climbed the stairs, passed through the players’ lounge and into the restaurant at the other side. The guard was there, ahead of him. Once again he had his mobile phone in his hand. But he wasn’t making a call. He was simply standing, watching the players and the journalists as they finished their lunch.
The dining room was large and modern, with a long buffet for hot food and a central area with salads, cold drinks and fruit. There must have been about a hundred people eating at the tables and Alex recognized one or two famous faces among them. He glanced at the guard. He was standing in a corner, trying not to be noticed. At the same time, his attention seemed to be fixed on a table next to one of the windows. Alex followed the direction of his gaze. There were two men sitting at the table. One was wearing a jacket and tie. The other was in a tracksuit. Alex didn’t know the first man but the second was Owen Bryant, another world-class player, an American. He would be playing later that afternoon.
The other man could have been his manager, or perhaps his agent. The two of them were talking, quietly, intensely. The manager spoke and Bryant laughed. Alex moved further into the restaurant, keeping close to the wall. He wanted to see what the guard was going to do, but he didn’t want to be seen. He was glad that the restaurant was fairly crowded. There were enough people moving about to screen him.
Bryant stood up. Alex saw the guard’s eyes narrow. Now the mobile phone was on its way to his ear. But he hadn’t dialled a number. Bryant went over to a water dispenser and pulled a cup out of the plastic cylinder. The guard pressed a button on his phone. Bryant helped himself to some water. Alex watched as a bubble of air mushroomed up to the surface inside the plastic tank. The tennis player carried the water back to the table and sat down. The manager said something. Bryant drank his water. And that was it.
Alex had seen the whole thing.
But what had he seen?
He had no time to answer the question. The guard was already moving, heading for the exit. Alex came to a decision. The main door was between himself and the guard and now he made for it too, keeping his head low as if he wasn’t looking where he was going. He timed it perfectly. Just as the guard reached the door, Alex crashed into him. At the same moment, he swung an arm carelessly, knocking the guard’s hand. The mobile phone fell to the floor.
“Oh-I’m sorry,” Alex said. Before the guard could stop him, he had leant down and picked up the phone. He weighed it in his hand for a moment before passing it back. “Here you are,” he said.
The guard said nothing. For a moment his eyes were locked into Alex’s and Alex found himself being inspected by two very black pupils that had no life at all. The man’s skin was pale and pockmarked, with a sheen of sweat across his upper lip. There was no expression anywhere on his face. Alex felt the telephone being wrenched out of his hand and then the guard had gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
Alex’s hand was still in mid-air. He looked down at his palm. He was worried that he had given himself away, but at least he had learned something from the exchange. The mobile phone was a fake. It was too light. There was nothing on the screen. And it had no recognizable logo: Nokia, Panasonic, Virgin… nothing.
He turned back to the two men at the table. Bryant had finished his water and crumpled the plastic cup in his hand. He was shaking hands with his friend, about to leave.
The water…
Alex had had an idea that was completely absurd and yet made some sort of sense out of what he had seen. He walked back across the restaurant and crouched down beside the dispenser. He had seen the same machines all over the tennis club. He took a cup and used its rim to press the tap underneath the tank. Water, filtered and chilled, ran into the cup. He could feel it, ice cold against his palm.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Alex looked up to see a red-faced man in a Wimbledon blazer towering over him. It was the first unfriendly face he’d seen since he had arrived. “I was just getting some water,” he explained.
“I can see that! That’s obvious. I mean, what are you doing in this restaurant? This is reserved for players, officials and press.”
“I know that,” Alex said. He forced himself not to lose his temper. He had no right to be here and if the official-whoever he was-complained, he might well lose his place as a ballboy. “I’m sorry, sir.” he said. “I brought a racquet over for Mr. Bryant. I delivered it just now. But I was thirsty, so I stopped to get a drink.”
The official softened. Alex’s story sounded perfectly reasonable. And he had enjoyed being addressed as “sir”. He nodded. “All right. But I don’t want to see you in here again.” He reached out a hand and took the plastic cup. “Now on your way.”
Alex arrived back at the Complex about ten minutes before play began. Walfor glowered at him but said nothing. That afternoon, Owen Bryant lost his match against Jacques Lefevre, the same unknown Frenchman who had so unexpectedly beaten Jamie Blitz two days before. The final score was 6-4, 6-7,4-6, 2-6. Although Bryant had won the first game, his play had steadily deteriorated throughout the afternoon. It was another surprising result. Like Blitz, Bryant had been a favourite to win.
Twenty minutes later, Alex was back in the basement restaurant, sitting with Sabina, who was drinking a Coke Lite.
“My mum and dad are here today,” she was saying. “I managed to get them tickets and in return they’ve promised to get me a new surfboard. Have you ever surfed, Alex?”
“What?” Alex was miles away.
“I was talking about Cornwall. Surfing…”
“Yes, I’ve surfed.” Alex had learned with his uncle, Ian Rider. The spy whose death had so abruptly changed Alex’s life. The two of them had spent a week together in San Diego, California. That had been years ago. Years that sometimes felt like centuries.
“Is there something wrong with your drink?” Sabina asked.
Alex realized he was holding his Coke in front of him, balancing it in his hand, staring at it. But he was thinking about water.
“No, it’s fine…” he began.
And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the guard. He had come back downstairs into the Complex. Once again he was using the telephone in the corner. Alex saw him put in a coin and dial a number.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
He got up and made his way over to the phone.
The guard was standing with his back to him. This time he might be able to get close enough to hear what was being said, “…will be completely successful.” The guard was talking in English but with a thick accent. He still had his back to Alex. There was a pause. Then: “I’m going to meet him now. Yes… straight away. He’ll give it to me and I’ll bring it to you.” Another pause. Alex got the feeling that the conversation was coming to an end. He took a few steps back. “I have to go,” the guard said. “Bye.” He put the receiver down and walked “Alex…?” Sabina called to him. She was on her own, sitting where he had left her. He realized she must have been watching what he did. He raised a hand and waved to her. He would have to find some way to explain all this later.
The guard didn’t climb back up to the surface. Instead he took a door which led to a long corridor, stretching into the distance. Alex opened the door and followed.
The All England Tennis Club covers a huge area. On the surface it looks a bit like a theme park, though one whose only theme is tennis. Thousands of people stream along paths and covered walkways, an uninterrupted flow of brilliant white shirts, sunglasses and straw hats. As well as the courts, there are tearooms and cafes, restaurants, shops, hospitality tents, ticket booths and security points.
But there is a second, less well-known world underneath all this. The entire club is connected by an underground maze of corridors, tunnels and roads, some big enough to drive a car through. If it’s easy to get lost above ground, it’s even easier to lose yourself below. There are very few signs and there’s nobody standing at the comer to offer you information. This is the world of the cooks and the waiters, the refuse collectors and the delivery men. Somehow they find their way around, coming up in the daylight exactly where they are needed before disappearing again.
The corridor in which Alex found himself was called the Royal Route and connected the Millennium Building with Court Number One, allowing the players to make their way to the game without being seen. It was clean and empty, with a bright blue carpet. The guard was about twenty metres ahead of him and it felt eerie to be so suddenly alone. There were just the two of them there. Above them, on the surface, there would be people
