on towards the entrance where the car had dropped him before the match. Tamara Knight was standing there. She was looking alarmed, and Alex wondered if she had heard the shot. Then he realized she was staring at him. She could tell from his face that something was wrong.
“Alex? What is it?” she demanded.
“Get help!” he exclaimed. “Call the police. Whatever.” He took a deep breath. “You’ve got to send someone to the changing rooms. Adam Wright. I think he’s in trouble.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Force Three.” It was too complicated to explain. Drevin’s personal assistant was looking at him as if he were deranged. Where was he meant to begin? “Just trust me,” he begged. “You need to get security over to the changing rooms. Please! Believe me…”
Tamara gazed at him for a few more seconds, summing him up. She didn’t look as if she believed him. But then she nodded. “All right, then. There’s a steward inside.” She turned and hurried back into the west stand.
But it was already too late.
The three men had left the changing room. Adam Wright was on his own. He fingered the new medallion they had given him. He had more than a dozen of them—in gold and platinum. He’d always liked medallions, even when he was a boy growing up in Essex. He thought they suited him.
It was strange, though. Receiving a gift after a game like that. Adam Wright thought about the missed penalty as he went over to the showers. However you looked at it, he wasn’t having a good season. Maybe it was time to think about another transfer. He had to be careful. If his game began to slip, he might lose some of his advertising and sponsorship deals. And if that happened, how would he pay for his next Ferrari?
He dropped his towel. Glimpsing himself in a mirror, he smiled. He had a perfect body and he liked the way the new medallion lay against his chest. He was looking forward to showing it to Cayenne.
He turned the shower on full. Hot water blasted down. He stepped into the spray and water battered his neck and shoulders. He turned round.
The men who had given Adam Wright the medallion had told him that it was made of caesium. What they hadn’t told him was that caesium is an alkali metal found in group one of the periodic table. It does not occur naturally. It has only one electron in its outer shell. And, like all alkali metals, it reacts extremely violently when exposed to water. The medallion had been given a coating of wax to protect it from the atmosphere, but the wax was now melting in the shower.
Adam Wright knew there was something wrong when he felt an intense burning. For a moment, he thought the water was too hot. Then he looked down and, to his astonishment, he saw a brilliant flame bursting out in front of him. He opened his mouth to scream, and at that moment the caesium medallion exploded. The scream died in his throat. With the water rushing down, he fell to his knees, his hands outstretched, and for a brief instant he looked just like a keeper seconds after he has let the ball into the back of the net. Then he pitched forward and lay still.
Two minutes later, the door of the changing room crashed open and a group of security men rushed in.
There was nothing they could do. Adam Wright was lying on the floor with water all around him. Smoke was rising up beneath his chest, creeping through his armpits.
The Stratford East captain and England striker had taken his last penalty.
And the people who had come for him hadn’t missed.
EXPIRY DATE
« ^ »
he following day, Alex was playing table tennis with Paul Drevin. Once again Paul was beating him. The score was fifteen-eighteen and it was his serve. He fired the ball down the table, trying to put some spin on it. Paul lobbed it back. Alex went for the slam and got it. The ball hit the corner of the table and bounced over Paul’s bat. Sixteen-eighteen. He was in with a chance.
The two boys were playing in the most extraordinary room Alex had ever been in. It was more than sixty metres long but only six metres wide, an oversized cigar tube with porthole windows running along the whole length. Part of the room was carpeted, with luxurious leather chairs arranged around a coffee table, a drinks cabinet and a widescreen TV. Then there was the games area: complete with table-tennis table, snooker table, PlayStation and gym. Next to it was a small but well-equipped kitchen and, on the other side, closed off, a study area with a library and conference table where Nikolei Drevin was now working.
And the whole thing was thirty-six thousand feet above the ground.
Alex and Paul were on their way to America, flying in Drevin’s private 747 which he had adapted to his own needs. Forget cramped seating and microwaved food on plastic trays. The interior of this plane was beyond belief. But for the noise of the engines and the occasional turbulence, it would have been hard for Alex to believe that he was in the air.
He was glad to be out of England.
The death of Adam Wright had naturally made the front page of every newspaper. It had also been the lead story in all the news programmes on TV. This time, Alex had not been involved—and for that he had to thank Tamara Knight. She alone knew that he had seen and followed one of the killers at Stamford Bridge, and when the body in the shower had been discovered, she had decided to keep this information to herself.
As she said to Alex, he’d been through enough. Force Three had already claimed responsibility for the murder, explaining that the footballer had been another victim in their war against Drevin. What difference would it make if Alex was dragged into it once again?
Tamara was on the plane too, sitting in one of the Leather chairs, reading a book. Alex had glanced at the cover and seen the title. She was reading a history of space travel, obviously preparing herself for the launch that was to take place in just three days’ time. She glanced up briefly as he prepared to take his next serve, then turned a page.
Alex lost the serve and, two points later, the game. He wondered if they’d reached the coast of Canada yet.
It had been almost five hours since they had left Heathrow, and even with all the comforts of the 747, he was aware that he was in that strange, empty space, hovering on the edge of the world between two time zones.
