He was nervous. Or excited. He wasn’t sure which. He’d felt like this since he’d left home.
Even Emily hadn’t been able to put a dampener on him. When Dad had handed him a book as a present for the trip, his sister had demanded a present from Russia. She’d asked for a Russian doll: she’d always wanted a set, she said. Danny had raised his eyebrows at her, then shook his head.
The lounge for gate thirteen – all comfy orange seats and coffee shops – was full of football writers. A group of men in suits, without ties. Some talking. Many into their mobile phones. Danny recognized some of them from the newspapers; at the top of most sports columns, nowadays, there was a small postage stamp-sized picture of the writer. Then Danny saw Gary Lineker. And Mark Lawrenson. He grinned, then looked at the floor, trying not to stare.
But it was when the players arrived that things got exciting. All twenty-two walking together. All twenty-two in blue suits with ties. Danny knew why this was. The England manager demanded the players dress to represent their country. In team colours on and off the pitch.
Danny recognized all of the players.
Peter Day, Ipswich.
Stuart Lane, Aston Villa.
Patrick Bingley, Arsenal.
Phil White, Liverpool.
Mike Leigh, Reading.
Lewis Poole, Leeds United.
He regretted that Sam Roberts was not among them. He’d got to know Roberts a bit after the kidnapping. Roberts had even been to his house for tea.
As the team arrived, the whole airport lounge went quiet for a few seconds. All you could hear was their footsteps. It reminded Danny of a church, when the choir and vicars come through the congregation. And then someone shouted ‘Good luck, lads!’ And suddenly there were lots of voices calling out.
A man at the front of the players ushered the team through to the plane immediately. He handed the flight official a pile of passports. And the players just walked through the business-class entrance – and disappeared.
When they’d gone Danny looked back at the lounge. Hundreds of people hanging over balconies and stairways, huddled in groups. All staring.
On the plane there was no sign of the players.
‘Where are they?’ Danny asked Holt, who was clipping his seat-belt across his lap.
‘Business class. Up front,’ Holt said. ‘Beyond those curtains.’
‘Can’t you talk to them during the flight? Do interviews?’
‘Rarely,’ Holt said. ‘And only usually at press conferences. And only with an FA official there. Even in the hotel we’ve got to be careful. Not talk about the team and tactics and all that. We’d be banned. But things are better than they used to be. Apparently under one former English manager, you couldn’t get near anyone.’
The plane began to move. In reverse. Then it taxied towards the runway. Danny was by the window, with Holt next to him in the aisle.
A hand came over the top of the seat and tapped Holt on the head.
‘Hold on tight, Anton,’ a voice said. ‘I hear this captain’s a bit ropey.’
Holt grinned and looked back. ‘Cheers, David,’ he said. ‘That’s a great help.’
The hand disappeared, followed by laughter.
‘What was that about?’ Danny said.
‘Flying,’ Holt said.
‘What about it?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What?’ Danny insisted.
‘I’m not keen,’ Holt said. ‘That’s all.’
‘Really?’ Danny said. ‘I love it.’
‘Well, you enjoy it,’ Holt muttered, closing his eyes.
Danny shrugged and stared out of the window. He loved this bit. He’d been on planes six times in his life. To Italy and back. Florida. And Cyprus.
The plane stopped at the end of the runway. Over the intercom the captain said, ‘Crew prepare for take-off’ in a low and confident voice.
Then the engines began to roar.
Danny was pushed back into his seat. He watched the airport move by as the plane accelerated. The noise was thrilling. The speed faster and faster. They must be halfway down the runway now. This was the point Danny loved. Unable to believe the plane would take off. But knowing it was going too fast to stop now. Then feeling the lift. The jump of the plane. Then the dramatic upsurge into the sky, the airport and the roads and fields around it suddenly falling away. He felt his stomach cramp as the undercarriage banged shut.
Danny looked at Holt. His eyes were shut tight, lines across his face. Danny had wanted to ask him about the car crash. But this was probably not a good time. He laughed to himself.
Danny watched the airport and the city become smaller and smaller. Lines of cars on motorways. Reservoirs reflecting the clouds. Sunlight filling the cabin as they passed over England.
He loved flying.
A few minutes later, Holt was asleep. So Danny took out the book his dad had given him. The Spy Who Came in from the Cold. He got straight into it: a spy wants to stop being a spy. But he is dragged into events in Communist East Germany, where he doesn’t know who to trust. His friend turns out to be his enemy. His enemy turns out to be his friend. Double agents turn out to be merely agents. Agents, double agents.
Danny settled back and began to read.
DOUBLE AGENT
After about half an hour, a team of cabin crew brought trays of food around. Danny put his book down.
He looked at his food. Cottage pie. Limp vegetables. Sponge cake. A carton of water.
Holt seemed happier now he’d had a short sleep. He smiled at Danny.
‘Good?’ he said, eyeing Danny’s food.
‘Not bad,’ Danny said.
‘And you’re looking forward to Moscow?’
‘Sort of,’ Danny replied. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. To get Holt to talk about the crash.
‘Sort of?’
‘I want to talk about the other day,’ Danny said. ‘The accident.’
‘Leave it, Danny,’ Holt said, his voice quieter. ‘Please!’
‘How can we?’ Danny whispered.
‘I mean you, Danny. Just enjoy the trip. I’ve responsibilities to keep
