Page 6 of End Game (William Warwick #8)

T HE R USSIAN E MBASSY in Kensington Palace Gardens was busy that afternoon.

The final preparations for the evening’s gala reception were in full swing, and the rooms were busy with staff hoovering carpets and setting out chairs, while caterers and florists hurried up and down stairs.

Every now and then somebody would stop to admire the masterpieces on the walls, with one particular painting that had been moved from the ambassador’s office to the drawing room attracting by far the most attention.

Three individuals were meeting in a back room around a small conference table.

The door was closed – and locked – and the conversation was carried out in hushed tones.

This was a far more conspicuous place than they were used to meeting.

The presence of the Russian Ambassador, Anatoly Mikailov, and his security officer, Sergei Petrov, was of course unremarkable, and in the hurried rush of this busy day, it was easy for the diminutive figure of Sun Anqi to come and go unnoticed.

‘Why am I here?’ Sun Anqi asked the men seated opposite her.

‘Because,’ explained Mikailov, ‘Petrov has made a decision I thought you ought to be made aware of.’

‘I did not consider it was necessary to inform you,’ said Petrov, his eyes trained on Sun Anqi, ‘but I have been advised otherwise.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I have come to accept that if my plan is to have any chance of success, I will need an Englishman to join the team.’

Sun Anqi remained silent. She stared across the table, focusing on the space between the two men, but didn’t offer an opinion.

‘What I need,’ Petrov continued, ‘is someone who can be at ease among the establishment, while at the same time having reliable contacts in the criminal world. Even more importantly, they need to be bright, resourceful and ruthless in equal measure, while also possessing a weakness that we can take advantage of, so we can be certain of their total commitment.’

‘Does such a person exist?’ demanded Sun Anqi, wanting to make it clear she was against the whole idea of allowing an outsider to join their team.

‘I initially wondered that myself,’ admitted Petrov.

‘I feared it might prove impossible to find someone who could carry out the job and at the same time be willing to betray their country. I had four candidates on my shortlist. However, two of them were quickly eliminated, as their only interest was how much they would be paid,’ he paused, ‘in advance.’

This was proof enough of a bad idea, as far as Sun Anqi was concerned. She folded her arms and asked, ‘And the other two? What were their weaknesses?’

‘For one, women,’ replied Petrov. ‘After a couple of nights with one of our more experienced escorts, he revealed all the details of his most recent assignment, so she didn’t need to spend a third night with him.

‘However, my fourth candidate comes recommended from a Russian who came across him in jail. He told me even the prison officers were cautious when dealing with him, so I believe I have found someone who is not only well-qualified for the job, but also has one particular weakness, almost an addiction, that I feel confident we can take advantage of.’

‘If it isn’t sex or money, what’s left?’ asked Sun Anqi.

‘Masterpieces is the simple answer,’ replied Petrov. The Ambassador nodded. ‘Our target once crossed an ocean to try and get his hands on a Titian and came back empty-handed. He has a passion for art bordering on an obsession. For him, a unique piece of art is like a mistress he has to possess.’

‘And what masterpiece do you have to tempt him with?’ asked Sun Anqi, still sounding unconvinced.

‘The Van Gogh, currently hanging in the drawing room,’ Petrov replied.

‘But where has this masterpiece come from?’ pressed Sun Anqi.

‘The painting was originally part of Hermann Goring’s private collection,’ explained the Russian Ambassador. ‘However, I have now acquired it from the Hermitage – after President Putin had a word with the director.’

‘The disappearance of such an important work of art wouldn’t go unnoticed,’ suggested Sun Anqi.

‘That shouldn’t prove a problem,’ said the Ambassador. ‘The Hermitage has nine Van Goghs, and I suspect the moment our man sets eyes on the self-portrait, he’ll be trapped.’

‘But if it’s an addiction, when he wakes up in the morning,’ said Sun Anqi, still unconvinced, ‘perhaps he’ll want another fix.’

‘I think you will find, Sun Anqi,’ said Petrov, ‘that I’ve identified a mistress, not a one-night stand.’

There was a long pause before anyone spoke.

At last, Sun Anqi looked up. Her eyes met Petrov’s. ‘Be warned. He’ll end up a liability.’

‘He is a necessity,’ Petrov replied sharply.

Sun Anqi raised her voice. Whenever she did so, it sounded like a threat. ‘Don’t expect me to trust him.’

‘We are in need of a traitor; an honest man is of no use to us. However, if we persuade the candidate to join us, it will be entirely in his interests to remain loyal – and he will no doubt be made aware of the consequences if he does not.’

Sun Anqi smiled at the thought that her particular skills might still be required. She wanted him to fail.

‘He will have no reason to betray us,’ said the Russian Ambassador. ‘If he wants to keep the Van Gogh, he will have to do as we say. And once the Games are over – and I mean over – he certainly won’t want to admit to anyone how he came into possession of such a masterpiece.’

‘He also has another weakness that we can take advantage of,’ added Petrov. ‘He has a long history with the officer in charge of security for the Olympic Games – and they are anything but old friends.’

Mikailov nodded. ‘He will not be able to resist the opportunity to get one up on his old enemy, while at the same time adding a masterpiece to his collection.’

‘This man will need to see the painting before he can be tempted,’ said Sun Anqi, frowning. ‘I suppose that’s what tonight’s gala reception is all about?’

‘Precisely,’ replied Mikailov. ‘Officially, tonight is a celebration of the upcoming Hermitage exhibition, which is being held at the Fitzmolean Museum at the time of the Olympics. However, it’s also a trap for our chosen candidate, and the bait will be the Van Gogh.’

‘But what I still don’t understand,’ said Sun Anqi, ‘is why we need this man in the first place.’

‘He is a fair-haired Anglo-Saxon, who was educated at Harrow and could stroll around the House of Lords or his local pub without anyone giving him a second look,’ said the Russian Ambassador, ‘which I fear none of us could do.’

‘He also has a lawyer who appears to be at his beck and call,’ added Petrov, ‘who, I’m assured, is every bit as crooked as his master, so in truth we’ll be getting two for the price of one.’

‘I’d rather hold on to the Van Gogh,’ said Sun Anqi, ‘than trust an Englishman.’

···

Miles arrived fashionably late at the embassy.

When he’d first received an invitation from the Russian Ambassador to attend a gala reception, he had assumed it must be a mistake, until he discovered that it was to celebrate The Hermitage Comes to the Fitzmolean exhibition, which would be held at the museum as part of the official Olympic programme.

Miles had decided to come, if for no other reason than to annoy his ex-wife, currently the chair of the Fitzmolean board.

He was greeted with a long queue of people waiting to be introduced to Ambassador Mikailov.

Miles didn’t do queues. He decided his time would be better spent enjoying the remarkable collection of paintings that adorned every wall: Rembrandt, van Ruisdael and Steen – but when his eyes settled on a Van Gogh hanging above the mantelpiece, it quite literally took his breath away.

He continued to stare at the self-portrait until a voice behind him said, ‘Being aware of your reputation, Mr Faulkner, I suspect you can put a date on the work.’

‘Circa 1889. About a year before he died,’ said Miles, ‘by which time the only painting the artist had ever sold was to his doctor, Paul Gachet.’

‘In exchange for his fee, if I remember correctly,’ said the Ambassador.

Miles turned around, gave his host a slight bow and said, ‘Good evening, Your Excellency.’

‘Anatoly, please,’ said the Ambassador, pretending to take an interest in the Van Gogh, ‘and you are right, 1889.’

Ambassador Mikailov was standing at Miles’s side when Miles turned to see if anyone was taking an interest in them. He spotted a man gazing down from the balcony above. One of the Ambassador’s bodyguards, perhaps, thought Miles.

‘I last saw this painting in St Petersburg,’ said Miles, turning back once more to admire the Van Gogh.

‘Right again, Mr Faulkner.’ Mikailov paused, then said conspiratorially, ‘Some people would give a great deal to own such a masterpiece.’

Miles glanced at him suspiciously. This was clearly no chance meeting. He was beginning to understand why he had been invited tonight. ‘Would they indeed?’ he replied.

‘But surely, Mr Faulkner,’ said Mikailov, ‘a connoisseur such as yourself must appreciate that. You would no doubt give a great deal, hypothetically, to add such a unique work to your collection.’

‘Hypothetically,’ responded Miles, ‘I might.’

‘Would you, for example, kill your own grandmother?’ asked the Ambassador.

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ said Miles, ‘but only because she died some years ago.’

Both men laughed.

‘I think we can do business together, Mr Faulkner,’ said Mikailov. ‘However, now is neither the time nor the place to continue this conversation. I’ll be in touch.’ He smiled, before leaving to play host with some of his less important guests.

Miles gazed at the Van Gogh, trying to interpret the Ambassador’s words, while Petrov continued to stare down from the gallery above. He was confident that he’d identified the right man to assist his cause and that they wouldn’t have to bargain over the payment.

···

‘I wonder who invited him,’ said Beth, looking across the crowded room at Miles. ‘I can assure you, Christina, that your ex was not on the list of names I submitted to the embassy as guests.’

Christina looked more closely at her ex-husband. The Russian Ambassador had left him moments before, and he was now standing alone, admiring the Van Gogh. ‘Miles, like a bad penny, always turns up when he’s least expected,’ said Christina, ‘but even I can’t fault his artistic taste.’

‘The Van Gogh self-portrait,’ said Beth, ‘was acquired by Hermann Goring from a prominent Jewish businessman in 1938, in exchange for three one-way tickets to New York.’

‘Then how did the Russians get their hands on it?’ enquired Christina.

‘Plunder from the spoils of war,’ explained Beth.

‘When the Russians entered the outskirts of Berlin in 1945, they reached Goring’s private residence just hours before the Americans – otherwise the portrait might have spent the last few decades hanging on the walls of the Met rather than the Hermitage. ’

‘The way Miles is looking at the work,’ said Christina, ‘he might well be the next person to try and repatriate it.’

‘With the Ambassador’s blessing, perhaps,’ suggested Beth. ‘They looked rather cosy together, don’t you think?’

‘Possibly,’ said Christina, ‘but what would the Russian Ambassador expect in return?’

Beth only wished William was among the guests, as he might well have offered an opinion.

But with the Games almost upon them, her husband hadn’t been able to take a night off.

He was practically living between Scotland Yard and the Olympic Stadium, and she barely saw him for more than a snatched half-hour.

Not that he had been invited tonight. Another coincidence, or was she overreacting?

Her eyes settled on Wilbur, who was currently chatting to the Ambassador’s wife.

Why had the chairman’s husband received an invitation but not the director’s? Another coincidence?

Perhaps she was reading too much into it – or perhaps the time had come to have a word with Ross. If there was one person who knew how Miles Faulkner’s mind worked as well as William did – and despised him just as much – it was Ross.

···

‘Will you get a chance to see any of the Olympics?’ asked Alice.

‘From the opening ceremony to the closing ceremony,’ replied Sir Julian, with a smile of satisfaction.

‘How come?’ demanded Alice.

‘The IOC have invited me to chair a panel of judges during the Games.’

‘And what do they do?’ asked Alice.

‘Not a lot,’ admitted Julian. ‘Unless there’s an unresolved dispute between two or more countries, when I become the final arbitrator. It’s pro bono, of course, except I get to see any event I wish to attend – in my own box.’

‘Some people …’ began Alice, but was distracted by the tapping of a spoon against a glass.

‘Good evening,’ said the Ambassador, ‘and may I begin by welcoming you …’

Miles turned to slip away. Speeches, like queues, were not on his to-do list. He stepped out – unnoticed.

···

Once Miles was back in his car, he phoned Booth Watson and asked him to join him for dinner at the Savoy. It would not have crossed Miles’s mind that BW might be otherwise engaged.

Once they’d given their orders to the ma?tre d’, Miles reported to his lawyer the conversation that had taken place with the Russian Ambassador.

Booth Watson was not slow to offer an opinion.

‘Whatever he’s willing to offer you, Miles, walk away,’ he said firmly.

‘We’re not talking about a gang of two-bit criminals here.

This is the Russian Ambassador, briefing you on behalf of his masters.

You are never going to get the upper hand with that lot – it’s far too dangerous a game.

Try not to forget. You can’t hang a Van Gogh in a prison cell – or in a coffin. ’

But Booth Watson knew his client wasn’t listening.