Close Range (16 page)

‘Roger,’ said Jake.

‘You can call me Dad,’ his father said, deadpan. Then added, ‘Seriously, be careful, Jake.’

The VIP boxes were marked with the names of whatever corporate group or celebrity had hired them out. Jake passed an energy conglomerate, a telecoms giant. Then he saw it.

Granble Mining Company.

He took a deep breath and passed through the door. A guard put his arm out.

‘Can I help you?’

Jake made a show of patting his pockets, but he knew what he was looking for. From the back of his jeans he pulled out the exclusive invitation that he’d taken – well,
borrowed
– from his mum’s handbag:
Mr Granble requests the pleasure of your company …

The guard cast a quick glance over it, then waved Jake through.

The room contained maybe twenty people. Jake recognised a well-known rapper, but mostly it seemed to be suits. He guessed they were the sponsors whose money Granble was planning to steal. Marissa the pit bull was drinking a glass of champagne. She saw Jake, swallowed slowly and walked to the other side of the room.

Through the bodies, Jake saw Granble. He was sipping from a long drink. Marissa whispered something in his ear and he looked up. Granble’s eyes went wide for a split second and Jake walked over towards him. There was no way Granble could touch him in here. Not in front of all these people.

When he got close, Granble waved Marissa away.

‘You’re sure?’ she asked.

Granble nodded. He held out a hand to Jake.

‘What a …
surprise.’

‘Not a pleasant one, I hope,’ said Jake.

Granble’s smile was fixed, and he clenched his fat fingers around Jake’s. Jake squeezed back. He was stronger.

‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ said Granble. ‘I heard you’d run away with that girlfriend of yours.’

From below in the stadium, booming music began to play. ‘Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend'.

Jake nodded towards the viewing glass.

‘Abri didn’t want to miss the show,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you take a look?’

Granble released the grip on Jake’s hand and walked over to the glass. A few other suits were watching the show too. The catwalk had been laid out from the player tunnel halfway across the pitch. A giant screen at one end of the ground showed a close-up.

Abri Kuertzen was strutting her stuff along the runway, looking every inch the international supermodel. Jake felt Granble tense beside him. His cheek was twitching.

The plan’s working.

‘You’ll see she’s wearing a particularly special piece of jewellery,’ Jake said. ‘One of Granble’s finest. Thing is, we both know it could be out of a Christmas cracker.’

Granble seized Jake’s arm, and pulled him away. Marissa noticed, but pointed out on to the pitch, focusing the attention of the other guests. ‘We call that particular piece the Star of Mozambique. One hundred and twenty-five carats –’

‘Just who do you think you are, kid?’ hissed Granble. ‘You’re one boy against
me?
I could crush you and your family in an instant.’

‘Better send someone better than Jaap next time.’

Granble’s face went red. ‘What have you done to him?’ he snapped.

‘Let’s just say his bell-ringing days are over,’ said Jake, trying not to smirk too much.

Granble relaxed and backed off. ‘In a country that has had as many problems as mine, there are always more Jaaps.’ Granble gestured towards a door leading off the box. ‘Why don’t we talk somewhere more private?’

Jake had to think fast. He wasn’t scared, if it was just the two of them.
But what if Granble had something up his sleeve?

‘Don’t do it,’ said a voice in his ear. ‘Stay in the open.’

But Jake knew Granble wasn’t going to talk in the open.

‘Sure,’ said Jake.

‘Damn it, Jake. Can you hear me? I said that’s a negative.’

Granble led the way through the door. The room was like a small office, with a computer, a phone and two chairs.
A branded San Siro notepad rested on the desk. Jake guessed it must be for VIP spectators who needed to work at short notice, or make a private call.

There was no one else in the room. Granble let Jake enter, then shut the door.

‘What do you want?’

‘It’s time to talk,’ said Jake.

He wondered if his father had heard him. Those were the code words. This was his chance to make the plan work. All he had to do was make him confess.

‘Time is something you don’t have,’ said Granble.

Jake’s throat felt a little tight. He could imagine what Granble must be like to do business with across a boardroom table. The tycoon was leaning back against the desk, looking as cool as the iced drink he was holding.

‘I know you’re trying to defraud your investors out of millions,’ said Jake.

Granble shrugged. ‘My investors are looking at handsome returns, thank you very much.’

‘Not if word gets out that your mines are duds,’ said Jake, ‘and all your diamonds are fake.’

‘Unsubstantiated,’ said Granble. ‘All you have is
one
phoney diamond necklace that you
claim
belongs to me. Boy, you don’t get where I am without making enemies. Maybe
one of my competitors is trying to bring me down.’

‘Or a few supermodels,’ said Jake. ‘Doesn’t say much for you, if you can be outwitted by three walking coat-hangers.’

Granble flinched.

‘It looks like I had the last laugh there, though, doesn’t it?’ said Granble. ‘From what I heard, Mademoiselles Sienna and Monique met their untimely ends today.’

It wasn’t quite an admission of guilt. Jake could see that Granble was a cagey crim.

‘But Abri escaped,’ said Jake.

‘Oh, so she did,’ said Granble. ‘But … South Africa …’ Granble was clearly choosing his words carefully, ‘… is a …
dangerous
country … especially for a pretty young thing like her.’

Granble sneered, but Jake could see he was riled.

‘You really think you’ll get away with it, don’t you?’ Jake asked. His anger was real enough now.

‘I know I will,’ Granble coolly replied. ‘The mines might be worthless, but this time next week I’ll have disappeared. With all my money. And you know the funniest thing?’

‘Go on,’ said Jake. He was trying to keep the grin off his face.

‘The funniest thing is going to be the knowledge that you’re dead.’

Granble burst into laughter, long hard guffaws. He wiped his eyes, and gave a manic whoop.

Half a second later, the sound reverberated back through the ground’s tannoy. Granble’s head snapped round.

‘What was that?’ he said.

‘That was you admitting you’re a crook to eighty thousand spectators,’ Jake said. He pulled the mic out of his pocket, and tapped it twice, then blew. The magnified sound blasted through the speakers.

Granble’s face went white. He started to shake. He looked left and right, as though searching for a place to run. Jake opened the door, and gave a wide sweep of his arm.

‘Your adoring fans await you,’ Jake said.

Granble pushed past him and pelted through.

Outside, the smartly dressed sponsors all stood in silence, looking on. Marissa was nowhere to be seen.

‘I can explain …’ Granble began.

‘The handsome returns?’ Jake reminded them.

A few seconds later, four policemen burst into the VIP box. They broke through the angry crowd and one of them showed Granble his badge.

‘Detective Ignacio Semprina. You’re under arrest, Mr Granble, for murder and industrial fraud …’

As Granble was being read his rights, Jake went over to the
viewing panel. The ground was silent, and thousands of faces were turned up towards the box. On the runway stood Abri, looking up at him. The TV relay screen showed her twenty feet tall. She blew him a kiss.

Jake wished he could get down there to be with her, but chaos had erupted in the room behind him. Granble was protesting his innocence, while the police were holding back a sponsor who was grasping for Granble’s throat and shouting something in what might have been Spanish.

The rapper came up to Jake, and was pulling the diamond rings off his fingers. He dropped them in a discarded champagne glass. ‘That asshole owes me so much money.’

Jake turned back towards the stadium, to admire Abri again.

But she was gone.

The camera still lingered on where she had been. All that remained in the close-up frame was her necklace, sparkling in the spotlights.

J
ake’s mum released him from a ten-second hug that was close to crushing his ribcage.

‘I don’t want to say I’m proud of you,’ she said, ‘because what you did was stupid. Stupid and dangerous. But …’ she squeezed him again, ‘… I
am
proud of you.’

Jake laughed, and gave his dad a sideways glance. His mum didn’t know everything. She’d said she didn’t
want
to know. His dad and he had come up with a story that prompted as many questions as it answered. It didn’t include MI6. It missed out everything about rooftop combat, snipers and assassins in a neglected church. But if she didn’t know the means, she knew the end.

The whole world did.

Granble was facing the rest of his natural life behind bars. The only question was where he’d serve his lengthy sentence. Several different governments wanted him extradited.
Jake’s dad said that Marissa had been very helpful with their enquiries. So much for the loyal pit bull.

‘More of a puppy,’ his dad had joked.

So here they both stood, cases packed, by the check-in desks at Milan airport. It had been less than a week since Jake and his dad had arrived. He’d met Abri right here, albeit when she was dressed in a black balaclava and robbing his mother. There’d been no word of her since the half-time show, but something told Jake that she probably wouldn’t be going back to modelling. Jake’s dad had suggested that whoever did end up prosecuting Granble might need her testimony, but that would entail a witness protection programme and a change of identity. Jake couldn’t imagine anyone that beautiful managing to hide for long. But he knew it was right that she disappear.

Their flight came up on the display as ‘ready to board'.

‘We gotta go,’ said Jake. ‘We still haven’t checked in.’

‘Hopefully you’ll be better off in London than here,’ said his mum. ‘It was nice having you with me though, Jake.’

‘You should come over soon,’ said Jake. ‘They have clothes there too, y’know.’

His mum laughed. ‘Maybe I will. But you need to stay away from models for a while. Football’s safer than fashion.’

Jake stifled his laughter, pretending it was a cough.

‘Take care, Steve,’ said his mum.

His parents attempted a hug, and ended up looking like awkward relatives.

Jake picked up his case and headed towards the check-in desk. His dad came after him. As they waited, his dad said, ‘Your mum and I have been talking. About this Olympic Advantage thing …’

Jake had forgotten all about it in the aftermath of Granble’s arrest.

‘Listen, Dad,’ he said. ‘I understand. It’s a long way –’

‘We think you should go.’

Jake almost dropped his case. ‘You’re kidding!’

‘Nope.’

‘To Florida! For two weeks?’

‘As long as you –’

‘– stay out of trouble?’ Jake finished for him.

‘You’re a quick learner.’

They went through passport control and duty free, where his dad bought a bottle of Jameson. At the gate, Jake’s dad opened a paperback, and Jake found a copy of
Il Giorno,
the Italian daily newspaper.

While the front headlines were full of Granble’s arrest, the sports pages told of England’s remarkable second-half performance and Mark Fortune’s first international hat-trick.
Jake could just about piece it together. England hadn’t won the Brotherhood Tournament, but they were acknowledged as being the team to watch. All young players, ripe for the future. Maybe if the Florida camp went well, he’d get to join them.

One day.

‘Mr Bastin?’ said a voice.

Jake lowered his paper at the same time his dad looked up from his book. A man in a pristine white suit stood in front of them. Everything about him was crisp and clean, like he was sculpted from wax. His black hair was greased back, not a strand out of place. In his hand was a briefcase.

‘Can I help you?’ his dad asked politely.

‘I apologise for the intrusion,’ he said, with a flash of white teeth. ‘I have a gift for you.’ He had a slight accent that Jake couldn’t place.

Jake bristled. This man emanated an aura of threat, of danger.

Jake’s dad stood up.

‘I’m afraid we don’t know who you are,’ he said. ‘Please leave us alone.’

The man took a step back. ‘Of course, of course. You don’t know me, but you know my employer.’ He laid out the briefcase on the table, and flicked open the catches.

Jake was on red alert, ready to pounce if this slimeball tried anything.

But all the man pulled out was a folded copy of
The Times
and two ornate leather boxes. He turned them round and opened them. Inside were two identical watches.

‘From Russia, with love,’ he said, closed the case and walked swiftly away. He paced effortlessly between a crowd of travellers walking in the opposite direction.

Jake picked up one of the boxes and looked closely at the face. It was a Rolex, encrusted with diamonds and a silvery metal that Jake guessed was platinum. He knew enough about watches to realise this one would have cost upwards of ten thousand pounds. A small tag was attached. In tiny script was written: ‘With gratitude. I. P.’

‘Igor Popov …’ Jake said.

His dad had picked up the paper and was reading an article at the bottom of the page. The headline was ‘Russia reaps the benefit of South African diamond fraud'.

Jake only had to read a few lines to understand the gist of the piece: Granble’s deception had triggered a huge fall in stock-market confidence, which was affecting even the legitimate South African diamond houses. Mines owned by wealthy Russians like Popov were picking up the slack in the supply chain.

‘So Popov wins again,’ said Jake.