Page 24 of End Game (William Warwick #8)

A RTEMISIA HAD SPENT A FEW HOURS roaming around the Olympic Village, making herself more familiar with her surroundings, and by the early afternoon she’d decided it was time to take the plunge – and plunge turned out to be the appropriate word.

Artemisia joined the queue for lunch and selected a salad, a slice of chocolate cake and a Diet Coke, then began looking around the room in search of a table. She spotted a girl wearing a British tracksuit sitting alone in the corner. She strolled across to join her.

When she looked up and smiled, Artemisia said, ‘Hi, I’m Annie, and don’t ask.’

‘I’m Kelly,’ she said, offering her hand. ‘And don’t ask what?’

‘How long I lasted,’ said Artemisia, as she placed her tray on the table and sat down opposite Kelly. ‘Because I was knocked out in the first round of the épée competition yesterday. I only managed to survive for twenty-seven minutes.’

‘Then you did far better than me,’ said Kelly. ‘I lasted for two minutes and nine seconds. I came fifth in my heat of the one hundred metres butterfly and only the first four went through to the second round.’

‘But you decided, like me,’ said Artemisia, as she took a sip of her Diet Coke, ‘not to go home.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Kelly. ‘It might have been my final race before I retire, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to enjoy the next two weeks, because this will certainly be my last Olympics.’

‘So is this your second Olympics?’ asked Artemisia.

‘My third,’ said Kelly, ‘and before you ask, I came seventh in the mixed relay in Beijing, which was the highlight of my career. And you?’

‘I didn’t make the squad for Beijing,’ said Artemisia, ‘so this will be my first and last Olympics, but like you I intend to hang about and enjoy every minute while it lasts. I love the atmosphere.’

‘Not to mention the fittest men on earth,’ said Kelly, as she glanced across at a table full of Australians, one or two of them glancing in their direction. ‘So many of them to pick and choose from,’ she added with a sigh, ‘and it gets better as the week goes on.’

‘How come?’ asked Artemisia.

‘As more and more competitors get knocked out, you end up with a larger selection.’

Artemisia burst out laughing.

‘And you?’ Kelly asked.

‘Oh, I’ve got a boyfriend.’

‘That shouldn’t stop you enjoying yourself for the next two weeks. No need to tell him.’ Kelly’s eyes remained fixed on the next table.

‘But we’re pretty serious,’ said Artemisia. ‘We’ve been an item since we were teenagers, and now we live together.’

‘All the more reason to have a fling while you still can,’ said Kelly, ‘because you’ll never get another chance like this.’ Her expression suddenly turned to anger as she banged a fist on the table.

‘What’s the problem?’ said Artemisia, looking around.

‘That’s the Russian who stopped me getting into the second round,’ said Kelly. ‘I beat her in Beijing, but when she turned up this time, she was a completely different shape and size. I hardly recognized her.’

‘Drugs?’ asked Artemisia, giving the Russian girl a second look.

‘Up to her eyeballs,’ said Kelly, ‘like most of the Russian team.’

‘How do they get away with it?’ asked Artemisia, the journalist taking over.

‘Masking drugs. They all take them for the last six weeks before any major competition, so by the time they step up onto the podium to receive their medal, there’s no trace, meaning they get away with it. But not for much longer, I’m told.’

‘How come?’ asked Artemisia, still probing.

‘The good cops have finally worked out what the bad cops are up to, so it can’t be too long before they nail every one of them, even after they’ve taken masking drugs. But it still won’t stop her and not me being in the semi-final,’ said Kelly, still venting her anger.

‘But does that mean—?’ Artemisia was beginning to say, when she was interrupted by an Australian from the next table who had sauntered across to join them.

‘Hi, my name’s Blake,’ he announced, without sitting down.

‘Kelly,’ said her new friend, giving him a warm smile, ‘and this is my friend Annie. What event are you competing in, Blake?’

‘The javelin,’ he replied.

‘Of course you are,’ said Kelly. ‘I’m a swimmer.’

‘You girls care to join us?’

‘Sure,’ said Kelly.

‘What about your friend?’ asked Blake, glancing towards Artemisia.

‘Not a hope,’ said Kelly. ‘That’s a no-go area. She’s already accounted for.’

‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Blake, still looking at Artemisia. ‘But … if you change your mind?’

Artemisia shook her head, so Blake switched his attention back to Kelly.

‘He’ll have to be satisfied with silver,’ whispered Kelly as she stood up.

‘Shall we meet up later?’ asked Artemisia.

‘ Much later,’ said Kelly, as she left her to join the Australians.

Artemisia sat alone, nibbling her lunch while she wrote some notes. But long before she’d taken a bite of her chocolate cake, she became painfully aware she’d only got half a story – and as her editor would surely point out, not the better half.

Artemisia looked forward to seeing Kelly again. She liked her and she had a feeling Kelly might be able to help her. She put down her biro and glanced across at the Australian table. Kelly was nowhere to be seen, and neither was the javelin thrower.

···

Shortly after six o’clock on what had been a very long day, William’s phone once again began to ring. He picked it up, expecting to hear of some new problem that needed to be solved or a minor disaster only just averted, but instead he found Artemisia’s boyfriend on the phone.

‘No, Robert,’ said William. ‘I haven’t got any tickets for the one hundred metres final.’

‘I was calling about something far more important, sir.’

‘Fire away,’ said William.

‘I’m sorry to bother you when you’re so busy,’ said Robert, before hesitating for a moment, ‘but as I may not be seeing you for some time, I’ll cut to the chase. I’m planning on proposing to Artemisia and I wanted to ask for your permission …’

For a moment, William was stunned into silence, despite a broad grin appearing on his face, a piece of good news that wiped away any thought of bad news, if only for a moment.

‘How wonderfully old-fashioned of you to ask,’ he said.

‘But then, why should I be surprised when your family can be traced back to William the Conqueror?’

‘Ethelred the Unready,’ said Robert, ‘but to be fair, that’s on my mother’s side.’

Both men laughed.

‘Well, I suppose if you want to marry my daughter, young man,’ said William, hoping he sounded suitably authoritative, ‘it’s nothing less than my duty to ask you about your prospects.’

‘Not that promising, sir,’ admitted Robert. ‘Special advisers don’t earn a great deal, but I’m hopeful that I’ll work my way up the greasy pole and end up in Parliament, given time. Even then, I wouldn’t be paid a great deal more.’

‘Well, at least you’ll be following in the footsteps of your distinguished grandfather.’

‘But not my father,’ Robert reminded him, ‘because after university, Dad drove straight past Westminster and didn’t stop until he reached the City.’

‘Where he now chairs one of our leading merchant banks, and if the newspapers are to be believed, has restored the family fortune.’ William smiled to himself.

‘Unfortunately,’ he continued, ‘I think Artemisia’s prospects are not unlike yours.

There are almost as many unemployed journalists as former Members of Parliament. ’

Robert laughed. ‘I have more faith in her future than mine. She’s a natural scribbler and has a sense of justice that you’d be proud of, which is one of the many reasons I adore her,’ he paused, ‘and want to spend the rest of my life with her.’

‘Well,’ said William, ‘I appreciate you calling, and I’m delighted you want to marry my daughter, but I think we both know that my permission isn’t what’s needed, which begs the more important question, Robert. Do you think she’ll say yes?’

‘I’ll let you know,’ was all Robert had to say.

A few minutes later, William returned to his other world as the next call was from Professor Meredith.

‘You have to understand, Commander, that what I’m about to suggest cannot be described as proof, however compelling you might find it.’

William waited for the professor to get to the point.

‘A man turned up at the Russian Embassy half an hour ago carrying what looked like the shoebox.’

‘Size?’ said William.

‘About fourteen inches by eight.’

‘Colour? Branding?’

‘Blue, no visible branding.’

That seemed like a big coincidence, and William didn’t believe in coincidences. ‘Were you able to identify the man?’ he asked.

‘He’s been known to our people for some time,’ Meredith replied. ‘His name is Sergei Petrov. He has the grand title of “undersecretary”, but you only have to read his file to know what his real job is. I’ll send you full details.’

‘But were you able to discover what was in the box?’

‘I thought you might ask me that question,’ said Meredith, ‘but unfortunately that’s something even the most sophisticated camera can’t tell us. However, if Faulkner went all the way to Helsinki to pick it up, I imagine it’s something rather more dangerous than a pair of shoes.’

‘Why don’t you just expel Petrov as a spy?’

‘I wish it were that easy,’ said Meredith, ‘but sadly that process can take days, sometimes weeks, and always results in what we call “tit-for-tat” expulsions, with one of our boys being sent back from Moscow. No, we’re in a far stronger position now we know not only that the Russians were behind the opening ceremony blackout, but the person we’ve identified is clearly in charge of their operation. ’

‘Any idea what his next move might be?’

After he and Meredith had discussed a dozen possible scenarios, covering everything from drugs to a terrorist attack, William put the phone down with a sigh. Shortly afterwards, a full profile of Petrov, along with photos, appeared on his screen. He immediately sent copies to the whole team.

His phone rang moments later.

‘It’s him,’ said Ross. ‘The man I saw with Faulkner at the Oval. The man who I later drove back to the Russian Embassy.’

William sighed. He was beginning to think it had been a mistake not to check the contents of the box when Faulkner returned to Biggin Hill. Was he about to find out just how grave a mistake?

···

If one thing could be relied on, it was Councillor Dawson being on time for his monthly payment. Today was no exception.

Dawson confirmed that the one million deposit had been received, before he asked, ‘Can I assume the other nine million will be paid before the August deadline?’

‘Long before,’ said Bernie Longe, hoping he sounded convincing.

Longe had become painfully aware during the past month that no bank or serious financial institution was willing to do business with him – especially as he couldn’t reveal the potential return he expected from the stadium deal, which for obvious reasons had to be kept under wraps for the foreseeable future.

Raising a million hadn’t proved too difficult. He’d mortgaged his house, called in a few favours and twisted several arms, but nine million was in a different league. He wanted his rivals to believe he was in that league, but he wasn’t.

Longe was beginning to believe there was only one person who could come up with the full amount in time to close the deal.

There were, however, two major drawbacks: one, he didn’t trust the man, and two, it would mean having to sacrifice half the profits.

Not a pleasing prospect, but he hadn’t been left with a lot of choice.

Something Miles Faulkner would be well aware of.

There were just twenty-seven days left before the contract had to be settled. Otherwise, Bernie would lose his deposit as well as the deal, and there were no prizes for guessing who would happily take his place and end up with one hundred per cent of the profits.

He stared at his phone and had to admit he had run out of options. He dialled a number and waited.

‘Mr Booth Watson’s chambers. How may I help you?’

···

‘So, did you manage to get into the athletes’ village?’ Robert asked, when Artemisia returned home that evening.

‘Sure did,’ she responded, sounding rather pleased with herself.

‘No one suspected that you weren’t even a reserve for your school second eleven hockey team?’

‘No way,’ said Artemisia, as she came into the kitchen, where Robert was filling a saucepan with water before putting it on the stove. ‘If you look the part, no one gives you a second thought,’ continued Arte. ‘However, I’m still no nearer to getting that exclusive, though I do have a few leads.’

Robert couldn’t help laughing when Arte went on to tell him about her meeting with Kelly. ‘Whatever you do, don’t lose her,’ said Robert, as Arte began to lay the table for supper. ‘Kelly sounds like a rare gem and she might just supply you with that elusive exclusive.’

‘Which is why I’ll be going back to the village tomorrow morning to try and catch up with her.’

‘There’s no need to rush,’ said Robert, as he continued slicing a tomato. ‘Be patient and you might end up with an even bigger story.’

‘Patience and deadlines don’t make good bedfellows,’ said Artemisia, tucking her arms around his waist. ‘What sort of day did you have?’

‘The House of Commons is in recess, so most members have returned to their constituencies or are taking a short break,’ he replied. ‘Still, there’s always plenty of work for a special adviser.’ A little bell buzzed, and Robert switched off the stove and began to drain the spaghetti.

‘One day,’ said Artemisia, as she grated some parmesan, ‘it will be you taking a short break during recess, as the Member of Parliament for …’

‘… whoever will have me,’ said Robert.

‘And when you do become a Member of Parliament,’ Artemisia teased, as she sat down at the table and twisted a fork of spaghetti, ‘best not tell the voters how we first met.’

Robert sat down beside her. ‘And where might be their next question.’

‘In prison, I shall tell them.’ Artemisia smirked. ‘After all, my father taught me to always tell the truth.’

‘Then you’d better take your Olympic pass off,’ said Robert, ‘or someone might think you’re Annie Charnock.’