Ark Angel - Anthony Horowitz [42]
“Well, you didn’t win either,” Alex muttered.
Paul stood there helplessly, looking from one to the other. Drevin considered for a moment, then shook his head slowly. “It was a draw,” he muttered. Then he turned and walked away.
Alex watched him go. “I see what you mean,” he murmured. “He really doesn’t like losing.”
Paul turned to Alex, his expression serious. “You should be careful, Alex,” he warned. “Don’t make him your enemy.” He ran after his father.
Alex was left standing alone.
INJURY TIME
By Saturday the race seemed to have been forgotten. Nikolei Drevin was in a good mood as he waited for another of his Rolls-Royces – this one a silver Phantom – to be brought round to the front door. It was an important day for him. Stratford East, the team he had bought for twenty million pounds, were playing Chelsea in the Premiership and, although they had been comprehensively beaten three–nil by Newcastle only the week before, Drevin was in high spirits.
“Have you always supported Chelsea?” he asked Alex as they left the house.
“Yes.” It was true. Alex lived only twenty minutes from Stamford Bridge and he had often gone to games with his uncle.
“The club was almost bankrupt when it was bought by Roman Abramovich.” Drevin looked thoughtful. “I met him a few times in Moscow. We did not get on. I hope to disappoint both of you today.”
Alex said nothing. There was an intensity in Drevin’s voice that suggested that, as far as he was concerned, this was more than a game. The Rolls-Royce pulled up and the two of them got in.
Paul Drevin wasn’t coming. He’d had a bad asthma attack the night before and his doctor, who was based twenty-four hours a day at Neverglade, had said he needed a day’s rest. And so Alex found himself alone with Drevin in the back of the car as they were driven down the motorway to London.
“You have no parents,” Drevin said suddenly.
“No. They both died when I was very young.”
“I’m sorry. An accident?”
“A plane crash.” It was easy for Alex to repeat the lie that MI6 had been telling him all his life.
“You have no relations?”
“No. Just Jack. She looks after me.”
“That is very unusual. But then it seems to me that you are an unusual boy. It would be interesting, I think, to have a son like you.” Drevin looked out of the window. “How are you getting on with Paul?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“He likes you.” Drevin was still looking away, avoiding Alex’s eye. “I wish that he was a little more like you. He seems so … aimless.”
“Maybe he’d be happier if you let him go to an ordinary school,” Alex said.
“That is not possible.”
“Do you really think he’s in any danger?”
“He is my son.” Drevin spoke the words with no emotion at all. He had summed Paul up. There was nothing else to say. He forced a thin smile to his lips. “But enough of that,” he went on. “My team will beat your team. That is all that matters today.”
An hour later, they turned onto the Fulham Road and were forced to drive at a snail’s pace through the thousands of people who were arriving for the game, the Chelsea fans in blue, the Stratford East supporters in red and black. Alex was glad that Drevin’s Rolls-Royce had tinted windows. Nobody could look in. He had come to Stamford Bridge a hundred times on foot and he’d always loved the sense of belonging, that moment when he became part of the crowd battling its way through rain or snow in the hope of seeing a home win. This was too comfortable, too isolated. He would have felt embarrassed if anyone had seen him.
They turned into the complex of hotels, restaurants and health clubs that had come to be known as Chelsea Village, then swept away from the fans, following a narrow passageway to the west stand. The car stopped in front of a revolving door with the words MILLENNIUM RECEPTION in silver above. They got out.
Drevin had become more tense the closer they got to London. His eyes and mouth were three narrow slits and he was twisting his ring in short, jerky movements.
“Here is Miss Knight,” he said, and Alex saw Tamara Knight, the over-efficient personal