Sudden Death (12 page)

They were silent. The only sound was the hum of the air conditioning. Jake thought back to Lester the electrician’s work at the house. Now it made sense. His dad
had
asked him to search for listening devices. And he wasn’t discussing a fantasy football team when Jake overheard him on the phone. He was talking in some sort of code, using old footballers’ names. But why?

His dad pulled out into the traffic. They were almost at the house when he gave a heavy sigh.

‘Mr Popov’s been good to us, Jake. This job is important. It’s not just about football, it’s about cooperation. East and West. A new beginning.’

‘What do you mean? How can you work for such a crook?’ Jake asked.

His dad’s head whipped round. ‘You mustn’t talk that
way about Mr Popov . . .’ He seemed to collect himself as he looked back at the road. His voice was quieter. ‘Mr Popov is a successful businessman. And in Russia they do things . . . differently.’

‘Like kill people? You know that Powell was murdered. And Chernoff, too.’

‘No, I don’t!’ his dad said with sudden vehemence. ‘Jake, back off, Andrew was my friend.’

Jake was taken aback by the ferocity of his dad’s words, but he felt a tingle of excitement too. At least he was getting somewhere.

‘And Powell? Was he your friend?’

His dad took a deep breath and when he spoke again his calm was restored. ‘He might have jumped.’

Jake recalled the figure cartwheeling from the sky. ‘I think he was dead already,’ Jake said. ‘We should have stuck around to find out.’

His dad stopped the car in the driveway and turned off the engine.

‘We can do without the bad publicity,’ he said. ‘People are already waiting for Popov to fail. The last thing he needs is for the police to get in the way. Not with the big game at the weekend.’

Jake wasn’t sure that was the answer he was looking for.
In his dad’s face he saw only anxiety, but how could he be worried about the game after what had just happened?

‘Dad,’ said Jake. ‘Stop lying to me. I’m not a kid any more.’

His dad swung open the door and climbed out.

‘I know you’re not, Jake. But there are still a lot of things you don’t understand.’

‘How
can
I if you’re so secretive?’ Jake said.

‘Just drop it, son,’ said his dad. ‘If you don’t keep your nose out of my business, it could be dangerous.’

He walked towards the door of the house.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Jake shouted after him.

His dad walked inside without answering.

Was he threatening me?
Jake asked himself. He leant against the car and rubbed a hand through his hair. The image of Powell falling and the dreadful sound as he hit the pitch replayed over and over in his head.

Is that the price for crossing the great Steve Bastin?

The next morning Jake woke feeling exhausted after a fitful night’s sleep, but his dad seemed bright-eyed and raring to go at breakfast. It was like he’d forgotten the awful events at the stadium.

‘Today should be great, Jake. Christian Truman has
invited us over for lunch at his ranch. A real treat.’

Jake swallowed a mouthful of toast. ‘Truman has a ranch in Russia?’

‘Apparently so – his oil company has land all over the world.’

‘Wherever there’s oil to pillage, I guess,’ said Jake.

His dad laughed and for a moment it was like the last two weeks hadn’t happened. ‘Actually, Truman Oil are looking into all sorts of different resources, not just fossil fuels,’ his dad said.

Jake remembered the article about Hector Elisandos. The pen-drive was hidden in his football boot.

‘Like tidal energy?’ he said, as nonchalantly as possible.

His dad shrugged. ‘I don’t know about that. But wind power, for sure. His whole ranch runs off a wind generator, apparently. Some kind of advanced technology. It’s near a place called Pogoli, inland along the river.’

Jake didn’t particularly want to spend the day traipsing around Truman’s ranch. Anyway, with his dad out of the way, there’d be a chance he could speak to his mum. Get some answers.

‘I think I might give it a miss,’ he said. ‘I feel pretty tired after yesterday.’

His dad looked obviously disappointed but said,
‘Sure, you take it easy then.’

Jake climbed off his stool and was about to head back to his bedroom when a car horn went off outside. His dad checked his watch.

‘They’re early,’ he said.

‘
They?
’ Jake repeated.

‘That’s right,’ said his dad. ‘Mr Truman’s invited the whole team. It’s a bonding exercise. I doubt they’ll all come though. Are you sure you don’t want to join us?’

Jake rushed to the window. There was a coach parked further down the driveway, with tinted windows. Devon Taylor was standing by the side of it, speaking on a mobile phone.

There’s no way I’m missing this
, Jake thought.

‘I’ll get my things,’ he said.

The coach headed east away from St Petersburg, staying on the southern side of the river until they reached a massive, four-lane bridge. Jake’s dad was right – they really didn’t need a coach this size as only half a dozen players had come along. Jake supposed millionaire footballers needed lots of room.

The mood on the coach was sombre. Powell’s very public death seemed to have taken some of the spark out of the players. It wasn’t surprising that Popov wanted to get them away from the press for a day.

They took a service road off from the highway and headed down a track through dense forest until they reached a tall mesh gate. There was a wooden cabin to one side, from which armed security guards emerged. After a quick chat with the driver, the coach was waved through.

‘It’s like a military facility,’ said Jake to Devon.

‘Truman has something pretty special going on out here,’ replied Devon blankly. ‘State of the art.’

The forest ended abruptly and the players were out of their seats looking through the windows on one side of the coach. Jake joined them.

Truman’s ranch house was a sprawling, two-storey building, painted white, with arched gables and wooden facings. It looked like it had been shipped timber for timber, from somewhere in the southern United States. Jake could not imagine anything that would look more out of place against the bleak Russian landscape that was its backdrop. The same blue and red helicopter that had landed at the stadium was resting on a raised plateau in front of the house.

Christian Truman himself stood on the sheltered veranda, wearing a Stetson and cowboy boots. Beside him stood a smaller man with curly hair and glasses, dressed in a blue casual shirt and straight jeans. A row of stables backed one side of the building. Beyond the trees on the far side of the
house, Jake made out two huge wind turbines, each with four wide blades.

They climbed off the bus into the warm sunshine.

‘Howdy, fellas,’ said Christian Truman. He greeted each of them in turn, pumping Devon Taylor’s hand the longest.
A fellow American
, Jake thought.

‘Gentlemen,’ Truman continued, ‘there’ll be time for some lunch later, and some horse-trekking too if the coach allows it.’ He smiled a wide, white smile at Jake’s dad. ‘But first, there’s going to be a big announcement prior to the game tomorrow. We’ve kept it under wraps until now, but I want you to be the first to know.’ He puffed out his chest and hooked his thumbs in his belt. ‘My family has been drilling in America since the 1920s, and abroad since 1964. But the world has changed, and Truman Oil is changing with it. Fossil fuels are only one part of the global energy solution. Today, I’m going to show you just part of our new direction. It’s time for you to see where the money for football comes from.’ He gestured to the man beside him. ‘This is Dr Ian Dowden, and I’m pleased to have him on board. Some of you may have heard of him. His papers at MIT have revolutionised technology for sourcing wind power. Because of Ian, wind power is more efficient and cleaner than ever before.’ He pointed towards the huge stationary blades over the treetops. ‘What you see here is just
a prototype, but those turbines provide over 10,000 times more energy than I need to run my ranch. A hundred would provide enough energy to run . . .’ He waved his hands. ‘Well, I’ll let Dr Dowden tell y’all himself. Fellas, I’ll see you later.’

Truman headed back towards the house and Dr Dowden stepped forward. He looked a little nervous, and his hands smoothed down either side of his trousers, as though he was checking for something in his pockets.

‘Gentlemen,’ he nodded briskly, ‘if you’d like to follow me.’

With that, he was striding off along a track towards the wind turbines. Jake fell into step with the rest of the players, but when he looked round he realised his dad wasn’t with them. Glancing further back, he saw that his dad was talking earnestly with Truman. Popov was there too, seemingly happy and relaxed in casual clothes. He must have been waiting in the house.

The doctor led them in single file along a narrow footpath and soon the masts were looming above them. Up close they looked even bigger, like giant conifers soaring into the sky. Only these were painted pristine white. Jake knocked on the side and heard a hollow thud.

‘A type of fibreglass,’ said Dr Dowden. ‘Modified at molecular level for increased durability and stability. Once these turbines are in operation, the maintenance will be
minimal. It means we can place them in remote places without worrying about calling in the electrician.’ He smiled. Jake guessed that was as close to a joke as MIT scientists came.

They reached a double door.

‘As Mr Truman was saying,’ Dowden continued, ‘a hundred of these sails will be able to power a city the size of Paris.’

Janné interrupted. ‘I didn’t think wind power could be so strong.’

‘It wasn’t,’ said Dr Dowden, pushing up his glasses, ‘until now. Welcome to the control room, Gentlemen.’

He pushed open the door and they found themselves in what looked like a laboratory. There were banks of buttons, levers and flashing lights on three sides of the room. Two orderlies in white coats were studiously attending to monitors and gauges. In the centre of the room was a semi-transparent panel with a diagram of the two towers and various LEDs blinking. Everything was spotless.

Jake found it hard to take in. This seemed like a miniature version of Mission Control at NASA. By the looks of the players, they were astounded, too. On the far side of the room was a glass panel leading into what seemed to be an empty white chamber.

‘What’s in there?’ Jake asked.

‘That’s the test chamber,’ said Dr Dowden. ‘We can channel the power from the blades above. With a flick of a switch, the air inside this chamber can shift from a gentle summer breeze to hurricane gales.’

‘Can we see how it works?’ Devon asked.

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Dr Dowden said. He called to one of the other scientists. ‘Hans, shall we run a test for the visitors?’

The male orderly nodded and quickly began flipping switches. Dr Dowden unlocked the test chamber door with a code. It hissed open.

On the diagnostic panel in the centre of the room, both sails blipped into life, showing that the real blades above the trees were turning.

Jake and the others gathered at the glass window. At one end were two fans, each ten feet across. At the other was a wall that seemed to be made of sharp rods, all about three feet long, sticking out like an upturned bed of nails.

‘What are those?’ Jake asked and pointed to the menacing spikes.

‘Those are high-tensile rods,’ Dr Dowden replied, seeming pleased at the interest from his audience. ‘The whole chamber is magnetised, generating a current from the energy created by the turbines.’

‘In English?’ joked Devon.

‘It’s also good for drying your hair,’ said Dr Dowden. That one didn’t get a laugh either.

Dr Dowden closed the door behind him. His voice came over the speaker. ‘Just show them Level One, Hans.’

The scientist flicked two switches and turned a dial. ‘Level One initiated,’ he said.

A display above the chamber read
Level 1
. The blades at the far end of the chamber began to turn. A fraction of a second later, Dr Dowden’s hair stirred. ‘Level One can generate enough energy to power the floodlights at the new stadium,’ said his tinny voice. ‘The generator can run consistently at Level One for up to six months. Dependent on the wind, of course. Show them Level Two, please.’

Hans twisted the dial. Now Dr Dowden’s shirt was flapping. ‘By changing the angle of the turbine blades we can adapt for different weather conditions.’ He made a twisting motion with his arm to demonstrate. ‘And deactivate please, Hans.’

The wind seemed to pick up. The digital display said
Level 3.

‘Repeat, deactivate the turbine,’ said Dr Dowden.

The figure switched to
4.

Jake and the others all looked to Hans, but he was frantically flicking switches.

‘Dr Dowden,’ he said, ‘there seems to be some sort of malfunction.’

Level 5.

Dr Dowden’s tie whipped behind him, trailing like a banner.

‘Override,’ he said. Panic was creeping into his voice.

‘Override unsuccessful,’ Hans said, equally panicked.

Level 7.

‘I’ll get help,’ said Devon, breaking away from the group.

‘Get him out!’ Benalto said. He reached the door and tried to open it, but it seemed stuck.

‘The code!’ Jake shouted, remembering the keypad. ‘Dr Dowden, what’s the code?’

The doctor reached the other side of the door. ‘Zero, seven, one, one,’ he shouted back.

Jake punched it in, but a red bar flashed.

Level 8.

Dr Dowden’s glasses were torn from his face and smashed into fragments among the conducting rods. Jake noticed his lips had turned blue. The temperature inside must be dropping.

Hans had come to the door now and punched the code again. No effect.

‘What can we do?’ said Jake.

Level 9.

Dr Dowden’s feet suddenly went from under him and he scrambled on the floor, fighting against an invisible current of air. He managed to grip part of the door frame.