Page 10 of End Game (William Warwick #8)

G OLD LOOKED UP FROM HIS PLACE at the top of the table, pleased to see that Silver and two of his Bronzes were already on the podium.

If you had asked William what had taken place during the past few weeks, all he would remember was that he never had enough time to deal with every problem that arose, however trivial or unimportant, while ending each day sleeping for three or four hours on a camp bed in his office.

With only eleven days left before the opening ceremony, there wasn’t a minute to waste. In fact, the team meetings had gone from taking place once a month to once a week, and now once a day, in the vain hope of staying ahead of the game.

A knock on the door at five to eight, answered by come in , allowed the inner circle to join Gold.

Detective Inspector Adaja took his place on the Commander’s right, while Sergeant Pankhurst sat on his left.

Sergeant Roycroft occupied the remaining seat at the other end of the table, while William’s secretary sat behind him, making notes, and would have the minutes along with a new agenda prepared well in time for tomorrow’s meeting.

‘As from tomorrow,’ said William, ‘these meetings will take place at the stadium and will begin at seven o’clock, not eight.’

No one commented, as that was no more than they had all signed up for seven years ago.

‘Right,’ said William. ‘As usual, we have a packed agenda. Don’t forget that for the next few weeks, the eyes of the world will be upon us.

If anything goes wrong, we’ll be on the firing line.

So, first on the agenda.’ William looked down at the sheet of paper in front of him.

‘How can we hope to get approximately one hundred and fifty VIPs to the stadium without causing a traffic jam that will bring London to a halt? Paul,’ he said, looking to his right, ‘I was glad to receive an email from you at eleven o’clock last night with the words: Sorted.

Will explain at tomorrow’s prayer meeting. Explain.’

‘We’re going to transport our group of kings, presidents and prime ministers in sixteen luxury coaches, each accompanied by half a dozen outriders and two police cars.’

‘I can’t see Jacques Delors sitting in the back of a coach chatting amiably to Boris Johnson,’ said Rebecca, barely able to mask a grin.

‘It will be up to the Foreign Office to handle that particular problem,’ said Paul, without missing a beat.

‘There will be four royal receptions held in different locations an hour before our VIPs have to leave for the stadium. One at Buckingham Palace hosted by the Queen, a second at St James’s Palace with Prince Charles, a third at Lancaster House with Prince Harry and Princess Anne and the fourth, for lesser mortals, will be held at Wellington Barracks. ’

‘I wouldn’t want to be the person who has to decide which head of state goes to which palace,’ volunteered Rebecca.

‘Again, the Foreign Office will be responsible for that delicate decision,’ said Paul, ‘as they’re well aware who’s sleeping with who, which ones are not on speaking terms, and who will be insulted if they don’t get invited to Buck House.’

‘Who’s sleeping with whom,’ corrected William. ‘So, what’s next?’ he asked, looking down at item number two on the agenda.

‘Disgruntled taxi drivers,’ announced Jackie from the other end of the table.

‘What’s their problem?’ asked William.

‘They’re not being allowed to operate on the official route to and from the Olympic Stadium, which they’re not best pleased about.’

‘And how do they propose to express their anger?’ pressed William.

‘Sixty of them intend to circle Hyde Park Corner during rush hour on the evening of the opening ceremony,’ said Jackie, ‘which will bring London to a standstill in a matter of minutes.’

‘How can we stop that from happening?’ asked William.

‘Lift the restrictions and allow them to ply their trade on the Olympic route,’ suggested Rebecca.

‘I’ll need to have a word with the mayor,’ said William.

‘He doesn’t have the authority to override Transport for London,’ Rebecca pointed out.

‘Then I’ll ask the Hawk to speak to the Home Secretary and suggest he calls an emergency meeting,’ said William, turning round and nodding to his secretary.

Angela continued writing furiously.

‘So, what’s next?’ asked William, looking back down at the agenda.

‘Ticket touts,’ said Rebecca.

‘They’re harmless enough,’ said William. ‘Just lock them up overnight.’

‘I wish it was that easy,’ said Rebecca, ‘but it’s not the usual bunch of wide boys who will be out hoping to make a quick buck. These are a far more sophisticated group who are working the major hotels selling expensive hospitality packages that don’t even exist.’

‘Then arrest them.’

‘They’re fly,’ came back Paul, ‘and not that easy to catch.’

‘Then how do you know about them?’ demanded William.

Paul handed William one of the counterfeit tickets.

‘The head porter at the Ritz bought a dozen tickets from one of them, hoping to make a return by selling them on to his guests, but when he checked them against a real ticket, he quickly realized they were forgeries and immediately got in touch with West End Central.’

‘And if you want to hear the bad news,’ said Rebecca, ‘Bronze Crime tells us he thinks it could be Miles Faulkner who’s behind the scam.

He’s got no evidence to prove it, as his only witness is now refusing to talk.

However, he’s pretty sure it’s Faulkner.

Apparently, he’s charging five thousand pounds just to attend the opening ceremony. ’

‘Couldn’t be better,’ said William, taking them all by surprise. He turned to Jackie and asked, ‘Do we still have a reserved block on the far side of the stadium that we’re holding in case of an emergency?’

‘Yes, sir,’ came back Jackie. ‘We got the idea from the match secretary at Wimbledon. They always keep a small stand empty to handle emergencies such as this.’

‘How many seats does our stand hold?’

Jackie checked her notes. ‘One hundred and forty,’ she said.

‘Will they have a good view of what’s taking place on the track?’

‘They will be on the back straight opposite the finishing line,’ said Jackie, looking down at a stadium printout. ‘But if we do that, sir, the only winner will be Miles Faulkner.’

‘Not if we end up with one hundred and forty contented customers who were rescued at the last minute. And you can be sure that among them will be lawyers and politicians, who always make good witnesses whenever a case comes to court.’

‘So this time Faulkner may have caused his own downfall,’ said Paul.

‘Not to mention having to pay a hefty fine when I let the judge know how much I think Faulkner made out of the scam.’ William paused. ‘I may be tempted to exaggerate.’

The team began to bang the table with the palms of their hands.

‘So what’s our next problem?’ asked William, looking back down to his list.

‘The Olympic torch relay,’ said Paul, opening yet another file.

‘Why?’ demanded William.

‘The torch will set out from Land’s End first thing on Monday morning before making its way towards the capital.’

‘Remind me what happens when the torch arrives in London?’ was William’s next question.

‘The Mother Flame will spend the night in the Tower of London before starting out on its journey around the capital,’ said Jackie, ‘ending up at the Olympic Stadium in plenty of time for the opening ceremony.’

‘To be greeted by large crowds, no doubt,’ said William.

‘We are expecting the torch relay team to be met by a vast number of fans as it continues on its journey through the city,’ said Jackie, ‘and we certainly don’t have enough police officers to man the entire route should any of them turn out not to be fans.’

‘I don’t think it will be the crowds who cause the problem,’ volunteered Paul.

‘Then who?’ demanded William.

‘The Russians,’ announced Paul, which caused William to remain unusually silent.

‘The Home Office are reporting that an unusually large number of officials are attached to the Russian Olympic squad,’ said Paul, ‘and our Ambassador in Moscow has contacted the Foreign Office to inform them that President Putin is planning to make a major speech the day after the opening ceremony, so heaven knows what the Russians have planned for the next eleven days.’

‘ Cry “Havoc!”, and let slip the dogs of war . No more than revenge for Margaret Thatcher trying to boycott the Moscow Games, so we must assume the worst and prepare accordingly.’

18 July 2012 – 9 days to go

R OSS COULDN ’ T BELIEVE HIS EYES as he watched Faulkner’s Rolls come to a halt about a hundred yards from Tower Bridge.

Not one of his usual destinations. Collins got out of the car, opened the boot and took out a folding bicycle.

Then came the next surprise. Faulkner, dressed in a smart blue tracksuit, mounted the bicycle and began to pedal towards the bridge, where he joined a large group of younger cyclists.

Ross abandoned his taxi on a double yellow line, ran across to a row of Boris bikes, and unlocked one before making his way towards the back of the group as quickly as he could.

He listened carefully to several conversations going on around him, and quickly discovered the group met fairly often at different points in the city, from where they would set off with a single purpose: to temporarily bring London’s traffic to a halt, so the Mayor of London would have to take seriously their demands for more cycle lanes.

In fact, one of the cyclists insisted that she wouldn’t give up until London was one long cycle lane.

What Ross couldn’t work out was why Faulkner had joined the group. After all, he wasn’t an obvious candidate to support bicycle lanes. However, whatever Faulkner was up to, it was bound to mean trouble, so Ross was determined to keep him under close surveillance.