End Game, page 9
‘It’s not difficult to work out what their chosen route will be next Friday,’ suggested William, ‘which just happens to be the evening of the opening ceremony.’
‘When they could hold up as many as half the spectators on their way to the stadium,’ said Paul, ‘who won’t arrive in time to see the Queen take her place in the Royal Box.’
‘You’re halfway there,’ said Ross.
‘So what’s the other half?’ asked Rebecca.
‘The Queen won’t even make it to the Royal Box.’
‘Hold on,’ said Jackie. ‘What are we talking about here – an inconvenient hold-up or a royal assassination attempt?’
Rebecca was shaking her head. ‘That would never happen. The cyclists may be a nuisance, but they’re not terrorists.’
‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ said Ross, ‘but while Faulkner’s involved, I’m assuming the worst and only hope I’m proved wrong.’
‘Has MI5 been fully briefed?’ asked Jackie.
William nodded. ‘As has GCHQ. They understand our fears, but reminded us how sketchy our evidence is at the moment. They’re keeping a close eye on developments, but if anything were to go wrong during the Games, it would be our responsibility. At present,’ he added, ‘we are not anxious about Her Majesty’s safety. What does concern us is the possible disruption to the opening ceremony – and why any disruption would be welcomed by the Russians. We have no idea what else they might be planning on the back of it, but if we have to deal with the unexpected on the night, we need to know what they have planned next, so we’re not on the back foot.’
After a moment’s silence, Jackie said, ‘But the Queen is always accompanied by a group of highly trained outriders, who make sure everyone moves aside so the royal party can carry on without ever having to stop.’
‘Perhaps a well organized bunch of determined cyclists won’t be moving aside,’ suggested Ross.
‘There are five routes Her Majesty can take on her journey from the palace to the stadium,’ said Paul, looking down at the map spread out on the centre of the table.
‘That all end up in the same tunnel,’ added William, which stopped any more interruptions.
‘The cyclists would not only slow the traffic down,’ continued Ross, ‘but if they can reach the tunnel before the Queen, they could then abandon their bikes and leave them in the middle of the road. It would take us hours to remove them, while HM would be stuck waving in the back of her car and not sitting in the front of the Royal Box.’
‘While we,’ added William, ‘become fully occupied and they – and by they, I mean the Russians – move on to the second part of their plan, whatever that might be.’
‘Turning the opening ceremony into the closing ceremony would be my bet,’ said Paul.
No one laughed.
‘Then we’ll just have to ban any protests planned on the day of the opening ceremony,’ said William.
‘You will recall, sir,’ said Rebecca, ‘that the Law Lords ruled cyclists are not protesters, but a public procession.’
‘Then we’ll have to arrest every one of them before they become a public procession.’
‘I don’t think you have the authority to do that, sir,’ said Jackie.
‘Then I’ll serve them with a Section Twelve notice,’ said William, becoming more irritated.
‘But Section Twelve is only used in case of riots,’ Rebecca reminded him.
‘Or serious disruption to the life of the community,’ William countered.
‘If we start arresting innocent members of the public,’ Paul said firmly, ‘they’ll certainly take us to court, and win.’
‘Which, I would suggest,’ said William, ‘is preferable to having a half-empty stadium with the Queen stuck in an underpass – or worse.’
No further objection was voiced before they moved on to the next item on the agenda: the upcoming arrival of the Olympic torch in London.
21 July 2012 – 6 days to go
WHEN THE TORCH-BEARER ENTERED Greater London for the first time, Ross was more than ready to take over from his country colleagues. He was relieved that the torch relay had so far gone without a major incident, despite large crowds lining the routes right across the country. Still, he wouldn’t relax until the torch had finally reached the stadium.
Ross had kept up his running schedule of four miles a day, as well as spending an hour at his local gym pumping weights. This would be his Olympic final.
During the last few sections of the relay, the members of the dedicated Torch Relay team had remained at a discreet distance surrounding each torch-bearer, looking for the slightest suggestion of trouble or anything suspicious. If such a situation arose, Ross knew he would have to make an instant decision, as there would be no time to consult anyone.
A thousand carefully selected torch-bearers would wind their way through three hundred miles of the sprawling metropolis until they handed the ‘Mother Flame’ over to seven young athletes chosen by seven former gold medallists. The next generation would then light the two hundred and four petals, representing two hundred and four competing nations, that would continue to burn until the Games ended and the torch was passed on to the Mayor of Rio de Janeiro.
It might look like a lot of pomp and circumstance on the surface, but Ross understood the real significance of such ceremonies. The torch was the symbol of the Olympics, and the Olympics were an occasion when the world came together in peace and friendly competition, not in war and conflict. This simple flickering flame represented a great deal to so many people in troubled times.
Ross waited impatiently until he could hear cheering, just a distant rumble to begin with, then a roar that grew louder and louder long before the torch-bearer came into sight. A local traffic warden was greeted with as many jeers as cheers as he lit the torch of a waiting NHS nurse, who was welcomed with thunderous applause as the flame was passed over and she set off on the next lap.
The atmosphere was intense, and Ross was reminded once again of the weight William and his team had carried on their shoulders for the past seven years. This excited, eager crowd of onlookers were the people who would feel let down if anything were to go wrong.
Ross, accompanied by the Torch Relay team, eyes darting in every direction, remained a few yards behind, just in case anyone decided to join the relay uninvited. Few of the crowd would have noticed the minders, as their eyes were fixed on the torch and its latest bearer. Ross continually scanned the crowd on both sides of the road, looking for the one person he didn’t doubt had plans to disrupt the progress of the torch.
Six police motorcyclists and an ambulance hovered a further hundred yards behind Ross and his team of runners, along with an armed car containing the ‘Mother Flame’, protected by four armed officers, bringing up the rear.
When the nurse came to the end of her leg, she lit the flame of a torch carried by an elderly gentleman who had taken part in the 1948 Olympics. The crowd cheered the octogenarian every step of the way, Ross jogging a few yards behind. The old man managed about a quarter of a mile before he passed the flame over to a local postman, suitably dressed for the occasion, an empty postbag over one shoulder and the torch in his hand. Ross could tell that the torch-bearers were enjoying every moment of the experience, and expected that each torch would remain a family heirloom to be passed down from generation to generation.
Ross had to lengthen his stride, as the next recipient was captain of his local Hare and Hounds cross-country club, every bit as fit as Ross – and ten years younger. He might have got away if he hadn’t had to hold the torch aloft for all to see, which slowed him down.
Ross increased his pace when he saw the next runner coming into sight, a local fireman suitably dressed for the occasion, holding a large red bucket in one hand and his unlit torch in the other. Ross recognized him immediately.
When Ross saw that the bucket was full of water, he quickly cut down the distance between himself and the fireman.
The waiting runner placed his bucket on the ground, causing a few drops of water to spill out onto the road. As the captain of the cross-country club approached the fireman, he held up his torch so that the flame could be passed from one carrier to the next without delay.
Once it was lit, the fireman held his torch aloft, for all to see – and that was when Ross knew for certain what was about to happen.
As the fireman began to lower his torch slowly towards the bucket of water, Ross charged across the road and aimed a sharp kick at the bucket, sending it flying, water spilling out onto the pavement, just moments before the eternal flame would have been extinguished. He grabbed the fireman and thrust an arm behind his back.
The crowd around them gasped, and the excitement of moments before fell to an eerie silence, broken only by the fireman’s cries of, ‘Let go of me!’
Ross ignored him, handing the still-lit torch over to the captain of the cross-country club, who was jogging on the spot, looking as bemused as the crowd around them. ‘Go and don’t stop running until you reach the next torch-bearer. Go!’ he repeated loudly.
The man obeyed the order just as two of the young police runners joined Ross. Together, they bundled the fireman into the back of a police van before he had any chance of escaping into the crowd.
Ross could only imagine the headlines that would have hit the world’s newspapers in the morning had the fireman succeeded in putting out the eternal flame. But Ross had a feeling this was only a taster before the main event …
• • •
‘I know my rights,’ said the fireman.
‘I feel sure you do,’ said Ross, as the car came to a halt outside Greenwich police station. The two young officers hauled Timpson out of the back seat and escorted him into the nick.
‘I have the right to call my lawyer,’ the prisoner reminded them, sounding as if he’d been well briefed.
‘All in good time,’ said Ross, as he showed the desk sergeant his warrant card.
‘I’m not saying nothin’ until I’ve spoken to my lawyer,’ said Timpson, a little more loudly.
The desk sergeant nodded and pointed to a telephone booth on the far wall.
Timpson walked quickly across to the phone, picked up the receiver and dialled the number he’d been given. As it began to ring, he looked around to check no one could overhear him. The policeman who’d nearly broken his arm was talking to the desk sergeant.
‘What have you arrested him for?’ asked the desk sergeant, as he started tapping on his computer.
‘I haven’t got anything that would stand up in court,’ admitted Ross. ‘Only wish I could hear the conversation that’s taking place behind me.’ He didn’t look back.
‘Can’t help you with that one,’ said the desk sergeant, ‘as you well know.’
‘But you are able to trace the number he’s calling,’ Ross reminded him.
‘Yes. The supervisor will give you the number, but nothing more,’ said the desk sergeant, as Timpson put down the phone. ‘So what do you want me to do with him?’
‘Put him in an interview room with an officer present. Let him cool his heels for about an hour and then release him with a caution, but don’t charge him.’
‘Understood,’ said the desk sergeant. He placed the charge sheet back under the counter, then nodded to one of the constables, who led the prisoner away.
Ross waited until Timpson had disappeared down the stairs before he walked across to the phone and asked to be put through to the supervisor. A few moments later, another voice came on the line. He told her his name, rank and number.
She asked him to hold on.
It was some time before she came back on the line, but then Ross accepted that she would be double-checking. At last, she enquired, ‘How can I help you, Sergeant Hogan?’
‘I need to know the last number that was dialled from this phone,’ said Ross.
Another shorter wait before the supervisor revealed the number.
‘Thank you,’ said Ross, before replacing the phone. He picked it back up again and began to dial.
A few moments later, a voice said, ‘Mr Booth Watson’s chambers. How can I help you?’
Ross put down the phone.
• • •
‘Bring me up to speed,’ said the Hawk, as he looked across the table at William and Ross.
‘We know Faulkner was involved in the torch relay incident,’ said Ross, ‘and we also know he’s encouraged a group of well-organized cyclists to disrupt the opening ceremony to highlight their cause.’
‘However, what we suspect but can’t prove,’ added William, ‘is that he’s not working alone.’ He paused. ‘We fear he could be carrying out direct orders from the Russian secret service.’
‘Evidence?’ snapped the Hawk.
Ross spelled out in detail what he’d witnessed at the Oval cricket ground only a few weeks before.
‘But why the Russians?’ asked the Hawk.
‘After Margaret Thatcher tried to ban our athletes from attending the Games in Moscow in 1980, it might quite simply be revenge,’ said William. ‘However, I’ve no doubt there will be other forces at work. Don’t forget, the Olympics will be on every back page for the next month – perhaps they’d like to move it to the front page, for all the wrong reasons. Nothing would please them more than to see the British humiliated on the world stage.’
‘And there are no prizes for guessing on whose shoulders the blame would be placed, which wouldn’t please just the Russians, but Faulkner as well,’ added Ross.
‘So it will be our job to “prevent and protect”, without the public ever finding out what they’re up to,’ suggested the Hawk. ‘A police officer’s worst nightmare.’
‘Do you want me to go on tailing Faulkner, or should I try to track down the Russian I saw him sitting next to at the Oval?’ asked Ross.
‘Faulkner,’ said William without hesitation. ‘The Russian won’t raise his head above the parapet while his collaborator can take the blame. But at the same time, we’ll stay in touch with MI5, who keep constant surveillance on the Russian Embassy. I’ll also contact Professor Meredith at GCHQ to see if he can shed any light on what they might have planned.’
‘But what’s in it for Faulkner?’ asked the Hawk. ‘Because he certainly doesn’t need the money.’
‘A Van Gogh,’ suggested William, ‘that even his money can’t buy.’
CHAPTER 11
25 July 2012 – 2 days to go
‘WHAT A PLEASANT SURPRISE,’ said Beth, as William strolled into the kitchen. ‘To what do we owe this honour, Commander, dare I ask?’
‘To a very brief gap in my schedule,’ said William, as he took a seat opposite the twins. ‘Robert not with you?’ he asked Artemisia.
‘Visiting the constituency,’ she replied, ‘so I thought I’d keep mum company.’
‘Strange really,’ said Beth, turning from the oven, ‘that you technically live here and Artemisia doesn’t, and yet I see a lot more of my daughter nowadays than my husband.’
William couldn’t come up with a suitable reply.
‘How long do we have you for?’ asked Beth.
‘Not long,’ admitted William. ‘The dress rehearsal for the opening ceremony won’t begin until midnight, but I’ll be expected back long before the curtain rises.’
‘Why midnight?’ asked Peter, as his mother placed a chicken salad on the centre of the table, hoping there was enough spare to also feed the unexpected visitor.
‘It’s our best hope of keeping the big surprise under wraps,’ said William, ‘while making sure the details don’t leak before the first editions come out in the morning.’
Artemisia turned towards her father and gave him a warm smile. ‘I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me what that big surprise is?’
‘Not a hope while you’re working for the Daily Mail.’
‘I’m just a cub reporter,’ said Artemisia, ‘and only while the Games are taking place. However, the editor has hinted that if I were to come up with an exclusive, this cub just might be invited to join the pack.’
‘I can’t help you there,’ William repeated, as he helped himself to some salad.
‘I’m taking Arte, Jojo, Robert and Grandpops to the opening ceremony on Friday,’ said Peter. ‘Although I’m not going to tell you how I got hold of five tickets.’
‘No mean feat,’ admitted William. ‘At least ten people have applied for every available seat, and they’re now trading on the black market for over five thousand pounds apiece.’
‘While you, no doubt, will be sitting in the Royal Box living it up,’ said Beth.
‘If only,’ said William. ‘No, I’ll be stuck in the Gold Suite below ground with only the television screens to keep me company. All of them zooming in on the spectators, not the participants, in case there’s any trouble.’
Artemisia looked up and tried a second time. ‘What kind of trouble are you expecting?’
‘If I knew the answer to that,’ said William, avoiding the question, ‘there wouldn’t be any trouble.’
‘Can I visit you in the Gold Suite?’ asked Artemisia, giving her father an even bigger smile.
‘Good try,’ said William, ‘but the answer is still no.’ William took a bite of chicken before he added, ‘So what have you been up to, Peter?’ hoping to silence his persistent daughter.
‘I can’t go into any detail,’ said Peter solemnly. ‘Not while there’s a member of press present.’
William and Beth burst out laughing.
‘Peter’s off to Woolwich Crown Court in the morning,’ said Artemisia. ‘He’s appearing in a case for the Crown, as a junior – very junior.’
‘What’s the case?’ asked William.
‘Trying to make sure that some two-bit ticket tout isn’t granted bail,’ said Artemisia. ‘A story that wouldn’t usually make page fourteen below the fold on a slow day.’
‘So that’s how you got the tickets?’ queried William.
‘I can’t break client privilege,’ said Peter, with a smirk.
William gave up, and turning to his daughter asked, ‘How’s Robert doing?’
‘When they could hold up as many as half the spectators on their way to the stadium,’ said Paul, ‘who won’t arrive in time to see the Queen take her place in the Royal Box.’
‘You’re halfway there,’ said Ross.
‘So what’s the other half?’ asked Rebecca.
‘The Queen won’t even make it to the Royal Box.’
‘Hold on,’ said Jackie. ‘What are we talking about here – an inconvenient hold-up or a royal assassination attempt?’
Rebecca was shaking her head. ‘That would never happen. The cyclists may be a nuisance, but they’re not terrorists.’
‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ said Ross, ‘but while Faulkner’s involved, I’m assuming the worst and only hope I’m proved wrong.’
‘Has MI5 been fully briefed?’ asked Jackie.
William nodded. ‘As has GCHQ. They understand our fears, but reminded us how sketchy our evidence is at the moment. They’re keeping a close eye on developments, but if anything were to go wrong during the Games, it would be our responsibility. At present,’ he added, ‘we are not anxious about Her Majesty’s safety. What does concern us is the possible disruption to the opening ceremony – and why any disruption would be welcomed by the Russians. We have no idea what else they might be planning on the back of it, but if we have to deal with the unexpected on the night, we need to know what they have planned next, so we’re not on the back foot.’
After a moment’s silence, Jackie said, ‘But the Queen is always accompanied by a group of highly trained outriders, who make sure everyone moves aside so the royal party can carry on without ever having to stop.’
‘Perhaps a well organized bunch of determined cyclists won’t be moving aside,’ suggested Ross.
‘There are five routes Her Majesty can take on her journey from the palace to the stadium,’ said Paul, looking down at the map spread out on the centre of the table.
‘That all end up in the same tunnel,’ added William, which stopped any more interruptions.
‘The cyclists would not only slow the traffic down,’ continued Ross, ‘but if they can reach the tunnel before the Queen, they could then abandon their bikes and leave them in the middle of the road. It would take us hours to remove them, while HM would be stuck waving in the back of her car and not sitting in the front of the Royal Box.’
‘While we,’ added William, ‘become fully occupied and they – and by they, I mean the Russians – move on to the second part of their plan, whatever that might be.’
‘Turning the opening ceremony into the closing ceremony would be my bet,’ said Paul.
No one laughed.
‘Then we’ll just have to ban any protests planned on the day of the opening ceremony,’ said William.
‘You will recall, sir,’ said Rebecca, ‘that the Law Lords ruled cyclists are not protesters, but a public procession.’
‘Then we’ll have to arrest every one of them before they become a public procession.’
‘I don’t think you have the authority to do that, sir,’ said Jackie.
‘Then I’ll serve them with a Section Twelve notice,’ said William, becoming more irritated.
‘But Section Twelve is only used in case of riots,’ Rebecca reminded him.
‘Or serious disruption to the life of the community,’ William countered.
‘If we start arresting innocent members of the public,’ Paul said firmly, ‘they’ll certainly take us to court, and win.’
‘Which, I would suggest,’ said William, ‘is preferable to having a half-empty stadium with the Queen stuck in an underpass – or worse.’
No further objection was voiced before they moved on to the next item on the agenda: the upcoming arrival of the Olympic torch in London.
21 July 2012 – 6 days to go
WHEN THE TORCH-BEARER ENTERED Greater London for the first time, Ross was more than ready to take over from his country colleagues. He was relieved that the torch relay had so far gone without a major incident, despite large crowds lining the routes right across the country. Still, he wouldn’t relax until the torch had finally reached the stadium.
Ross had kept up his running schedule of four miles a day, as well as spending an hour at his local gym pumping weights. This would be his Olympic final.
During the last few sections of the relay, the members of the dedicated Torch Relay team had remained at a discreet distance surrounding each torch-bearer, looking for the slightest suggestion of trouble or anything suspicious. If such a situation arose, Ross knew he would have to make an instant decision, as there would be no time to consult anyone.
A thousand carefully selected torch-bearers would wind their way through three hundred miles of the sprawling metropolis until they handed the ‘Mother Flame’ over to seven young athletes chosen by seven former gold medallists. The next generation would then light the two hundred and four petals, representing two hundred and four competing nations, that would continue to burn until the Games ended and the torch was passed on to the Mayor of Rio de Janeiro.
It might look like a lot of pomp and circumstance on the surface, but Ross understood the real significance of such ceremonies. The torch was the symbol of the Olympics, and the Olympics were an occasion when the world came together in peace and friendly competition, not in war and conflict. This simple flickering flame represented a great deal to so many people in troubled times.
Ross waited impatiently until he could hear cheering, just a distant rumble to begin with, then a roar that grew louder and louder long before the torch-bearer came into sight. A local traffic warden was greeted with as many jeers as cheers as he lit the torch of a waiting NHS nurse, who was welcomed with thunderous applause as the flame was passed over and she set off on the next lap.
The atmosphere was intense, and Ross was reminded once again of the weight William and his team had carried on their shoulders for the past seven years. This excited, eager crowd of onlookers were the people who would feel let down if anything were to go wrong.
Ross, accompanied by the Torch Relay team, eyes darting in every direction, remained a few yards behind, just in case anyone decided to join the relay uninvited. Few of the crowd would have noticed the minders, as their eyes were fixed on the torch and its latest bearer. Ross continually scanned the crowd on both sides of the road, looking for the one person he didn’t doubt had plans to disrupt the progress of the torch.
Six police motorcyclists and an ambulance hovered a further hundred yards behind Ross and his team of runners, along with an armed car containing the ‘Mother Flame’, protected by four armed officers, bringing up the rear.
When the nurse came to the end of her leg, she lit the flame of a torch carried by an elderly gentleman who had taken part in the 1948 Olympics. The crowd cheered the octogenarian every step of the way, Ross jogging a few yards behind. The old man managed about a quarter of a mile before he passed the flame over to a local postman, suitably dressed for the occasion, an empty postbag over one shoulder and the torch in his hand. Ross could tell that the torch-bearers were enjoying every moment of the experience, and expected that each torch would remain a family heirloom to be passed down from generation to generation.
Ross had to lengthen his stride, as the next recipient was captain of his local Hare and Hounds cross-country club, every bit as fit as Ross – and ten years younger. He might have got away if he hadn’t had to hold the torch aloft for all to see, which slowed him down.
Ross increased his pace when he saw the next runner coming into sight, a local fireman suitably dressed for the occasion, holding a large red bucket in one hand and his unlit torch in the other. Ross recognized him immediately.
When Ross saw that the bucket was full of water, he quickly cut down the distance between himself and the fireman.
The waiting runner placed his bucket on the ground, causing a few drops of water to spill out onto the road. As the captain of the cross-country club approached the fireman, he held up his torch so that the flame could be passed from one carrier to the next without delay.
Once it was lit, the fireman held his torch aloft, for all to see – and that was when Ross knew for certain what was about to happen.
As the fireman began to lower his torch slowly towards the bucket of water, Ross charged across the road and aimed a sharp kick at the bucket, sending it flying, water spilling out onto the pavement, just moments before the eternal flame would have been extinguished. He grabbed the fireman and thrust an arm behind his back.
The crowd around them gasped, and the excitement of moments before fell to an eerie silence, broken only by the fireman’s cries of, ‘Let go of me!’
Ross ignored him, handing the still-lit torch over to the captain of the cross-country club, who was jogging on the spot, looking as bemused as the crowd around them. ‘Go and don’t stop running until you reach the next torch-bearer. Go!’ he repeated loudly.
The man obeyed the order just as two of the young police runners joined Ross. Together, they bundled the fireman into the back of a police van before he had any chance of escaping into the crowd.
Ross could only imagine the headlines that would have hit the world’s newspapers in the morning had the fireman succeeded in putting out the eternal flame. But Ross had a feeling this was only a taster before the main event …
• • •
‘I know my rights,’ said the fireman.
‘I feel sure you do,’ said Ross, as the car came to a halt outside Greenwich police station. The two young officers hauled Timpson out of the back seat and escorted him into the nick.
‘I have the right to call my lawyer,’ the prisoner reminded them, sounding as if he’d been well briefed.
‘All in good time,’ said Ross, as he showed the desk sergeant his warrant card.
‘I’m not saying nothin’ until I’ve spoken to my lawyer,’ said Timpson, a little more loudly.
The desk sergeant nodded and pointed to a telephone booth on the far wall.
Timpson walked quickly across to the phone, picked up the receiver and dialled the number he’d been given. As it began to ring, he looked around to check no one could overhear him. The policeman who’d nearly broken his arm was talking to the desk sergeant.
‘What have you arrested him for?’ asked the desk sergeant, as he started tapping on his computer.
‘I haven’t got anything that would stand up in court,’ admitted Ross. ‘Only wish I could hear the conversation that’s taking place behind me.’ He didn’t look back.
‘Can’t help you with that one,’ said the desk sergeant, ‘as you well know.’
‘But you are able to trace the number he’s calling,’ Ross reminded him.
‘Yes. The supervisor will give you the number, but nothing more,’ said the desk sergeant, as Timpson put down the phone. ‘So what do you want me to do with him?’
‘Put him in an interview room with an officer present. Let him cool his heels for about an hour and then release him with a caution, but don’t charge him.’
‘Understood,’ said the desk sergeant. He placed the charge sheet back under the counter, then nodded to one of the constables, who led the prisoner away.
Ross waited until Timpson had disappeared down the stairs before he walked across to the phone and asked to be put through to the supervisor. A few moments later, another voice came on the line. He told her his name, rank and number.
She asked him to hold on.
It was some time before she came back on the line, but then Ross accepted that she would be double-checking. At last, she enquired, ‘How can I help you, Sergeant Hogan?’
‘I need to know the last number that was dialled from this phone,’ said Ross.
Another shorter wait before the supervisor revealed the number.
‘Thank you,’ said Ross, before replacing the phone. He picked it back up again and began to dial.
A few moments later, a voice said, ‘Mr Booth Watson’s chambers. How can I help you?’
Ross put down the phone.
• • •
‘Bring me up to speed,’ said the Hawk, as he looked across the table at William and Ross.
‘We know Faulkner was involved in the torch relay incident,’ said Ross, ‘and we also know he’s encouraged a group of well-organized cyclists to disrupt the opening ceremony to highlight their cause.’
‘However, what we suspect but can’t prove,’ added William, ‘is that he’s not working alone.’ He paused. ‘We fear he could be carrying out direct orders from the Russian secret service.’
‘Evidence?’ snapped the Hawk.
Ross spelled out in detail what he’d witnessed at the Oval cricket ground only a few weeks before.
‘But why the Russians?’ asked the Hawk.
‘After Margaret Thatcher tried to ban our athletes from attending the Games in Moscow in 1980, it might quite simply be revenge,’ said William. ‘However, I’ve no doubt there will be other forces at work. Don’t forget, the Olympics will be on every back page for the next month – perhaps they’d like to move it to the front page, for all the wrong reasons. Nothing would please them more than to see the British humiliated on the world stage.’
‘And there are no prizes for guessing on whose shoulders the blame would be placed, which wouldn’t please just the Russians, but Faulkner as well,’ added Ross.
‘So it will be our job to “prevent and protect”, without the public ever finding out what they’re up to,’ suggested the Hawk. ‘A police officer’s worst nightmare.’
‘Do you want me to go on tailing Faulkner, or should I try to track down the Russian I saw him sitting next to at the Oval?’ asked Ross.
‘Faulkner,’ said William without hesitation. ‘The Russian won’t raise his head above the parapet while his collaborator can take the blame. But at the same time, we’ll stay in touch with MI5, who keep constant surveillance on the Russian Embassy. I’ll also contact Professor Meredith at GCHQ to see if he can shed any light on what they might have planned.’
‘But what’s in it for Faulkner?’ asked the Hawk. ‘Because he certainly doesn’t need the money.’
‘A Van Gogh,’ suggested William, ‘that even his money can’t buy.’
CHAPTER 11
25 July 2012 – 2 days to go
‘WHAT A PLEASANT SURPRISE,’ said Beth, as William strolled into the kitchen. ‘To what do we owe this honour, Commander, dare I ask?’
‘To a very brief gap in my schedule,’ said William, as he took a seat opposite the twins. ‘Robert not with you?’ he asked Artemisia.
‘Visiting the constituency,’ she replied, ‘so I thought I’d keep mum company.’
‘Strange really,’ said Beth, turning from the oven, ‘that you technically live here and Artemisia doesn’t, and yet I see a lot more of my daughter nowadays than my husband.’
William couldn’t come up with a suitable reply.
‘How long do we have you for?’ asked Beth.
‘Not long,’ admitted William. ‘The dress rehearsal for the opening ceremony won’t begin until midnight, but I’ll be expected back long before the curtain rises.’
‘Why midnight?’ asked Peter, as his mother placed a chicken salad on the centre of the table, hoping there was enough spare to also feed the unexpected visitor.
‘It’s our best hope of keeping the big surprise under wraps,’ said William, ‘while making sure the details don’t leak before the first editions come out in the morning.’
Artemisia turned towards her father and gave him a warm smile. ‘I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me what that big surprise is?’
‘Not a hope while you’re working for the Daily Mail.’
‘I’m just a cub reporter,’ said Artemisia, ‘and only while the Games are taking place. However, the editor has hinted that if I were to come up with an exclusive, this cub just might be invited to join the pack.’
‘I can’t help you there,’ William repeated, as he helped himself to some salad.
‘I’m taking Arte, Jojo, Robert and Grandpops to the opening ceremony on Friday,’ said Peter. ‘Although I’m not going to tell you how I got hold of five tickets.’
‘No mean feat,’ admitted William. ‘At least ten people have applied for every available seat, and they’re now trading on the black market for over five thousand pounds apiece.’
‘While you, no doubt, will be sitting in the Royal Box living it up,’ said Beth.
‘If only,’ said William. ‘No, I’ll be stuck in the Gold Suite below ground with only the television screens to keep me company. All of them zooming in on the spectators, not the participants, in case there’s any trouble.’
Artemisia looked up and tried a second time. ‘What kind of trouble are you expecting?’
‘If I knew the answer to that,’ said William, avoiding the question, ‘there wouldn’t be any trouble.’
‘Can I visit you in the Gold Suite?’ asked Artemisia, giving her father an even bigger smile.
‘Good try,’ said William, ‘but the answer is still no.’ William took a bite of chicken before he added, ‘So what have you been up to, Peter?’ hoping to silence his persistent daughter.
‘I can’t go into any detail,’ said Peter solemnly. ‘Not while there’s a member of press present.’
William and Beth burst out laughing.
‘Peter’s off to Woolwich Crown Court in the morning,’ said Artemisia. ‘He’s appearing in a case for the Crown, as a junior – very junior.’
‘What’s the case?’ asked William.
‘Trying to make sure that some two-bit ticket tout isn’t granted bail,’ said Artemisia. ‘A story that wouldn’t usually make page fourteen below the fold on a slow day.’
‘So that’s how you got the tickets?’ queried William.
‘I can’t break client privilege,’ said Peter, with a smirk.
William gave up, and turning to his daughter asked, ‘How’s Robert doing?’
