Page 25 of End Game (William Warwick #8)

F AULKNER TURNED UP LATE as usual for their agreed meeting in Booth Watson’s chambers, but his QC feigned not to notice.

‘You mentioned over the phone,’ began Faulkner, after he had settled in a seat on the other side of the partners’ desk, ‘that Bernie Longe has been in touch with an interesting proposition.’

‘It might be of interest,’ Booth Watson stressed, ‘but it’s hard to say.

It seems that Longe has been given the opportunity to acquire the Olympic Stadium for ten million, but because the banks won’t deal with him, he can’t raise the full amount.

He has managed to raise the deposit of one million pounds to secure the deal, but he wonders if you might be interested in going into business with him. ’

‘By supplying him with the other nine million, in other words,’ said Miles.

‘The question is, where’s the profit?’ asked Booth Watson. ‘It’s common knowledge they’ll never be able to fill the stadium once the Olympics are over.’

‘The time has clearly come, BW, for you to start reading the back pages of your daily paper, as well as the front,’ suggested Miles, ‘because if you did, you’d have picked up the rumour that West Ham are considering renting the Olympic Stadium as their permanent home for two and a half million per annum, possibly more. ’

‘Then how can Longe get his hands on the stadium for just ten million?’ asked Booth Watson, still sceptical.

‘Because five of the local councillors and two of their officials are on his payroll, as Private Eye never stops reminding its readers. My bet is that he wants me to cover the nine million shortfall in return for splitting the profits fifty-fifty?’

‘That doesn’t come as a surprise,’ replied Booth Watson.

‘However, it’s not the percentage I have in mind,’ said Miles, ‘which is why I’ll need you to draft a contract that will leave him wishing he had offered you more than double to leave me.’

‘I’ll have the terms drawn up by the weekend,’ promised Booth Watson. ‘I also wonder whether we might use this new partnership to our advantage, making use of Bernie Longe’s particular expertise in another field.’

Miles waited for Booth Watson to continue.

‘Don’t forget, our Russian friends are expecting us to organize the urine spiking of two prominent athletes in order to get them disqualified. Longe has in the past been arrested, charged, but never convicted, for supplying “enhancing” drugs to young upcoming footballers.’

‘And never been convicted,’ repeated Miles.

‘Shall I arrange a meeting?’

‘Why not?’ said Miles. ‘What have I got to lose?’

‘Everything,’ replied Booth Watson, ‘because if Longe had to ditch you in order to save his own skin, he wouldn’t give it a first thought, let alone a second.’

‘As long as he needs my money to close the stadium deal, I’ve got him by the balls.’

‘But once he’s got your money,’ said Booth Watson, ‘it will then be in his best interest to see you back behind bars where you won’t be able to cause him any trouble.’

‘What a good idea.’ A smile appeared on Miles’s face. ‘If he was behind bars, you could tear up the contract and there wouldn’t be a lot he could do about it.’

‘That’s a two-way street.’

Faulkner shrugged. ‘Then you’ll have to insert a clause that makes his a dead end.’

···

Artemisia arrived at the athletes’ village just after ten, and Jim waved her through without even looking at her pass.

She immediately went in search of Kelly, but there was no sign of her.

She passed the rest of the morning wandering around the village, listening in to conversations and trying to get hold of something that could lead her to an exclusive – but aside from learning more than she had ever needed to know about the losers of various Olympic events, it was a wasted two hours.

She joined the queue for lunch and took a seat at the table where she’d previously met Kelly. She looked up every few moments, but there was still no sign of her. She was beginning to wonder if Kelly would open any doors, other than bedroom doors, when a familiar figure took the seat opposite her.

Artemisia didn’t enquire which countries she’d visited since they’d last seen each other and Kelly didn’t enlighten her.

They spent a few minutes chatting about who had been eliminated or won medals the day before, although Kelly’s eyes didn’t stop looking over Artemisia’s shoulder, she assumed in search of foreign fields.

‘You see those two sitting at the next table?’ whispered Kelly.

Artemisia glanced across to see two athletes holding hands under the table. ‘Yes?’

‘They first met at the Berlin World Championships three years ago,’ said Kelly. ‘They’re both high jumpers. It’s so sad.’

‘Why?’ pressed Artemisia, who smelled the scent of a story.

‘I don’t know the full details,’ admitted Kelly, ‘but there’s no doubt how they feel about each other and, despite the fact she’s now wearing an engagement ring, they always look so unhappy.’

‘What’s their problem?’ asked Artemisia, wishing she could write down every word. She glanced to her left, while trying not to make it too obvious that she was looking at them. ‘They look ideal for each other.’

‘Except she’s Russian and he’s French,’ said Kelly, ‘so there has to be something we don’t know about.’

Artemisia took a second look at the couple and wondered if her exclusive was sitting at the next table, holding hands.

Tuesday 31 July – day 5 of the Games

A FEW MINUTES AFTER ELEVEN O ’ CLOCK the following morning, a Silver Cloud (last year’s model) drove into Middle Temple and parked next to Faulkner’s Rolls-Royce.

‘Longe’s on his way up,’ said Booth Watson, as he glanced out of the window. ‘He’s accompanied by a couple of East End hoodlums who could have come out of central casting.’

‘Why am I not surprised?’ said Miles.

A few moments later, the door burst open and in marched a man who was dressed in an open-necked red shirt, a light blue suit and a pair of over-priced trainers. Without being asked, Longe sat down in the only comfortable chair in the room, while the two thugs hovered a pace behind him.

‘I presume you asked to see me,’ began Longe, without introducing himself, ‘to discuss terms for my stadium deal.’

‘I have given the matter some thought,’ admitted Faulkner, ‘and I believe we may be able to come to an agreement, and if we do Mr Booth Watson will start drafting a contract. However, as part of that agreement, I need to seek your advice on a subject you’re considered to be an expert on.’

‘There’s a lot of those, Mr Faulkner,’ said Longe, ‘so which one do you have in mind?’

‘Drugs.’

‘Whatever it is you or your friends need,’ said Longe, ‘be assured I can supply it at the right price. And, not unlike your silk,’ he added, glancing in Booth Watson’s direction, ‘I charge for my advice by the minute.’

Miles waited for Longe to stop laughing at his own joke, before he said, ‘I feel sure the possibility of a nine-million-pound investment in your stadium project, with one million paid in advance, should prove quite sufficient.’

Longe shrugged his shoulders. ‘So, what d’you need?’

Miles paused, before asking, ‘If I wanted to spike an athlete’s urine sample, just after they’d competed in a race, would you be able to supply an illegal substance that would guarantee he or she would be disqualified?’

Longe realized he was now in the driving seat.

‘Difficult, but not impossible,’ was his immediate response. ‘But I have to ask myself, Mr Faulkner, could this possibly be somehow connected to the Olympics? Or would that be too much of a coincidence?’

Although Miles didn’t answer the question, he was fast coming to realize Longe was a man he couldn’t afford to underestimate. ‘But you still haven’t answered my question,’ he said.

‘Patience, Mr Faulkner,’ said Longe, as he extracted a gold cigar case from an inside pocket, took out a Havana and clipped off the end, letting it fall onto the carpet.

He then leant back and allowed one of his henchmen to light it.

He inhaled deeply, before blowing out a cloud of smoke in the direction of Booth Watson, who started coughing.

‘Turinabol,’ Longe eventually advised, as if he were recommending a prescription for a headache.

‘And I would be only too happy to supply you with the exact amount you’ll need.

However, I have to warn you, it’s a fine balance.

You must drop just enough of the drug into the sample bottle to convince the testers it gave the athlete concerned an undoubted advantage, but not so much that the authorities become suspicious. ’

‘That certainly wasn’t worth a million,’ said Miles. ‘Any street dealer worth his salt could have told me that.’

‘Patience, Mr Faulkner,’ said Longe, ‘and you’ll find out what else I’m about to tell you, which is worth every penny of a million.’

Faulkner waited impatiently.

‘First, you have to understand that when it comes to drug testing, the Brits are a bunch of amateurs. Especially when they are up against the Russians, who are professionals and have been flouting the system for several years.’

Faulkner had to acknowledge he was dealing with a pro.

‘However,’ Longe continued, ‘I must admit that the Americans are fast catching on to what they are up to, and it won’t be too long before the Russians are caught red-handed – a pun I feel sure you’ll appreciate, Mr Faulkner.’

Faulkner frowned, painfully aware that Longe now held all the aces.

‘So when I read in the Sun which athlete has been disqualified, I’m rather assuming he or she won’t be unknown.’

Neither Miles nor Booth Watson offered an opinion.

‘The process itself is simple enough. After a race is over, all the competitors who advance to the next round have to give either a blood or urine sample, and should they fail, they are automatically disqualified – as happened in Seoul in 1988 when Ben Johnson failed his drug test and Carl Lewis was awarded the gold medal in his place. These days, the tests are far more sophisticated, and all the samples have to be witnessed by a qualified Samples Collection Officer, who cannot come from the same country as the person being tested.’

‘So what are the new rules?’ asked Booth Watson, still making notes.

‘Any athlete who makes it to the next round has to urinate into a receptacle supplied by the authorities, witnessed by the SCO. The urine is then transferred into two small bottles for testing: A and B. If bottle A fails the test, they then test bottle B, and if both show an illegal substance has been taken, the athlete concerned is automatically disqualified.’

Booth Watson continued to take notes.

‘Once the sample bottles have been sealed and labelled,’ Longe continued, ‘they are sent to a drug-testing centre in Harlow, where tests are carried out by a team of scientists led by a Professor Cowan, a man who cannot be bribed.’

‘But you said there was a weakness in the system,’ Booth Watson reminded him.

Longe nodded. ‘As I said, the laws state that a Sample Collection Officer has to witness the athlete concerned urinating, and to avoid the possibility of substitution, they are not allowed to pee behind closed doors. So, instead of swapping the sample, you will have to swap the Collection Officer.’

‘But even if we found a way to replace them with our own man,’ said Booth Watson, ‘and he was able to drop the correct amount of Turinabol into the sample bottles, wouldn’t the athlete concerned become suspicious?’

‘Not a chance,’ said Longe. ‘Once they’ve urinated into the bottle, they hand it over to the Collection Officer and leave. Don’t forget,’ he continued, ‘the Collection Officers are there to see the competitor doesn’t get away with anything, not the other way around.’

‘And how do we ensure our own Sample Collection Officers are in place before the two potential gold medallists are tested?’ asked Faulkner.

Longe smiled. ‘You can leave that to me, Mr Faulkner, and I feel sure you’ll agree when I’ve pulled it off I will have earned the first million. Don’t tell me, Mr Faulkner, you’re not playing for the home team.’

Miles turned to his lawyer and nodded. Booth Watson unlocked the top drawer of his desk, took out a chequebook, filled in a seven-figure sum and passed it across for Miles to sign. Once Miles had penned his signature, Booth Watson handed Longe a cheque for one million pounds.

‘That’s a down payment on the stadium deal as long as you supply the correct amount of Turinabol to ensure the athletes we select are disqualified,’ Faulkner reminded him.

Without another word, Longe rose from his place, walked across to Booth Watson’s desk and stubbed his cigar out on the blotting pad. ‘I must remember to bring an ashtray next time,’ he said, giving senior counsel a warm smile.

Booth Watson didn’t rise or shake hands when Longe turned to leave, one thug walking in front of him, the other behind.

Booth Watson returned to the window behind his desk and didn’t move until he’d seen Longe climb back into his Silver Cloud and disappear out of the front gate.

‘It wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d driven off in your Rolls,’ said Booth Watson.