Page 12 of End Game (William Warwick #8)

T HERE WAS JUST ONE HOUR to go until the opening of The Hermitage Comes to the Fitzmolean exhibition, and Christina was staring at the packed rails of her three wardrobes.

‘I don’t know what to wear,’ she said.

‘That’s because you’re spoilt for choice,’ suggested Wilbur, as she turned around and straightened his bow tie.

‘Do you think Miles will turn up?’ she asked. ‘Beth and I rather suspect that he has designs on a particular Van Gogh painting that the Hermitage have lent us.’

‘Well, I’m sure he won’t be able to resist making an appearance,’ replied Wilbur, as she pulled a dress out of the second wardrobe.

Christina held it up for Wilbur to consider. ‘I think I’ll settle on this one.’

‘Why not?’ said Wilbur. ‘It’s the one you selected half an hour ago.’

‘Men are so lucky. After all, a dinner jacket’s a dinner jacket.’ Christina removed a stray white hair from her husband’s velvet collar.

‘Are you speaking tonight?’ he asked.

‘No, it’s Beth’s turn.’ Christina sighed. ‘Strange to think there won’t be many more nights like this. Well, at least not while I’m chairman.’

‘Are the board any nearer to selecting your successor?’ asked Wilbur, as he walked towards the door.

‘There are three candidates on the shortlist,’ said Christina, ‘but I took your advice and have not offered an opinion.’

‘It will be important for Beth to remain in place while a new chairman settles in,’ said Wilbur. ‘Any large organization requires continuity and stability. But for now, we can’t afford to be late. Remember, it will be you who’s expected to introduce the guests to the Russian Ambassador.’

‘What do I say if Miles is standing in line waiting to be introduced?’

‘You’ve told me several times that Miles never stands in lines,’ said Wilbur.

‘But if he breaks the habit of a lifetime?’

‘Your Excellency, may I introduce my ex-husband? He’s a charlatan and a thief, whose only virtue is that he loves art, so if anything goes missing, call me, because I’ll be able to tell you where to find it.’

‘I do adore you, Mr Hackensack the Third,’ said Christina, as they left the house.

···

‘Let me begin,’ said Beth, as she looked down at the packed audience, ‘by welcoming you all to the opening of The Hermitage Comes to the Fitzmolean , an exhibition of one hundred and twenty-seven Dutch paintings, watercolours and drawings that have been generously loaned to the Fitzmolean by the Hermitage, one of the most prestigious galleries on earth.’

The applause that followed suggested the guests agreed with the director’s assessment. The room was packed with eager art-lovers, sponsors, diplomats and staff who had come to view the unique collection.

‘My particular thanks go to Elena Petrovski, the museum’s distinguished director,’ continued Beth, ‘and her two colleagues, who have honoured the Fitzmolean by joining us in London this evening.’

Miles Faulkner, with Booth Watson close at hand, was standing near the back of the crowded room, listening intently.

Miles looked around the assembled gathering, stopping only when his eyes settled on two Russians on the far side of the gallery, one of whom he recognized immediately, although he didn’t acknowledge him.

As far as most people in the room were concerned, he had never laid eyes on Sergei Petrov before.

The other had a shy, academic air, and Miles suspected she must be part of the official Hermitage team.

‘I do hope you will all enjoy this remarkable exhibition,’ continued Beth.

‘However, on this occasion, I shall not be ending my speech with the words, “please spread the word, as there are still a few tickets available”, because on this, the opening day of the exhibition, I’m able to announce that the show is already sold out for its entire Olympic run.

To quote the art critic at The Times , it’s a “gold medal performance”. ’

Beth was greeted by even louder applause as she stepped down from the stage to join her family and friends.

‘I’m so proud of you,’ said Christina, ‘and as chair of the Fitz, I think I can safely say this is the finest exhibition the museum has ever put on.’

‘But if I remember correctly,’ teased Beth, ‘those were the exact words you said about our last exhibition.’

The little group surrounding the director burst out laughing.

They all knew that, with Beth as director of the museum, her feet firmly on the ground, and Christina as chair, full of ideas and endless enthusiasm, the Fitzmolean was in safe hands.

They had proved to be a formidable partnership.

Wilbur, too, more than played his part by constantly supporting his wife.

William looked on proudly, although Beth could tell his mind was elsewhere. She knew it had been difficult for him to attend tonight. He had been working all hours of the day, and recently the night, as he prepared for the opening ceremony.

‘I couldn’t help noticing,’ remarked Sir Julian, ‘that Miles Faulkner and his lapdog are in attendance this evening.’

Beth turned to her father-in-law. ‘To be fair,’ she said, ‘however much I detest the man, no one can question Miles Faulkner’s genuine passion for art, and particularly the Dutch school.

If he were willing to loan us his fabled collection for our next exhibition, Christina would be able to repeat her words with the same conviction. ’

‘I can’t see Miles agreeing to that,’ said Christina, as she glanced across the room at her ex-husband. ‘And take a look, Beth,’ she added under her breath, ‘he’s still staring at the Van Gogh self-portrait, as if it were the only picture in the room.’

···

‘I have a feeling they’re talking about you,’ said Booth Watson, offering Commander Warwick a false smile.

‘In the words of Oscar Wilde,’ said Miles, ‘it’s better than not being talked about.’

‘And look where that got him,’ said Booth Watson. He immediately regretted his words, but fortunately Miles seemed more interested in the Van Gogh.

‘It’s quite magnificent,’ admitted Booth Watson, before taking a quick photograph of the masterpiece for his records.

‘When you next see it,’ said Miles, keeping his voice low, ‘it will be hanging above the fireplace in my drawing room.’

‘That’s assuming the Russians keep their word,’ said Booth Watson. ‘Not something they’re renowned for.’

‘They have no choice,’ replied Miles, ‘unless they want the whole world to know what they have planned.’

‘And what do they have planned?’ asked Booth Watson, who once again felt he’d been left in the dark.

Miles hesitated. ‘Petrov has finally revealed some details of Operation Blackout,’ he said quietly. ‘Commander Warwick will be praying, long before the opening ceremony is over: “let there be light”.’

‘“And there was light”,’ said Booth Watson, delivering the next line from Genesis.

‘I had Exodus in mind,’ replied Miles.

···

‘What are you looking at,’ asked Alice, ‘because it’s certainly not the pictures?’

Jack had been left at home with a babysitter, while Alice, Ross and Jojo had come to support Beth. Jojo had just graduated from the Slade and was moving slowly from painting to painting, wondering if one day she could earn her living as …

Meanwhile, Ross was taking an interest in the two Russians standing at the back of the crowd.

They didn’t chat, but then they had nothing in common.

The woman was clearly an art expert, one of the Hermitage’s team.

As for her colleague – Ross immediately recognized him as the man who’d gone to his first cricket match at the Oval and was now probably attending his first art exhibition. The GRU didn’t bother with mood music.

‘I was admiring the Van Gogh,’ claimed Ross, turning his attention back to the self-portrait, while giving his wife a warm smile.

‘Then you were facing in the wrong direction, Sergeant Hogan,’ said Alice, ‘so I won’t bother asking you a second time.’

Ross smiled as he continued to keep an eye on first Faulkner and then the Russian. They never once spoke to each other.

···

‘I have to leave you, I’m afraid,’ said William, as he bent down to kiss his wife. ‘Only eight days to go to my opening, though I could do with another month. But congratulations, my darling. It couldn’t have gone better.’

‘Just as your opening will,’ said Beth. ‘In fact, it’s certain to be even more of a triumph.’

But William barely heard her words, as he’d already turned to leave.

‘I can’t wait for the closing ceremony,’ Beth admitted to Christina and Julian, ‘after which I’m hoping to finally be reunited with my husband.

This year has been interminable. But once the Olympics are over, William’s handing over the responsibility for the Paralympics to Detective Inspector Adaja, when we’ll be going on holiday. ’

‘To some far-off exotic land, I hope?’ said Christina.

‘Amsterdam to Budapest, via Vienna,’ replied Beth.

‘How lovely,’ said Sir Julian, before adding, ‘Have you noticed that Faulkner’s showing a great deal of interest in one particular painting?’

‘Oh, we’ve all noticed,’ replied Beth. ‘The Van Gogh self-portrait that was surprisingly added to our list of exhibits at the last moment.’

‘Was it indeed?’ mused Sir Julian. ‘I’ve seen the picture somewhere before, but I can’t remember where.’

‘Above the fireplace in the Russian Embassy, perhaps?’

‘Of course,’ said Sir Julian, staring at his old adversary, ‘So, I’m bound to ask, why did Booth Watson take a photograph of that particular painting?’

‘You’re as bad as William,’ said Beth.

‘No, my dear,’ said Sir Julian, ‘I think you’ll find William is as bad as me.’

‘Faulkner and Booth Watson are leaving,’ whispered Christina, not taking her eyes off them.

Just after they had left the room, a voice behind them said, ‘Congratulations. A true triumph.’

Beth swung round to see the former chairman of the Fitzmolean, who bowed respectfully.

‘Praise indeed,’ said Beth, smiling at her old boss.

‘No more than you deserve,’ said Sir Nicholas. ‘And to think we tried to host the Hermitage’s collection years ago, and it’s only your persistence and hard work that has brought it to reality.’

‘With some help from the Olympic Games,’ remarked Beth. She only hoped there was no other reason she didn’t know about.