Ark Angel

by Anthony Horowitz

  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 glass 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 two–one 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 Championships, 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 astonishing 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 grass and mud sailed in one direction while the ball soared in the other, passing 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 shirts. More music pounded out as the screens flashed up the final score. Two–one 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 button 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 grass, 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 Saturday 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 glass 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 Sil
ver 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 pass 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 pass 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-fashioned metal and wire gate. In normal circumstances 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 space 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 advertisements 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.

  “That’s right. To thank you for everything you’ve done for the team.” Combat Jacket took a sealed plastic box from his pocket and held it out.

  Adam Wright took it. “Well, that’s very kind of you guys. But if you don’t mind, I’ll open it later.”

  “We’d prefer you to open it now.”

  Alex was only a few metres away from the Stratford East captain, who was sitting facing him. He watched as the player opened the box and took out a gold medallion on a chain. It was an appropriate present. Adam Wright wore more jewellery than most women: earrings, bracelets and a different necklace every day of the week. But none of this made any sense. The three men in the dressing room were killers. What were they doing offering gifts to a footballer who’d just blown a game?

  “It’s really nice,” the Stratford East captain said, holding up the medallion. It was round and chunky, about the size of a mini disc. There was a figure engraved on the front. Himself, heading a ball into a net. “It’s great!” he exclaimed. “Can you tell the fans that, you know, I really appreciate this.”

  “Aren’t you going to put it on?” Combat Jacket asked.

  “Sure!” Wright slipped it over his head. The medallion rested on his muscular chest. “It’s quite light. What’s it made of?”

  “Caesium,” Combat Jacket said.

  Adam Wright looked blank. “Is that rare?” he asked.

  “Oh yes. Getting hold of it can be murder…”

  Something nudged the back of Alex’s neck. Alex stepped backwards, allowing the door of the changing room to close, and he heard no more of the conversation.

  There is something about the touch of a gun that is unmistakable. It’s not just the coldness of the metal; it’s the whisper of death that comes with it. Very slowly, Alex turned round. He saw the gun clasped in two hands, one of them swathed in bandages. He knew that the man who held it had broken at least a couple of his fingers. Alex remembered him from the magnetic resonance imaging chamber at St Dominic’s. He was short and very well built. Alex had nicknamed him Steel Watch, but the watch was no longer there. It must have been broken when the man crashed into the MRI machine. Alex was a little surprised that the same thing hadn’t happened to his neck.

  “You!” Steel Watch was shocked to see Alex.

  Alex raised his hands. “I don’t suppose you’ve got the time?” he asked.

  Steel Watch grimaced. He seemed unsure what to do. He had been about to enter the changing room; the other members of Force Three were waiting for him. But he had a personal score to settle with Alex.

  He made up his mind. “You and I are going to leave quietly together,” he ordered. “I am going to walk behind you. The gun will never be more than a few inches away. You will not speak; you will not stop. If you try anything – anything – I will put a bullet in your spine. Do you understand?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “There’s a van. I’ll show you. Now move.”

  Alex had no choice. He could see that Steel Watch meant exactly what he said. He was going to force him out of the stadium and make him a prisoner for a second time. Alex knew if he got in the van, he’d be dead anyway. Both Combat Jacket and Steel Watch had a score to settle with him. They were adults. Professional killers. He was a child. But he had beaten them twice. They were going to enjoy making him pay.

  Steel Watch gestured with his gun and Alex walked down a corridor leading away from the tunnel. He had noticed that the man was wearing a security pass just like his. It had to be fake. There was nobody around, but even if one of the stewards did appear, there would be nothing Alex could do. If he called for help, Steel Watch would kill him and then run. There were still hundreds of people milling around Stamford Bri
dge; it would be simple to disappear into the crowd.

  Briefly Alex thought about Adam Wright and wondered what was going on inside the changing room. But there was nothing he could do for the footballer. He was more worried about himself.

  They left the building. The east stand was now behind them, the terraces slanting up at an angle from the ground. There was a high wall straight ahead. Alex knew that the railway ran behind it – the wall had been built to keep out the noise. On the other side of the tracks was a cemetery. Alex had been there when his uncle, Ian Rider, was buried. He had to think. If he didn’t do something soon, he might well end up joining him.

  Steel Watch jabbed the gun into the small of his back, deliberately hurting him. He had seen a couple of policemen standing on the other side of the gates that led into the Fulham Road. There was an endless queue of people filtering slowly out of the gates. The bars, restaurants and hotels were open. Alex paused. He couldn’t believe they were about to walk through the middle of it all.

  Steel Watch sensed his hesitation. “We are going to start walking now,” he hissed. “Remember. The gun is out of sight. There’ll be one shot and nobody will know where it came from. You’ll be lying in the gutter and I’ll be gone. Head out of the gates and across the road. I will tell you where to go after that.”

  Alex began to walk with the wall on his left. He turned the corner and saw the ticket booths and souvenir shop just ahead. The Stratford East fans seemed to have gone, taking their disappointment with them. But the Chelsea supporters were in no hurry. It was a mild evening and this was the place to be, meeting friends, savouring the victory. Alex knew that his situation would get worse with every step he took. Right here, now, there might be something he could do. There were the two policemen, chatting together, unaware that anything was wrong. There would be dozens more on the Fulham Road. But once Alex moved away from the crowds, he would be totally exposed. Steel Watch had mentioned a van. Alex imagined the steel door slamming shut behind him. At that moment he would be as good as dead.