Page 16 of End Game
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 acold 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 façade 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 particularCommander 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.
