“Good. We’ll do two practice circuits before we start. Paul can signal the first and last circuits with a flag.”
Alex examined the course. It was a series of twists and sharp turns with two straight sections where he would be able to pick up speed. Part of the track rose steeply on metal legs and then sloped down the other side; it formed a bridge over another section of the track below. Alex realized he would have to slow down as he took it. He would be about six metres up – and although the sides of the bridge were lined by a protective wall of rubber tyres, he didn’t like to think what would happen if he lost control and hit them. After the bridge, there was a long tunnel with the finishing line on the other side.
He climbed into his kart and pressed the ignition button. At once the engine burst into noisy life. Already Alex felt horribly exposed. The kart had no sides, no roof. He was sitting with his knees bent, his feet stretched out in front of him. He pulled a seat belt over his shoulder and attached it. It was too late to back out now. Drevin had started his kart and was moving off smoothly. Alex tested the pedals on either side of the steering column. There were just two. The left foot operated the brake, the right foot the throttle. His kart leapt forward, the engine anxious to blast him onto the track. Drevin was already well ahead. Alex gritted his teeth and pressed his foot down.
Nought to sixty in 3.8 seconds. Alex didn’t go as fast as that on the first practice circuit but, even so, the power of the engine took him by surprise. There was no speedometer and being so low it was hard to judge how fast he was really going. He guessed he was doing about forty miles an hour, although it felt a lot faster. The track was a blur. The whole circuit seemed to have contracted as his vision telescoped. He saw the grandstand whip past. The mechanics had stopped what they were doing and were watching his progress. His entire concentration was focused on his hands gripping the wheel. His arms were shuddering. He came to a corner and twisted the wheel right. He felt the tyres slide behind him and almost lost control. He was oversteering. Quickly he corrected himself. The kart entered the raised section and he found himself climbing. Halfway over the bridge, the track cornered sharply to the left. Alex swerved round and the wall of black tyres shimmered past. He had almost hit them. Already he regretted accepting this absurd challenge. He had only just come out of hospital. One mistake at this speed and he would be heading right back.
He completed his first circuit and began another. There was no sign of Drevin, and Alex wondered if he had left the track. Then there was a roar behind him and the Russian overtook, his face hidden beneath the black helmet. He had managed two complete circuits in the time that Alex had done one and a half. There was clearly going to be no contest unless Alex put his foot down. How fast had Paul said the karts could go? A hundred miles an hour. Madness!
And there was Paul, positioned on the grandstand, a chequered flag in his hand. Drevin had slowed down, waiting for Alex to catch up. The race was about to begin. Well, at least Alex had had a chance to test the worst corners and bends. He’d begun to work out his race line. And it occurred to him that he might have one big advantage over Drevin. He weighed a lot less than him. That would give him the edge when it came to speed.
But there was no time for further thought. The flag fell. They were off.
Forty miles an hour – fifty – sixty. Just inches above the blur of the tarmac, Alex pressed his right foot down as far as it would go and felt the burst of power behind him. He quickly caught up with Drevin. They came to a bend. Drevin took it tight, hugging the inside. Alex shot round the outside and suddenly he was in the lead as he screamed through the tunnel. So he was right: his weight would make the vital difference. Now all he had to do was stay ahead for the next two laps and he would win.
He had just begun the second circuit when his kart shuddered. For a moment, Alex thought the engine had misfired. Then it happened again, harder this time. He felt himself being jerked back in his seat and the bones in his neck rattled. The tyres slewed and he had to fight for control. A third knock. At this speed it felt as if he had been hit by a sledgehammer. He glanced back and realized what was happening. Drevin was bumping him from behind. He was being quite methodical about it; he wasn’t trying to overtake. They were doing seventy miles an hour, suspended in the middle of a bare steel frame that offered no protection at all. Did Drevin want to kill them both?
Alex braked and immediately Drevin soared ahead, shooting up the raised section of the track. Alex followed, looking for an opportunity to slip past him. But Drevin was cheating again, zigzagging left and right, refusing to give him any space. They roared down the slope and onto the straight, then plunged into the tunnel. After the bright sunlight, it was very dark inside. Alex accelerated and drew level with Drevin. Drevin twisted his wheel and crashed sideways into Alex.
The whole world leapt. Sparks exploded in the darkness as metal tore into metal. The walls of the tunnel rushed past. Desperately Alex fought for control, and as the two karts burst out into daylight, he dropped back. Once again Drevin had the lead.
Out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw Paul wave the flag, signalling the third and final circuit. The race seemed to have lasted only seconds – and it looked as if Drevin had it in the bag. Alex thought about letting him go. What did it matter who won? After all, this was Drevin’s toy. Drevin was paying the bills. It might be polite to lose.
But something inside him rebelled against the idea. He stamped down, urging his kart on. Once more he drew level with his opponent. Now the two karts were side by side, heading up the ramp for the last time. Alex saw Drevin glance across and then wrench at his steering wheel. Alex understood at once what he was doing: Drevin was trying to knock him into the tyres and over the edge! For a horrible moment, Alex saw himself somersaulting sideways in his kart. He saw the world turning upside down and heard the grinding of metal as he hit the tarmac below. Would Drevin really kill him just to win a race? His nerves screamed at him. Stop now! This was stupid. He had nothing to prove.
Drevin slammed into him again. That was it. There was no way Alex was going to let the Russian billionaire win. He touched the brake, as if accepting defeat. Drevin shot ahead, swerving round the corner. Then Alex accelerated. But he didn’t turn the wheel. Instead he aimed straight for the wall of tyres. He hit them head-on and, yelling out loud, soared into the air. For a brief moment he hung in space. Black tyres cascaded all around him, spinning away like oversized coins. Then he was falling. The tarmac rushed up to greet him. There was a bone-shuddering crash as he hit the track below, and Alex was slammed into his seat. The steering wheel twisted in his hands, trying to pull away as he struggled for control. Somehow the kart kept going. Tyres bounced all around and he was forced to swerve wildly. But he had done it. He had cut the corner and now he was ten metres ahead of Drevin.
The tunnel loomed in front of him. He roared into the darkness and out the other side, across the finishing line. He slammed on his brakes. Too hard. The kart slewed round in an uncontrollable spin and stopped. The engine stalled. But the race was over.
Alex had won.
A few seconds later, Drevin pulled up next to him. He tore off his helmet. He was sweating heavily; his hair was plastered to his scalp. He was furious.
“You cheated!” he exclaimed. “You missed part of the track.”
“You pushed me,” Alex protested. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“We will race again!”
“No thanks.” Alex had removed his helmet, glad to feel the breeze on his face. “It was a lot of fun but I think I’ve had enough.” He climbed out of the kart. The mechanics were hovering beside the track, wondering if they should approach.
Paul arrived, still carrying the flag. “I can’t believe what I just saw! That was amazing, Alex. But you could have been killed!”
“The race is void,” Drevin said. “I did not lose!”
“Well, you didn’t win either,” Alex muttered.
Paul stood there helplessly, looking from on
e to the other. Drevin considered for a moment, then shook his head slowly. “It was a draw,” he muttered. Then he turned and walked away.
Alex watched him go. “I see what you mean,” he murmured. “He really doesn’t like losing.”
Paul turned to Alex, his expression serious. “You should be careful, Alex,” he warned. “Don’t make him your enemy.” He ran after his father.
Alex was left standing alone.
INJURY TIME
By Saturday the race seemed to have been forgotten. Nikolei Drevin was in a good mood as he waited for another of his Rolls-Royces – this one a silver Phantom – to be brought round to the front door. It was an important day for him. Stratford East, the team he had bought for twenty million pounds, were playing Chelsea in the Premiership and, although they had been comprehensively beaten three–nil by Newcastle only the week before, Drevin was in high spirits.
“Have you always supported Chelsea?” he asked Alex as they left the house.
“Yes.” It was true. Alex lived only twenty minutes from Stamford Bridge and he had often gone to games with his uncle.
“The club was almost bankrupt when it was bought by Roman Abramovich.” Drevin looked thoughtful. “I met him a few times in Moscow. We did not get on. I hope to disappoint both of you today.”
Alex said nothing. There was an intensity in Drevin’s voice that suggested that, as far as he was concerned, this was more than a game. The Rolls-Royce pulled up and the two of them got in.
Paul Drevin wasn’t coming. He’d had a bad asthma attack the night before and his doctor, who was based twenty-four hours a day at Neverglade, had said he needed a day’s rest. And so Alex found himself alone with Drevin in the back of the car as they were driven down the motorway to London.
“You have no parents,” Drevin said suddenly.
“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. Nobody 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 embarrassed 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 passageway 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 shirt, 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 passes.” She gave them two security passes 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. 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-fashioned with a moulded ceiling and a series of ornate, smoked glass windows. But for the two widescreen televisions mounted on the walls, it could have belonged to the nineteenth century.
Drevin accepted a glass 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 glass 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 glass 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 one–nil 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.
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