Page 26 of End Game (William Warwick #8)

C OMMANDER W ILLIAM W ARWICK and his inner team sat in the dungeon of the Gold Suite, reviewing the last few days of the Games.

‘Any update from Professor Meredith on what might have been in the shoebox?’ asked Paul, when they had all given their reports.

‘A dozen scenarios, and I’d only need an extra hundred trained officers just to follow them up.

However, whatever they’re planning, Professor Meredith thinks our biggest problem is likely to be the closing ceremony, as that will have the most press attention.

But there’s no saying what they have planned in the meantime. ’

He turned to Ross. ‘Any news of Faulkner?’

‘We still have him under constant surveillance. But since his Helsinki trip at the weekend, he stayed underground until yesterday.’

‘Details,’ demanded William.

‘Faulkner drove to Booth Watson’s chambers, where he was joined half an hour later by Bernie Longe.’

‘They only have one thing in common,’ suggested Jackie.

‘Agreed,’ said William, ‘but that doesn’t get us any nearer to finding out what they are up to.’

‘No good,’ said Rebecca, summing up all their feelings.

···

By the time Artemisia returned to the Olympic Park on Wednesday morning, she knew everything there was to know about Natasha and Alain – well, everything except why a recently engaged couple looked so distressed.

Artemisia had spent most of the night trying to work out how she could possibly enter their closed worlds, and was none the wiser by the time her alarm went off.

On the journey back to the Olympic Village, Artemisia had worked out where she might find them if they weren’t in the village, which was at least a start.

When she arrived at the training track an hour later, she spotted them both stretching in the warm-up area.

Ballet dancers would have been impressed.

After forty minutes of well-honed exercises, they moved across to the high jump pit and carefully measured out their run-up to the bar, so that their front foot always landed on the same spot – they had placed two coins on the ground as markers – before take-off.

They did not tire themselves moving the bar up inch by inch, as they had been doing that daily for the past four years, but instead satisfied themselves with perfecting their run-ups.

If they didn’t hit the exact spot every time, they would have no hope of clearing the bar when it reached a personal best.

Eventually, they put their tracksuits back on and left the warm-up area together, once again holding hands.

Artemisia left her place in the stand and followed them, keeping her distance. They stopped on the way back to the village, took a seat on a bench and shared a bottle of orange juice.

They were happily chatting away when Artemisia decided to move in and interrupt their thoughts. She would have to blow her cover, which was a big risk – but one worth taking.

She walked slowly across to join them. ‘Hi,’ she said, giving them a warm smile. ‘My name is Artemisia Warwick, and I’m a journalist with the Daily Mail . I wondered if you would allow me to ask you a few questions?’

It was as if the devil had appeared by their sides, because they immediately jumped up and quite literally fled, no longer holding hands.

Artemisia sat down on the bench and tapped Robert’s number into her mobile.

‘If they want to talk, they’ll talk,’ he said, after she’d told him what had just happened, ‘and if they don’t, they’re entitled to their privacy.’

Artemisia frowned. ‘Of course you’re right,’ she replied. ‘I now know they are my exclusive, but what I don’t know is how to get them to reveal it.’

Thursday, 2 August – day 7 of the Games

A WALK IN THE PARK meant only one thing to Booth Watson. Miles had something he needed to discuss urgently and not in chambers.

They always met at ten o’clock outside the Churchill War Rooms in Whitehall.

Booth Watson wondered who Miles was going to declare war on today.

Churchill was one of his client’s biggest heroes, although Mrs Thatcher wasn’t far behind.

They would then walk around the lake past Buckingham Palace, the home of his biggest hero.

Booth Watson could only wonder how his client felt about being involved in disrupting her journey to the opening ceremony.

Booth Watson was wearing his trademark dark blue double-breasted suit – his Savile Row tailor making a gallant effort to disguise his weight problem – cream shirt, Middle Temple tie, and carrying a rolled umbrella, despite the fact the sun was shining.

Miles came strolling down Birdcage Walk a few minutes late, not surprised to find BW waiting for him.

After all, a thousand pounds a day retainer had the tendency to ensure you were on time.

After a brief handshake, neither of them spoke before they crossed the road and entered the park. They then followed a route that never varied and took about forty minutes, although Miles accepted that he would be billed for an hour.

‘How is the contract for my deal with Bernie Longe coming along?’ was Miles’s first question as they took their usual path beside the lake.

‘Almost completed,’ said Booth Watson, as a squirrel joined them. ‘I should have the final draft ready for you by tomorrow.’

‘Perfect timing,’ said Miles, as they continued walking. ‘I thought you’d be interested to know I received a letter from the Fitzmolean yesterday.’

‘Saying what?’

‘When the Hermitage exhibition closes, the director has been instructed to hand the Van Gogh self-portrait over to you. They asked if I could let them know when it would be convenient to collect it.’

‘So the Russians have kept their word,’ said Booth Watson, unable to hide the surprise in his voice.

‘For now, yes,’ said Miles, ‘but they could still change their mind after the closing ceremony. I will, therefore, need you to draft a reply to Mrs Warwick informing her that if the board felt able to accept my terms,’ he paused for a moment, ‘I would be willing to rewrite my Will and leave my entire collection, including the Van Gogh, to the Fitzmolean.’

‘And what might those terms be?’ asked an incredulous Booth Watson.

A duck waddled onto the grass, looked up and quacked, but quickly moved on when he discovered they had nothing to offer.

‘An invitation for me to join the board of the Fitz,’ said Miles.

‘That’s never going to happen,’ said Booth Watson as they reached the bridge and crossed the lake. ‘And you know it.’

‘Why not?’ asked Miles. ‘They will be well aware that my collection is worth over a hundred million, which will surely leave the board with no choice but to take my offer seriously.’

‘You seem to forget,’ said Booth Watson, ‘that your ex-wife is the current chairman of the museum and that Commander Warwick’s wife is its director, and they’d both resign before letting you anywhere near the boardroom.’

‘Exactly what I had in mind,’ admitted Miles, as he carried on walking. ‘However, should I succeed, and both of them do resign, I will need you to rewrite my Will at a later date.’

Booth Watson didn’t comment. After all, it would be the third time in as many years that Miles had rewritten his Will, and on every occasion it had been done to assist him with closing a deal he was involved in at that time, and would welch on later.

‘Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?’ Booth Watson asked, as they came to the end of their walk.

‘Unfortunately, yes,’ Miles replied. ‘The CPS have been in touch again requesting a date to discuss the sale of counterfeit Olympic tickets. I told them to get in touch with you.’

‘They already have,’ said Booth Watson. ‘It appears yet another witness has come forward. I’ve fixed a date for them to interview you a couple of weeks after the Games are over. It seems Commander Warwick and his wife are going on holiday following the closing ceremony.’

‘But what they don’t know,’ Miles reminded him, ‘is that once the Games are over I will also be taking a holiday. A permanent holiday, as I have no intention of going back to prison.’

‘But I thought you wanted to join the board of the Fitzmolean.’

‘I do, but only temporarily, although I’m confident that once I am elected, my ex-wife and Dr Warwick will resign, which is the sole purpose of the exercise.’

‘And then what?’ asked Booth Watson, unable to keep up with him.

‘Then, sadly, as I’ll be living abroad and unable to attend any further board meetings, I will feel it nothing less than my duty to also resign. That’s when you can once again rewrite my Will.’

‘But what makes you so confident the board will go along with your plan?’

‘One member of the board who sees herself as the next chairman has already written offering her support, and is confident she can muster up four other votes. So I will only need one more to be elected,’ said Miles, as they walked back across the road to Whitehall.

‘You can’t imagine how much pleasure it will give me to see Dr Warwick have to leave while her husband is left with no choice but to resign at the same time, after the Olympics end in disaster. ’

Miles shook hands with his lawyer and gave him a warm smile before he climbed into his waiting Rolls, leaving a bemused BW on the pavement. It began to rain.

···

Artemisia was beginning to think she could write a dozen articles about Kelly that could be serialized in the Sun . Her new friend continued to introduce her to young men who’d be returning home in a few days’ time, but it only reminded Artemisia how much she cared for Robert.

That didn’t stop Kelly trying to tempt her with more and more forbidden fruit. She should have been christened Eve, thought Artemesia.

‘Did you know,’ said Kelly, when she met up with Artemisia later that afternoon in the village park, ‘that the Olympic Committee have supplied the athletes living in the village with one hundred thousand condoms?’

Artemisia burst out laughing.

‘And I consider it no more than my duty to use up my allocation,’ she paused, ‘as well as yours!’

‘Who’s next on your list?’ asked Artemisia, innocently.

‘The French freestyle relay team have, surprisingly, been knocked out in the semi-final, and I intend to offer sympathy and succour.’

Artemisia laughed.

‘Anyway, have to rush. See you tomorrow,’ Kelly said, as she slipped something into Artemisia’s hand.

···

‘It’s a bus ticket,’ Robert said when Artemisia got home and showed him what Kelly had given her.

‘But not just any old bus ticket,’ replied Artemisia. ‘If you look carefully, you’ll see it’s got a time and date on it.’

‘Four o’clock on August the fourth. This Saturday,’ said Robert, handing it back to her.

‘I checked it out before leaving the stadium,’ said Artemisia. ‘It’s for one of those red double-deckers that takes you on the grand tour of the Olympic Park, on the hour, every hour. It’s so popular you have to book days in advance.’

‘And somebody obviously has,’ said Robert.

‘I think it’s just possible,’ said Arte, ‘that my Frenchman and his Russian girlfriend have booked tickets on the same bus.’

‘Then it’s possible,’ said Robert, ‘they’ve decided to talk.’

‘And it also suggests that Kelly knows exactly what I’ve been up to, but then I suspect I didn’t fool her in the first place.’

‘Perhaps she hopes you’ll be the one person who could expose the Russians, and that would be an exclusive.’

‘But do I tell my editor what I’m on to?’ asked Artemisia.

Robert considered the question for some time before he offered an opinion. ‘If I were you, I’d get the story sewn up before you tell anyone.’

‘And your reason, O wise one?’

‘If he thinks the story is big enough, he might hand it over to an old hack,’ said Robert. ‘And if you discover there just isn’t a story, as you did with Annie, then it would be best to remain shtum.’

‘Good thinking,’ said Artemisia, still clinging onto the ticket. In fact, she didn’t let it out of her sight until they went to bed and Robert had turned out the light. She lay awake wondering: exclusive, or just another Annie?