The corridor behind the stands revealed a different side to the ice rink: out front, in the foyer, the old building had been draped in chandelier light, gingerbread decorations and Austrian brass band music, as if in a coat of festivity. Back here, none of that remained. The walls were grey, darkly gleaming in places where old knocks had left marks; the skirting boards were scuffed, the heating pipes coated in patchy paint. Cable ducts ran along the ceiling, turned corners, and disappeared behind metal doors bearing faded labels: EQUIPMENT, COOLING, STAFF ONLY. It smelled of cold concrete, ice, cleaning products and that indefinable electrical weariness that buildings developed when they were kept barely alive for too long.
Music, applause and muffled voices drifted over from far ahead. Yet here they already sounded altered, as if the celebration were taking place behind glass.
Shane came down the corridor, his tie slightly loosened, his jacket open. He hadn’t apologised, hadn’t officially excused himself. He’d simply slipped out through a side door as soon as the Austrian Cadets’ brass band had struck up the next march and everyone else had learnt to smile, eat and appear cosmopolitan all at once.
He moved with the natural ease of a gambler who, in any setting, spots the exits first. Next door. Next corner. Next escape route. Next gang, even if there was no gang here.
At the end of the corridor, a neon tube flickered. It did so not in any dramatic rhythm, but wearily and irregularly, as if even the light had to consider whether it was still in charge for this evening.
Shane cast a quick glance back towards the main hall.
No one was following him.
That should have reassured him, but it didn’t.
He stopped, listened to the echo of his own footsteps, and then continued more slowly. Not purposefully. More like someone looking for a place where not every glance had to mean something. Up front, cameras were waiting, along with the faces of sponsors, the philanthropist with his all-too-practised smile, the tournament doctor with his Venetian mask pendant, and Ilya, who looked as though Cartagena had left just as little mark on him as it had on Shane.
Back here, there was nothing but concrete. Concrete was better.
Shane closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
The smell of cleaning products stung his nose. Beneath that lay coolant, metal, stale water. No steam. No flowers. No hot wax. No animal masks.
He opened his eyes again. He stopped in front of a half-open door. He hadn’t expected any sound. At most, the hum of an old machine, the crackle of a heater, perhaps the distant slam of a service door; instead, he heard voices.
He recognised the first one immediately: Dr Walter Franklin, the philanthropist. Except that his voice sounded different here than it had beneath the chandelier. Deeper, harsher, without a microphone and without that benevolent warmth that was evidently part of the decor up front.
“I’ve done my part.”
A second voice replied. Calmer. More precise. The tournament doctor.
“No. You’ve merely put off doing your part.”
Shane didn’t move.
He stood at an angle to the doorframe, half in the shadow of a cable box. Not close enough to look like a eavesdropper if anyone happened to pass by. Close enough to catch every word.
His breathing grew shallower, full of fear and concentration.
“You’re confusing opportunity with entitlement,” said Franklin.
“And you’re confusing escape with liberation.”
Inside, paper rustled. Or fabric. Something was being pulled over the edge of a table. Someone was eating a crisp biscuit or a deep-fried wonton.
Shane’s gaze dropped to the gap under the door. A yellowish strip of light fell onto the floor of the corridor. Dust lay in it like fine salt.
“That was decades ago. And I’ve almost never enriched myself personally,” said Franklin.
“That’s precisely why the fund is liquid.”
Silence.
A brief round of applause came from the front, then laughter. Back here, it sounded wrong. Like a tape someone was playing in an empty room to prove there was still life there.
“What do you want?”
Franklin didn’t say it like a question. More like a man who realised the polite phase was over and it was simply a matter of finding out the price.
“Order,” said the doctor. “Discretion. And no sentimental outbursts.”
Shane looked towards the door.
Cartagena had taught him that some conversations didn’t reach their most dangerous point when someone made a threat, but when someone suddenly sounded very reasonable.
“I need the money,” said Franklin. “And you’re threatening me?”
“I’d remind you that some documents don’t cease to exist just because you change continents.”
A step inside the room.
The doctor had moved closer to the door. His voice now came through the gap more clearly.
“Names. Supply routes. Payments. It would be very detrimental to us all if Soviet nostalgia were to suddenly turn into evidence.”
Shane clenched his jaw.
Soviet.
The word stuck. Not because he understood it. But it was too cold, too concrete, too heavy for a dispute over foundations, buffet trolleys or gala pleasantries.
“I’ve detached myself from all that,” said Franklin.
“No. You’ve just packaged it more expensively.”
A brief silence followed. Then Franklin, more quietly and irritably:
“I won’t be intimidated by blackmail.”
“Neither will I.”
Shane stared at the strip of light on the floor. There was no doubt about it now. This was no harmless row between a sponsor and an official. It was about the past, about material that could be kept or made to disappear, about names that didn’t belong in programmes, and about a man who gave money in public whilst, behind closed doors, he clearly needed some desperately.
Further down the corridor, a door opened. Voices drew nearer. Younger players, loud enough to give away any inconspicuous vantage point in seconds. They were talking about racket faces, changing rooms, and whether you could even expect the showers to be warm in a hall like this.
Shane immediately stepped away from the doorframe.
No panic. Just instinct. He took two steps back, put his hands in his trouser pockets and, at that very moment, adopted the posture of a man who had simply lost his way or was looking for the wrong toilet.
Two young players in suits came round the corner. One wore his tie so tight it looked as though he’d never owned one before. The other was holding four canapés and looked as though he regretted it.
Both recognised Shane immediately.
“Mr Hollander,” said the first, visibly impressed.
Shane gave a brief nod. “Wrong way. Left at the front.”
“Thank you.”
They moved on, standing a little straighter than before.
Shane waited a moment.
Then the door behind him opened.
He didn’t turn fully round. Just enough to catch a glimpse of Walter Franklin out of the corner of his eye. The philanthropist stepped out, smoothed his jacket and, within two strides, had regained that public dignity which sat as firmly as if it were sewn in. His face was calm. Too calm. A thin film of sweat glistened on his forehead, in stark contrast to the cold of the corridor. 
Franklin didn’t notice Shane.
He walked back along the other side towards the main hall, where cameras, cadets and clearly labelled non-alcoholic drinks awaited.
The doctor paused in the doorway.
For a moment, he was just a dark silhouette against the warm light of the small room. Then he stepped out, closed the door with two fingers and paused.
He saw Shane immediately.
“Mr Hollander.”
Shane took his hands out of his pockets. Slowly enough to show composure. Not slowly enough to make it look like submission.
“Doctor?”
The tournament doctor smiled. It was the same polite smile as in the foyer, but without an audience, it lacked colour.
“You look as though you’ve been avoiding company.”
“I’m enjoying the silence before the match.”
A hint of amusement flitted across the doctor’s face, acknowledging that the boy could hold his own in conversation.
“Then you’ve chosen the wrong wing. It’s rarely quiet back here.”
Shane looked at him. Too direct for mere politeness, not direct enough for open confrontation.
“The hall is older than my parents. I can’t even imagine what’s been said and done here.”
The doctor held his gaze on his nose for a fraction of a second too long, as if gauging whether it would expand if he were lying.
“Interest is often more expensive in such houses than young men can afford.”
Shane didn’t reply.
The doctor smoothed his cuff. The Venetian mask pendant on his lapel moved almost imperceptibly. A slender silver head, half animal, half celebration, half threat. 
“If I were you,” said the doctor, “I’d stick to the simple things for the rest of the evening. The game. The audience. The cameras. The usual.”
“I’m pretty good at the usual.”
“Then stick to it.”
The doctor walked past him towards the main hall like someone convinced that even a bad conversation behind closed doors posed no danger whatsoever, as long as the right people kept smiling.
Shane was left alone.
He didn’t watch the doctor go. Instead, his gaze fell on the closed door of the equipment room.
On the metal, in flaking letters, it read:
STAFF ONLY
From the front, laughter and voices from the microphones drifted back into the hall. The charitable, well-heated, public part of the evening was still alive. For a few minutes, perhaps.
Shane ran his thumb and forefinger over his mouth as he thought about what he’d heard: “Soviet. Old enough to be dangerous, vague enough to make you think of the wrong people straight away.”
His first thought wasn’t of himself. Not of the hall. Not even of the sixteen million that was to be invested in foundation securities.
He thought of Ilya.
Not logical through to the end. Not neat. Just a flash.
When something like that pointed in the wrong direction, it always ended up with the evil Russians.
Shane exhaled softly.
Then he straightened his jacket, took a deep breath, counting to twelve, and walked back towards the lights, the music and the ice.