Safe Hands

NYCM Prompts:
Genre: Spy | Subject: A loan | Character: A goalkeeper

[Round 1: 4th place; progressed to Round 2]

Synopsis: When up-and-coming goalkeeper George Diego Hartwell finds himself in a great deal of financial trouble, the National Crime Agency offer what he sees as the only way out.

“May I have some water?”

The agent standing by the doorway stared at him. George swallowed, the movement painful with his dry throat. The interview room was just cold enough to be uncomfortable. He wondered if that was deliberate.

Folding his arms across his chest, he chewed on his lip. He was in trouble, he knew that – but not much else.

The door swung open and a second agent entered, carrying a file. When she sat down, George saw that it was a dossier on him. The entirety of his life condensed into bullet points. He swallowed again.

“Fetch Mr Hartwell some water,” the woman ordered. Silence reigned until the other agent returned with a plastic bottle.

Cracking the seal, George took a gulp. When he sat the bottle down again, some water sloshed out the top and ran down the sides, pooling at the bottom. He flushed with embarrassment at his carelessness.

“My name is Investigator Hollends,” the woman said. “I am part of the National Crime Agency. This,” she gestured to the man, “is my colleague from the Serious Fraud Office.” Clasping her hands beneath her chin, she rested her weight on her elbows, maintaining eye contact all the while. “We believe that you are complicit in an extensive money laundering scheme involving Gillingham Football Club.”

His eyes widened. That was his club, yes, but money laundering? “What? No! I’ve got some debt, but—”

“Some debt, Mr Hartwell?” She pulled a sheet of paper from the dossier and pushed it towards him.  A bank statement of a very overdrawn bank account. A series of payments were listed in the ‘credit’ column, but it barely made a dent.

“Those are loans! From the club!”

“We should believe that an English Football League One club can afford to regularly loan its players these sums of money?” Without waiting for a response, Hollends pursed her lips, trailing a finger down the bullet points in the dossier. “Signed at sixteen.”

Mutely, George nodded. He’d been ecstatic to secure a professional contract. It was harder for goalkeepers: he didn’t have the same opportunities to shine as the players upfront.

“Considered by a Championship club at eighteen.”

Again, he nodded. He’d had high hopes. After two seasons at Gillingham, the fact the team was mid-table was less about their goal-scoring abilities and more about his goal-saving abilities. It had looked like all his effort would be rewarded.

“Injured a month before transfer window opened.”

His jaw tightened. Not career-ending but it dashed any hope of being bought that year. That was why he had decided the best way to recapture the attention of the wealthier clubs was to act like he belonged there. So he’d adopted the lifestyle of a Premier League player, but on a League One wage. The debts had racked up.

“Gillingham Football Club faces financial hardship. Administration is all but inevitable.” She refocused on George. “Until John Whitley buys the club at the eleventh hour.”

It had been an offer too good to be true. Not only did Whitley rescue the club from financial disaster, but he also – along with his Board of Directors – agreed to loan George a fixed amount at three-month intervals. Not an advance, they insisted, but a loan. Yes, he was a talented goalkeeper worthy of investment, but they had to be seen to act responsibly. Plus, they required an extension to his contract: five more seasons at Gillingham. Eagerly, George agreed, never questioning why so much money was suddenly so readily available.

And that lack of curiosity was why he found himself in his current predicament.

“All that is true but I still don’t know anything about money laundering,” he insisted. He wanted another sip of water but worried the bottle might slip from his grasp. His normally safe hands – ones which could save any ball in a penalty shootout – were slick with sweat.

Hollends cast a sidelong glance towards her colleague. The man gave an imperceptible nod.

“We’re inclined to believe you,” she declared, turning back to face George. His vision swam with the rush of relief. “However, these loans,” she tapped the bank statement again, “could suggest your direct involvement in such activity.”

He had no idea if that was true or not. But these were no ordinary police officers. Did he really want to argue with the National Crime Agency? He waited, sensing there was something more.

The man stepped forward. “You have two options, Mr Hartwell. Either we pursue a criminal charge against you or—” The pause was deliberate. “—you cooperate fully with our investigation.”

George glanced between the pair. “Cooperate, obviously.” His brow furrowed. “But how?”

“We need your assistance.”

“I’m not saying no,” he blurted, “but are you sure? Wouldn’t I just be a…” He searched for the word. “Liability?”

Hollends spoke up. “Agent Striker,” she indicated her colleague, “will be supporting you.”

“Striker?” he repeated incredulously. “Really?”

Neither of them looked amused. Cheeks flushed, George slid down a little further in his chair. “What kind of assistance?”

Striker reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small grey rectangular block, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. “We want you to plant this in the boardroom.”

His tongue flicked across his lower lip. “And, uh, how legal is all of this?”

“Put it this way,” Striker remarked wryly, “success would eclipse any alleged association with criminal activities.”

George sighed, knowing he was trapped. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

***

Forty-eight hours later, Striker had determined the best opportunity: after an evening training session. George would complete his training as usual but make his way to the boardroom afterwards. Since the players had different training schedules during the week, no one should query why a player was walking around the corporate area.

The training session had been an effort. Torn between the paranoia of appearing too focused or too distracted, George somehow evened out into his regular standard of performance. A benefit of being a goalkeeper was a lack of scrutiny.

Afterwards, in the changing room, he pulled out a small earpiece and slipped it in, fussing with his hair to obscure the device. Striker had promised it was practically invisible once inserted. The mic had been seamlessly inserted into the collar of his post-training hoodie.

Click. “Enjoy training?” Striker’s voice was clear and crisp in his ear.

“No,” George muttered, zipping up his kit bag and slinging the strap over his shoulder. “Just tell me what to do.”

“You know what to do. Get to the boardroom.”

Heart pounding, George hurried from the changing room, his kit bag banging against the backs of his thighs. “You really couldn’t have done this yourself?” he breathed.

“There’s a reason these people are as wealthy as they are, and it’s not by allowing just anyone into their group.”

George gritted his teeth. “No, just the dumb goalkeeper.” A hint of bitterness crept into his voice.

“Money makes people do crazy things.” It was the first compassionate thing Striker had said. It helped to soothe some of George’s shame over his situation. “Now move.”

He lengthened his stride. No one he encountered paid him any heed. So far, so good. Then again, he wasn’t anywhere he shouldn’t be. It was only when the practical linoleum gave way to plush carpeting that his nerve began to falter.

“Breathe, Georgie.”

“George,” he snapped. “And I am breathing.”

“The mic can pick up a mouse’s fart two miles away. You’re definitely not breathing at any regular rate.” A beat of silence. “Why not Georgie?”

“Why do you care?”

“If you happen to get caught and die, I should probably give an accurate eulogy.”

Despite himself, George snorted. Rolling his eyes, he forced himself to take a deep breath before slowly and precisely exhaling. It did feel better.

“I’m named after George Best,” he finally answered. “He liked Georgie, but I don’t.”

Silence.

“You know? The famous midfielder?”

Nothing.

George blew out his cheeks. “Don’t suppose you’d understand why my middle name is Diego, either.”

“Maradona,” Striker replied laconically. “Argentine. Notorious for the 1986 FIFA World Cup.”

A grin crept across George’s face. “That’s the one.”

“Don’t tell me, you’ve also got Bobby and Zico in there, too.”

“No, Dad drew the line.”

“Your dad?”

“He prefers cricket. It’s Mum who’s mad for football.”

Whether Striker had intended it or not, the idle chitchat had sufficiently distracted George so that he made it to the large, polished wooden doors of the boardroom without overthinking it.

“I’m here,” he muttered.

“Good work.” Striker went quiet, presumably running final connection checks on the listening device clasped in George’s sweaty palm.

Not wishing to be caught loitering, George slipped into the boardroom, relieved to find it empty. He forced another deep breath into his lungs.

“Won’t there be CCTV?” There hadn’t been any video security before Whitley bought the club, but that might have changed.

“None on the corporate level,” Striker replied distractedly. “We suspect they carry individual units to avoid the system being compromised.”

“What, like a surveillance GoPro?”

“Close enough.” Striker’s tone shifted back into curt focus, signalling that he had completed his checks. “The trophy cabinet. Not like Gillingham are going to win any silverware anytime soon.”

“Inside or out?”

“Do many conversations happen inside a trophy cabinet, George?”

George bit back his retort. He moved closer to the cabinet, seeing it with fresh eyes. He also saw a fresh problem. “Do you really expect me to just stick this round the back?”

“Just make sure it’s out of sight. We know something is happening this we—”

“George!” A voice boomed from the doorway.

Shoving his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie, George spun around, ignoring the stream of cursing in one ear from Striker. He offered Whitley a shaky grin. “Good evening, Mr Whitley.”

“You’re a long way from the changing room.”

George lifted a shoulder in a hapless shrug, kit bag swaying by his side. “Yes, I… uh…” Striker had gone silent. At least that made thinking a bit easier. “I need more money, Mr Whitley.”

Whitley regarded him, smile sharp and gaze hard. “So soon, George? That seems unlikely.”

“I…” He fumbled for an excuse. “Met someone, sir. I want to impress them.”

George wondered if the fancy earpiece could detect his racing heart. So much for a fit young goalkeeper.

Whitley suddenly let out a hearty laugh. “That kind of impression, eh?” He half-turned, beckoning George to follow. “Very well, let’s arrange another loan.” Then the man hesitated, glancing over his shoulder. “Unless you were thinking of selling me out?”

“What?” He hated how his voice squeaked.

“Steady.” Striker returned to his ear. “I’m here, George. Just stay calm.”

Whitley nodded to the trophy cabinet. “Pawn a few of those, eh?”

Relief brought a shaky laugh from George. “I thought this was your office, sir. You know, the boardroom. It’s where I met you before.” When in doubt, play the dumb goalkeeper.

Whitley chuckled, shaking his head. “You footballers. No, I have a separate office, young man. Come this way.”

“Good work,” Striker murmured. “Keep playing along. You’re not alone.”

George said nothing. Contrary to Striker’s assurances, he felt very much alone. He followed in Whitley’s wake until they reached the office. Whitley stood to one side, inviting George to enter first.

“I promise this will be the last time, sir.” Stepping inside the pristine office, a sliver of trepidation slid up George’s spine.

“Oh, I think so, too, George.”

Striker suddenly hissed, “Get out of—” The warning cut out as Whitley shut the office door. But there had been no mistaking the panic in Striker’s voice. Evidently, the mic had picked up the edge of menace which George had also heard loud and clear.

Spinning around, George froze as Whitley pulled a handgun from inside his jacket pocket, as casually as someone might pull out a wallet. “I hear you’ve been making new friends, Georgie.”

The earpiece remained dead. Whether Striker had ended all contact or something was blocking the signal, George couldn’t guess. But he certainly had not signed up to this.

“Mr Whitley—” Sliding his kit bag to the floor, George held up his hands in the universal sign of surrender.

Whitley levelled the gun at him. “I have no interest in what you have to say.”

The burst of the door startled both of them. Striker barrelled in, immediately lunging towards Whitley. They grappled with one another and the gun flew from Whitley’s grasp, arcing through the air. Maybe Hollywood lied about these kinds of things but George was not ready to personally discover whether a gun could self-fire on impact.

His honed reflexes engaged without thought. Diving forward, George angled himself towards the gun, eyes fixed on his target. He crumpled to the floor in an almighty crash.

“George! Shit! George, are you—” 

“Dead?” He grinned, unfurling from the tucked-in position his muscle memory had adopted. Cradled in his arms, safely pinned against his chest, was the gun. “No. Goalkeeper, remember?” Staggering onto his feet, he aimed the gun at Whitley.

Hastily, Striker moved across to him. “Goalkeeper, yes; marksman, no.” He took the gun for himself, training it on Whitley. With his other hand, he tapped on his earpiece, activating the thin mic along his jaw. “Target secured. Request immediate assistance.”

***

Gillingham Football Club was headline news… for all the wrong reasons. Still sitting in Whitley’s office, George sighed heavily as he scrolled through the newsfeed on his phone. He might have evaded criminal charges, but the club was definitely finished.

Striker walked in. “You OK?”

George shoved his phone into his pocket, forcing a wan smile. “So long as I’m not about to be arrested.”

Shifting his weight between his feet, Striker’s gaze flitted about the office, the corner of his mouth pulled up into a slight smirk. “You’ll be fine.” There was a finality to his words which George didn’t quite understand. How could he be so certain? Unless…

Striker gave him no more time to dwell on it. Abruptly, he thrust out his hand. “Edson.”

George frowned. “What?”

“My name’s Edson.”

“As in… Pelé?!”

Striker raised a brow. “Where did you think the code name came from?”

“Well, I…” George floundered for the answer. “Because I’m a goalkeeper?” Striker laughed outright. Sheepishly, he accepted the hand, shaking it. “Still just George.”

“Well, George,” Striker blew out his cheeks, “we can’t do any more here. I think we could both do with a drink – and I don’t mean a bottle of water.” He tipped a wink. “I’m paying.”

“Just as well.” George rubbed at his temples. “I’m broke and unemployed.”

Tutting beneath his breath, Striker shook his head. “You’re unemployed right now,” he corrected, guiding George out of the room. “But just wait until I leak the footage of that save with the gun.” He grinned. “Premier League, here you come.”