Sudden Death (15 page)

Like ducks in a barrel
, Jake thought.

Of course! That’s what Powell had been trying to tell his dad. That the AEB were
all
in danger. That
someone
was willing to kill to stop Christian Truman’s vision of worldwide green energy becoming a reality. Someone who had a fortune invested in oil and a willingness to do anything to protect that monopoly. Someone exactly like Igor Popov.

They’re all walking into a trap.

J
ake had to show his pass four times between the gates and the changing room. The chanting of the crowd sounded through the stadium like a distant thunderstorm. He ran along the corridor and found his dad sharing a joke with the match referee and linesmen outside his office.

‘Dad,’ he said. ‘I need to talk to you.’

‘In a minute,’ his dad said. He shook hands with the officials and turned to his son. ‘OK, Jake, make it quick. I need to give a team talk to the players. They’ll be back from the warm-up any minute.’

‘We have to warn Truman and the AEB,’ he said. ‘They’re in danger.’

His dad grabbed his arm and swung Jake into the office with him. He shut the door. ‘Jake, keep your voice down,’ he hissed. ‘Popov’s got people everywhere.’

‘Yes, I know . . . and they’re going to kill the other scientists.’

‘The alternate energy lot? No way. Not here. There are thousands of people watching.’

‘But what if he makes it look like an accident?’

His dad put a hand on both shoulders. ‘Jake, leave this to me. I’ve been doing this a long time. People like Popov, they’re criminals, but they’re not stupid.’

‘But what about Elisandos and Dowden?’

The sound of football boots clattered along the tunnel outside and someone knocked, then stuck his head round the door. It was Devon, with the rest of the team streaming past behind him, all sweating from the warm-up. ‘Hey, coach,’ said Devon, grinning. ‘You coming to put the fear of God into us?’

‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ said Jake’s dad. He closed the door and turned back to Jake. ‘The AEB will be perfectly safe in the VIP box. I heard Truman’s watching the game from Popov’s office – he’ll be on the phone to his US partners, I guess. There’s going to be a big dinner afterwards in the restaurant. No one’s going to get hurt today – Popov wouldn’t take that risk. Not with the media attention . . .’

‘Ten minutes, Mr Bastin!’ shouted a voice from the end of the tunnel.

‘Look, I have to go, Jake. Relax. Enjoy the game.’

His dad left him standing in the corridor.

But Jake couldn’t relax.
He’s wrong. I know he is.
He felt helpless. But who could he tell? Not the security teams. They all worked for Popov. There was only one person who could help: Christian Truman. He could step up security for himself and the AEB.

Jake sprinted to the elevators and punched the button for the third floor. The lift was full of well-dressed table staff moving supplies up to the restaurant. He almost collided with an attractive waitress carrying a tray of glasses filled with bubbling champagne. As the lift ascended he was plagued by doubts. What would his dad say if he found out what Jake was doing? He’d been so angry with Powell when he risked blowing their cover. Wasn’t Jake doing the same thing now?

But Jake wasn’t going to sit back and let more innocent people die. Not like Dr Dowden.

When the lift doors opened he found the office-like space he had been in a few days before. Only now it was teeming with activity. Behind the glass partitions workers tapped away at keyboards and babbled into headphones. The whole operations team behind the broadcasting and organisation of the game going on below. No one batted an eyelid at the boy hurrying along the corridor. A security guard stood at the
end of the passage leading to Popov’s office. He placed his bulk in the centre of the carpet.

‘Can I help you?’ he said in an American accent.

‘I need to see Mr Truman,’ replied Jake.

‘He doesn’t want to be disturbed,’ said the man. His voice and body language left little room to negotiate.

‘Can you at least tell him Jake Bastin is here to see him? I’m the coach’s son.’ He flashed his pass. ‘It’s an emergency.’

The security guard stared at the card. ‘Wait here,’ he said.

He lumbered off towards the door, knocked twice, then entered. A few seconds later he re-emerged, his face impassive.

‘Mr Truman will see you,’ said the guard, stepping aside.

Jake squeezed past and hurried into the office. Christian Truman was sitting in Popov’s leather chair, a cigar fixed in his jaws. ‘Hey, Jake, shut the door. What can I do for you?’

Jake started speaking before the door clicked shut. ‘Mr Truman, I think the AEB scientists are in danger. I think someone is going to kill them –’

‘Whoa!’ Truman interrupted, taking out his cigar. ‘Steady on there, kid. What do you mean?’

Behind him, Jake could see the stadium alive with flags and banners. Muted cheering penetrated the thick glass viewing panel of the office.

Jake tried to explain, without blowing his father’s cover, but it was hard. Almost impossible. Truman wore a patient smile as Jake came to the end of his reasoning.

‘Kid, Dr Dowden was a freak accident,’ he replied. ‘A tragedy, yes. Unusual, yes. But he wasn’t killed. The doctors said he died from a hypothermic reaction.’

‘But what about Hector Elisandos?’

‘Missing,’ said Truman. ‘But he isn’t dead. He’s probably on the run from the tax officials, for all I know. These South Americans. They’re great fun, but the politics down there . . .’ He shook his head, as if that finished his sentence.

‘Aren’t you listening?’ said Jake. ‘Powell, the journalist, he died too.’

‘Yes, he did,’ said Truman. ‘But the papers in the States are saying he went through a bad divorce. Lost custody of his kids. It’s awful when that happens, but it can drive people to do desperate things. Sometimes suicide seems like the only way out.’

It was like talking to a brick wall. ‘Mr Truman, I really think you should at least be concerned.’

Truman half turned and gestured out on to the pitch. ‘Jake, this is a massive day, not just for Truman Oil – I mean Truman Energy – but also for our relationships with the former Eastern Bloc. I’m not going to cancel anything.’

Jake didn’t know what else he could do, or say. Unless . . .

‘It’s not just me,’ said Jake. ‘My dad’s worried, too.’

Truman took a very deep breath and shook his head in what looked like dismay.

Now he’s taking it seriously
, Jake thought.

‘You spoke to your dad about this?’

Jake nodded eagerly. ‘Yeah. He sent me.’ The lie tripped out easily. ‘He couldn’t come himself because he had to stay with the players.’

‘OK, Jake. OK. Let me handle this . . .’

As he spoke the words, Jake’s mouth went dry. Truman opened his desk drawer and even before he raised his hand, Jake knew what he would be holding.

A gun.

As Jake stood still. Truman’s thumb jabbed a button on the desk intercom. ‘This is Truman. We’ve been compromised. Steve Bastin needs to be . . .
relieved
of his position.’

J
ake had seen this scene in the movies a thousand times, but that was nothing compared to the reality of staring down at the barrel of a gun. Fear spread like cold fire over his skin. He wanted to run, to warn his father, but there was nowhere for him to go. The gun seemed to pin him to the spot.

‘I’m sorry, Jake,’ said Truman. His gravelly voice had lost all its warmth.

Jake couldn’t work it out. ‘What . . . I mean . . . What’s going on?’

‘You couldn’t keep your nose out, that’s what,’ said Truman. ‘I tried to give you an out. I tried to be a good guy. But you wouldn’t let me . . . You just had to keep on meddling. Well, you’ve kicked your last soccer ball, kid.’

‘It was you all along,’ said Jake. His eyes darted over the office, looking for something to use as a weapon. Nothing.

Truman chuckled. ‘I’m afraid I can’t take all the credit, Jake. I don’t like to get my own hands too dirty, so I pay professionals for the nasty stuff.’

‘Dr Dowden?’ said Jake.

‘And Elisandos,’ replied Truman. ‘Once he was in the water bleeding, I heard the sharks did the rest.’

Jake shivered inwardly. ‘But why? You need those guys. Without their expertise Truman Energy will fail.’

‘And that’s exactly what I want it to do.’ Truman grinned. ‘Have you any idea how much money the international community is willing to donate to renewable energy initiatives like mine? Billions. Governments all over the world, the US especially, have found ways to get round the carbon targets, or straight-up ignore them. All I have to do is a good job of
acting
like I give a damn, and I get money thrown at me. It’s simple and brilliant.’

Now Jake understood. ‘So you get all the cash, but don’t deliver the goods.’

Truman laughed loud, deep from his belly, and the gun wobbled off target. Jake backed up slightly, but Truman snapped the barrel back on to him.

‘Bingo,’ said Truman. ‘When a Texan comes along and says he wants to change – really
change
– well, let’s just say, they’ve been falling over their feet to give me their dollars.’

It all made sense. ‘You’re like a parasite,’ said Jake. ‘Leeching off good will. You have no intention of delivering on your promises.’

‘Of course I don’t,’ said Truman. ‘The future’s oil. Always has been. Always will be.’

‘The oil is running out,’ said Jake. ‘It has seventy, a hundred years at most.’

‘That’s good enough for me and my nearest,’ said Truman. ‘The winners will be the guys with enough money to find it and exploit it.’

Jake felt sick as he realised the full depravity of Truman’s plan. ‘So you got the AEB together to show you were serious and get the funding, but you always knew you’d have to kill them.’

‘It had to be done,’ said Truman. ‘Or should I say, it
has
to be done.’

‘But the whole world’s watching.’

‘That’s the beauty of it, don’t you see? I’m the last person the world will suspect. We’re in Russia, for Chrissakes. Sitting on top of enormous oil and gas reserves. There are plenty of people here who’d be only too happy to see the AEB six feet under.’

‘Everyone will think it’s Popov,’ said Jake.

‘Just like you did,’ laughed Truman. ‘If you think I’m slimy,
get a load of this guy. He’d sell his own grandma if he thought he could make a profit. He’s the perfect scapegoat.’

Jake couldn’t see a flaw.
Everyone
would suspect Popov. The dodgy businessman, the Russian oligarch, the guy with so much to lose. Truman could leak stories to the American press, make sure the right evidence reached the right desks, and . . .

‘Popov will be public enemy number one,’ he murmured.

‘Not just in Russia, but the entire world,’ said Truman proudly.

Truman leant down to the drawer again and took out what Jake thought was a cigar case. Only when Truman began screwing it into the barrel of the gun did he realise what it actually was. A silencer. He was running out of time.

‘You won’t get away with it, you know,’ said Jake. His fear had gone, replaced with anger. ‘People like you always get caught. Other people know about this.’

‘What, like Daniel Powell?’ said Truman. ‘I thought I’d taken care of that little bastard on the flight over. Didn’t know your old man could fly planes.’ Truman laughed. ‘He’s really something, huh?’ The Texan gestured with the gun. ‘Now turn round and put your hands up.’

Jake did as he was told, slowly. He was facing the cabinet lined with photos and trophies. Maybe he could use one as
a weapon. He eyed the centrepiece of the display: a huge trophy with a metal football on a silver stand.

No real match for a gun.

Through the office window Jake could see the digital clock set high in the stadium, counting down to the inaugural match. Just over a minute left.

‘My dad knows I’m here,’ he said.

He could hear Truman’s movements as he walked out from the other side of the desk. In the reflection of one of the photo frames, he saw the American position himself behind him.

‘What makes you think your dad’s still alive?’

Truman levelled the gun at his head.

Now or never.

Jake ducked and drove an elbow into Truman’s groin. The gun gave a soft
pfft,
and Jake heard the bullet ricochet off a surface. He grabbed the trophy with his right hand and twisted, swinging it at Truman’s head just as he brought the barrel round for another shot. The metal football came loose from the trophy and thudded into Truman’s cheekbone. He staggered backward, flailing his arms. Jake turned the trophy stand in his hand and swung again, this time hitting Truman’s chin. Another
pfft
sounded as Truman span round. He crumpled on to the floor, his mouth hanging open. Out cold.

Jake looked around, breathing heavily. The first bullet had embedded in the wall, the second in the glass viewing panel, sending out a web of cracks in all directions.

That could have been my head.
Once again he’d been only inches from death.

The gun was still in Truman’s limp hand. Jake kicked it away.

There was a huge roar from the stands and Jake rushed to the viewing window. It was directly opposite the coaches’ dugouts, and he could see both the Tigers and their opposition, the All-Stars, running out on to the pitch. There was nothing in the players’ faces to suggest anything was wrong.

And there, following the team out, was his dad. He was waving to the crowd. He was safe, for now.

The teams formed two lines as the announcer introduced the day’s special guests: the remaining members of the AEB. As the three scientists took the field, the announcer said there’d be a minute’s silence for their deceased colleague, Dr Ian Dowden.

Jake held his breath. Camera flashes went off all over the stadium. Jake flinched. It would only take one to be the glint from a rifle sight. But the minute ended and the players broke from the centre circle and ran to to their respective halves. The AEB members were escorted off the pitch.