Danny went to stand at the side of what was clearly the arrivals hall. He’d wait there.
He walked through a cluster of men, each offering him a taxi, in English. He shook his head. He wanted to say ‘Nyet’ but worried that ‘no’ alone sounded rude. Not knowing how to say ‘No, thank you’, he preferred to shake his head. One of the taxi-drivers smiled at him – as if he understood.
With time to spare, Danny took out his phone, set up the video and – holding the phone in front of him – began to film the airport. The strange alphabet. The strange hats on the soldiers. The people.
He’d promised Charlotte a video diary. This would be his first entry.
Danny ended his film and sent it to Charlotte. Then he was relieved to see Holt coming over to him, smiling.
If Danny had looked up at that moment, through the glass sides of Moscow’s Domodedovo International Airport, he’d have seen a small private plane banking right to head over the city.
Inside the plane were two men. Dmitri Tupolev, Russian oligarch and football enthusiast. And a UK citizen, now known as Kenneth Francis, City trader.
The inside of the private plane was spectacular. The main cabin was taken up by a large dining table, made of dark shining wood. Each of the men sat in a huge leather chair, which swivelled to face either of two giant TV screens. At one end was a doorway. Francis had already been through it, past a sprawling double bed, into a bathroom with a huge mirror, shower and sink. All – Francis suspected – with gold fittings. Real gold.
The private plane was heading for a small airstrip adjacent to a large country estate and several thousand acres of wild land, stocked with deer, boar and salmon. Tupolev’s private hunting estate, fifty kilometres east of Russia’s capital.
Both men were drinking champagne, served by a tall blonde woman in a smart black skirt and top. Francis was stunned by her beauty.
He was trying to keep calm. Although he was a rich man, used to power and wealth, the man who had met him at the airport was in a different league. Dmitri Tupolev was worth somewhere near six billion dollars. He was one of the richest men in Russia.
Francis was impressed by his clothes. A perfect suit in the finest materials. A crisp white shirt. And an enormously expensive tie. His shoes were long and thin, and made from shining crocodile skin.
But the man inside the fancy clothes looked tired. Compared to the pictures Francis had seen of him. And slightly cross. As a result he looked like a man you should not disappoint.
‘I have created an opportunity to speak to Matt McGee,’ Tupolev said to Francis.
‘Good,’ Francis said. He was again impressed with Tupolev’s use of English.
‘I have invited the England players, the press and Football Association officials to a reception. Tomorrow. At my dacha… my country retreat.’
‘Excellent. And did they accept?’
Tupolev looked at Francis like he was an idiot. ‘Yes. Of course,’ he said.
‘Good. Then we can talk to McGee.’
Tupolev leaned across and summoned the woman in black, indicating their champagne glasses were nearly empty. She came quickly and filled them both. Tupolev nodded and patted the woman on the leg as she passed.
‘Tonight we will dine at my dacha,’ Tupolev exclaimed. ‘Tomorrow I will show you some of my… properties… in Moscow. My hotel. Yes?’
‘Yes,’ Francis replied.
‘You have the portfolio?’ Tupolev said once the woman had moved away.
Francis nodded. He handed Tupolev a thin file.
‘I have highlighted the main issues, as we discussed,’ Francis said. ‘McGee’s history. His links with criminal gangs in his youth. The counterfeit scam that I am confident he was involved in. Also, a record of his gambling activity in the last two years. His debts, as you can see, are…’ Francis paused. How could he call debts of £950,000 ‘huge’ to a man who had far more than that? He searched for the right words: ‘… a problem for him.’
Tupolev nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘this is excellent. We can use this. And you think he will do as we want? You think he will accept the money?’
‘I think we should offer to wipe out his debts. Then, if he is not keen, talk to him about his past.’
Tupolev guffawed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Then, if that doesn’t work, let us talk to him about his future.’
Francis smiled at the man lounging on the other side of the plane. He knew what Tupolev meant. And he didn’t like the idea. He hoped they could stop short of murder.
MOSCOW
Danny sat on the bed in his hotel room and gazed around it in awe. The room was huge. The bed was huge. The mirror on the wall was huge. And through the huge window – seventeen floors up – he could see the city stretching into the distance. Churches. Statues. The river wide and long.
The TV was on when he came into the room. There was a message:
WELCOME THE PRESIDENT HOTEL, MR HARTE. PLEASE TO PHONE RECEPTION IF THE NEED FOR HELP ARISES
.
Danny smiled and took a photo of the screen with his phone.
Then he noticed he’d had a reply from Charlotte. His heart skipped a beat when he saw her name.
Why did she always make him feel like that?
He read the text:
Thx 4 vid. Cn’t u send anything more exciting? :-)
C xxx
*
Yes, he could. He would. Because Moscow wasn’t like other cities he knew. There was something about it. It felt different. He wondered if it was all the stories his dad had told him. Or the things he’d read in books about spies and the KGB.
For one thing, he definitely felt like he was being watched.
But how could he put a feeling like that into a video for Charlotte? He had absolutely no idea.
Danny jumped when his hotel room phone rang.
He wondered,
