Page 11 of End Game (William Warwick #8)

Just after six o’clock, their leader addressed his disciples.

‘The chosen route this week,’ he announced, ‘will take us over Tower Bridge, past the Tower of London and then along the Embankment towards Westminster. When we reach the House of Commons, we will circle Parliament Square several times before returning along the other side of the Embankment, when we’ll make our way back to Tower Bridge.

Remember, we are not in a hurry, and you should slow down at every zebra crossing and occupy the whole road whenever you stop at a traffic light.

’ Without another word, he mounted his bike and pedalled slowly off, leading his band of warriors across Tower Bridge.

Ross remained tucked in at the back of the group, well out of sight of Faulkner, who was pedalling furiously just to keep up with the group leader. Ross would have liked to overhear their conversation.

It seemed to be an exchange of views that didn’t take too long, because by the time the group reached the Embankment, Faulkner had fallen back, and when they came to a halt at the traffic lights opposite the Savoy, he took the slip road on the right, crossed the road, got off his bike and climbed back into the waiting Rolls.

Ross waited, watching as Collins folded up the bike and placed it back in the boot.

What exactly was Faulkner up to? Ross couldn’t understand why someone like him would be interested in building cycle lanes. He could only wonder what his real purpose was.

He hung back until the Rolls was out of sight, then began to pedal faster and faster, and by the time the group had reached Parliament Square, he’d caught up with their leader. Although Ross was out of breath, he began a stilted conversation.

‘I saw you chatting to my friend,’ was Ross’s opening ploy.

‘Your friend?’ queried the group leader.

‘The older guy on the folding bike, in the smart blue tracksuit.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said the leader. ‘Told me he wouldn’t be able to come next Friday, because he has seats for the opening ceremony of the Olympics, and in any case, he assumed we’d be banned from carrying out our usual Friday protest.’

‘And will you?’ asked Ross.

‘Not a chance, I told him,’ replied the leader. ‘Not now the Law Lords have ruled that cyclists are not protesters, but a public procession.’

Having worked in traffic control for the past few years, Ross was well aware of the Law Lords’ decision, and the hold-ups this group had caused over the past two years without the police being able to do anything about it.

‘However,’ the leader continued, ‘your friend made a pretty interesting suggestion which, if we’re able to pull it off, would make everyone aware of our cause.’

‘What was his suggestion?’ asked Ross.

The leader glanced across at Ross, a look of suspicion on his face. ‘If he’s your friend, why don’t you ask him yourself?’ He pedalled off.

Ross fell back and tried to work out what Faulkner could possibly have suggested, and, perhaps more importantly, why he had suggested anything to this group.

He must have some ulterior motive. However, even though he pedalled slowly and kept his ears open, Ross was none the wiser by the time they got back to Tower Bridge.

When the group came to a halt on the far side of the bridge, the leader declared, ‘Job done.’ He then got off his bike and addressed his followers once again.

‘I look forward to seeing you all next week. In fact, a week on Friday, I’m hoping for a record turnout, as the Olympics will give us a chance to bring our cause to the attention of a far wider public.

Details of the different starting points will be emailed to each member of the group during the week.

’ He paused, and as he did so, his eyes ran over the crowd.

‘Remember, not a word about this to anyone, as it could harm our cause.’

Ross didn’t like the words ‘different starting points’, nor the emphasis on secrecy. The cyclists were planning something big, and whatever it was, Faulkner had planted the seed in their leader’s mind. The real question was: where and why?

When Ross arrived home later that evening, he didn’t discuss the problem with Alice. However, during supper, his mind kept returning to Faulkner and what idea he could have suggested to the team leader.

He was no nearer to finding an answer by the time Alice turned off the bedroom light. Ross didn’t toss and turn, because he hardly slept.

He rose early, skipped his morning run and drove his taxi back to Tower Bridge before first light.

When Ross reached the far side of the bridge, he spotted a large arrow with the words ‘Olympic Stadium’ printed on it.

He swung right and not left. His first thought was: are they going to try to disrupt the traffic heading towards the stadium, causing thousands of spectators to be late for the opening ceremony, possibly even holding it up?

He’d only driven another couple of miles before he worked out exactly what Faulkner must have suggested. He pulled into a petrol station, parked to one side, and made a telephone call.

When a familiar voice came on the line, all he said was, ‘I need to see you urgently, and I mean urgently.’

‘Where are you?’ asked William.

‘Parked in the large BP garage about a mile from the stadium.’

‘I’ll come to you,’ said William. ‘Stay put and I should be with you in about ten minutes, fifteen at the most.’

It was another twenty minutes before William turned up. His driver, Danny, pulled into the petrol station and parked the car behind the taxi.

Ross jumped out and joined William in the back seat. He didn’t waste any time before reporting the details of his unscheduled bicycle ride and the conclusion he had come to.

‘But what I want to know,’ said William, ‘is what does Faulkner stand to gain from all this?’

‘I think Beth was right all along: a rare Van Gogh masterpiece.’

William still wasn’t convinced. ‘Let us assume for a moment that Faulkner is working with the Russians,’ he said. ‘They will expect far more in exchange for a priceless Van Gogh than simply stopping a few spectators from being on time for the opening ceremony.’

‘To embarrass Britain? Make us look like a bunch of amateurs?’

William was still frowning. ‘There has to be more to it than that,’ he said. ‘There’s something bigger going on that we have to find out about, and prevent.’

‘Now we know what the innocent cyclists have in mind, we’ll have to stop them in their tracks.’

William nodded. ‘All right. Cyclists will have to be the first item on tomorrow’s agenda,’ he agreed, ‘and you may as well join us, as everyone in the team has already worked out why you’re no longer attached to traffic control.

But before then,’ he added, ‘will I see you at the exhibition opening tonight?’

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ replied Ross. ‘And not only because I will be following Miles Faulkner all the way there.’