The Edge (7 page)

The gym was all glass on one side, retractable in good weather. It was half open now, and Jake could see Oz and a few of the others side by side on the rowing machines. The fixed and free weights were at the back of the building, along with a full-size boxing ring. Phillips stopped the cart beside the building and carried in an armful of Olympic Edge bottles, passing them out to the athletes.

Jake entered the gym and got on to a cross-trainer. He was close enough to hear when Phillips’s phone rang. In the reflection of the window glass, he saw the marketing man break away from the boxing ring, and lift the phone to his ear.

Jake couldn’t hear much of what followed, because Phillips was speaking with his voice low, and Oz and his guys were shouting to each other as they raced on the rowers.

‘I got you,’ Phillips was saying. ‘I’m handling it as best I can. I know we don’t need any more bad publicity. What can I say? Garcia was a drunk.’

Phillips hung up as he walked out of the door. Jake climbed
off the cross-trainer and caught up with him at the cart. Oz was watching him suspiciously from the rowing machine. Probably wondering why he’d only done two minutes on the cross-trainer.

‘Mr Phillips, can I have a word?’ Jake asked.

Philips turned round, and found his smile in a split second. ‘Hey, Jake Bastin, isn’t it? Call me Ed. What can I do for you?’

‘It’s about the grants you were talking about,’ Jake said. ‘I’m interested in becoming a brand ambassador.’

Phillips raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure you are, young man,’ he said, ‘and I’m sure LGE would be interested in being associated with someone of your –’
name
, Jake thought – ‘calibre,’ Philips continued, ‘but there are official channels to go through.’

Jake realised he’d given the wrong idea. ‘You’ve misunderstood,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean I wanted special treatment. I just wondered if you’d give me more details.’

Philips smiled wider, and took Jake’s arm, turning him away from the gym.

‘Actually, I think it’s you who’ve misunderstood.’ Phillips gave him a sly look. ‘You see, marketing isn’t about crossing the finish line first. Some people . . . well, they deserve special treatment. It all depends on what they’re prepared to give in return. You follow me?’

Jake wasn’t sure he did, but from the glint in Phillips’s eyes and his lowered voice, Jake guessed he was being asked to give Phillips some sort of kickback.

‘You’re talking about something to sweeten the deal?’ Jake whispered. ‘Something in it for you?’

Phillips winked. ‘Your words, not mine. I guess you know how it works, what with your dad being in the game too.’

Jake nodded. Hell, this guy was as slippery as an eel.

‘I get it.’ Jake reached for a bottle of the yellow Olympic Edge – Solar. ‘Where can we talk about it further?’

Phillips climbed into the driver’s seat of the cart. Jake caught the flash of a name on the bottom of his shoe, something Italian. ‘Don’t worry,’ Phillips said. ‘I’ll come to you.’

‘Hey, wait . . .’ Jake started.

But Phillips was already driving away. Jake watched him go, frustration building.

So his suspicions were right. Phillips
was
as dodgy as he looked. But he was clever too. He hadn’t promised anything, hadn’t implicated himself. If he was effectively selling grants to the athletes – and that meant hundreds and thousands, if not millions of dollars – then that might explain why people were dying. Otto had been a handsome guy, full of potential. Definitely in line for the big time. 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.

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 up
at 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 Veronika at the track-and-field exhibition. He didn’t think he was going to get much more out of the receptionist. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Do me a favour, though. Don’t tell my dad where you got that number.’

Jake waited until half past two, but Veronika didn’t show. Athletes and journalists were heading towards the stadium for the afternoon exhibition. Jake wondered if he’d got the wrong time, and tried to ring Veronika, only to get no answer. Jake hung up, silently cursing.

He saw her tennis friend, the Spanish girl called Maria,
walking past with a crowd of girls, all giggling.

‘Hey, Maria,’ Jake called. ‘Have you seen Veronika?’

She shook her head, looking down her nose at Jake. ‘Not since the morning practice,’ she said. ‘She left early. Said she had stuff to do.’

‘Thanks,’ Jake said.

She must be caught up with Krantz, he thought. But then Krantz walked past as well, speaking with a reporter who was holding up a Dictaphone.

Jake felt his nerves tense. Popov showed up, and Veronika disappeared, just like that. She’d said the guys in the 4x4 worked for some rich stalker. Did she have any idea how dangerous the Russian was?

As he entered the stadium, he told himself he was being paranoid. If he hadn’t seen Igor Popov, then he wouldn’t be worried. Veronika would show up soon.

But the lingering dread remained. Where Popov was involved, it paid to expect the worst.

Tan twisted his body in the air, releasing the pole, and cleared the bar by thirty centimetres. As he hit the mat, the crowd cheered, and no one harder than Jake.

‘Go, Tan!’ he shouted.

Jake had taken a seat away from the others to watch
his friend and the other track-and-field stars going through their paces. He’d half hoped that Veronika might be in here already, but he couldn’t see her. Oz and his guys were sticking together on the opposite side of the stands.

Phillips had sat down with Krantz and a bunch of suits in the best seats. They were all drinking champagne, like it was a party or something. Jake was beginning to see that Olympic Advantage was as much about money and schmoozing as sport. And now that he’d learned Popov was involved, well, that only made it worse. Part of him wanted to call his dad and tell him he’d had enough, that he’d made a mistake ever coming to Florida. But a bigger part of him wanted to expose Olympic Advantage, and especially Phillips, for what they were.

Below, a coach with a megaphone announced to the crowd that the pole-vault bar was being set to six metres, just fourteen centimetres short of the world record. Jake couldn’t believe it. Tan had told him most decathletes didn’t reach their best until they were in their late twenties, and that vaulting was his least favourite event.

First came the women’s 400m, though. The gun went off and four competitors burst out of the blocks.

Jake felt like that – running as fast as he could – but that he had no finish line in sight.
Where is Veronika? Was Krantz
on the level? What if she’d overstepped the mark in questioning him; set off alarm bells? If I’ve got her mixed up in something
. . . But he couldn’t finish the thought.

The girls were halfway round the track, and pushing each other close. A four-sided clock by the start line was ticking off the digital seconds. On the final bend, the girls were bunched, and two at the rear came together. One tripped and spilled sideways on to the grass, drawing an ‘oooh’ from the crowd. Jake was glad to see she got up unhurt. The rest of the pack streaked on towards the finish, with the front two girls shoulder to shoulder. As they reached the line, one lunged, taking first place by a matter of centimetres.

Amid cheers for the winner, Jake noticed one of the orderlies pointing at the stopped clock. It read 47.49 seconds. Practically a world record.

Perhaps there was something to be said for Olympic Edge, after all . . .

While the winner of the race did a victory lap, arms outstretched, Tan was rocking back and forth on the start line, in time with the crowd’s clapping. Jake found himself leaning forwards in his seat.

Tan set off, his legs a blur as he reached sprinting speed, the pole lifted slightly from the horizontal. Whatever he was taking for his knee was clearly working. He hit the launch
spot, and planted the pole. It took the strain, bending into a U-shape, then propelled Tan upwards. Again, he soared over the bar with perfect technique. The crowd went nuts, though Jake noticed that Phillips wasn’t clapping, just grinning.

He’s probably got dollar signs in front of his eyes
, Jake thought.

The exhibition was to close with the high-jump event, and Jake could see Tan arguing with the orderlies below as they adjusted the pole-vaulting equipment. It was no surprise that he wanted another go.

Jake came down off the stands and walked up to his friend.

‘Hey, Tan, that was awesome,’ he said. ‘You’re on top form!’

‘Yeah,’ Tan said, pumped up and ready to go again, ‘I ask for the bar higher, but they say no. I never feel better.’ He turned back to the orderlies. ‘Come on, guys, what you say? One more jump . . .’

‘What about your knee?’ Jake whispered. ‘You were really pounding along the runway.’

Tan spun round, and pushed Jake in the shoulder, a bit too hard for it to be playful.

‘Shut up,’ he hissed.

‘Hey, sorry,’ Jake said, slightly taken aback. ‘I’m just saying maybe you should take it easy. Save something for later.’

Tan’s face slowly creased into a smile. ‘No worries, Jake.
We celebrate, yes? You want to? How is football going? How things going with Veronika?’

Jake could hardly keep up with Tan’s questions, but he guessed he was just high because things were going so well. ‘It’s all good.’ He slapped Tan on the back. ‘I’ll catch you later, yeah?’

He left Tan arguing with the orderlies about his extra five centimetres.

Jake missed most of the rest of the exhibition because he was too busy keeping an eye out for Veronika. She never showed. He had to admit that he was officially worried. He left the stadium and decided to check out all the places he thought Veronika might be – her room, tennis courts, the canteen. He’d asked around. No one had seen or heard from her.

He was heading to the main entrance to ask the guards if they’d seen her when a red Lotus zoomed up behind him and stopped with a squeal of its brakes, only just missing him.

The window buzzed down, and he saw Phillips sitting in the driver’s seat.

‘Get in,’ the marketing director said.

Jake hesitated. If Phillips was a killer, going for a ride with him might not be the smartest decision. But on the other hand Veronika was missing and he needed information.