Page 34 of End Game (William Warwick #8)

‘They are independent officials from a neutral country assigned on a rota,’ explained Coe. ‘All of them have vast experience in the field and were vetted long before the Games opened.’

‘Who were the two SCOs on this occasion, may I ask?’ said Sir Julian.

Sir Keith began to tap away on his iPad, while everyone else waited. ‘In the case of Usain Bolt, it was a Russian called Igor Semolov and, for Farah,’ he continued tapping, ‘Jin Chun Dhang, the official Chinese representative.’

‘How very interesting,’ said William, speaking for the first time.

Sir Julian looked across at his son. ‘What are you suggesting, Commander?’

‘We have already discovered to our cost,’ said William, ‘that the Russians have a vested interest in undermining the London Games.’

‘Details, Commander,’ demanded Sir Julian, as if cross-examining a hostile witness.

‘Even before the opening ceremony, my team and I dealt with a variety of incidents unquestionably orchestrated by the Russians. It has become abundantly clear that they consider the Olympic Games is a misnomer and the word Olympic should be replaced with War . If Bolt and Farah were to be disqualified, that would be the only thing the London Games would be remembered for. All our hard work and successes would be forgotten overnight. Ask any Canadian.’

‘I assume you all read the story in the Daily Mail concerning a Russian high jumper, Natasha Korova, which only confirmed something we’ve suspected for years,’ came in Sir Keith.

‘Namely, that the Russians have a state-sponsored doping programme, with the single purpose of winning as many medals as possible, preferably gold.’

William suppressed a smile. He was proud of his daughter. She’d nailed the Russians far more convincingly than a thousand officials.

‘We suspect the Russians may be working alongside the Chinese,’ came back William. ‘They’ve made no secret of wanting the Beijing Games to appear a triumph when compared to London.’

‘None of this would be admissible as evidence in a court of law,’ said Sir Julian, ‘as you well know, Commander.’

‘Possibly not,’ said William, refusing to back down, ‘but I’d be very interested to know if these Sample Collection Officers were the first choice?’

‘That should be easy enough to establish,’ said Sir Keith, who began tapping away again on his iPad. A few moments later, he frowned. ‘The Commander may have a point, Sir Julian, because neither of them was originally listed on the daily rota.’

‘Then who should have carried out the tests?’ demanded Sir Julian.

‘In the case of Mo Farah,’ said Sir Keith, ‘the designated observer was an Italian called Tony Cressi, who called in earlier in the afternoon to say he was unwell.’

‘Why am I not surprised?’ said William, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Sir Julian scowled. ‘And Bolt?’ he asked.

‘His observer should have been a Brazilian official, who failed to turn up.’

‘Doesn’t it strike you as something of a coincidence that both the delegates observing the athletes who tested positive just happened to be last-minute substitutions?’ said William, ‘and surprise, surprise one of them turned out to be Russian and the other Chinese. I rest my case.’

‘Not unless you have proof,’ said Sir Julian, ‘and I shouldn’t have to remind you, Commander, coincidence isn’t evidence, however much you might want it to be.’

William wanted to protest, but knew his father was right. He remained silent.

‘However much we would all like to believe the two athletes concerned are innocent,’ continued Sir Julian, ‘I cannot easily dismiss the findings of Professor Cowan, one of the most eminent and respected authorities in his field, and my first responsibility as an Olympic judge is to be influenced only by the facts in this case. The fact is that both athletes, however celebrated, tested positive for Turinabol, a banned substance under the Olympic rules.’

A gloomy silence descended on those seated around the table as they waited for the judge to deliver his verdict.

‘I therefore have no choice but to …’ Sir Julian concluded when a hand was tentatively raised. ‘You wanted to say something, Peter?’

‘I have a question, sir.’

All eyes switched to the young man seated at the far end of the table, who until then had only been making notes.

Sir Julian nodded once again.

‘Let us assume for a moment that both the athletes concerned are innocent,’ said Peter. ‘If they are, I think I may have found a way of proving it.’

The older men seated around the table were now hanging on the younger man’s every word.

‘Both athletes are due to compete again in the next couple of days,’ said Peter, looking down at an events timetable in front of him.

‘Bolt in the final of the hundred metres this afternoon, and Farah in the first round of the five thousand tomorrow. So, my question is’ – Peter looked directly at the professor – ‘if they are both guilty of taking Turinabol, would it show up again when they were next tested?’

‘Without a doubt,’ was the professor’s immediate response.

‘Turinabol would be detectable in the urine for at least another week, possibly a fortnight. However, the Olympic guidelines on the subject do not prevaricate.’ He turned the pages of a small, black leather Rule Book in front of him, stopping only when he found the entry he needed.

‘If any athlete is shown to have taken an illegal substance, they will automatically be suspended pending an enquiry,’ he read out.

‘Then it’s back to square one,’ said Coe.

‘Possibly not,’ suggested Sir Julian, ‘because as an Olympic judge, I have the authority to hold up a suspension while an enquiry is taking place. There is nothing to prevent me carrying out that enquiry and reporting back to this committee in, say, forty-eight hours, after both athletes involved have competed in the next round.’

‘But who will carry out the observation this time?’ asked William.

‘I will,’ said the professor without hesitation, ‘and if I find that either or both athletes test positive for Turinabol, or any other illegal substance, they must be disqualified without further discussion.’

‘Agreed,’ said Coe, ‘but it won’t stop me falling on my knees and praying for the next forty-eight hours.’

‘In which case, you’ll need a bishop and not a judge to advise you,’ suggested Sir Julian.

Laughter broke out, where only moments before humour wouldn’t have seemed possible.

‘I must thank you, Sir Julian, for your wise counsel,’ said Coe, ‘for which this committee will be eternally grateful.’

‘Let us hope,’ said Sir Julian, ‘that eternally is the right word. However, it’s not me you should be thanking, but my junior.’

The rest of the committee turned to face Peter and began to applaud.

‘Enough!’ said Sir Julian, raising a hand. ‘Mustn’t allow it to go to my grandson’s head.’

‘I had no idea he was your grandson,’ said Coe, giving Peter a warm smile.

‘You don’t know the half,’ said Sir Julian, looking across at the Commander.

···

Artemisia wept when she saw the same photograph on the front page of almost every paper the next morning. On day one, her story had run exclusively in the Daily Mail , but now every other paper had followed it up.

She stared at the image of a young woman stepping off an Aeroflot flight that had just landed in Moscow. She was met by two thugs who didn’t need the letters GRU printed on their backs to know which team they represented.

Her editor seemed chuffed that every other paper had been given no choice but to follow up his exclusive.

The Evening Standard carried the Russian Minister of Sport’s statement on their front page:

‘Ms Natasha Korova, one of Russia’s most admired and respected athletes, had to leave the Olympics and return to Moscow when she learned her mother had suffered a stroke. Natasha is now at her mother’s bedside with the rest of the family. She hopes the press will respect her privacy.’

‘Will anyone believe that rubbish?’ Artemisia asked Robert over breakfast, after she’d read the article a second time.

‘It’s been written for domestic consumption,’ Robert replied, ‘and as the Daily Mail won’t have a huge circulation in Moscow, they can keep the truth well hidden from their own citizens.’

‘They’ll live to regret it,’ said Artemisia.

‘Ah,’ said Robert, ‘so now you’re going to take on Putin?’

‘He can’t be any worse than my editor.’ Artemisia put down her mug of tea. ‘It’s just so unfair.’

‘I know,’ said Robert, placing an arm gently around her shoulder. ‘But the real world isn’t fair, ask any politician.’

‘But I feel I’ve failed them.’

‘You did everything you possibly could,’ said Robert, trying to comfort her, ‘and Natasha made it clear that her father wanted her to expose them.’

‘It hasn’t been enough.’ She sat up straight and brushed away a tear.

‘But I’m not done yet. Alain and I have agreed to stay in touch, and if there’s anything that can be done to help Natasha, we’ll do it.

I’ll go on fighting on their behalf for as long as it takes.

In fact,’ she declared, ‘I won’t be satisfied until we finally attend their wedding. ’

‘Or they attend ours,’ said Robert.

Artemisia looked up at him in silence for a moment, which Robert took advantage of.

He fell on one knee, removed a small leather box from an inside pocket and said, ‘Artemisia, I adore you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I can only hope you’ll agree to be my wife.’

Artemisia remained silent as Robert opened the leather box to reveal a small diamond ring. He didn’t move as he waited for her reply.

‘Of course I will,’ replied Artemisia. ‘I’m only surprised it’s taken you so long.’