A suspicious-looking jiffy bag was delivered to Rob Linley's office the following morning. It was the kind of thing that might have contained an explosive device in an old movie. But when it landed on Rob's desk he took it in his hands and shook it. It was surprisingly thin and light, evidently containing only a few papers. He glanced at the handwriting on the envelope. Handwriting? Who wrote addresses by hand these days?

He ripped open the seal and tipped the envelope so that a few photographs fluttered out. He arranged them in a row in front of him and studied them carefully.

Chloe? And the kids?

The photos had obviously been taken without his wife's knowledge. She was by a lake or pond of some kind, talking to a man in a black suit who looked like a funeral director. Must have been when she was out walking them yesterday. What did it mean?

He peered into the envelope and saw a sheet of that which had not come spilling out with the rest. He fished it out between his fingers and examined it along with the photographs.

Again, it was handwritten. It read:

SEE HOW CLOSE WE GOT?

UNLESS YOU WANT TO SEE THEM DEAD, YOU WILL DO AS WE SAY.

INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW.

A chill ran down Rob’s spine. He was a controlled man, not known for emotional outbursts, but as he read over these lines, he felt a sick fear settle in his stomach. He looked again at the photographs, and this time, it dawned on him who the man in the suit was. Yuri Popov. Son of Mikhail. A fucking ruthless bastard. A sociopath, in fact, who gloried in violence and excess. In other words, a chip off the old block.

If Stanislaw’s reputation was as a party animal, a waster who liked his sports cars and prostitutes, then Yuri’s was the polar opposite. Yuri Popov was a man who lived and breathed to serve his father. He was almost robot-like. The only public appearances he made were those accompanying his father to high-profile events. He never spoke if he could avoid it. But he was distinguishable by his immaculately tailored suits, and by the chilly, soulless look in his pale eyes.

So it had finally happened. Rob had been anticipating it for a while; ever since what had happened to Wayne. The Russians were making a play.

He quickly destroyed the photos, note and envelope, igniting them with his lighter and watching them curl and then blacken to nothing in the bin by his desk. And while he watched the dancing orange flame, he thought.

The way he saw it, he had a few different options. The first was the “scorched earth” approach. He could take it straight to the top, to his dad and David Carter. That would be tantamount to declaring war on the Popovs, and needless to say he and his wife and kids would be fair game. His life wouldn’t be worth much to anyone if he did that.

The other option, the one he currently favoured, was to try and worm his way out of this situation for himself. He could look at this as a baptism of fire. A test of mettle. A chance to prove himself the leader he knew he could be.

These “instructions” from the Popovs – what were they going to entail? Only one way to find out, of course. But that led to all kinds of other questions. Naturally they were blackmailing him because they wanted him to betray the Carter organisation in some way. But Rob liked to think of himself as a negotiator, someone who was good at striking an amicable deal between parties – and pocketing a decent amount of cash for himself, in the bargain. But it was going to be risky. What they did to Wayne was evidently just a taster of the amount of destruction they could wreak if they wanted to.

That gave Rob an idea. He and Wayne had always been mates, hadn’t they? Old school pals, for fuck’s sake. If he couldn’t trust Wayne (who, let’s not forget, had experienced his own run-in with the Russians) then who could he trust?

He tried to think back to his last full conversation with Wayne. It must have been at some gala or other at the Mile End ground. They had bought each other drinks, hadn’t they, and traded pleasantries? Just like old times. Well, not quite, but almost. Wayne might be worth talking to about this. He might be able to advise.

Rob took his phone from the pocket of his suit and was surprised to find that he didn’t actually have Wayne’s number in it. It didn’t take much effort to find it, though – there was a pretty comprehensive database of contact info for all the Mile End personnel.

Once he had the number, he headed out into the car park to pace around a bit as he made his call. He was at a rented office space not too far from Silvertown. It had been decided by his dad and by Mr. Carter that he should be on hand at the site, where preliminary excavations were already underway. Rob wasn’t complaining – it gave him the opportunity to slip away whenever he needed to. But all the same, he was a bit surprised to see that his hands were shaking as he inputted the number and hit “CALL.”

Fucking pull yourself together!

He filled his lungs and then exhaled slowly, languorously. He listened to the dial tone. Shit! Where the hell is he? It isn’t as if he has many pressing engagements these days…

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Rob ended the call, then hit “REDIAL.” Finally, on about the third attempt, he managed to get through.

“Y-ello?”

“Wayne! That you, mate? It’s Rob.”

“Rob mate, long time no speak.”

“Yeah, long time! Uh, did you get those flowers we sent? And the get well card?”

“I don’t think so…”

“What, you didn’t? Bloody hell, sorry about that mate. They weren’t just from me, they were from Chloe and the kids too…”

“Don’t worry about it.” Wayne sounded very calm. Calmer than he ever had during their school days. Back then, Rob was the cool one, the one people actually liked, and Wayne was the quiet one – the one who always seemed as if he had something to hide. How the turn tables, as they say.

“And I was really sorry about what happened. You know that, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“We all were. Chloe sends her love, by the way.”

“Nice of her.”

“Yeah…” Rob tailed off into uneasy silence. He knew he needed to advance the conversation, to change the subject, but he just couldn’t find the words.

“It was the Russians.”

“What? What did you say?”

“It was the Russians, Rob. They’re the ones who did it. They set Ronnie Vincent up to cripple me. Probably paid him a pretty penny, too.”

“Well, it’s funny you should mention that. It’s sort of the reason I’m calling. I need to ask you something. Before you… well, before your accident, you got a note handed to you. Isn’t that right? I know your dad kept it pretty hush-hush what with Silvertown…”

“No, you’re right. I got a note.” Wayne was perfectly matter-of-fact about it.

Rob decided to return the favour: “Well, I’ve got one too.”

Wayne whistled. “Oh mate, bad luck. My sympathies.”

“It’s what I want to talk to you about. Mate to mate, you know. I need your advice.”

“Have you spoken to David about it?”

“No. I haven’t spoken to anyone.”

Wayne snorted. “Probably a good thing. Look what good it did for me, talking to him.”

“Yeah, well…” Rob trailed off again, hating himself for it. He was not used to being tongue-tied like this. He bit the bullet. “I want your advice. I don’t know what to do.”

“Alright. First things first – we’d better meet. Where are you?”

“I’m at work, but I can come round to your place…”

“It’s alright. Don’t worry. I’m on my way.”

Wayne was as good as his word. He showed up at Rob’s office in his Porsche. He had no trouble climbing out of the low-slung sports car, and he approached Rob with only the slightest limp. If you didn’t know better, you would think he could take to the pitch again tomorrow.

In fact, he was the one who suggested the two of them should take a walk.

As they strolled side by side along the wide pavements on the fringe of the industrial estate, the two young men could not help but recall those long, wasted summer days when they got up to mischief in the old neighbourhood. The games and pranks and petty cruelties of childhood. But those days were gone. They were different people now.

“Tell me about this note,” Wayne prompted.

“It wasn’t just a note,” Rob said, “there were photos too. Chloe and the kids. Obviously when she was out and about in the park.”

Wayne didn’t say anything to this.

“What should I do, Wayne?”

Wayne sniffed. “Just out of interest, why are you asking me? I can’t do anything to help you, can I?”

“Come on, Wayne. I need a friend. I need someone to advise me. And like you said, I can’t take this to my dad, or to Mr. Carter…”

“No,” said Wayne with a hint of sarcasm, “I don’t think Mr. Carter would take the news too well. Particularly with Silvertown up shit creek.”

“I wasn’t sure how much you knew about that.”

“I know about as much as my dad wants me to know. But it’s enough.”

“Well, you’re right. Things have been held up somewhat. Obviously your dad’s not happy. And it looks as though the Popovs are taking advantage of that.”

“Yes,” said Wayne, “it does, doesn’t it? But you still haven’t told me what you want me to do.”

They reached a wooden memorial bench by the roadside, and Rob slumped down onto it. “I need to know what to do.”

“What did the note say?”

“It said they could get to my family. And it said if I didn’t do as they said, then my family was as good as dead.”

“And have you had any instructions from them?”

“Not yet. But I’ve got a feeling they’ll be coming soon.”

Wayne sat down beside Rob. “And you really want my opinion?”

“Course I do.”

“Well, my advice is to look what happened to me. I got a note from the Popovs. I went to my dad about it, I thought he’d help me. Maybe throw the Russians a bone, something to keep the peace. But he didn’t. He sold me up the river because of his precious Silvertown. And I’m his son. See what I mean?”

“Yes,” Rob nodded slowly.

“Now, it goes against the grain for me to tell you this, but I think you should do what they say.”

Rob lit a cigarette and said nothing.

Wayne pressed on. “What harm can it do? Realistically? Isn’t it better to try and keep everybody happy, than to make waves and ruin everything?”

“Everyone happy?” Rob raised a sceptical eyebrow. “If your father finds out I’m working with Popov, he’ll have me killed.”

Wayne pretended to consider this. “Who are you more afraid of, David Carter, or Mikhail Popov?”

Rob snorted. “Honestly? David Carter.”

“Maybe I phrased this wrong. What I mean is, who would you rather see dead: yourself, or your wife and kids?”

Rob took another drag on his cigarette. The hand holding the fag, he realised, was shaking. He hoped Wayne didn’t notice.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said finally. “But this is completely off the record, isn’t it? I mean, you won’t mention it to Mr. Carter?”

“My lips are sealed. Besides, he doesn’t talk to me too much these days.”

Rob tried to console him. “He’s very busy. You know, what with…”

“Silvertown,” Wayne finished his sentence for him.

“Yeah. Listen, thanks for this, Wayne. You’re a good mate.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Wayne grinned. “What are friends for?”