Ark Angel Part 8

"No. They both died when I was very young."

"I'm sorry. An accident?"

"A plane crash." It was easy for Alex to repeat the lie that MI6 had been telling him all his life.

"You have no relations?"

"No. Just Jack. She looks after me."

"That is very unusual. But then it seems to me that you are an unusual boy. It would be interesting, I think, to have a son like you." Drevin looked out of the window. "How are you getting on with Paul?" he asked.

"Fine."

"He likes you." Drevin was still looking away, avoiding Alex's eye. "I wish that he was a little more like you. He seems so ... aimless."

"Maybe he'd be happier if you let him go to an ordinary school," Alex said.

"That is not possible."

"Do you really think he's in any danger?"

"He is my son." Drevin spoke the words with no emotion at all. He had summed Paul up. There was nothing else to say. He forced a thin smile to his lips. "But enough of that," he went on. "My team will beat your team. That is all that matters today."

An hour later, they turned onto the Fulham Road and were forced to drive at a snail's pace through the thousands of people who were arriving for the game, the Chelsea fans in blue, the Stratford East supporters in red and black. Alex was glad that Drevin's Rolls-Royce had tinted windows. n.o.body could look in. He had come to Stamford Bridge a hundred times on foot and he'd always loved the sense of belonging, that moment when he became part of the crowd battling its way through rain or snow in the hope of seeing a home win. This was too comfortable, too isolated. He would have felt embarra.s.sed if anyone had seen him.

They turned into the complex of hotels, restaurants and health clubs that had come to be known as Chelsea Village, then swept away from the fans, following a narrow pa.s.sageway to the west stand. The car stopped in front of a revolving door with the words MILLENNIUM RECEPTION in silver above. They got out.

Drevin had become more tense the closer they got to London. His eyes and mouth were three narrow slits and he was twisting his ring in short, jerky movements.

"Here is Miss Knight," he said, and Alex saw Tamara Knight, the over-efficient personal secretary he had met at the Waterfront Hotel. She was still dressed smartly in a jacket and s.h.i.+rt, even though she was at a football match. Alex noticed she was wearing black and red earrings: at least she hadn't completely forgotten her team colours.

"Good afternoon, Mr Drevin. Alex..." She nodded at both of them. "Lunch is being served on the third floor. I have your pa.s.ses." She gave them two security pa.s.ses marked ALL ACCESS + T.

"What does the T stand for?" Alex asked.

"I presume it means you can go through the tunnel," Tamara explained. She sounded uninterested. "In fact you can go anywhere you like, except onto the pitch." She turned to Mr Drevin. "Good luck this afternoon," she said.

"Thank you, Miss Knight."

They went into what could have been the foyer of a very smart health club, with a dark wooden desk, a turnstile and a wide corridor with two oversized lifts. A uniformed security guard and a receptionist watched them as Tamara called the lift. They travelled up to the third floor in silence.

Alex realized that he was entering hallowed ground. This was where the directors, chairmen, managers and corporate sponsors came. Normally he wouldn't have been allowed anywhere near. Yet still he felt ill at ease. Drevin might have forgotten the kart race but he hadn't. It seemed to Alex that the more he learnt about him, the less attractive he became. An absolutely wonderful man. An absolutely wonderful man. That was how Crawley had described him. Well, MI6 had said much the same about Damian Cray. Alex knew that Drevin was a bad loser, and he had dark feelings about this match which he couldn't shake off. That was how Crawley had described him. Well, MI6 had said much the same about Damian Cray. Alex knew that Drevin was a bad loser, and he had dark feelings about this match which he couldn't shake off.

"How are you enjoying your stay with Mr Drevin?" Tamara asked suddenly.

"It's fine."

"I hope you're keeping out of trouble."

Was she trying to tell him something? Alex examined the attractive blue eyes, but they were giving nothing away.

The lift doors opened and they walked out into a corridor lined with dark wooden panels, and into a dining room with a buffet table on one side. Waitresses were circulating with champagne. Unlike the rest of the complex, the room was old-fas.h.i.+oned with a moulded ceiling and a series of ornate, smoked gla.s.s windows. But for the two widescreen televisions mounted on the walls, it could have belonged to the nineteenth century.

Drevin accepted a gla.s.s of champagne and sat down at one of the tables where about half a dozen people, including the Stratford East chairman and a couple of the footballers' wives, were already seated. There were about fifty people in the room. Alex recognized a couple of television actors chatting to the Chelsea chairman, who unlike Drevin looked completely at ease. A waitress gave Alex a gla.s.s of lemonade, and he sipped it in silence.

He found himself standing beside Tamara Knight. "Are you a football supporter?" he asked.

"No." She looked bored. "I've never really understood the British obsession with football. Of course, I want Mr Drevin to win. But otherwise I don't really care."

Alex found himself getting annoyed. Tamara looked like a model or an actress. But she seemed determined to act like a cold-blooded businesswoman. "How did you come to work for Mr Drevin?" he asked.

"Oh, an agency recommended me."

"Do you enjoy it?"

"Of course I do. Mr Drevin is a very interesting man." She was unwilling to say any more and looked relieved when the door suddenly opened and a young woman came striding in. Alex took in the blonde hair, the permanent tan, the diamond collar necklace and the perfect teeth. He recognized her instantly. Her face was rarely absent from the tabloids or the television screen.

Her name was Cayenne James and she had once been a model and an actress. Then she had married Adam Wright, one of the country's most famous strikers and a member of the England squad. Wright had made the headlines himself when Drevin had paid twenty-four million pounds to buy him from Manchester United; he was now the captain of Stratford East. Alex wasn't surprised that his wife had turned up to see him play.

He watched as she went over to Drevin and kissed the air close to his cheeks, then sat down and helped herself to champagne. The conversation in the room had quietened when she came in and Alex was able to hear their first exchange.

"How are you, Niki?" She had a loud, school-girlish voice. "Sorry I'm late. I just popped into Harrods. It's only down the road."

"Was your husband with you?"

"No! Don't worry!" She giggled. "Adam's been concentrating on the big match. He never comes shopping when there's a game coming up..."

More food was served. Alex was feeling increasingly out of place. He was sorry Paul hadn't been able to come. It was half past two. He wished the game would begin.

Half an hour later it did. The smoked gla.s.s windows and doors were opened and everyone walked out. Alex went with them, emerging onto a stand with about a hundred seats, one tier up, exactly opposite the tunnel. And at that moment he was able to forget Drevin, Neverglade, go-karting and all the rest of it. The magic of the stadium, moments before kick-off, overwhelmed him.

Stamford Bridge has room for over forty-two thousand spectators and today, in the bright afternoon sunlight, every seat was full. Music was pounding out of the speakers, fighting with the fans, who were already chanting good-humouredly. Alex watched as a Mexican wave travelled in a huge circle in front of him. He had been given seat A10, perfectly placed between the two goals. There were no policemen in sight. Chelsea has its own army of stewards but it didn't look as if anyone was in the mood for trouble.

Then there was a roar as the teams emerged and formed two lines, each one accompanied by a small child. The referee and the two linesmen joined them.

"You're next to me," Tamara Knight announced.

Alex sat down. He was determined to enjoy the next hour and a half.

But it was obvious, almost from kick-off, that it was going to be a hard, unfriendly game. After just ten minutes, one of the Chelsea players was brought down by a vicious tackle that immediately earned Stratford East a yellow card. It was to be the first of many. Chelsea dominated the first half, and but for the hard work of the Stratford East keeper, they would have soon taken the lead. Then, half an hour in, the right winger gathered the ball and sent it in a perfect cross to the penalty area and a second later it had been headed into the goal. The crowd roared; the speakers blared. It was onenil to the home side, and just five minutes later the Chelsea captain beat two defenders and powered the ball into the back of the net.

Stratford East went into the break two goals down.

There were more drinks served in the dining room during the interval but Alex was careful to avoid Nikolei Drevin. He remembered how he'd behaved at the end of the kart race. This was a thousand times more humiliating. The game was being shown all over the country. Drevin had spent a sizeable fortune building up his team. And the fact that he was being beaten by Chelsea owned by another Russian somehow made it all the worse.

Cayenne James didn't help. "Never mind, Niki," she said in her silly, high-pitched voice. "It's not over yet. I'm sure Adam will be talking to the boys in the dressing room."

"It would be nice if your husband were to touch the ball," Drevin replied. He had a gla.s.s of champagne but was holding it as though it were poison.

"He does seem a bit tired today. Maybe he's saving his strength for the second half."

In fact, Adam Wright was barely visible when the game began again, and Alex wondered why the manager didn't pull him off. He was playing in the centre but never seemed to be anywhere near the ball, and when he did take possession he didn't create a single opportunity. Alex knew that the Stratford East captain had been given a bad ride by the press. He should never have left Manchester United. He spent more time modelling clothes and advertising aftershave than playing football. His last outings for England had been dismal. Half the country had turned against him, and perhaps it was now affecting his game.

The next goal, when it came, was more of a fluke than anything else. There was an untidy scrabble in front of the Chelsea goal and for a moment the ball was invisible. Then a Stratford East player got his foot to it. The ball deflected off another player's thigh and sailed past inches away from the Chelsea keeper's outstretched fingers. It wasn't pretty but it made the score twoone with fifteen minutes left to play.

After that, Chelsea rarely lost control of the ball. Alex found himself willing them on, hoping they would keep their lead until the final whistle. He knew it was ungenerous of him; he was here as Drevin's guest. But Chelsea were the better team and he'd been a blue all his life. He kept his emotions to himself, though, resisting the temptation to join the home supporters as they urged their team on.

Full time. It seemed that Chelsea had it in the bag. But then, out of nowhere, three minutes into injury time, came the chance to equalize: a foul inside the Chelsea penalty area. One of the Stratford East players went down, gripping his leg in agony, and although Alex suspected he was faking, the referee believed him. There was a blast of the whistle. Another yellow card. A roar of disbelief from the crowd. But Stratford East had been awarded the penalty. It had to be the last shot of the game.

Adam Wright stepped forward to take it.

He couldn't miss. He had taken penalties for England countless times. Alex had watched him perform brilliantly against Portugal in the last European Champions.h.i.+ps, firing the ball into the net with breathtaking ease. Surely he would do the same now.

A peculiar hush had descended on the stadium. After making so much noise, it was astonis.h.i.+ng that over forty-two thousand people could be so quiet. Alex glanced at Drevin sitting four seats away. The man's entire body was tense but there was something close to a smile on his face. He knew there was no way Stratford East could win this game. But a draw would be enough. There was no humiliation in a draw.

Adam Wright settled the ball on the penalty spot.

The other Stratford East players were ranged behind him. The Chelsea keeper was crouching, rubbing his hands together. The moment seemed to stretch out to an eternity. The crowd held its collective breath.

Adam Wright ran his hands through his hair. It was long this season, with blond highlights. The referee blew his whistle. A single, short blast. Wright ran forward almost lazily and kicked.

Alex watched in disbelief.

Something had gone terribly wrong. The keeper had been misdirected and had dived to the left, but the ball hadn't gone anywhere near the goal. A clump of gra.s.s and mud sailed in one direction while the ball soared in the other, pa.s.sing at least a yard over the crossbar. Adam Wright realized what had happened and, even at this distance, Alex thought he could see the shock in his eyes. Then, slowly, everything seemed to unfreeze. The keeper got to his feet, punching the air with both fists. The other Stratford East players stood where they were, stunned. The Chelsea fans roared their pleasure; the visiting supporters sat in paralysed silence.

And Drevin? He had gone very pale. His hands were clasped together, his eyes empty.

A few seats away from him, Cayenne James giggled nervously. "Oh dear!" she squealed.

Drevin turned to look at her and Alex could see that he made no attempt to disguise the contempt in his face.

And then it was all over. The referee didn't even bother with another kick-off. He blew the final whistle and the two teams came together, shaking hands and swapping s.h.i.+rts. More music pounded out as the screens flashed up the final score. Twoone to Chelsea. The stewards reappeared and the crowd started to trickle out of the stadium.

Drevin was suddenly very much alone. As Alex watched, he dug a hand into his trouser pocket and took out a mobile phone. He pressed a speed dial b.u.t.ton and spoke briefly. Alex got the feeling that he was talking in Russian, but even if it had been English, he wouldn't have been able to hear above the general din. Drevin's face was colourless. Whatever he was saying, Alex doubted he was sending his team a congratulatory message.

Drevin put his phone away and stood up. He seemed to notice Alex for the first time.

"I'm sorry," Alex muttered. He didn't know what to say.

"There will be other games." Drevin's voice was heavy. "If you don't mind, Alex, I will ask Miss Knight to accompany you home. The driver is waiting outside. I have some business to attend to."

Tamara nodded. "Whatever you say, Mr Drevin."

Drevin went back into the dining room. Alex took one last look at the stadium, at the great rectangle of bright green gra.s.s, at the departing spectators. He knew it was unlikely he would ever have this view of Stamford Bridge again.

Something caught his eye.

The sun glinting off something. Somebody in the crowd.

No. It wasn't possible.

Alex looked again, then hurried down the steps to the edge of the terrace and looked more carefully, his eyes searching the milling crowd. He knew what he had seen. He just hoped he was mistaken.

He wasn't.

Silver Tooth was standing on the edge of the pitch. Alex looked down, shocked. The man he'd knocked out with the defibrillator and who had been there with Force Three when he was interrogated was there, in the crowd! He had been watching the game as if that was what he did on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon when he wasn't kidnapping people. Alex watched as he slipped something into his jacket pocket and then began moving slowly towards the south stand.

Tamara Knight called out to him. "Alex?"

What should he do? Alex didn't want any more involvement with Force Three. He was meant to be on holiday, recuperating. But he couldn't just let the man walk away.

He made his decision. He turned and ran past her. "I'll meet you at the car!" he called out.

And then he was gone, through the gla.s.s doors into the dining room, searching for the way back down.

BLUE MURDER.

Force Three were here at Stamford Bridge.

As Alex burst out into the open air, he knew they hadn't come to watch a football match. They had already attacked Drevin once through his son. Was it possible they were going to try again, this time by targeting his football team?

Alex reached the edge of the pitch and looked around. The crowd was slowly disappearing through the various exits, like sand trickling out of a leaking bucket, but there must still have been at least ten thousand people in the stadium. Now that he was at ground level, he wondered if he would have any chance of spotting the man he knew only as Silver Tooth again.

Up on the giant television screens, Adam Wright was being interviewed about the missed penalty. The Stratford East captain had a boyish face; he could have been about nineteen. He looked and sounded as if he was sulking.

"...so I don't really know what happened," he was saying. "I thought the ball moved just before I kicked it. The soil was a bit soft around the penalty spot. I don't know. It's just one of those things, I suppose. There's always next time..."

Alex glanced away from the image and that was when he saw him. Silver Tooth was wearing an orange Gore-Tex jacket. Perhaps he thought it was going to rain. There was a large gap between the terraces and the pitch, and Alex saw Silver Tooth as he separated from the crowd. He was walking purposefully round the front of the south stand, not making for any of the exits. Alex was able to examine him properly for the first time. He was in his twenties. Not English. His looks were Middle Eastern. His hair was long and dirty. It wasn't just his teeth that needed attention. Alex followed him behind the goal and towards the players' tunnel. What was the man doing here? He turned the question over and over in his mind.

Silver Tooth reached the tunnel and disappeared from sight. Alex quickened his pace, grateful for the security pa.s.s around his neck. A couple of stewards glanced his way but neither of them tried to stop him. It occurred to him that Silver Tooth must have a pa.s.s too. If so, how had he got it? Or was his simply forged?

He reached the tunnel, which was surrounded by a sea of empty blue seats with the press box just above. Nine steps led down to an old-fas.h.i.+oned metal and wire gate. In normal circ.u.mstances Alex would have given anything to be here. He had watched his team emerge countless times from right where he was standing. He could picture the spectators in their thousands, hear the chanting and clapping swelling into a roar of excitement as the players appeared. This really was the lion's mouth. But he couldn't feel any excitement. Despite all his resolutions, Alex knew that he was getting into trouble once again. Trouble, it seemed, just wouldn't let him go.

Alex entered a modern, surprisingly empty area with a ceiling so low it was oppressive, and grey tiles on the floor. There was no sign of Silver Tooth. There were a couple of gleaming silver bins and a bench where injured players could receive immediate physio. The air was cold and sterile, endlessly recycled by a powerful air-conditioning system. Everything smelled brand new, and Alex recalled that the owner of Chelsea had spent hundreds of thousands of pounds smartening the place up. He pushed open a door and found himself looking into the press room, a rectangular s.p.a.ce with about twenty seats facing a narrow platform. The journalists had already left. There was an outer room with two walls covered in carefully placed advertis.e.m.e.nts and he recognized the spot where Adam Wright had been interviewed only a few minutes before.

He tried another door. As he pushed it ajar, he heard voices coming from inside. One was all too familiar. He held the door open a crack and looked through. Yes. Combat Jacket was there. The last time Alex had seen him, he had been shooting at him with an FP9 single-action pistol, blocking his escape from a blazing building. Now he was standing with his back to the door, hands on hips. Silver Tooth and Spectacles were with him. They were surrounding a fourth man who was sitting on a bench, a towel wrapped around his waist.

It was Adam Wright. This was the visiting team's changing room. Peering through the narrow crack Alex didn't dare open the door any wider he took in the blue padded benches, the lockers, the vending machine filled with water and Lucozade, the ultra-modern showers and toilets on the far side. The ceiling was low here too. Alex could almost feel the weight of the seating in the stand directly overhead.

The Stratford East captain was the only player in the room. The others must have left while he was being interviewed, getting out as fast as they could after losing the game. Adam Wright was looking up at the three men towering over him. He was clearly surprised to see them.

"If you guys don't mind," he said, "I was just going to take a shower. We don't usually have visitors in the players' changing room."

"We represent the Stratford East Supporters' Club," Combat Jacket said. "And we have something for you."

"A thank-you present," Spectacles added.