‘Maybe.’
‘Left.’
‘Left,’ Holt repeated. ‘Left here?’
‘Yes.’
Holt took a left. And suddenly they saw the stadium.
There were already hundreds of fans standing around outside a Metro station. Several tables set up selling England and Russia flags and shirts.
Holt drove slowly through the crowds.
‘Right here.’
‘What?’
‘Turn. Right. Here.’
Holt grimaced and manoeuvred the hire car into the right-hand lane.
‘The main thing for me is to get you safely home, Danny. If you have got a private army after you, then that’s my priority. It’s my fault you’re here.’
‘So what are we going to do?’ Danny was nervous again after the mention of private armies. ‘And why are we driving to the Luzhniki Stadium so soon?’
‘Hear me out,’ Holt said. ‘The stadium is the safest place we can be. There’s massive security. And – if the security is corrupt – there’s the world’s media around us. We get there hours before anyone would expect to see us there. Find a safe place. Watch the game. Then join the official England coach out of there.’
‘Do you reckon?’
‘I can’t see a safer way of getting you out of here. If they are after you – which I’m not convinced about, but I’ll trust you on that – then there’s no way we should show up at the airport. Or outside the British embassy.’
Danny nodded, but said nothing.
The stadium looked magnificent. Like a cross between the old Wembley and the new. Its outside was old stone, looking solid. But inside Danny could see a glass roof in a perfect oval shape.
There weren’t many cars around, but there were several media vans. Some with satellite dishes on top. People sat on their steps drinking cups of tea or coffee.
Holt parked up in a mostly empty car park down the side of a sports centre.
‘Let’s walk.’
‘OK.’
Holt cleared his throat. ‘When we’re in there,’ he said, ‘make sure you stay in the press area. You’ll be safe there. Don’t stray out of it and we’ll be all right. OK?’
Danny nodded.
As they approached the stadium, Danny saw a huge statue of a man.
‘Wonder who that is?’ Holt said.
‘Lenin,’ Danny replied.
‘How do you know that?’
‘We nearly became friends,’ Danny said, smiling.
Holt said nothing, nodding. Then he pointed to their left. ‘There,’ he said. ‘The press entrance. Once we’re in there we’ll be safe.’
Danny nodded too. Though he wasn’t convinced.
THE STADIUM
Danny had never seen a football stadium press area before. He’d seen a press conference at City, but nothing like this. This was international standard.
There were dozens of desks, all hooked up to the Internet. Comfy seats. And a spacious bar. Everything was there for the press. They were treated like Danny expected players to be treated. There was already a woman asking if Holt wanted a drink. And Danny.
Danny asked for a Coke. Holt, water.
On the upper floor of the press area you could watch the match through an enormous pane of glass. Or you could sit in the stands in a series of orange seats with a desk area in front of each, which were also hooked up to the Internet and phone lines.
Danny headed upstairs to have a look over the pitch.
He looked across the perfect rectangle of synthetic grass and three layers of seats: yellow, orange and red, the upper tier. All the seats were still empty. Above them, a huge curved roof cast a shadow over the pitch. Around the pitch were huge banks of snow and what looked like wheelbarrows to carry it away.
Danny moved down the aisle to have a closer look at the pitch, not seeing the two men waiting above him.
Both men were wearing black. They’d been trailing Anton Holt all day. Their boss had insisted on it. As soon as they saw Holt emerge from St Basil’s – with Danny – they’d been ready, just two cars behind them as they drove from Red Square to the stadium.
They’d followed him all the way.
‘Mi atakovat’ yego tyepyerye?’ said the first man. Shall we attack him now?
‘Nyet, zhurnalist, tam,’ the other replied, as Holt emerged behind Danny. No, the journalist is there.
‘Danny. Come on. Keep a low profile,’ Holt said.
‘I was just looking at the pitch.’
Holt pulled Danny in by the arm as the two men observed them.
‘Save it until the players come for their warm-up,’ Holt said. ‘You never know who’s about. Play it safe.’
An hour later the England squad emerged. A string of players jogging out on to the pitch, gazing up at the stands and the pale blue sky above.
Holt had been tapping away on his laptop non-stop since they’d come back in. Working up his piece about Tupolev and his theories about what was going on with the City take-over. Feeding in Danny’s material.
‘Come on,’ Danny urged.
Holt sighed. ‘Just a minute.’
‘No way,’ Danny said. ‘We need to talk to him.’
They waited in the tunnel, a tube of glossy plastic that led out to the edge of the pitch. Players came and went. Peter Day. Stuart Lane. And Phil White. But not Matt McGee.
Danny and Holt waited. Three or four of the players said hello to Holt. A couple nodded and smiled at Danny. The atmosphere was calm and friendly.
Eventually Matt McGee appeared and walked past them.
‘Matt,’ Danny called out.
McGee smiled and waved at first. Then he stopped and doubled back.
‘All right?’ he said. Very guarded.
‘Hello, Matt,’ Holt said.
‘Listen, lads –’ McGee began.
Danny broke in. He wanted to be straightforward. ‘We know about Tupolev,’ he said. ‘And what he wants you to do.’
‘You think you know,’ McGee said, with a sharper, but quieter, tone of voice.
‘We know about the attack on Skatie too,’ Holt said. ‘Danny here wants to give you the chance to explain, even though he saw –’
McGee shook his head. He breathed in, then said, ‘Leave it.’
‘How can we?’ Holt demanded.
‘Please,’ McGee said. ‘Leave it. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.’
‘Dmitri Tupolev. Sir Richard Gawthorpe,’ Danny said, to push him.
‘Sir Rich–’ McGee stopped himself.
‘Yes. Remember him?’
‘What’s he doing here –’ McGee stopped himself again.
Holt said
