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
« ^ »
orce 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 Silver 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?
