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 one 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
« ^ »
y 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
