Page 7 of End Game (William Warwick #8)

R OSS H OGAN ’ S LIFE HAD CHANGED so much in the fifteen years since he first met Alice.

Then, he was a widower, trying to balance parenting his young daughter Jojo with a full-on job in Royal Protection.

Now, Jojo was grown up, and Ross and Alice’s son, Jack, was about to start secondary school.

But Ross’s career had stalled. A particularly unfortunate encounter with Miles Faulkner twelve years ago had seen him suspended for a year, before eventually returning to the force – not as Chief Inspector Hogan, but as Sergeant Hogan.

He had spent his time issuing parking tickets, which had given him more than enough time to nurse a grudge bordering on hatred.

And to make matters worse Faulkner had been released after only four years.

Ross had been in traffic control for far too long and was once again considering resigning.

William’s recent lifeline had changed all that overnight and given him a second chance.

But if there was one thing about Ross that hadn’t changed over the years, it was his early morning run through Hyde Park and across Kensington Gardens.

He rose at six, left home in his well-worn tracksuit and jogged across to Hyde Park, before setting out on a four-mile run around the Serpentine that took him less than twenty-five minutes.

When he arrived back at the Prince Albert Memorial, he stretched for another fifteen minutes, before returning home in time to join Alice, Jojo and Jack for breakfast.

Beth had once joined Ross on the morning outing, and once had proved quite enough. She’d only caught back up with him as he finished his stretching. He then jogged home, while she continued to run, and even then she could only just keep up with him. Never again.

Beth rose early the morning following the Russian gala reception and left the house a few minutes after William had set out for the stadium.

She took the tube to South Kensington and walked up Exhibition Road to Hyde Park.

She sat on a bench some hundred yards from the entrance, which offered her a clear view of everyone who entered the park.

Beth didn’t have long to wait before Ross appeared and set off at the same frightening pace towards the lake.

Once he was out of sight, Beth strolled across to join Prince Albert, where Ross would do his stretching. She began to question whether she should share her worst fears with William’s oldest friend, when she hadn’t raised the subject with her own husband.

She still hadn’t made up her mind by the time he came striding down the path, overtaking several runners half his age.

When he spotted Beth standing on the grass by the side of the royal statue, he didn’t mask his surprise. He slowed down, came to a halt by her side and, although breathing heavily, managed, ‘This has to be important.’

‘Or a complete waste of your time,’ suggested Beth, as Ross began his warming down routine.

While Ross carried out a series of exercises that made her feel tired just watching, Beth told him what she had witnessed at the reception the previous evening.

Ross’s first question was, ‘How much would a Van Gogh self-portrait be worth?’

Beth considered the question while Ross completed forty press-ups.

‘One hasn’t come on the market for several years,’ she said, as Ross began to try and touch his toes with his elbows.

‘But if I had to put a figure on it, at least fifty million, although Miles Faulkner might put a higher value on it, judging by how he was admiring the painting last night.’

‘So, I’m bound to ask, what would the Russians expect in return for fifty million?’ Ross said as he whirled his arms like windmills. ‘What’s William’s opinion?’

‘I’ve only mentioned it to him in passing,’ admitted Beth. ‘He’s been so preoccupied preparing for the opening ceremony and I don’t want to burden him with my problems.’

‘If Faulkner is up to something, then that is his problem,’ muttered Ross, ‘so I’d better look into it.’

‘But it might turn out to be nothing. After all, it’s possible Faulkner was doing no more than admiring the self-portrait.’

‘With the Russian ambassador standing by his side, I doubt it,’ said Ross.

‘Which is why I thought I’d ask you, since I know you’re not exactly overworked in traffic control …’

Ross’s faint smile gave nothing away. ‘I’ll look into it,’ he repeated. And then, after one final stretch, he jogged off in the opposite direction.

···

The Russian Ambassador called Miles at 9 a.m. Miles could only wonder how he’d got his number.

He left Collins and the Rolls behind in Cadogan Place and took a taxi to the Russian Embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens.

He’d left his mobile at home, as he’d once been told that if you enter Kensington Palace Gardens with a mobile, at least five embassies, the Russians included, would have stripped every contact on it before you got out of your car.

He only had to knock on the embassy door once before it was opened by a uniformed officer.

‘Good morning, Mr Faulkner,’ he said, although they had never met before.

He showed the guest into the drawing room, where the reception had been held the night before. Three chairs had been placed in a semi-circle around the Van Gogh. Two were occupied by men, who immediately stood to greet him.

‘Good morning, Mr Faulkner,’ said the Russian Ambassador, as if they were old friends. ‘Allow me to introduce Mr Petrov, who is an undersecretary at the embassy.’

It was the man Miles had seen watching him from the balcony last night, and he didn’t need to be told that the word ‘undersecretary’ meant spy. He might as well have had it printed on his passport under job description.

Petrov stepped forward to shake hands with the stranger before the Russian Ambassador ushered his guest towards the centre chair.

‘It is good of you to join us, Mr Faulkner,’ said Petrov, once coffee had been served.

‘I have, of course, been made aware of the conversation you had with His Excellency when you attended the gala reception yesterday evening.’ He glanced up at the Van Gogh.

‘The Hermitage’s loss will be your gain. ’

‘But what His Excellency didn’t tell me,’ said Miles, looking directly at Petrov, ‘is what you would expect in return.’

‘To betray your country,’ said Petrov quite simply and without any emotion.

Miles maintained eye contact. ‘And what form would this betrayal take?’

‘We would require your advice and assistance on several fronts that we have been working on for before, during and after the Olympics,’ said Petrov. ‘Suffice it to say, we intend to undermine Britain’s reputation on the world stage, so they find out the true meaning of a cold war .’

Miles became distracted by a young woman who was seated cross legged on the floor in the far corner of the room, who looked more East Asian than Russian in appearance. He hadn’t noticed her until then, while her cold grey eyes had never left him, even for a moment.

‘And what exactly do you have in mind?’ pressed Miles.

‘I couldn’t consider sharing those details with you, Mr Faulkner,’ came back Petrov, ‘until I’m convinced you’re a fully fledged member of our team and can be relied upon.

However, I can explain our overall strategy.

We intend to chip away at Britain’s facade of confidence and expertise until the cracks are clear for all to see.

We have a comprehensive plan of attack to show that the British should never have been awarded the Games in the first place.

Over the next few weeks, we will wear the police down, and in particular Commander Warwick, with incidents he won’t have enough officers to deal with.

The moment we’re convinced they are overstretched and don’t know which way to turn, we will strike. ’

Miles couldn’t help noticing that the woman’s cold eyes still hadn’t left him, as if he were an animal that might try to escape.

‘But why me?’ asked Faulkner.

‘We need someone who knows how the British think and act when something goes wrong,’ said the Ambassador. ‘Someone who can go unnoticed in a crowd and, to quote you British, will not stick out like a sore finger.’

Miles smiled at the Ambassador’s mistake, which only emphasized his point.

‘Some of the incidents we have planned,’ continued the Ambassador, ‘must appear to be the result of the home team’s incompetence, while others will look like failures by those in charge of security.

But what it must not look like, at least to the public, is a well-planned campaign of espionage.

If the British were able to lay the blame at our door, we would have achieved the exact opposite of what we are hoping to achieve. ’

‘And then both of you,’ said Miles, glancing between Petrov and Mikailov, ‘would be returning to your home country,’ he paused, ‘and not to a hero’s welcome.’

Miles paused to see how they would react, but no response was forthcoming, so he asked the all-important question. ‘Why me?’

‘It didn’t take a lot of research to discover that the man in charge of Olympic security, Commander Warwick, is an old adversary of yours,’ said Petrov.

‘We are also aware that he has been a thorn in your flesh for some considerable time, and so we were rather hoping we might be able to work together for a common cause. Catherine the Great once said that two men marching in the same direction are a team, three an army.’

‘That would depend on what Catherine the Great expects me to do,’ said Faulkner, ‘and, more importantly, what she has to offer in return.’

Petrov looked up at the Van Gogh painting before turning to face Faulkner.

Miles got the message. ‘Commander Warwick has clearly surrounded himself with capable officers who are able to think two steps ahead,’ said Petrov.

‘We require someone who can not only tell us what those two steps are, but can anticipate the third.’

‘Warwick is well capable of thinking four steps ahead,’ said Miles, ‘and you’d be wise not to underestimate him.’

The woman in the corner of the room nodded, her cold piercing eyes moved onto Petrov.

‘Which is exactly why we need you to be a fully committed member of our team,’ the Ambassador said, matter-of-factly.

‘We also thought,’ added Petrov, ‘that you might consider revenge on Warwick and his team an added bonus.’

Miles stared up at the painting for some time, before he eventually asked, ‘If I were to agree to be your agent’ – he avoided the word traitor – ‘I’ll need proof that the Van Gogh will not be shipped back to St Petersburg once the Games are over.’

The two Russians exchanged glances, before the Ambassador offered, ‘I’m open to any suggestions.’

Faulkner nodded. ‘As you are incapable of paying me my usual ten per cent in advance,’ he said, ‘I will expect you to make the Van Gogh part of The Hermitage Comes to the Fitzmolean exhibition when it opens at the museum next month. I will also require a letter to be sent to my lawyer, Mr Booth Watson, who I feel sure you’re well aware of, making it clear that on the day the exhibition closes, he will take possession of the work on my behalf. ’

The woman’s eyes narrowed slightly. Whoever she was and however she fitted in, it was clear to Faulkner that she did not consider he ought to be demanding terms, just falling in line. She was about to find out he didn’t just fall in line – for anyone.

‘I feel sure that will be acceptable,’ said the Ambassador, his words accompanied by a warm smile.

‘I will still need to consider the matter very carefully,’ said Miles after another long pause.

‘And should you even think of double-crossing me, let me remind you that Mr Booth Watson’s chambers are less than a stone’s throw from Fleet Street, where they wouldn’t have to pay for an exclusive that would end up on the front page of every newspaper, along with photographs of you and your colleagues, thus guaranteeing your involvement would be recorded for the whole world to read about.

Not something, I imagine, that would advance either of your glittering careers. ’

‘You’re quite right, Mr Faulkner,’ came back Petrov. ‘But that’s a two-way street. And should you decide to repeat this conversation to anyone outside of this room, I will happily represent the Russian government at your funeral.’

Miles didn’t doubt it.

The Russian Ambassador showed no reaction to his colleague’s statement. He just touched a buzzer under his chair and the officer reappeared and accompanied his guest to the front door. However, he did notice that Faulkner looked back, not at him, but at the Van Gogh.

···

After Faulkner had left the residence, he didn’t go home but took a taxi to Middle Temple.

During the journey, he changed his mind several times.

When the cab eventually pulled up outside a set of chambers in Middle Temple Lane, a secretary ushered him quickly through to Mr Booth Watson’s office without being shown into the waiting room.

In fact, Miles had no idea where the waiting room was.

‘As you rarely come to my office without an appointment,’ opined Booth Watson, pushing some papers to one side, ‘I can only assume the matter is urgent.’

‘Very,’ responded Miles, before repeating at great length the conversation that had just taken place at the Russian Embassy.

‘So, you didn’t take my advice after all,’ remonstrated Booth Watson, like a headmaster chastising a wayward child. ‘Therefore, I’ll repeat my strong recommendation a second time. You must walk away, Miles. In fact, even take advantage of the situation.’

‘How do you propose I do that?’ asked Miles.

‘You can brief Commander Warwick on what the Russians are up to, in exchange for the police dropping any charges against you for the unauthorized sale of Olympic tickets.’

Miles accepted that was unquestionably the sensible course of action to take, until he recalled Petrov’s threats and one word in particular: funeral.

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ said Miles without explanation. ‘However, I will take your advice and walk away.’

···

Miles returned to the Russian residence the following day, his short speech well-prepared. The same uniformed officer opened the door and once again escorted the guest into the drawing room where the Ambassador awaited him.

The first thing Miles saw as he walked into the room was a portrait by a Dutch artist who had died in poverty, having sold only one picture in his lifetime.

The Ambassador rose from his chair and said, ‘So, have you reached a decision, Mr Faulkner?’

‘Yes, I have,’ replied Miles, his eyes still fixed on Van Gogh’s masterpiece.

He changed his mind once again.