Dead Ball Read online

  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

  He understood who the men were, but what he didn’t understand was: what were they doing in a hotel that was hosting the English first-team squad three days before the crunch Russia–England World Cup qualifying game?

  Danny felt glad he’d filmed them.

  MONDAY

  HOMESICK

  Danny woke at 2 a.m., Moscow time.

  He opened the heavy hotel curtains to reveal his room’s massive window and a panoramic view of Moscow, shrouded in darkness.

  The city looked calm at night. There was a faint mist over the higher buildings that reminded Danny of home. Danny gazed at Moscow. Three buildings stood out. All three or four kilometres away. All tall. All looking like something out of a science fiction film – and lit up red.

  Holt had told him about these buildings yesterday. They were called the Seven Sisters. Stalin – Russia’s most brutal leader – had built them as government buildings. The Ministry for Foreign Affairs and six others. All seven were made to look scary. The reason: to make sure people in Soviet Moscow would behave themselves.

  Danny turned round and looked at his bed, the TV and the rest of his room. It was posh. Seriously posh. He wasn’t used to hotel rooms anyway, but this one was way over the top.

  He felt out of sorts. Something wrong. If it hadn’t been 2 a.m. he would have called his dad.

  One thing that hadn’t helped was that during the night he’d heard voices passing his door. Americans. Russians. French, maybe. The voices had made him feel uneasy. And the thought of going down into the hotel to have breakfast was worrying him. He wished he was at home. In his own room. So he could walk out of it and down the stairs to have a cup of tea with his dad before his mum and sister got up. Not among the hundreds of businessmen he had seen walking meaningfully down the corridors of this hotel as if they’d never had a moment’s doubt in their lives.

  Then it occurred to Danny that Moscow was three hours ahead of the UK. So it would be 11 p.m. at home. Not 2 a.m. His dad would still be downstairs, making a drink for his mum before they went to bed. If he called now he could talk to Dad. Maybe Mum.

  Danny grabbed his phone and dialled the code: 00 44. Then his home number, minus the zero at the beginning.

  At first there was no sound. Then a loud click. Then a muffled ringing tone that was nothing like the ringing tone of the phone at home. He worried he’d called the wrong number. And that someone might be listening in.

  ‘Yeah?’

  It was Emily.

  ‘Hello, Emily,’ Danny said.

  ‘Danny!’

  It was weird. Emily had said his name like she was pleased to hear him. Danny was thrown and didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Danny?’ Emily repeated.

  ‘Hello,’ Danny said. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘OK,’ Emily said. Her voice was a bit more guarded now.

  ‘How are Mum and Dad?’

  ‘Fine. What about Moscow? Is it rubbish?’

  ‘It’s great,’ Danny said. He felt like telling Emily that he felt a bit weird. And that maybe it was a bit rubbish. But he knew she’d jump on it: use it to get one over on him.

  There was a silence. Then Emily piped up, ‘Have you passed on my good wishes to the Russian players? For the game.’

  Danny grinned. This was more like it. Emily as he knew her.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘They said you’re banned from Russia – for being a traitor to your own country.’

  Emily said nothing.

  ‘Is Dad there?’ Danny asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Can I talk to him? It’s two pounds a minute.’

  ‘Sorry!’ Emily sounded cross.

  ‘Nice though it is to talk to you,’ Danny added. Meaning it.

  ‘Yeah right,’ Emily said. And the line went quiet.

  Danny looked outside again. Suddenly the sky was alight with huge snowflakes. It was thrilling. Danny felt like he did at Christmas.

  ‘Danny?’ It was Dad. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Great,’ Danny said automatically. It was good to hear his dad’s voice. He had a sudden sense that he missed his dad. Deeply.

  ‘What have you seen?’

  ‘Red Square. St Basil’s. The Kremlin.’ Danny reeled off a list of places. ‘And snow. It’s just started snowing.’

  ‘Red Square?’ Dad said, ignoring Danny’s reference to snow. ‘I’ve always wanted to go there.’

  ‘It’s just big, Dad. Everything’s big. Even the snowflakes.’

  Dad paused. ‘Are you OK? You don’t sound that happy.’

  Danny frowned. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’m just a bit… I don’t know.’

  ‘That’s normal,’ Dad said. ‘You’re bound to feel that. It’s being away from home. But don’t let it stop you having a good time and seeing some things. Just accept you’ll feel weird. It’s a part of the fun of travelling.’

  Danny paused, then nodded to himself. ‘OK,’ he said.

  ‘Is Anton looking after you?’ Dad asked.

  ‘Yeah. He’s been good. He has to work too. But he took me out for a tour.’

  ‘And did you start the book?’

  Danny nodded again. ‘It’s great. But it’s making me think everyone’s a double agent. Everyone!’

  Dad chuckled. ‘Even Anton?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Danny said. ‘Do you think…?’

  ‘Yeah, I’d watch him,’ Dad said.

  Danny laughed. Then he said, ‘I’d better go. Is Mum there?’

  ‘She’s gone to bed already. Fast asleep.’

  ‘I’ll call later, then,’ Danny promised.

  He put his mobile down. The call had cost him over six quid. But it was worth it.

  He lay back on the massive double bed. What now?

  He could go out for a walk. See what Moscow was like at this time of the morning. Learn a few words of Russian. Or he could watch BBC News 24.

  He decided on the Russian. He leaned back on his pillow and looked at the guide to Moscow Anton had given him. All the journalists had one: how to speak basic Russian words, how to call a taxi, how to use the underground.

  No was nyet – нет.

  Yes, da – да.

  Thank you, spasiba – спасибо.

  There were lots of words to do with football.

  Stadium was stadion – стадион.

  Football manager was footbalniy myenyejyer – футбалный менеджер.

  Autograph was avtograf – автограф.

  Danny read the words, then said them aloud. He wanted to be able to use some of them. He thought it was polite to be able to say thank you, at least.

  After a few minutes Danny felt tired. He put his guide down and set his alarm for 6 a.m. He’d have a walk then.

  He fell asleep quickly.

  THE INVITATION

  Danny got back to the hotel from his walk and went to breakfast on his own
. He stood near the entrance to the restaurant. He hoped other guests would think he was waiting for someone.

  He’d enjoyed being out in the city before 7 a.m. Watching people going to work. Struggle in the snow. Buy newspapers. Park their cars. Argue with each other. Normal lives; not the touristy things that always looked staged. Normal life was always more interesting.

  And the snow was beautiful, smoothing the hard edges and high buildings that Danny had objected to. He felt excited. Like a kid going sledging. He remembered doing it with his dad before he was blind.

  Danny had spent a bit of time watching a pair of policemen. To see how they worked. What they were like. Then they’d spotted him and moved to come over to him. So he’d left – and returned to the hotel.

  But hotels freaked Danny out. He wasn’t really sure what he was meant to do at the best of times. But now? Should he stay near the restaurant entrance to be seated? Or sit down and wait to be brought food? Or help himself to the tables of fruit and cereal and meats?

  Standing there, confused, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He jumped.

  ‘Danny.’

  It was Holt.

  ‘I’m sorry about last night,’ Holt said. ‘I got tied up.’

  Danny nodded. He still felt left out, but he wasn’t going to throw a strop. He knew Holt had pulled a lot of strings to get him to Moscow.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Danny said. ‘It’s your job.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Holt nodded. ‘I’ve got some news.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘We all had a press release slipped under our doors this morning.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The media. There’s going to be a massive reception tonight for the press, the players and the FA. At this rich guy’s country estate. And we’re all invited.’

  Danny assumed Holt meant he could go too, but he didn’t want to push it.

  ‘You’re coming,’ Holt said, reading his mind. Then he stopped himself. ‘I mean, would you like to come, Danny?’

  That evening two coaches arrived – both silver with black-tinted glass. They were accompanied by four large black people-carriers. All with tinted windows too. And what looked like a police light on top. Although there were a few centimetres of snow on the streets, there was none in the hotel grounds. It was as if it was too posh to be affected by the weather.

  It was bitter outside. Danny felt the skin on his face was beginning to freeze.

  He went over to have a look at one of the people-carriers, but Holt pulled him back.

  ‘Watch it,’ Holt warned.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just be easy round these guys.’ Holt nodded at a pair of men eyeing them. Short cropped hair. Huge muscles. Tight black T-shirts. Scruffy jackets. Stubble. Pistols stuffed down their trousers.

  Danny stepped back. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Tupolev’s private army,’ Holt answered.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tupolev. The guy who’s putting on the reception. He’s a… an oligarch.’

  ‘Like Abramovich?’

  ‘Yeah, but richer.’

  ‘Richer than Abramovich?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Why does he need a private army?’

  ‘Status,’ Holt said. ‘They all have one. Makes them look hard. And cool. And – I suppose – to genuinely protect them. There’s plenty of people who’d like a piece of Tupolev’s action.’

  ‘How come you know so much about it?’ Danny asked.

  Holt shrugged.

  Danny and Holt got on the coach. A few of the other journalists nodded to Danny. They were friendly with him. Even though he wasn’t one of them.

  ‘So how did he get his money? This Tupolev?’ Danny asked, once they’d sat down; Danny had headed for the back of the bus like he always did on school trips. He remembered reading about a rich Russian: his name had begun with T. Was it him?

  ‘Don’t ask,’ Holt said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later.’ Holt was making gestures. Putting his finger over his lips, shaking his head. Then tapping his ear.

  ‘What?’ Danny said.

  Holt shook his head again.

  ‘Shall I shut up?’ Danny said.

  Holt nodded. ‘Let’s talk when we’re off this coach Dmitri Tupolev has kindly put on for us.’

  They drove first through Moscow. Along the enormous highway that cut through the city. Huge grey buildings either side of them. Then massive parks. Spectacular churches. Spindly tram wires overhead. Snow piled in heaps at the side of the road.

  But the coach was warm. Its heating on full blast. Danny soon forgot it was freezing outside. Minus ten.

  The traffic was heavy – and endless. Filthy grey and white cars stopping and starting as they edged over the river. The only features standing out were the red walls of the Kremlin and the enormous statue of a bearded man languishing on the steps of a large oblong building. White shading his left side.

  ‘That’s Dostoevsky,’ Holt said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He wrote Crime and Punishment. A novel. The first detective novel,’ Holt explained. ‘A man kills two old women with an axe and tries to work out why he did it. You should read it. It’s a laugh.’

  Danny made a mental note. He would.

  Once they were out of the centre, the coach picked up speed. First they saw miles and miles of apartment blocks. Twenty storeys high, like blocks of flats at home; but each block the width of ten English blocks of flats.

  ‘Most people in Moscow live in blocks like that,’ Holt said.

  ‘Right,’ Danny murmured. He was glad he lived in a terrace back home.

  As they were talking a message came in on his phone. He checked it.

  No. Still boring. More pls. C xx

  Danny winced. He knew Charlotte was joking, but it was important to him that she was impressed. He needed something more.

  Once they’d passed the apartment blocks, the scenery opened out to a white featureless land. And after that endless trees, thin silvery trunks covered in snow.

  ‘Those trees go on for hundreds of miles,’ Holt said. ‘That’s it after Moscow.’

  After another half-hour the coaches, still tailed by the black people-carriers, turned off on to a smaller road, then one smaller still. The atmosphere in the coach had been chatty and excitable for the trip so far, but once they were on the minor road, Danny noticed a quiet descend over the coach.

  ‘We’re nearly there, I think,’ Holt said. ‘Look. That’ll be it.’

  Danny looked.

  The house they were approaching was huge. He thought they were going to someone’s country cottage. But this was more like the stately home he saw on the hills every time his mum drove them along the M1. It looked like a castle. And had dozens of chimneys. There must have been over a hundred rooms, easy.

  ‘Does someone actually live here?’

  Holt nodded.

  The coaches drove slowly through open fields. Danny noticed a small group of deer feeding in a dip. Then more groups of deer. There were actually hundreds.

  Holt was staring at a lake, a massive lake, hundreds of wild birds suddenly lifting from its surface.

  ‘This is amazing,’ Danny said. ‘Are we going in there?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Is it going to be posh?’ Danny asked, looking down at his jeans and T-shirt.

  ‘It is.’

  Danny nodded. He hated posh. Normally.

  But just this once he thought it’d be interesting to see what this sort of posh was really like. It was the chance of a lifetime.

  A DIFFERENT KIND OF PARTY

  This was not the kind of party Danny was used to. Nothing like the one he had been to two days earlier in England. There were no champagne fountains there. No waiters dressed head to foot in white. No skinned, dead animal being roasted over an open fire.

  And – added to that – Danny could not get his head round the fact that he was standing with the England footba
ll team in a huge room with a ceiling painted with figures and animals. A room that was more like a church than a house. It felt like a dream. That was the only way Danny could find to describe to himself how he felt.

  He stood back from the crowd and began to film. This would impress Charlotte. He made sure he got in a couple of players. Ones even Charlotte would recognize. Peter Day. She’d know him. Tall. Always smiling. Everybody liked Peter Day.

  The more Danny looked, the more amazing the room seemed.

  Long gold curtains hung from the ceiling, draped across the room like the sails of ships.

  A table over thirty metres long offered hundreds of dishes. Fish. Meats. Vegetables. And dozens of small pastry shapes.

  As well as champagne, you could drink any one of hundreds of selections at the bar. Beers. Wines. Spirits. Cocktails.

  Danny stopped filming and asked the waitress if she could find him a Coke. She was not much older than he was. She smiled.

  ‘I try,’ she said.

  She came back two minutes later with a glass of Coke on a silver tray.

  ‘Spasiba,’ Danny said.

  The waitress smiled again, then left Danny to gaze around the room.

  There were statues of bulls and people banging tambourines. Some of them naked. And oil paintings of people eating grapes. It was a strange place. A very strange place.

  Danny finished his film, turned his back and sent it off to Charlotte.

  Five minutes later a man got up to speak on a platform at the front of the hall. His audience turned to stare at him immediately.

  Danny noticed a pair of men watching the people as the man stood, their hands clasped together at the front, wires coiling down from their ears into their shirts. They wore matching suits.

  This was clearly the man who’d put the reception on. One of the richest men in the world. This was Dmitri Tupolev, the Russian oligarch.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the man said in what seemed like perfect English to Danny. ‘I welcome you humbly to my home.’