Page 36 of End Game (William Warwick #8)
S IR J ULIAN WAS GOING OVER the finer details of a fraud case when his secretary rang to let him know that Professor Cowan was on the line.
‘Please put him through, Miss Longstaff,’ said Sir Julian. Over the years, whenever Julian had been kept waiting to hear a jury’s verdict, he’d always managed to remain calm and detached. But he was neither when the professor came on the line.
‘Good morning, Sir Julian.’
What are the results of the tests? Julian wanted to say, but satisfied himself with, ‘Good morning, Professor.’
‘I hope you are well,’ said the professor.
‘I am, thank you,’ said Sir Julian, ‘and hope you are too.’
‘Just recovering from a slight cold,’ said the professor, ‘but nothing life-threatening.’
Julian didn’t respond for fear it would only hold things up.
‘On to the purpose of my call.’ The professor coughed. ‘I’ve now had the chance, along with two of my senior colleagues, to check and double-check the urine samples supplied by Usain Bolt following his victory in the semi-final of the one hundred metres.’
And, and, and , Sir Julian wanted to say, but somehow remained silent.
‘I have to report,’ said the professor, ‘there is no sign of Turinabol or any other prohibited substance in his urine. So, as far as I’m concerned, he can progress to tomorrow’s final without his reputation being tarnished in any way.’
‘Good news indeed,’ exclaimed Sir Julian. ‘But what about Mo Farah?’ he asked, now on the edge of his seat.
‘That took a little longer,’ admitted the professor, ‘because we only received the five thousand metre samples late last night and, sadly,’ he paused, ‘I’ve had to disqualify one of the competitors.’
‘Was it Mo Farah?’ pressed Sir Julian, no longer able to contain himself.
‘No, certainly not,’ exclaimed the professor, ‘it was one of the Russians. There was nothing to suggest that Farah had taken an illegal substance of any kind.’
Sir Julian breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God for that.’
‘But he does have a problem,’ said the professor.
‘But you just said …’
‘After winning the ten thousand metres on Tuesday and qualifying in the five thousand semi-final yesterday, which, following all that bumping and barging, must have been a pretty exhausting experience,’ said the professor, ‘I can only wonder how much energy the poor man will have left for the final tomorrow.’
‘I suspect,’ said Sir Julian, ‘that a home crowd, adrenaline, and the thought of being the first Englishman in Olympic history to achieve the double may enter the equation. But if you’ll forgive me, Professor, I ought to phone Lord Coe and Sir Keith to let them know the good news.’
‘Of course,’ said the professor. ‘And before you go, Sir Julian, would you please pass on my regards to your grandson? After all, he’s the one who saved the day.’
Saturday, 11 August – day 16 of the Games
‘S IR J ULIAN, ’ SAID THE JUDGE, adjusting his red robes as he looked down from the bench, ‘I think this might be an opportune moment to break for the day.’
‘As you wish, m’lud,’ said Sir Julian.
The judge turned to the jury and said, ‘I’m breaking a little early this afternoon. It’s been a long trial, and I think you should all have a rest before I begin my summing up on Monday.’
The nods and looks of approval on the faces of the jury rather suggested they agreed with His Lordship’s judgement.
Mr Justice Camoy adjusted his robes, rose and bowed to the court. Once he’d departed, the room emptied in record time.
Sir Julian headed straight for the barristers’ room, with Peter in tow. No one was surprised to find the television was already on and surrounded by their colleagues.
Brendan Foster was offering his opinion as the finalists entered the stadium to prolonged applause.
‘I spoke to Mo Farah earlier today and he told me, much as he’d like to perform the double, after winning the ten thousand metres earlier in the week and coming through the first round of the five thousand on Wednesday morning, he was emotionally drained and physically exhausted.
He confessed that he doubted if he was in with a serious chance of winning a medal, and asked for his supporters to be understanding. ’
···
William slipped out of the Gold Suite, telling Rebecca he’d be back in fifteen minutes.
She didn’t have to ask why. He joined Ross, who he found leaning over the railing at the top of the lower stand, waiting for the announcer to call out the names of each competitor and the countries they represented.
If World War Three had been declared, no one would have moved.
The crowd fell silent as the fifteen finalists took their place on the starting line.
As each name was called out, they were greeted with respectful applause, until the announcer said, ‘Number three, representing Great Britain, Mo Farah,’ when the whole stadium rose as one and erupted with a roar that would have impressed a lion.
‘On your marks,’ declared the starter, which created its own eerie silence.
‘Set,’ a second later, and when the gun went off, 160,000 eyes remained fixed on one athlete.
He slipped into the back of the field and completed the first lap in seventy seconds, and William feared Brendan Foster might be right, he was spent.
It wasn’t until the third of the twelve laps that Farah eased up into the middle of the leading group, running slightly wide to avoid making contact with any other runner.
He held this position for another three laps before moving into third place behind Dejen Gebremeskel and the leader Yenew Alamirew, both from Ethiopia. Both of them world-record holders.
By the time the runners strode past the three thousand metre mark, no one in the stadium was sitting.
···
Mr Justice Camoy was banging on his desk, having abandoned his glass of whisky. His secretary rushed in, assuming he needed something urgently.
Seven men and five women had remained in the jury room, only wanting to deliver one verdict.
Sir Julian was applauding, while some of his younger colleagues were already on their feet, cheering, joining in the chant, ‘Go Mo Go,’ as Farah took the lead for the first time with seven hundred metres to go.
‘Has he gone too early?’ Brendan Foster asked the twenty-seven million people following the race on television. The streets of Britain were empty.
The roar that emanated from the crowd was such that no one in the stadium could hear the bell sounding for the final lap. Farah set off on a sprint with the fresh legs of a four-hundred metre runner, while the rest of the world chased after him.
He held them off until he entered the home straight, and with a hundred metres to go, he seemed to change gear. The roar of the crowd reached a crescendo, and could surely have been heard at Hyde Park Corner when Farah crossed the line, after running the last lap in 52.9 seconds.
He had secured his second Olympic gold medal in a week and could claim immortality.
No one left the stadium as the victor jogged slowly around the outside of the track, acknowledging the cheers of the spectators as they continued to chant in unison, ‘Go Mo Go!’
The crowd didn’t fall silent for the next thirty minutes, as no one was willing to leave before the medal ceremony took place.
Once the podium had been placed in the middle of the home straight, and the three medallists had taken their places behind it, the crowd finally fell silent as they waited for the official result to be announced.
‘The five thousand metres final,’ declared the announcer, ‘the winner of the gold medal in a time of thirteen minutes, forty-one point six …’
The roar that erupted from the crowd was so loud that no one heard the name of the winner, but it was Mo Farah who jumped up onto the podium to be presented with the gold medal.
The three young women who were carrying the medals on plush cushions stepped forward for the presentation.
Mrs Dagmawit Girmay Berhane, General Secretary of the Ethiopian National Olympic Committee, bent down and gave Jojo a warm smile, before she picked up the gold medal from its cushion, walked across to the podium and placed it around the neck of the victor.
She then presented his two closest rivals, and her fellow countrymen, with their silver and bronze medals.
Just as the crowd thought the moment had passed, a jester appeared on the track in the form of Usain Bolt. He leapt up onto the podium and joined Mo, striking the familiar ‘Mo Bot’ pose, to which Mo responded with Usain’s ‘To di World’ stance, and for a brief moment in time, the world was united.
William quickly returned to the Gold Suite to keep his eye on the departing crowd, while Ross remained behind on the terrace and watched his daughter as she left her field of dreams.
The judge poured himself another whisky, while the jury hugged each other like old friends.
When the television was finally turned off, Sir Julian turned around and gave his junior a respectful bow.
···
When the track and field events ended later that evening, with the Americans once again winning the four-by-four-hundred metres relay, William and his team didn’t even stop to catch their breath as they began to prepare for the closing ceremony.
The Hawk was on the phone moments later to congratulate William on the professional role he and his team had played during the Games.
‘I’m aware that, in Kipling’s words, you have in the past month had to face both triumph and disaster, but I can assure you these Olympics will be remembered as a triumph.’
William thanked his boss, but didn’t tell the Assistant Commissioner that he wouldn’t be treating those two imposters just the same until after the closing ceremony.
Tonight, he was taking Beth out for dinner, in an attempt to make sure his marriage remained ‘Happily ever after’, to quote Artemisia.
Meanwhile, all the team had their special assignments.
Ross was to tail Faulkner and never let him out of his sight.
Paul was allocated to the Russian Ambassador, while Rebecca was to keep an eye on the Chinese Ambassador.
If any two of them were to meet up at the same time, William was to be informed immediately.
He didn’t intend to relax until the Olympic flag had been passed on to the Mayor of Rio, the spectators had gone home, and the stadium was finally empty.