Perhaps he’d refused to play ball with Edgar Phillips and paid the price.Maybe Garcia had found out too. Jake felt the pieces fitting into place, even if the puzzle picture was still a bit fuzzy.
He walked back towards the dorm block, wondering if now was the time to tell his dad what he suspected. Or did his dad already have a theory of his own? Two deaths
and
him conveniently showing up were too much to be a coincidence.
First he needed to speak with Veronika.
As Jake passed the administration buildings, he saw two guys standing by the main doors keeping a lookout. Both were smoking cigarettes, despite the fact there were signs all over the complex saying it was strictly prohibited. Something about the way they stood, arrogant and threatening, primed Jake’s senses: these guys looked suspicious.
The automatic doors of the admin building swished open, and a small figure in a pale suit walked out. The smokers crushed their cigarettes and hurried to catch up. One opened the door of a high-spec SUV. As the man climbed into the back seat, Jake froze.
It can’t be!
He hadn’t seen the face since St Petersburg.
It was Igor Popov.
9
J ake’s feet were rooted to the ground. What the hell was Igor Popov doing at Olympic Advantage? He managed to move his legs, starting to run towards the administration building as the SUV rolled out of the parking lot. The windows were tinted black – he couldn’t see inside. But he was sure. He’d recognise Popov’s face anywhere after everything they’d been through. From the first moment he’d stepped into his dad’s house in London, offering what seemed like a dream job coaching in St Petersburg, Jake had just known he was a criminal. And the way he’d dealt with his enemies since, brutally but never getting his hands dirty, had only confirmed that he was not to be messed with.
Jake burst through the doors into the admin building and straight up to the desk.
‘Who was that man?’ he asked.
The receptionist was busy buffing her nails and looked upat him with a smile. ‘What man, honey?’
‘The one who just left,’ Jake said.
The receptionist stopped inspecting her cuticles, and cocked her head at Jake. ‘Say, you’re the son of that soccer coach, aren’t ya?’
Jake gritted his teeth. ‘That’s right. Steve Bastin’s my dad.’
‘He sure is cute,’ the receptionist said. ‘I don’t mind saying I don’t know much about soccer, but I might start watching it.’
Jake fought the urge to grab her manicure set and hurl it at the wall. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘can you tell me who that was?’
‘Well, I shouldn’t really . . .’ The receptionist pursed her lips. ‘But perhaps you could do something for me first.’
‘What?’ Jake asked.
‘The other girls would be really jealous if I managed to get a date with Steve Bastin,’ she said, ‘but I don’t have his phone number . . .’ She left it hanging.
Jake studied the woman. If his dad was keeping things from him again, Jake wasn’t going to do
him
any favours. He leant over the counter and grabbed a pad and pen. He scribbled down his dad’s mobile number.
‘It’s the least I can do,’ Jake muttered. ‘Just tell me, what was that man doing here?’
‘You mean the German guy in the cream suit?’
‘Russian,’ Jake corrected. ‘I think he’s Russian. His name’s Igor Popov, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, that’s right.
Par
pov,’ she drawled. ‘Why’d ya ask if you already seem to know?’
‘But what is he doing here?’ Jake asked, trying and failing to keep the growing annoyance out of his voice.
She folded the piece of paper with Jake’s dad’s phone number on it, and looked around conspiratorially. ‘They treat him like a king around here. Must be one of the moneymen. He comes and goes as he pleases.’
‘So he’s been here before?’ Jake asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ the receptionist said. ‘Several times.’
Jake’s watch bleeped. Ten minutes before he was due to meet
He walked back towards the dorm block, wondering if now was the time to tell his dad what he suspected. Or did his dad already have a theory of his own? Two deaths
and
him conveniently showing up were too much to be a coincidence.
First he needed to speak with Veronika.
As Jake passed the administration buildings, he saw two guys standing by the main doors keeping a lookout. Both were smoking cigarettes, despite the fact there were signs all over the complex saying it was strictly prohibited. Something about the way they stood, arrogant and threatening, primed Jake’s senses: these guys looked suspicious.
The automatic doors of the admin building swished open, and a small figure in a pale suit walked out. The smokers crushed their cigarettes and hurried to catch up. One opened the door of a high-spec SUV. As the man climbed into the back seat, Jake froze.
It can’t be!
He hadn’t seen the face since St Petersburg.
It was Igor Popov.
9
J ake’s feet were rooted to the ground. What the hell was Igor Popov doing at Olympic Advantage? He managed to move his legs, starting to run towards the administration building as the SUV rolled out of the parking lot. The windows were tinted black – he couldn’t see inside. But he was sure. He’d recognise Popov’s face anywhere after everything they’d been through. From the first moment he’d stepped into his dad’s house in London, offering what seemed like a dream job coaching in St Petersburg, Jake had just known he was a criminal. And the way he’d dealt with his enemies since, brutally but never getting his hands dirty, had only confirmed that he was not to be messed with.
Jake burst through the doors into the admin building and straight up to the desk.
‘Who was that man?’ he asked.
The receptionist was busy buffing her nails and looked upat him with a smile. ‘What man, honey?’
‘The one who just left,’ Jake said.
The receptionist stopped inspecting her cuticles, and cocked her head at Jake. ‘Say, you’re the son of that soccer coach, aren’t ya?’
Jake gritted his teeth. ‘That’s right. Steve Bastin’s my dad.’
‘He sure is cute,’ the receptionist said. ‘I don’t mind saying I don’t know much about soccer, but I might start watching it.’
Jake fought the urge to grab her manicure set and hurl it at the wall. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘can you tell me who that was?’
‘Well, I shouldn’t really . . .’ The receptionist pursed her lips. ‘But perhaps you could do something for me first.’
‘What?’ Jake asked.
‘The other girls would be really jealous if I managed to get a date with Steve Bastin,’ she said, ‘but I don’t have his phone number . . .’ She left it hanging.
Jake studied the woman. If his dad was keeping things from him again, Jake wasn’t going to do
him
any favours. He leant over the counter and grabbed a pad and pen. He scribbled down his dad’s mobile number.
‘It’s the least I can do,’ Jake muttered. ‘Just tell me, what was that man doing here?’
‘You mean the German guy in the cream suit?’
‘Russian,’ Jake corrected. ‘I think he’s Russian. His name’s Igor Popov, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, that’s right.
Par
pov,’ she drawled. ‘Why’d ya ask if you already seem to know?’
‘But what is he doing here?’ Jake asked, trying and failing to keep the growing annoyance out of his voice.
She folded the piece of paper with Jake’s dad’s phone number on it, and looked around conspiratorially. ‘They treat him like a king around here. Must be one of the moneymen. He comes and goes as he pleases.’
‘So he’s been here before?’ Jake asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ the receptionist said. ‘Several times.’
Jake’s watch bleeped. Ten minutes before he was due to meet
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