Page 16 of End Game (William Warwick #8)

O N THE EVENING OF THE OPENING CEREMONY , William had ten thousand trained police and the same number of military personnel to assist with security at all the Olympic venues around the country.

With the help of seventy thousand enthusiastic volunteers, he felt he was well prepared and ready for the arrival of ten thousand athletes from around the world, until the Hawk reminded him, ‘You can’t prepare for the unexpected. ’

Nor could he push the thought of Miles Faulkner from his mind.

Whatever he and the Russians were up to, it could only mean trouble.

If the cyclists were a distraction, the obvious question was: from what?

He would have to be on his guard until midnight – and then every waking moment of the next two weeks.

The Gold Suite, his home for the next fortnight, was a large, windowless dungeon directly beneath the stadium. One wall held a bank of CCTV screens. Below them was William’s desk with three phones, a computer, two radios, and several in-trays – everything he needed to coordinate his small empire.

William glanced up at the CCTV screens to see uniformed officers, several with search dogs, carefully checking the stadium. Only when they had scoured every inch would he give the all-clear and allow the public to enter the arena.

William’s mobile phone began to ring. ‘Paul?’ he said, as he picked it up.

‘We had a call from a phone box in Dublin this morning,’ said Paul, ‘a tip-off about a potential IRA threat. We were told to look out for a black van coming off the 13.45 ferry at Holyhead, but the caller hung up before telling us who they were or what they might have planned. And before you ask, I’ve already spoken to the local police.

They’ve identified a black van that came off that ferry, with two people in front, and heaven knows how many in the back, and it’s heading south. ’

‘Could be a ten-pence terrorist who made the call,’ said William, ‘or a genuine tip-off. Either way, we can’t take the risk. Get someone to pull the van over if it enters the Greater London area and check it out.’

He put down one phone just as another rang.

‘Security have given me the all-clear, Commander,’ said the stadium manager. ‘Can I open the gates and let the public in?’

‘Yes,’ said William. He switched his attention from one CCTV screen to another to watch a steady stream of early spectators making their way through the turnstiles, before going in search of their seats.

Two phones rang at once. He picked them both up.

‘Some good news, sir,’ said Jackie. ‘The taxi drivers have called off their protest and traffic is almost back to normal.’

Before William could feel relieved, the voice on the other line added, ‘Not completely back to normal. I’ve got a rogue cabbie who’s blocking the south side of Tower Bridge and holding up a line of vehicles as far as the eye can see, and he’s refusing to budge.’

‘Then deal with it, Sergeant,’ said William, as yet another phone began to ring.

William had a feeling it was going to be a very long night. Still, if rogue cabbies were the worst he had to deal with, he’d count himself lucky – but then he thought about Miles Faulkner, and looked back up at the screens.

···

The sergeant switched off his radio and approached the taxi driver, hoping he could defuse the situation. ‘Your mates have called off the protest and gone back to work,’ he said calmly.

The cabbie ignored him.

‘You’re blocking one of the main routes to the stadium, mate, and causing an almighty traffic jam, so I’ll have to ask you once again, will you please move your vehicle.’

The cabbie gave him a warm smile, removed the keys from his cab, and with an exaggerated sweep of an arm, tossed them into the Thames. ‘Why don’t you move it yourself, mate?’ he said.

The young sergeant took a pace forward, intending to arrest the man, but the cab driver dodged to one side, jumped up onto the railing of the bridge and stared down into the flowing river below him.

‘I don’t think that would be wise, sir,’ said the sergeant, trying to remain calm.

‘Possibly not,’ said the cabbie, ‘but it will be you who’s left to explain to your superiors why the stadium’s half empty, not me.’

The sergeant advanced another pace, and the cabbie gave him an even bigger smile before he jumped into the river.

The policeman ran to the edge of the railing, leant over and watched as the cabbie disappeared below the water. A Marine Policing Unit boat reached him just as he came up for the third time.

‘That was lucky,’ said a gawper who was hanging over the bridge. The sergeant didn’t bother to tell him that the river police had been out in full force patrolling the Thames since dawn, checking for any security threats and possible holdups to the opening ceremony.

Another voice came over the radio. ‘What shall I do with him, Sarge?’ a young constable asked, as he clung onto a soaking, shivering man.

‘Take him to the nearest hospital and tell them exactly what happened,’ replied the sergeant. ‘I’m not altogether convinced the poor devil jumped because of a cabbie protest, so let’s be thankful he’s still alive.’

He turned around to face his officers and made a decision. With the keys at the bottom of the Thames, they’d simply have to push the cab up onto the pavement and leave it there.

···

Miles Faulkner and Booth Watson made their way to an executive box that normally held four – but then sharing, particularly with strangers, was another of Miles’s no-nos.

Looking around, they could see the stadium filling: thousands of people making their way to their seats.

The noise of excited chatter growing by the minute.

Miles’s mobile rang.

‘The cyclists are ready for the off,’ said Collins. ‘Far more have turned up than last week. When the leader told them what he had in mind, some left, but those who remained look even more determined.’

‘How many?’ said Miles.

‘At least thirty at this location,’ replied Collins, ‘possibly more.’

‘More than enough,’ was all Miles had to say, before he ended the conversation and turned his attention to Booth Watson. ‘It’s a shame I won’t be able to join Warwick in the Gold Suite to see the smile wiped off his face.’

Booth Watson shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I wonder how many people you sold fake tickets to are now protesting to the police?’ he said.

Miles shrugged. ‘Who gives a damn? Warwick will start the evening unpopular with a small group of people who didn’t get to see the ceremony, and by the end of the evening he’ll be unpopular with all those who did.’

‘Regarding those tickets, the CPS have been in touch again,’ said Booth Watson. ‘Another witness has come forward and named you as the mastermind behind the operation. I’m going to have to prepare your defence carefully if you’re not to be locked up again.’

‘I’ve never met this witness, whoever they are,’ said Miles confidently, ‘so there isn’t going to be a trial.’

‘I can’t see the CPS backing down quite so easily this time,’ said Booth Watson.

‘They won’t have any choice,’ said Miles, ‘as I will have left the country long before Commander Warwick tries to arrest me. After all, once tonight is over, he’ll be far too busy explaining how he could possibly have allowed such a disaster to happen.’

‘But when you come back …’ began Booth Watson.

‘I won’t be coming back, BW. This is my last job. Once the Games are over, I’ll be retiring to my home in Southampton – and not the Southampton in England.’

‘But what about the Van Gogh?’

‘If I recall your agreement with Mikailov,’ said Faulkner, ‘the painting will be collected by you so your last job will be to deliver it to me in the States, and when you get back home, you’ll find a million waiting for you in a Swiss bank account.’

···

Following a lavish reception at Buckingham Palace, all the ambassadors to the Court of St James, including Anatoly Mikailov and Wei Ming, were escorted to luxury coaches which would take them directly to the opening ceremony.

‘Let there be light,’ whispered Wei Ming, as the coach finally pulled up outside the Olympic Stadium.

‘But only until ten past nine,’ replied the Russian Ambassador.

‘I’m confident it will be your “finest hour”, to quote Churchill,’ responded the Chinese Ambassador, ‘and you will return to Moscow in triumph, before taking up your new appointment as your country’s Ambassador to Washington.’

‘But only if Operation Blackout is a total success,’ said Mikailov.

‘Look on the bright side,’ said Wei Ming.

‘Let’s hope not,’ replied Mikailov.

···

‘Great seats, Peter,’ said Artemisia, as she and Robert took their places in the lower stand on the home straight. ‘Are you finally going to admit how you got hold of them, now that Dad’s not here?’

‘ I can reveal,’ said her grandfather. ‘It was from a ticket tout he was prosecuting at Woolwich Crown Court.’

‘In exchange for waiving my fee,’ sighed Peter, ‘but at least I got him off.’

‘I’m not altogether sure about the ethics of that transaction,’ said Julian.

‘Even my Member of Parliament couldn’t get a ticket,’ said Robert.

Julian gave in. ‘So why don’t we sit back and soak in the atmosphere, because the curtain won’t be going up for some time, and I doubt if you’ll see another Olympic Games in London in your lifetime.’

‘Speak for yourself, Grandpops,’ said Peter.

Sir Julian was about to tick him off when he remembered they were no longer in chambers.

They all looked down on the largest stage in the world. For now, it remained in darkness, waiting to reveal its myriad surprises to the world. The crowd was growing by the minute, every seat and box busy with chatter and excitement.

As Julian looked around, he became aware that several young men, and some not so young, were taking more than a passing interest in Jojo. She feigned not to notice.