remembered reading a thriller to his dad once. 12:23 by Eoin McNamee. It was all about surveillance. The book described a group of agents watching a famous couple who were visiting Paris. And the thing that had really stuck with Danny was that the agents didn’t watch their targets for a few minutes, see what they needed to, then go home for their tea. They watched them for hours. Days. Weeks even. And that they weren’t looking for dramatic behaviour or sudden moves. They were looking for patterns. Things that stood out: but that didn’t stand out immediately. Things that only appeared obvious when you recognized the patterns of people’s behaviour over a long time.

  And that was what was happening to Danny.

  There were two men in the lobby. Like Danny, they had been sitting in the lobby for over two hours. And had done nothing but read newspapers. Except they were both reading the same newspaper over and over again. The same page for ten minutes, then another ten minutes an hour later. And – although they sat opposite each other – neither had looked at the other once.

  Three things that didn’t sit right.

  Who would re-read a newspaper when they were surrounded by the free magazines that were also on the hotel tables?

  Who would sit waiting for two hours in the same place, directly opposite someone, without looking at them?

  And why were they drinking carrot juice?

  Danny immediately suspected who these men were. Agents. Russian agents. KGB – or whatever they were called now. FSB? He was convinced.

  He slipped his phone out, and – pretending that he was looking at a text – he filmed the men and sent it to Charlotte with a short message:

  Secret agents. Prob KGB? Interesting? D x