Page 17 of End Game (William Warwick #8)

‘I think I’ll just go and get something to drink,’ Jojo announced, as she rose from her place and made her way slowly along the packed row before walking up the steps to the nearest exit.

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When two phones started ringing at once, William picked up both at the same time. ‘Which one of you has the more urgent problem?’ he asked.

‘Me,’ said Paul. ‘We’ve lost the van. A local officer followed what they thought was the vehicle, but when they pulled it over, there was only one occupant, and it was full of groceries.

Meaning the vehicle the call was really about may still be on its way to London.

They must have swapped number plates before coming off the motorway. ’

William cursed. ‘And the latest your end, Ross?’

‘We’ve located five different groups of cyclists all waiting to set out for the tunnel, seemingly with a single purpose.’

‘I thought you told me you had it under control,’ said William.

‘I did,’ replied Ross. ‘We identified four meeting points on the other side of the river and have already detained over a hundred of the riders, and confiscated their bikes before they could cross the Thames.’

‘What about the fifth group?’ asked William, all the while keeping his eyes on the CCTV screens in front of him.

If the cyclists were a distraction, then above all, he must not allow himself to be distracted.

There was so much at stake tonight, and he couldn’t afford to miss a single thing.

He would have given nearly anything at that moment to be able to find out what was going on in Miles Faulkner’s head.

‘The fifth group managed to cross the river by cycling across Waterloo Bridge on the wrong side of the road, fooling the inspector on duty – a recently promoted graduate entrant,’ Ross couldn’t resist adding.

‘That’s all I need,’ said William. ‘So how many cyclists are now on the loose and heading for the tunnel?’

‘Thirty, possibly forty,’ admitted Ross.

‘Which means,’ said William, ‘if the Queen still hopes to arrive at the stadium before Mr Bond makes his appearance, you’ll have to intercept every one of them long before they reach the tunnel.’

‘Perhaps you could ask the royal chauffeur to put his foot down,’ suggested Ross.

‘Not a hope. No member of the royal family would consider breaking the speed limit unless security considers their life is in danger,’ said William. ‘Stay on the line while I speak to Paul.’

He looked up at another screen and watched a Bentley as it left the palace and proceeded slowly down the Mall, accompanied by four outriders in front, two unmarked black Jaguars behind, and a blue van with a doctor on board following behind them, with four more outriders bringing up the rear.

William accepted that if HM wasn’t willing to break the speed limit, it was going to be a close-run thing. He had no fingers left to cross.

William transferred his attention back to Paul.

‘I’ve just received an update, sir,’ said Paul. ‘A black van with two occupants has been spotted heading in the direction of the tunnel. It’s the same make and model as the one that came off the ferry.’

‘If it gets within a mile of the tunnel, pull them over for speeding,’ said William.

‘But it hasn’t broken the speed limit once, sir.’

‘Which only makes me even more suspicious,’ said William. ‘Detain both occupants and, even if it is a false alarm, don’t release them until the opening ceremony is over.’

He put the receiver down and once again looked up at a CCTV screen to see Her Majesty’s entourage making slow but steady progress along the Embankment.

His eyes moved from screen to screen, checking for anything that didn’t look right.

Most of the cameras within the Olympic Stadium showed him nothing more than excited spectators waiting for the off.

He turned his attention back to the phone and said, ‘Latest?’

‘They’re down to twenty-nine cyclists,’ said Ross, ‘but they’re now only a couple of miles away from the tunnel.

I also have a helicopter hovering above them: India 9-9, who are keeping us informed of their latest positions.

But I still can’t be sure who will reach the tunnel first: the black van, the remaining cyclists or the Queen. ’

‘Could it be possible,’ said William, ‘that the van driver knows exactly what the cyclists are up to, and is only there to make sure they reach the tunnel before the Queen?’ He switched his attention to a different screen, to see Faulkner talking on his mobile.

A conversation William would have liked to have overheard, and if they’d been in Russia, would have done.

‘Move every available officer to within a mile of the stadium. Give them orders to stop the van and arrest any cyclist still heading in the direction of the tunnel.’

‘ Any cyclist?’ repeated Ross.

‘You heard me correctly the first time, Sergeant,’ said William.

‘I can’t afford to discriminate between someone out on an innocent evening ride and someone whose sole intention is to reach the tunnel ahead of the Queen.

Remember, we have no idea what these people in the van have planned.

Whoever it is may be a great deal more dangerous than a group of protesting cyclists.

And even if all they are is a distraction to gain more publicity, we still can’t afford to risk it.

If Her Majesty doesn’t reach the tunnel in time, I’ll have to send her back to Buckingham Palace, because she won’t be jumping out of a car, let alone a helicopter, with or without James Bond. ’

William stared back up at the screen, aware that his reputation – and the success of the Olympics – was in the hands of the unknown driver of a black van and twenty-nine determined fanatics.

If the Queen didn’t get to the stadium on time, she wouldn’t be the only person who would be going home early.

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William focused his binoculars on the Russian and Chinese ambassadors, who had just arrived and taken their seats in a diplomatic box.

‘What do those two know that I don’t?’ said William.

‘It can’t be a terrorist attack,’ said Paul, ‘or they wouldn’t be sitting in a box enjoying a glass of champagne.’

‘Unless their presence is proof they couldn’t have been involved.’

‘You’d have been a match for Rasputin,’ said Rebecca.

‘And don’t forget that he was a Russian,’ said William.

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‘So, what happens next?’ asked Booth Watson.

Miles checked his watch. ‘A van and at least thirty cyclists will be on their way by now,’ replied Faulkner, ‘and they should all reach the tunnel well ahead of the Queen.’

‘How will we know if your plan has worked?’

‘Her Majesty may well jump out of the helicopter on time, but when the lights come back on, she won’t be sitting in the Royal Box.’

‘Embarrassing,’ admitted Booth Watson, ‘but I don’t think it will stop the ceremony from going ahead.’

‘You could be right,’ said Miles, ‘but it will give them’ – he once again looked across in the direction of the two ambassadors – ‘and their undersecretaries all the time they need to carry out Operation Blackout.’

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‘So, tell me young lady,’ said Julian. ‘Are you any nearer to getting your exclusive?’

‘A little nearer,’ admitted Artemisia, as she gazed down at the unlit stage below. ‘I still somehow need to get into the athletes’ village without anyone realizing I’m a journalist.’

‘You’re about the right age to pass for an athlete,’ said Julian, ‘but it still won’t be easy to fool security without some form of accreditation.’

‘Easier than you think,’ said Artemisia conspiratorially. ‘You can purchase an official British team tracksuit from any gift shop in the Olympic Park.’

‘But that doesn’t solve the accreditation problem,’ Robert reminded her, as Jojo returned, carrying five bottles of water, enjoying the attention she pretended to ignore.

‘Ross has already shown me how to get hold of a pass,’ said Artemisia.

‘You’re worse than Peter and his ticket tout,’ said Julian.

‘Don’t forget, we’re twins,’ said Artemisia.

‘Just let’s hope your father never finds out.’

‘If Dad even began to suspect what I have in mind,’ said Artemisia, ‘he’d lock me up in my old bedroom until the Games are over.’

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‘It’s going to be a close-run thing,’ said Ross when the Queen’s Bentley was about a mile away from the tunnel. ‘One cyclist is already ahead of her, with another half a dozen not far behind, all of them breaking the speed limit.’

‘And the black van?’ demanded William, as he watched a lone cyclist approach the tunnel, followed by four police motorcyclists and a Bentley. His eyes flicked back for a moment to the CCTV screen where Miles Faulkner sat in his box, checking his watch again.

‘Stopped and questioned half a mile from the tunnel,’ said Ross.

‘Did the occupants have anything to say for themselves?’ asked William.

‘No, but there turned out to be six people in the back’ said Ross, ‘and no sooner had we stopped them than they put up a fight, which kept a dozen of my officers well occupied for some considerable time, while several cyclists sailed past them.’

‘All part of a well-prepared plan,’ suggested William. ‘So, where are they now?’ he asked.

‘They’ve been taken off to the nearest nick,’ said Ross, ‘having played their part.’

William’s eyes returned to the screen to see the royal procession approaching the tunnel. When they reached the entrance, the four motorcyclists bringing up the rear of the royal party detached themselves, just as five of the cyclists were about to enter the tunnel ahead of them.

William spent the longest four minutes of his life wondering who would be the first to emerge from the other side, while his eyes kept moving from screen to screen as he waited, and waited, and waited.

The final result: one Bentley and one cyclist. William decided not to ask what had happened to the other four.

The protection officer seated in the front of the Bentley reported back to the welcoming party, who were waiting for them outside the VIP entrance. ‘Anticipated ETA in around seven minutes,’ he said, as if nothing had happened.

‘And the final cyclist?’ asked William.

The protection officer glanced in his rear-view mirror to see one of the back-up cars swerve slightly, and smiled as the last remaining cyclist ended up in someone’s front garden, sitting in a bed of roses.

‘He’s been diverted, Commander,’ he replied.