by Tom Palmer
The man put his hands to his mouth and called again. ‘Daaaaa-nny!’
It was Holt. Definitely Holt.
Danny paused for a second. How had Holt found him? Had someone seen him and told Holt? No. Who would do that? For a second the idea that Holt wasn’t all he seemed flashed into Danny’s mind. The idea that he was a double agent, that he was involved with the attacks on the players – and with Sir Richard. Could it be possible? Was that how he’d found him?
Danny shook his head. No way. That just wasn’t possible. His gut feeling was that he was an idiot to think such things. He was just being paranoid. He jumped up from behind the tomb just as Holt was making to leave.
‘Anton?’ Danny called.
Holt turned to him. Danny saw his face open out into a smile, a genuine pleased-to-see-you smile.
There was no way he was corrupt. How could he have thought that?
‘Come on,’ Holt said, grabbing Danny’s arm, leading him roughly out of the cathedral.
‘What?’
‘Out of here. I’ve got a car. A hire car. It’s round the back of the cathedral.’
Holt had broken into a quick walk.
Danny ran alongside him.
‘Don’t run,’ Holt hissed. ‘Don’t draw attention.’ Holt glanced up at the Kremlin. ‘Something’s going on.’
‘How do you know something’s going on?’ Danny said, breathless – and still stiff, after a night on a stone floor.
‘You disappeared. You’re nosy. I know you’re up to something. And you look like a hunted animal. Am I right?’
And Danny felt like there were a thousand eyes on him. ‘Yes.’
Holt nodded. They walked quickly, side by side until they reached a small white car.
‘Get in.’
Danny took the door handle and slipped into the car.
As Holt reversed the car, Danny looked up at St Basil’s. In the morning light it looked magnificent.
Its colours.
Its spiralling towers.
He couldn’t believe that he had hated it before. It was beautiful and now he could only think of it as one of his favourite places in the world.
TO THE LUZHNIKI
‘How did you know where I’d be?’ Danny asked, once Holt had eased the car into the mass of traffic streaming over a bridge, the gears crunching worryingly.
Holt shrugged. ‘It was a hunch. We talked about it being a place of sanctuary.’
‘Thanks.’
Holt paused. Then he said, ‘I’ve been up all night. Worrying sick. I sat in that bloody lobby for hours. I thought you were… I don’t know.’ He had his eyes on the road all the time he said this.
Danny felt ashamed. Although there was nothing he could have done. He thought about using his phone as an excuse, but there was no point.
The roads were tail-to-tail cars, vans, trucks, bikes, buses and more cars. It was impossible for Holt to move from one lane to another. Larger vehicles bullied their smaller car if he tried to move either left or right. Holt cursed as he missed his turning. Cars beeped.
He thrust a map into Danny’s hands. ‘I’m lost. Absolutely stuffed. Can you map read? Please. It’s enough trying to deal with this traffic.’
Danny nodded. He could map read. He spent most car journeys reading maps, whether his mum wanted him to or not.
Danny quickly worked out where they were. ‘Keep going along here,’ he instructed. ‘It splits. We need to move to the right, so we’re in a good lane.’ Danny knew where they were going: the Luzhniki Stadium. Where Russia played their home World Cup ties.
Holt nodded. ‘OK?’ he said.
‘I’m sorry.’ Danny looked behind them at a car beeping its horn. ‘About going missing.’
‘Nutters,’ Holt muttered.
‘What?’ Danny said, casting his eyes to the road behind them. And looking back, he saw what was on the back seat. Two files. One read TUPOLEV, DMITRI. The other GAWTHORPE, SIR RICHARD.
‘Why have you got those files on the back seat?’
There was a long pause.
‘I think it’s time to come clean,’ Holt said.
‘Why would you have a file on Sir Richard Gawthorpe?’ Danny asked.
‘Sir Richard,’ Holt said. ‘He’s in Russia.’
So it had been Sir Richard on the steps. Danny was not going mad. But what was the link, the missing piece in the jigsaw? It was whatever Anton was looking into – and had been hiding from Danny. That had to be it.
‘So why the files? Why are you looking into these two?’
Holt sighed again. ‘I should have told you,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I’ve been doing a piece on Tupolev and Sir Richard trying to buy City.’
‘You knew Sir Richard was around?’
‘I didn’t know,’ Holt corrected him. ‘I knew someone English was involved with Tupolev. But I did have my suspicions.’
Danny nodded.
‘So I was looking into it,’ Holt went on. ‘And I saw him. In a hotel. Two days ago. When I said I had to go and interview someone. I’m starting to put together a picture.’
‘They’re trying to buy City?’ Danny asked.
‘They will buy City,’ Holt replied. Then he braked suddenly and looked at Danny. ‘But there’s something else.’
‘What?’
‘Robert Skatie had an accident last night. He’s out of the game. And I’m sure it’s linked to all this.’
Danny nodded again. Vigorously. ‘It is linked.’
‘What? What do you mean?’
‘The whole thing. Tupolev. Sir Richard. McGee. Skatie. Even Finn.’
Holt said nothing.
‘McGee attacked Skatie,’ Danny said solemnly.
Holt shook his head. ‘No way.’
‘He did.’
‘You’ve no evidence.’
‘I saw it,’ Danny said. ‘I filmed it.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘I did,’ Danny insisted. ‘That’s why I ended up in that cathedral. I was running from some of Tupolev’s men. They were there. And so was Sir Richard.’
Holt carried on driving. His eyes were flashing all over the road. ‘Look. Did you know? Skatie was named as keeper yesterday morning. For the match. That’d be why McGee did it – maybe?’
And suddenly it all clicked into place for Danny. Tupolev and Sir Richard. McGee and Skatie. And Finn.
‘Sir Richard wants City.’
‘Yeah.’ Now it was Holt’s turn to nod.
‘And he needs an investor.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Tupolev wants to invest in a Premiership team.’
‘Yeah.’
‘So Sir Richard gets him on his side – by promising to nobble the England keeper, so that Russia win the games against England.’
Holt slapped his hand to his forehead. ‘That’s it,’ he said.
‘So they get to Finn,’ Danny continued. ‘He refuses to give in – and as a result he’s involved in a car accident, where he could quite easily have been killed.’
‘Right.’
‘Then they get to McGee at the party.’
‘Yeah.’
‘But Skatie is picked to play in the game.’
‘Yeah!’
‘So McGee attacks Skatie.’
‘But that’s what I don’t get,’ Holt frowned. ‘Why does McGee attack Skatie so he can betray his country?’
‘That’s what I don’t get,’ Danny agreed, feeling uneasy. ‘It could be that he wanted whatever Tupolev and Sir Richard have offered him.’
‘Money,’ Holt said. ‘For his debts.’
‘I don’t know…’
‘It’s obvious.’
‘But when I saw McGee attack Skatie, McGee told me to run for it. He saved me. Sort of.’
Holt drove through some lights, glancing left, then right. ‘That doesn’t mean he’s not taking the cash,’ he said.
‘But it means he’s not all bad,’ Danny maintained.
‘There was something about him. I’m not sure he’s corrupt. We have to give him the benefit of the doubt.’
‘You reckon?’ Holt said. ‘That’s the last piece in the jigsaw for me. McGee attacking Skatie. I can finish my article now – get it in the papers tomorrow. They’ll give me the front page for this.’
‘Right.’
‘Hey?’
‘Right. Turn right.’
Holt took a sudden turn at some lights, careering across the path of several cars.
‘We have to give him a chance,’ Danny said, thoughtful for a second. ‘He gave me one.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Left.’
‘Left,’ Holt repeated. ‘Left here?’
‘Yes.’
Holt took a left. And suddenly they saw the stadium.
There were already hundreds of fans standing around outside a Metro station. Several tables set up selling England and Russia flags and shirts.
Holt drove slowly through the crowds.
‘Right here.’
‘What?’
‘Turn. Right. Here.’
Holt grimaced and manoeuvred the hire car into the right-hand lane.
‘The main thing for me is to get you safely home, Danny. If you have got a private army after you, then that’s my priority. It’s my fault you’re here.’
‘So what are we going to do?’ Danny was nervous again after the mention of private armies. ‘And why are we driving to the Luzhniki Stadium so soon?’
‘Hear me out,’ Holt said. ‘The stadium is the safest place we can be. There’s massive security. And – if the security is corrupt – there’s the world’s media around us. We get there hours before anyone would expect to see us there. Find a safe place. Watch the game. Then join the official England coach out of there.’
‘Do you reckon?’
‘I can’t see a safer way of getting you out of here. If they are after you – which I’m not convinced about, but I’ll trust you on that – then there’s no way we should show up at the airport. Or outside the British embassy.’
Danny nodded, but said nothing.
The stadium looked magnificent. Like a cross between the old Wembley and the new. Its outside was old stone, looking solid. But inside Danny could see a glass roof in a perfect oval shape.
There weren’t many cars around, but there were several media vans. Some with satellite dishes on top. People sat on their steps drinking cups of tea or coffee.
Holt parked up in a mostly empty car park down the side of a sports centre.
‘Let’s walk.’
‘OK.’
Holt cleared his throat. ‘When we’re in there,’ he said, ‘make sure you stay in the press area. You’ll be safe there. Don’t stray out of it and we’ll be all right. OK?’
Danny nodded.
As they approached the stadium, Danny saw a huge statue of a man.
‘Wonder who that is?’ Holt said.
‘Lenin,’ Danny replied.
‘How do you know that?’
‘We nearly became friends,’ Danny said, smiling.
Holt said nothing, nodding. Then he pointed to their left. ‘There,’ he said. ‘The press entrance. Once we’re in there we’ll be safe.’
Danny nodded too. Though he wasn’t convinced.
THE STADIUM
Danny had never seen a football stadium press area before. He’d seen a press conference at City, but nothing like this. This was international standard.
There were dozens of desks, all hooked up to the Internet. Comfy seats. And a spacious bar. Everything was there for the press. They were treated like Danny expected players to be treated. There was already a woman asking if Holt wanted a drink. And Danny.
Danny asked for a Coke. Holt, water.
On the upper floor of the press area you could watch the match through an enormous pane of glass. Or you could sit in the stands in a series of orange seats with a desk area in front of each, which were also hooked up to the Internet and phone lines.
Danny headed upstairs to have a look over the pitch.
He looked across the perfect rectangle of synthetic grass and three layers of seats: yellow, orange and red, the upper tier. All the seats were still empty. Above them, a huge curved roof cast a shadow over the pitch. Around the pitch were huge banks of snow and what looked like wheelbarrows to carry it away.
Danny moved down the aisle to have a closer look at the pitch, not seeing the two men waiting above him.
Both men were wearing black. They’d been trailing Anton Holt all day. Their boss had insisted on it. As soon as they saw Holt emerge from St Basil’s – with Danny – they’d been ready, just two cars behind them as they drove from Red Square to the stadium.
They’d followed him all the way.
‘Mi atakovat’ yego tyepyerye?’ said the first man. Shall we attack him now?
‘Nyet, zhurnalist, tam,’ the other replied, as Holt emerged behind Danny. No, the journalist is there.
‘Danny. Come on. Keep a low profile,’ Holt said.
‘I was just looking at the pitch.’
Holt pulled Danny in by the arm as the two men observed them.
‘Save it until the players come for their warm-up,’ Holt said. ‘You never know who’s about. Play it safe.’
An hour later the England squad emerged. A string of players jogging out on to the pitch, gazing up at the stands and the pale blue sky above.
Holt had been tapping away on his laptop non-stop since they’d come back in. Working up his piece about Tupolev and his theories about what was going on with the City take-over. Feeding in Danny’s material.
‘Come on,’ Danny urged.
Holt sighed. ‘Just a minute.’
‘No way,’ Danny said. ‘We need to talk to him.’
They waited in the tunnel, a tube of glossy plastic that led out to the edge of the pitch. Players came and went. Peter Day. Stuart Lane. And Phil White. But not Matt McGee.
Danny and Holt waited. Three or four of the players said hello to Holt. A couple nodded and smiled at Danny. The atmosphere was calm and friendly.
Eventually Matt McGee appeared and walked past them.
‘Matt,’ Danny called out.
McGee smiled and waved at first. Then he stopped and doubled back.
‘All right?’ he said. Very guarded.
‘Hello, Matt,’ Holt said.
‘Listen, lads –’ McGee began.
Danny broke in. He wanted to be straightforward. ‘We know about Tupolev,’ he said. ‘And what he wants you to do.’
‘You think you know,’ McGee said, with a sharper, but quieter, tone of voice.
‘We know about the attack on Skatie too,’ Holt said. ‘Danny here wants to give you the chance to explain, even though he saw –’
McGee shook his head. He breathed in, then said, ‘Leave it.’
‘How can we?’ Holt demanded.
‘Please,’ McGee said. ‘Leave it. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.’
‘Dmitri Tupolev. Sir Richard Gawthorpe,’ Danny said, to push him.
‘Sir Rich–’ McGee stopped himself.
‘Yes. Remember him?’
‘What’s he doing here –’ McGee stopped himself again.
Holt said nothing.
Danny decided he had to speak up. ‘I don’t think it’s true,’ he said. ‘About you.’
Holt looked at him. Danny thought he was going to contradict, but he didn’t.
‘Keep thinking that,’ McGee said.
‘Why should we, Matt?’ Holt said. ‘The evidence –’
‘Anton. Do you value your life?’ McGee said.
‘What the hell does that mean?’ Holt stepped back a pace.
‘I’m not threatening you,’ McGee said, putting his hands up. ‘I’m saying if you value your life, then keep out of it. Don’t write a word. Not yet.’
‘That’s a threat.’
‘Not from me,’ McGee said and turned to walk down the tun
nel. ‘Not from me,’ he said again. Then he was gone.
PRE-MATCH TENSION
Danny had spent most of the afternoon watching people. Unable to go anywhere and with Holt tapping away on his laptop, he had no option. He’d had two Cokes and a sandwich: now he was feeling jumpy.
Danny had tried to persuade Holt that he shouldn’t condemn McGee until the match, until he did throw the game. But Holt was convinced that McGee was going to let Russia win. Danny tried arguing with him for a while, but got nowhere.
So Danny sat and thought: trying to sift through everything he knew, thinking what he could do next.
A couple of hours before kick-off he got a text from Paul.
What d’y reckon? 2-2? P
Danny replied.
Depends on McG. If he plays bad, we lose. D
Throughout the afternoon more football writers arrived. Many of them Russian, who nodded a greeting, then got on with connecting their laptops up to their desks. And talking to each other in low voices, occasionally laughing at each other’s remarks.
But something had changed in the atmosphere too. Danny started to feel that tingling he got in his shoulders – the butterflies he got in his chest – when he was on the way to watch City back home. Pre-match tension. The best feeling in the world. And he was surprised that it made him think of his dad. And he had a disturbing thought: this would be the first match he’d been to without his dad. Ever.
His tingling turned to sadness. Or loneliness. He wasn’t sure. One thing he knew was that he missed his dad.
It just didn’t feel right. Being here without him.
When Holt had to leave to make some phone calls, out of earshot of the other journalists, Danny used Holt’s laptop to check his emails. He drafted an email to his dad. Hello. Wish you were here. That sort of thing. Then he surfed the Net and found a match preview.
England go into today’s vital qualifier only needing a draw to keep their World Cup campaign on track. After beating Russia at Wembley, one point each would leave England two points clear of a Russia team running out of time to catch England. But England have promised to play an expansive game, and not to defend, which, in the manager’s own words, would be ‘an invitation to the Russians to score’. The World Cup finals beckon and…
Danny felt a surge of excitement. Even though he had worries – how he was going to get out of this country being the first of many – he loved the football, loved the prospect of watching a team he supported playing for something so important.