Mikhail Popov did not watch the interview when it aired. He had no particular interest in seeing Ronnie Vincent embarrassing himself in front of a camera yet again. Nor did he care all that much about whatever Wayne Carter had to say. No doubt the whole thing had been carefully scripted. That was one thing which David Carter was good at – even Mikhail had to concede the fact. Nobody put on a show quite like Carter.

So it came as something of a surprise when he was settling back in the leather armchair in his office, sipping a glass of wine and enjoying the emotive strains of Rimsky-Korsakov on the hi-fi, when his son Stanislaw entered the room without warning.

"Pop, I need a word."

"You know," Mikhail said thoughtfully, "when I was your age, if I had burst into my father's office without warning, he would have beaten me to within an inch of my life. And he would have been right to do it."

"Sorry, pop. But it's important."

"Well?"

"Did you watch the press conference?"

"I have better things to do with my time."

"Well, I just had Ronnie Vincent calling me again. He wants to come see you."

"That's what's so important?" Mikhail could hardly keep the smile from his face. "Stanislaw, I think those drugs have ruined your brain. There was a time when you didn't give two shits about Ronnie Vincent."

"I think you should speak to him, pop."

Mikhail narrowed his eyes. Did Stanislaw know something? "Alright," he said, "never let it be said that I'm a tyrant. I will do as you say, and meet with the fool. There, are you happy?"

Ronnie Vincent arrived at Mikhail Popov's house within the hour. Once again, he was out of his comfort zone. He wished he was in Spain, filming, beating up stuntmen and soaking up sun. Stanislaw came into the hall to meet him. They shook hands perfunctorily, and Stanislaw led him through to the back of the house, to Mikhail's office. This time, Stanislaw knocked politely on the door.

Mikhail was sitting with his back to them as they entered the study. Ronnie Vincent took it all in. He saw the paintings on the walls (several old masters, though he would not have recognised their names), the ornate chess set, the drinks cabinet positively brimming with expensive booze. The place reeked of luxury. And there, in the middle of it all, was the comparatively unassuming figure of Mikhail Popov. He was sitting with a drink in one hand and a book in the other. It was a philosophical treatise of some sort by someone named Ayn Rand. The name meant nothing to Ronnie. And there was classical music playing on the stereo. Again, Ronnie didn't recognise it. He was out of his depth, and he did not like it.

Stanislaw cleared his throat. "Pop, I have Ronnie Vincent here."

Mikhail glanced up, as though he had not been expecting them. "Ah," he said. "Mr. Vincent. You wanted to see me, I think?"

"Erm, yeah. Sorry to bother you, and all that, but..."

"Stanislaw, why don't you leave Mr. Vincent to me?"

Stanislaw gave a nod that was almost like a bow and then quietly withdrew from the room. At once, Mikhail's pale eyes were burning into Ronnie Vincent. "Now, Mr. Vincent, you have my undivided attention."

"Uh... it's about this press conference earlier today..."

"What about it?"

"Well, I met with Wayne Carter about the, you know..."

"I am quite aware."

"And we shook hands and he..."

"He what?"

Ronnie Vincent exhaled slowly, doing his best to remain cool. "I wanted to bring this to you personally, Mr. Popov. To show you that I'm, that I'm loyal. And reliable. I know who my friends are, and I take care of them."

Popov was looking annoyed. "Say what you wish to say, Mr. Vincent."

Ronnie Vincent held out a crumpled envelope. "He gave me this. Slipped it to me when we were shaking hands."

Mikhail sniffed disdainfully, but all the same he leaned forward to take the proffered envelope. He turned it over and saw the block lettering on the front: MIKHAIL POPOV.

"You have not looked inside?"

"No! No, I wouldn't do that. Not when it's got your name on it..."

"Alright. You wanted to bring me the envelope personally. Now you have done so. Thank you for your trouble."

There was an awkward moment where Ronnie Vincent failed to get the message, but once it clicked he quietly and politely left the room.

Mikhail studied the envelope. Perhaps he should have watched the press conference after all. Perhaps there was more to this Wayne Carter than met the eye. With a razor-sharp letter opener, he sliced the envelope open and produced a thin sheet of paper, folded in half. He examined the brief message and smiled.

A telephone number, and then two words: CALL ME.

In a febrile situation like this one, where neither party fully understood the scope of the other's ambition, it was essential to exercise a degree of caution. That was Mikhail Popov's approach, anyway. His initial instinct was to destroy that foolish note, which never should have been written in the first place, and then go on with his life as before. But before doing that, he took the opportunity to watch a replay of the press conference on his computer. He saw Wayne Carter looking brave and stoic – a martyr – and ensuring that Ronnie Vincent looked like a fool and a brute in the process.

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Frankly, events like this one typically bored Mikhail to tears. He had never shown any interest in pleasing the court of public opinion. But there was something about this press conference that felt a little different. Something about the way Wayne Carter carried himself; his confidence in front of the cameras. It took a moment for Mikhail to realise what it was: Wayne had nothing to lose. At least, the boy had obviously convinced himself he had nothing to lose. Hence the soul-baring, combined with the cynicism of his shameless embrace with Vincent.

But Mikhail was wise, even if Wayne Carter was not. He understood that everyone had something to lose.

So Mikhail picked up the telephone on his desk and dialled the number.

*

It was the number of a burner phone which Wayne had bought for just this purpose. Wayne sat in his bedroom at home, the phone on the desk, staring at it. Willing it to ring. And when it finally did, he nearly had a heart attack and almost dropped it in his haste. But he forced himself to stop for a moment, to take a breath, and to gather himself.

“Mr. Popov.”

“Mr. Carter. You wanted to speak with me?”

“Glad to hear you got my message.”

“Yes. Ronnie Vincent may not be good for much, but he makes an admirable delivery boy. Now – there is something you wanted to discuss with me, Mr. Carter?”

Wayne hadn’t really thought this far ahead. He knew what he wanted, but he didn’t know how to broach the subject. Particularly when Popov was being so matter of fact about it.

“It seems to me that we are bound by a common enemy, Wayne said. It took Mikhail a moment to realise what Wayne meant. When he did, the realisation felt remarkably fruitful. But he would need to proceed with caution.

"I suppose that your father acted... somewhat rashly,” he said slowly.

"He didn't act. That was the problem."

Mikhail smiled. Semantics. "Alright. You asked me to call you, and I have called you. What would you like to discuss?"

"It's about Mile End. First off, let me say I'm not blaming you for what happened."

"Good."

"But I still feel a bit... hard done by. I'm sure you can understand that."

Mikhail conceded that he could.

"Now, I'm a doer," Wayne said. "I've got to be doing things or else I'll go mad. And now my dad's getting in the way of what I want to do."

"Which is?"

Wayne took a deep breath. "It was to play for the Mile End first team. That was all I ever wanted. And now that's not going to happen. So I've got no choice but to make alternative arrangements."

"It was an unfortunate thing that happened to you."

"Yes. It was," Wayne said bitterly. "But I'm ready to make the best of it."

"That is commendable. But I have to ask, what does it have to do with me?"

Wayne was ready for this question. "It seems to me that our goals are actually pretty in synch, if you know what I mean."

"I'm not sure I do."

"You want David Carter out of the picture. To me, that doesn't seem too much to ask. In fact, maybe I could even... assist you with that."

Mikhail thought about this. "There has been a rivalry between the Carters and the Popovs for a long time now. It just so happens that things came to a head for your father with this Silvertown business."

Silvertown, Silvertown. Wayne was sick of hearing the fucking word. Everything came back to Silvertown lately. If it were up to Wayne, he would bulldoze the whole place and sprinkle the ground with salt. He would eradicate it from the face of the earth.

"I like to play chess," Popov was saying. "Did you know that? My sons tell me that I tend to view life as a game of chess. Both are games in which I am lucky enough to be highly proficient. Well, there is a certain move in chess that applies to your father's situation. We call it 'zugzwang,' when one is obliged to make a move, but no matter how they move, they will place themselves at a profound disadvantage. With what happened to you, we were able to place your father in zugzwang.”

Mikhail smiled. It was satisfying when chess and life so perfectly aligned. “In other words, I have him exactly where I want him. Without your help, I might add. So, Wayne Carter, my question is this: what do you have to offer me? And if I take up your offer to betray your father – because, let's be honest, that is exactly what you would be doing – then what exactly would you expect in return?"

For the first time, Wayne let his true feelings enter his voice. Up until now, he had been keeping himself under control. Doing his level best to convince Popov that this was really just a matter of business. But now he declared: "I will find a way to sabotage Silvertown for him."

"You are really willing to betray him, and everything he has accomplished?"

There could be no going back now. "Yes," said Wayne.

“Please think very carefully, Wayne. Because once you commit yourself, there will be no going back. None.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Popov, I haven’t thought about anything else for a long time.”

“Very well. I wanted to give you the opportunity to withdraw. Because I am a fair man, you see.”

“Yes, Mr. Popov.”

“If we are to be partners, then you may call me Mikhail.” No one called him Mikhail. Not even his closest confidants. But Mikhail Popov knew that the game he was playing was more complex than it had originally appeared.

“Yes… Mikhail.” And at that moment, something changed between them. It was as though Wayne had signed his soul away to the devil. The sky might as well have been spliced by lightning.

But Mikhail had more to say. "And what about my second question? What do you want in return?"

Wayne was prepared for this one. "Two things, and they're both perfectly fair."

"I will be the judge of that."

"The first thing: Ronnie Vincent. I want him taken care of."

"In what way?"

"What I mean is, I want him finished. I want his career over the way mine was."

"That might prove problematic."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll find a way round it." Wayne was indulging his malicious streak, and it felt good. Of course, Ronnie Vincent had all but abandoned the beautiful game in favour of the silver screen. But if Wayne had learned anything over the last few months, it was that the Popovs could get to you wherever you were.

"Are you sure that revenge is the best policy?" Mikhail inquired benignly.

"Yes," came Wayne’s definitive answer.

He could hear the smile in Mikhail's voice when he said: "Well, alright,” as though he were indulging a spoilt child. “And what is the second thing?"

"I don't care what happens to my father. But I do care what happens to me. So if you dismantle the Carter business, there needs to be something else in its place. Something that I can run, with your blessing."

"I think I understand. You wish to be part of the Popov organization."

"Call it whatever you like. But I want my independence. I want a level of control."

Mikhail considered this. The boy had evidently been spurned by his father, though this conversation was certainly not a spur of the moment tantrum, the kind of thing Stanislaw might be capable of. This was a calculated manoeuvre. "Ah! It makes sense to me now. You wish to be director of Mile End Athletic, isn't that so?"

Wayne's heart leapt. Hearing his ambition voiced so succinctly by a man like Mikhail Popov was a giddying sensation. It made him feel that his own personal rise to power was not merely possible, but inevitable. In that instant, he knew it was within his reach. "Yes," he answered, "that's exactly what I want."

"Good. I like a man who knows his mind. Very well. In theory, nothing you have proposed here is out of the question. But it will require a degree of organisation. It will not happen overnight. And first, you will have to deliver on dismantling Silvertown for your father."

"I'm a patient man," Wayne said. "I’m prepared for it to take as long as it takes."

"Alright. Let's meet. We will need to discuss this... project of ours in person."

“Name a time and place.”