Page 9 of End Game (William Warwick #8)
F AULKNER KNEW THAT if the Russians were expected to part with one of their most fabled treasures, it would come at a very high price.
He had been left with no choice but to clear his diary for the next few weeks and be on call at a moment’s notice, whatever the hour.
Meetings of the inner team were always held at a different venue, at short notice, and rarely during office hours.
Despite his reservations, Booth Watson remained on call, well aware he could leave at a moment’s notice and take advantage of Bernie Longe’s offer to double his retainer.
He began his new assignment by trawling the universities for law students who were looking for a holiday job, and after selecting the brightest three on tap, he didn’t allow them to meet each other.
The first task they were set was to find out if anything had gone wrong during the build-up to the Beijing Olympics which they could duplicate.
One of the three, who thought like a criminal – always useful if you’re hoping to be a defence barrister – produced the thickest file.
When the torch relay had arrived in Beijing, the runners, he wrote, were continually held up by Tibetan separatists, one of whom tried to put out the Olympic flame with a fire extinguisher.
He’d been sentenced to five years in prison.
Faulkner turned up to the next meeting, accompanied by his pliant QC, armed with enough valuable information they could take advantage of. However, they wouldn’t be telling Sun Anqi everything they’d discovered.
They gathered in an upstairs room of a quiet London pub. Miles wasn’t surprised to find Petrov waiting for him, but the lady with a killer’s eyes was sitting on the next table as if they weren’t together. She didn’t even glance in his direction.
After a ten-pound note had changed hands, the landlord assured his customers that no one would disturb them. Booth Watson shifted in his seat; this was the first meeting he’d attended and he didn’t feel at ease.
‘You have to understand that security will be tight,’ Faulkner warned Petrov, as they discussed the first item on their unwritten agenda: disrupting the Olympic torch relay. ‘Even during the night, two police officers never allow the torch out of their sight.’
‘Then what chance do we have of carrying out your plan?’ asked Petrov.
Faulkner didn’t answer the question, but simply replied, ‘I’ve identified a weakness in the system.’
Petrov didn’t have to ask the obvious question.
‘Eighty thousand volunteers have applied to be among the chosen few to carry the torch,’ Booth Watson explained, ‘including Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, who were both turned down, as the organizing committee were keen to involve only local people on each stage of the torch’s journey.’
Petrov made a note.
‘I’ve discovered that a local fireman from Hounslow has been selected to carry the torch on one of the stages between Wembley and Greenwich,’ added Faulkner.
‘And?’ pressed Petrov.
‘Unfortunately, the man in question turns out to have a gambling problem and is being pressed by his bookie to pay up. I’m going to solve his problem,’ said Faulkner, ‘and in return, I intend to take advantage of his particular skills, which will turn the torch relay into a farce and create unwelcome headlines right across the world, without any suggestion that you were in any way involved.’
‘Hardly earth shattering,’ suggested the lady seated on the next table.
Booth Watson took a closer look at Sun Anqi and after thirty years as a criminal barrister, knew evil when he saw it.
‘I have several disruptions planned that should keep Warwick and his lapdogs well occupied during the run-up to the Games,’ said Petrov, looking directly at Faulkner.
‘The more minor incidents the police have to deal with before the Games, the better, as then they won’t be prepared for what I have in store for them. ’
‘But what do you have in store for them?’ asked Sun Anqi, barely able to hide her frustration.
‘Operation Blackout,’ said Petrov without further explanation. ‘And I shouldn’t have to remind you, you’re simply an observer until the closing ceremony.’
‘But, should you fail,’ said Sun Anqi, ‘which wouldn’t come as a surprise, I will then be expected to cover your mistakes.’
Petrov turned back, barely able to control his temper as he faced Faulkner. ‘Can I confirm, Mr Faulkner, that you own a Learjet 45?’
Booth Watson was quickly becoming aware just how much intelligence they had on his client and he didn’t like it.
Faulkner hesitated, before nodding. ‘Housed in a hangar at Biggin Hill and ready to take off at a moment’s notice.’
‘Good, because at some time in the near future, we will require you to fly to Helsinki, collect a package from our embassy and bring it back to London.’
‘Why can’t one of your own people cover that?’ asked Booth Watson.
‘Because, Mr Booth Watson, if we were caught in possession of this particular package, it wouldn’t take the Olympic Committee long to work out not only what we have planned, but who was responsible.’
‘So what’s in the package?’ demanded Miles, cutting to the chase.
‘That, I’m not willing to reveal,’ said Petrov.
‘And if my client refuses to go along with your plan?’ asked Booth Watson.
‘Vincent Van Gogh will be returning to St Petersburg,’ said Petrov, staring directly at Booth Watson.
Faulkner nodded.
‘Let’s move on to item number three. Spiking the urine of two of the world’s leading athletes,’ said Petrov, without showing any sign of emotion.
‘Two athletes who are clearly not Russian or Chinese,’ suggested Booth Watson.
‘A keen observation,’ said Sun Anqi, who never trusted lawyers. In her opinion, they were only too happy to act for either side, as long as their fees were paid.
Petrov took his time explaining the role he expected Mr Faulkner to play.
‘Who are the two athletes concerned?’ interrupted Booth Watson.
‘We’ll let you know their names nearer the time,’ said Petrov. ‘Your job is to make sure their urine can be spiked without anyone becoming suspicious. We assume you have both the facilities and the local contacts, while making sure no prying eyes look our way?’
Faulkner nodded.
‘Good, because when the news breaks that traces of performance-enhancing drugs have been found in the urine of the athletes concerned, their medals will be stripped from them.’
‘While no doubt your own athletes will sweep the board, despite being drugged up to their eyeballs,’ suggested Faulkner.
Petrov graced Faulkner with a smile.
‘It’s no secret,’ said Miles, ‘to anyone who reads the back pages of any national newspaper, that eighty per cent of Russian athletes who competed in Beijing were on drugs. And the only reason they weren’t caught was because your scientists had come up with a masking drug which, if taken by athletes six weeks before they compete, hides all traces of any previous drug-taking. ’
‘It’s called modern warfare, and if we … you carry out your side of the plan, the London Games will only be remembered for one thing.’
‘Not unlike the Seoul Olympics,’ suggested Booth Watson, ‘when Ben Johnson was stripped of his gold medal following the one hundred metres final and Carl Lewis was declared the winner.’
‘With a subtle difference on this occasion,’ suggested Petrov, ‘as the athletes concerned are far better known than Ben Johnson, and one of them is British.’
···
Booth Watson was now even more anxious – not merely about the risk his client was taking, but also about his own future.
It was true that in the past Miles had often involved him in ventures that could end up with him being disbarred, but never before had he been involved in something that could endanger his life.
When they left the pub, Miles hailed a taxi, and Booth Watson decided the time had come to tell his client, once and for all, to walk away while he still could.
If, once again, Miles ignored his advice, he would have to explain to his client why he could no longer represent him – and nothing, he would repeat, nothing, would change his mind.
As they waited for a taxi to pull up, Booth Watson had to admit, if only to himself, that he was heartened by the fact he could always switch his allegiance to Bernie Longe and double his retainer.
‘Where to, guv?’ asked the cabbie, as they climbed in and Miles pulled the taxi door closed.
‘Thirty-Seven Cadogan Place,’ said Miles.
‘And then on to Middle Temple,’ said Booth Watson, as he leant forward and closed the window that divided the driver from his fare. ‘There’s something we need to discuss, Miles, and it can’t wait a moment longer,’ he said, unable to look directly at his client.
Miles glanced across to see Booth Watson holding tightly onto the seat, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. ‘You’ve been my most important client for more years than I care to remember,’ Booth Watson began, ‘and I hope you feel I’ve served you well.’
‘None better, and I would suggest that you have become far more than a trusted advocate – a dear and close friend,’ said Miles, who’d already worked out why Booth Watson was perspiring.
This silenced Booth Watson for a moment, which Miles took advantage of.
‘And as neither of us is getting any younger,’ Miles continued, ‘I feel the time has come for me to show you just how much I appreciate your friendship and loyalty.’ Miles glanced across to see the bead of sweat had reached Booth Watson’s nose, while several more had appeared on his forehead, allowing Miles to continue with his well-prepared homily.
‘Of course, I’m well aware that my latest enterprise may be stretching that loyalty to breaking point, especially considering I didn’t heed the sage advice you gave me earlier. ’
Booth Watson turned to face him; his mouth opened but no words came out.
‘I suppose it should have occurred to me when I learned that Bernie Longe had offered to double your retainer if you would leave me and represent him. But, typically, you turned the offer down out of hand.’
Booth Watson removed a handkerchief from his top pocket and began to mop his brow.
‘So I’ve decided the least I can do in the circumstances is not only equal Longe’s offer, but, aware you are putting your career on the line, add a bonus for your troubles.’
‘A bonus?’ Booth Watson heard himself repeating.
‘Yes,’ said Miles. ‘Once the Games are over, it is my intention to place a million pounds in a numbered Swiss bank account, so you can enjoy the retirement you so richly deserve, because I can assure you this will be my last venture.’ Miles hoped he sounded sincere.
Booth Watson was speechless.
‘But I interrupted you,’ said Miles, as the cabbie turned into Cadogan Place. ‘There was something you wanted to tell me?’
‘It can wait until the Games are over,’ said Booth Watson, as the cab drew up outside Miles’s front door.
Miles smiled as he got out of the taxi and paid the fare.
25 June 2012 – 32 days to go
T HE FOLLOWING MORNING over breakfast with William, Ross filled the boss in with everything he’d witnessed when he’d followed Faulkner to the Oval.
‘Since then, there’s been nothing of interest,’ Ross added, ‘although he did manage to give me the slip yesterday morning after I got stuck at a traffic light.’
‘So, Faulkner has somehow got himself mixed up with the Russian government,’ said William thoughtfully.
‘So it would seem.’
‘What exactly are they up to?’
Ross left the question unanswered, taking a sip of coffee. ‘Has Beth told you what she witnessed during the gala reception at the Russian Embassy recently?’
William nodded. ‘She mentioned it in passing, but we were interrupted before I got the full story. My phone never stops ringing these days. Something about a Van Gogh?’
‘In one,’ said Ross. ‘Faulkner was taking an unusual amount of interest in a particular Van Gogh self-portrait – a painting Beth has since been told will be part of The Hermitage Comes to the Fitzmolean exhibition.’
‘So Faulkner may be trying to buy it from the Russians,’ mused William.
‘Possibly,’ said Ross. ‘The question is: is he buying it with money, or with something else the Russians need?’
‘Good question.’ William sighed. ‘Look, keep an eye on Faulkner, by all means, but we have bigger issues to worry about right now. With only five weeks to go, all our focus needs to be on the Olympics and any potential threat to the Games – which this isn’t.’
‘As far as we know,’ said Ross.
···
Ross decided to carry out William’s instructions and concentrate on the Olympics rather than Faulkner, but he still wondered if the two might somehow be connected, so on his day off he was back in his taxi, parked a hundred yards from Faulkner’s front door.
He was taken by surprise when Faulkner climbed into his Rolls but Collins turned right at the end of the street and not left.
Ross kept his distance as the chauffeur-driven car headed out of central London, passing through the boroughs of Chelsea, Fulham and Brentford, before coming to a halt outside a semi-detached house in Hounslow.
Ross watched as Faulkner got out of the car, strode up a short, weed-infested path, before knocking on a door that was opened almost immediately. He was clearly expected.
Ross drove past the house and carried on for another hundred yards before turning left and disappearing out of sight. He parked the car, got out, and hid behind a tree that afforded him a perfect view of the front door. He waited.
About an hour passed before Faulkner came back out and climbed into the Rolls, which then headed back towards central London.
Ross made no attempt to follow him. Never follow a target back to their base is a golden rule, as it’s the surest way to blow your cover. Ross waited until the car was out of sight before he drove slowly past the house, making a mental note of the number and the name of the road.
It didn’t take a great deal of research to discover that the owner was a Mr Dave Timpson, who worked for the local fire brigade, a job he’d been doing for the past twelve years.
It took a little more research for Ross to find out that Mr Timpson was experiencing financial difficulties, which might explain why Faulkner had visited him. But it didn’t explain what Faulkner would expect in return for removing those difficulties.
That took considerably more research.