Page 31 of End Game (William Warwick #8)
He became even more anxious when an announcement came over the tannoy: ‘Last call for Flight 043 to Lyon. Please board immediately as the plane is about to depart.’
Alain ran across to the toilet, stopped at the entrance and desperately called out, ‘Natasha, Natasha’ – but there was no reply.
When another lady came out, he asked her if she’d seen a tall, thin woman in her mid-twenties, only to be told there was no one who fitted that description in the washroom.
He ran inside and began to check each of the cubicles one by one, but couldn’t find her. And then the only occupied cubicle door opened, and out stepped a small Asian woman, who he could have sworn he’d seen somewhere before.
Alain quickly left the washroom, only to see that the departure gate had closed. He ran across to the check-in desk.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said the attendant, ‘but we couldn’t wait any longer. Would you like me to book you onto our next flight in two hours’ time?’
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Petrov pushed the wheelchair towards Gate 21, arriving just as the plane bound for Lyon began to taxi out onto the runway.
He handed over two passports to the clerk behind the counter. She checked them both before looking down at the young woman in the wheelchair. ‘I think my daughter must have fallen asleep,’ he said. ‘She’s had a long day.’
The attendant smiled, looked sympathetic and said, ‘I’ll make sure you’re among the first to board.’
He thanked her.
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Artemisia sat at a table by the window and completed her article, which she would file the moment she saw the plane take off.
She glanced out of the window to see the aircraft bound for Lyon had reached the front of the queue and was waiting to be cleared for take-off. She took several photographs, then read her article one more time, making only a couple of small changes before she called the news desk.
‘I’ll be filing my copy in a few minutes’ time,’ she said.
‘It’s been a slow day,’ said the news editor, ‘so I hope it’s good.’
Artemisia didn’t comment.
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Another woman was also looking down from the observation deck, not at an Air France plane that was about to take off, but at an Aeroflot flight that had just begun boarding.
She watched as her colleague carried a young woman in his arms up the steps of the aircraft.
She was still wearing the woollen hat. An attendant followed close behind with her wheelchair. They disappeared inside.
Sun Anqi dialled a private number on her mobile. When it was answered, all she said was, ‘The high jumper’s cleared the bar.’
‘I’ll let Moscow know immediately,’ said the Russian Ambassador, ‘and we’ll make sure someone is on standby at Sheremetyevo to meet her when she lands.’
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Artemisia watched as the Air France plane gathered speed as it set off down the runway. She took one more photograph before it took off and rose steeply into the air. Seconds later, the plane disappeared into a bank of clouds, and she couldn’t resist letting out a small cheer.
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The editor only had to read the first couple of paragraphs of Artemisia’s article to realize it was Olympic gold dust.
‘Get Artemisia Warwick on the line,’ he screamed at his secretary, ‘and find the news editor. Now!’ He went on reading the article until the news editor appeared moments later. ‘We’ve got our front-page exclusive,’ he said.
The phone on the editor’s desk began to ring. He handed over Artemisia’s copy and the four photographs he’d selected. ‘I’ve marked the one I think should be on the front page. The rest will make a centre page spread.’ He picked up the phone.
‘You wanted to speak to me,’ said a voice.
‘Where are you, Warwick?’ demanded the editor.
‘At Gatwick station, waiting to catch the next train back to Victoria.’
‘Has their plane taken off?’
‘A few minutes ago,’ said Artemisia.
‘You should have been on it,’ barked the editor, ‘so make sure you’re on the next one.’
Why? Artemisia wanted to ask, but before she could open her mouth to speak, she was told, ‘I need a follow-up piece with pictures of the happy couple standing outside the church where they’ll be married.
Quotes from his mother and father about how delighted they are that she was able to join them, and lots more photos.
Report back to me the moment you land in Lyon. ’
I suppose that’s about the nearest I’m going to get to a compliment, thought Artemisia, as she began running back towards the airport.
When she reached the terminal, she headed straight for the Air France desk to purchase a ticket for the next available flight, but she was still yards away when she spotted a forlorn figure leaning on the counter. She felt sick.
‘What happened?’ she cried, as she ran across to join Alain and placed an arm around his shoulder.
She tried to comfort him as he explained exactly what had happened.
‘It was only later I realized,’ said Alain, ‘that the woman in the wheelchair who went into the toilet was far bigger than the woman who came out.’
‘This is an announcement for all passengers travelling on Aeroflot Flight 247 to Moscow. Please make your way to the check-in desk, as the gate is about to close.’
Alain and Artemisia looked at each other. Neither of them needed to be told where Natasha was. They both took off with the same thought in mind and didn’t stop running until they reached security.
The duty officer politely pointed out that neither of them had a boarding pass. She produced her press pass, but he wasn’t moved. She pleaded, but it fell on deaf ears.
‘But someone is being abducted against her will,’ said Artemisia, her voice rising with every word.
‘Then you should inform the airport police,’ the official told her.
‘By then it will be too late,’ she shouted.
He shrugged his shoulders. Artemisia looked up and saw that Flight 247 had disappeared from the departure board.
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Artemisia and Alain walked slowly towards the exit. She didn’t know what to say to reassure him, and could only hope that Natasha was safe and their only purpose had been to get her back to Russia.
‘I’ll have to return to the Olympic Village,’ said Alain, ‘and try to find out if there’s any way of contacting her. When I tried her mobile, a male voice answered.’
Artemisia watched as the dejected figure made his way slowly out of the airport and back into the real world.
She tried to remain detached and not become involved – first rule for any journalist – but it just wasn’t possible.
She dialled the editor’s number on her mobile, knowing he’d still be at his desk, only to be greeted with the words, ‘Why aren’t you on that plane? ’
‘Natasha never caught her flight,’ said Artemisia. ‘In fact, she’s been abducted and is now on her way back to Moscow.’
‘Couldn’t be better,’ said the editor, taking Artemisia by surprise. ‘Knock me up a couple of hundred words on what took place while you were at the airport.’
‘But I’m not exactly sure what did take place,’ said Artemisia.
‘Use your imagination, Warwick, and make sure you don’t lose the boyfriend. I’ll need an exclusive interview with him for tomorrow’s edition, plus photos,’ he paused, ‘looking broken.’
The phone went dead. Artemisia thought about Alain, the undisguised misery on his face, and of Natasha, on her way to Moscow, alone and afraid. She only hoped her two hundred words might make a difference.
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‘Get our Moscow correspondent on the line now,’ shouted the editor, as he slammed down the phone. ‘And I need a black coffee and the news editor.’
A contented man, happily dreaming, was woken by the phone ringing on his bedside table.
He picked it up to hear a familiar voice, who never seemed to be aware if it was night or day.
‘Bob,’ barked the editor, ‘get yourself down to Sheremetyevo airport with a photographer sharpish. An Olympic high jumper named Natasha Korova will be on the flight from Gatwick airport, accompanied by a GRU officer, and there will probably be a couple more thugs waiting for her at the bottom of the steps.’
The news editor rushed in and waited by the desk until the editor had finished the call.
‘I also want a statement from the Minister of Sport on how it could be possible for an Olympic athlete to be abducted while visiting Britain and then dragged back to Moscow against her will.’
‘He’ll be in bed,’ said Bob, as he pulled back the sheet.
‘Then wake him,’ said the editor. He slammed down the phone and looked up at the news editor standing in front of him.
‘Stick with the escape story for the first two editions, but be prepared to clear the front page, because I’ve got an even bigger exclusive. I should have words for you in the next few minutes.’
‘Can I block a headline?’ asked the news editor.
‘“Abducted in Broad Daylight”,’ said the editor, who paused only for a moment before he said, ‘No, change that to “Olympic Kidnap”.’
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Artemisia reached the platform moments before the Gatwick Express was due to leave for Victoria. She climbed aboard and found Alain sitting alone in a corner, head bowed, tears streaming down his cheeks. She placed an arm around his shoulder, but didn’t interrupt his thoughts.
It was when they got off the train at Victoria that Artemisia saw her: a small Asian woman was walking quickly towards the ticket barrier. She tried to recall where she had last seen her, and then she remembered. In a wheelchair.
She took a photograph of her as she disappeared underground.