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
