July 2005

‘Do you think we’re in with a chance?’ asked William. ‘An outside chance,’ responded the Hawk. ‘But don’t hold your breath.’

Commander William Warwick and his superior officer, Jack Hawksby, Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, were seated at the back of the packed ballroom in the Raffles Convention Centre in Singapore. For now, they were observers, not participants. Only if London won the bid to host the 2012 Olympics would they become participants.

Five cities had made it to the final round, but only one would be returning home with the gold medal. There were no prizes for second place in this particular race. Although five cities were lined up in the starting blocks, everyone in the room knew that there were only three serious contenders left in the race. Paris were the clear favourite, having lost out to Beijing four years ago, and were now telling anyone who would listen that the 2012 Olympics was theirs by right. Madrid was considered to be their only serious rival, while the bookies had London trailing in third place at ten to one.

During the next hour, four cities would be eliminated, leaving only one team to go home sporting the garland of victory.

The restless buzz in the convention centre was palpable, with several languages competing with each other. Most delegates assumed Moscow would be the first city to be eliminated, as they’d held the Games as recently as 1980 and were being tipped to host the Winter Olympics in Sochi in 2014.

Another rumour William had picked up during the past few days was that if Moscow were eliminated, their votes would be transferred to anyone but London, as Margaret Thatcher had tried to boycott the Moscow Games in 1980, and Putin was someone with a long memory.

The electorate, was made up of one hundred and four delegates, representing countries large and small. This meant Luxembourg’s vote was as important as China’s, which was one of the reasons no one could be sure of the outcome.

Another reason no one could predict the winner was that almost every one of the delegates would have lied at least four times during the final week, always pledging their vote to the last person they’d spoken to.

A door at the far end of the room opened, and everyone in the room fell silent as Jacques Rogge, the President of the International Olympic Committee, accompanied by the returning officer, entered the cauldron. They walked slowly up onto the stage, and by the time Rogge had taken his seat in the centre chair, there was pin-drop silence, as everyone waited to find out which city would be the first to be eliminated.

A thousand eyes stared up at the President as he opened the envelope and pulled out a card with a single name on it. He tapped the microphone a couple of times before he announced, ‘The city of Moscow will not be participating in the second round.’

A few people nervously applauded, while others looked relieved. But a fifth of the audience sat in stony silence,their fate decided. In a few hours’ time, they would be boarding a plane back to Moscow. Six years of hard work dismissed in a single sentence.

‘Win or lose,’ said William to the Hawk, as they made their way out of the hall to enjoy a short walk and catch a breath of fresh air before the loser of the next round was announced, ‘Beth and I will be going on holiday.’

‘Where?’ asked the Hawk, not a man who wasted words.

‘On a Viking cruise from Amsterdam to Budapest,’ said William. ‘No gallery en route will escape our attention.’

‘With or without the twins?’ enquired the Hawk.

‘Without,’ said William firmly, as they left the Convention Centre. ‘We’re the last people on earth they’ll want to spend a holiday with. Peter’s going to Galway with some friends later in the summer, and Artemisia has a holiday planned with her boyfriend, Robert. But right now, the twins are just as nervous as anyone in that hall: they’re waiting to find out their A-level results.’

‘And what are their plans afterwards?’ asked the Hawk.

‘Peter wants to go to my old alma mater, King’s College London, and study law, while Artemisia has already been offered a place at Bristol University to read English – where she’ll join Robert, who’s already there studying politics.’

‘I recently read in The Times,’ said the Hawk, ‘that Robert’s father has just been appointed chairman of Kestrals Bank,’ he paused, ‘thanks to you.’

‘More thanks to Ross than me,’ said William. ‘After all, he was the one who finally proved that Robert’s father was innocent of all the charges brought against him.’

‘And a fat lot of good that did him,’ spat out the Hawk.

William nodded grimly. After proving Simon Hartley’s innocence, Ross ended up being suspended for a year and demoted for his troubles, while his old adversary Miles Faulkner got away scot-free.

‘Frankly, I was surprised that Sergeant Hogan even returned to work after his demotion,’ added the Hawk.

‘Alice was able to convince him,’ replied William. ‘With Jojo and little Jack growing up fast, I suppose it was the sensible decision.’

The Hawk nodded. ‘If it’s the last thing I do,’ he said, with considerable feeling, ‘I’ll put Miles Faulkner behind bars for the rest of his life.’

‘With Booth Watson sharing the same cell,’ suggested William.

‘Amen to that,’ said the Hawk. ‘But how is Ross holding up?’ ‘He has never really settled after his run-in with Commander Sinclair,’ admitted William. ‘They keep giving him jobs where he can’t get into any trouble. But let’s face it, Ross wasn’t born to be a saint.’

‘Should we win the bid,’ said the Hawk, ‘we could do with Sergeant Hogan being back on our team, because we’ll have our work cut out. One thing’s for certain, while there’s several billion swilling around, every crook north of the river will be dipping their noses in the Olympic trough.’

‘Along with one or two south of the river,’ suggested William, ‘including Miles Faulkner, who won’t want to miss out while there’s a chance of making a quick buck.’

‘There’s no doubt about that,’ agreed the Assistant Commissioner, as they joined the delegates making their way back to the Convention Centre, each anxious to hear which city would be the next to be eliminated.

•••

Six thousand miles away, Miles Faulkner and Mr Booth Watson QC got off a bus and began walking towards a pub they’d never frequented before. Not their usual mode of transport, but Faulkner had decided to leave Collins and the Rolls in Cadogan Place, as a chauffeur sitting behind the wheel of a Silver Cloud would attract too much attention in an East End car park full of second-hand cars, some of them stolen.  Collins had already visited the Newham Arms several times during the past month and gathered all the information Miles needed to carry out his planned coup.

‘Why did you choose Collins?’ Booth Watson had asked. ‘Horses for courses,’ Miles had replied. ‘In any case, he’s utterly trustworthy.’

When Miles entered the pub, he spotted two locals sitting one each end of the bar. Neither of them acknowledged him, as had been agreed with Collins. The two newcomers perched on the empty stools between them, and Miles ordered a couple of pints, whilst glancing up at the television to see that the results of the next round of voting would be declared shortly. Huw Edwards was taking viewers through the voting procedure and explaining why he thought New York would be the next city to be eliminated, leaving Paris, Madrid and London to move on to the crucial round.

The landlord placed two pints of bitter on the counter, his eyes rarely leaving the television.

‘You seem interested in who wins,’ said Miles innocently. ‘My future depends on it,’ replied the publican, without looking back at his customer.

‘Is that so?’ mused Booth Watson, as he reluctantly sipped his beer.

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Miles, who understood only too well that the pub and the adjoining car park would be right in the middle of the proposed Olympic Stadium, should London win.

‘You’re sitting at the start of the one hundred metres,’ said the landlord, ‘and the long jump pit would be in my carpark, so if London gets the nod, I’ll make a fortune.’

‘A fortune?’ repeated Miles, hoping to find out what the publican considered to be a fortune.

‘I’ve already been offered a quarter of a million by a local developer,’ said the landlord. ‘But only if we win.’

Miles already knew exactly who the developer was: a local mafia boss called Bernie Longe, but he remained silent, as his lawyer would be delivering the next line.

‘And if London doesn’t win?’ asked Booth Watson, coming in on cue.

‘I’ll be lucky to get fifty thousand, which is why it’s not only their future that’s on the line,’ said the landlord, pointing up at the television. ‘I’ll either be seeing out my days in a council house on the local estate or exchanging it for a country cottage in Essex.’

‘Let me pose a hypothetical question,’ ventured Miles, as he put down his glass. ‘As Paris is looking like the odds-on favourite, how much would you settle for if I made you an offer for the site right now?’

 The landlord looked surprised and took his time considering the proposal. ‘Two hundred thousand,’ he finally said, his eyes once more fixed on the television.

The President of the Olympic Committee stood up, opened the envelope, withdrew the card and announced, ‘The city of New York will not participate in the next round.’

•••

‘If London is eliminated next, which seems likely,’ said the Hawk, ‘I’ve already packed my bags ready to head back home.’

‘But if London were to win,’ replied William, ‘you’ll have to unpack them again.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said the Hawk. ‘If London is selected as the host city, the first thing I’ll do is return to London and bring my old team back together again.’

William considered this. ‘We would have seven years to prepare.’

‘And it still wouldn’t be long enough.’

‘What makes you so sure the whole team will want to come back? After all, Paul has recently been promoted to second in command of the organized crime squad.’

‘They will have to learn to live without him,’ said the Hawk, ‘as I would offer Detective Inspector Adaja the chance to be Silver Commander, putting him in charge of day-to-day oper- ations at the Olympic Stadium.’

‘And Rebecca?’

‘Detective Sergeant Pankhurst would be my first choice for Bronze, keeping a close eye on the two hundred and fifty thousand spectators who will be visiting the Olympic Park every day.’

‘She might not want to leave the drug squad,’ suggested William, ‘where I hear she’s being tipped for further promotion.’

‘She won’t be given a lot of choice,’ said the Hawk. ‘And Jackie – will she be given a choice?’

‘Detective Sergeant Roycroft has already intimated that, should London win, she’d be happy to leave the arts and antiques squad and join us for the Olympics.’

‘Us?’ said William.

‘Of course. I’ll be appointing you as Gold Commander in charge of the national Olympic security operation,’ said the Hawk. ‘And if the Games are a success, I will finally retire in glory and you will have taken the next step to becoming Commissioner.’

‘I don’t believe you’ll ever retire,’ replied William. ‘You’ve been putting it off for years.’

‘But I can’t for much longer,’ said the Hawk.

‘And if the Games aren’t a success?’ asked William, unable to resist a smile.

‘You, Constable Warwick, will be back on the beat, while I’ll tell everyone I’d always considered Commander Sinclair to be the obvious choice as our next Commissioner. However, if you make a success of the Olympics, you can rely on my support,’ said the Hawk with a grin.

‘That’s a big if while so many imponderables remain in the balance,’ suggested William, ‘not least what’s about to take place on stage in a few moments’ time.’

The Hawk nodded. ‘I think Madrid will be the next city to be eliminated.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said William, ‘because if it’s Paris, I’m told they’ll vote for Madrid in the final round, as the last thing they want is for London to host the Games.’

The door opened once again, and Rogge walked back up onto the stage. He looked down at the remaining delegates, but didn’t open the envelope until he had complete silence. Rogge took his time extracting the card and putting his glasses back on, before he announced, ‘The city of Madrid will not be participating in the final round.’

The outburst that followed made it almost impossible for William to hear the Hawk say, ‘Now the odds are down to fifty-fifty.’

•••

‘The result of the third and final round will be announced in a few minutes’ time,’ said Huw Edwards, staring down from the television screen at several million expectant faces. ‘As Madrid had thirty-one votes,’ he continued, ‘which the experts are suggesting have already been pledged to the French, I think one can only assume we’re not the favourites.’

‘So how much would you be willing to take now?’ Miles asked the landlord, after he’d ordered another pint for himself, but not for Booth Watson, whose glass was still half full. Miles had told him firmly he couldn’t order his usual double gin and tonic. ‘One hundred and fifty thousand,’ said the publican, no longer sounding quite so confident.

‘I’ll give you one hundred thousand right now,’ said Miles, ‘but that’s my final offer.’

The landlord stared back up at the screen to see television crews, journalists and photographers now surrounding the French delegation, while one solitary hack remained loyal to the British.

A camera zoomed in on a member of the French team, who was placing a bottle of champagne on the table in front of him, while another produced two glasses.

‘It’s all over,’ said one of the locals, coming in bang on cue as Miles downed his pint and put the empty glass back on the counter.

‘No prizes for guessing who will be in second place,’ said the local at the other end of the bar, as Miles slipped off his stool and began to walk slowly towards the door.

‘All is not lost,’ said Huw Edwards – the landlord smiled – ‘because London will surely be the favourite for the 2020 Olympics.’ The landlord frowned.

‘How much would you give me now?’ asked the landlord, just as Miles touched the door handle.

‘Seventy-five thousand,’ said Miles, not looking back.

‘One hundred thousand,’ said the landlord, as Miles opened the door and stepped outside, with Booth Watson following a pace behind.

‘Alright, alright,’ shouted the landlord. ‘It’s yours for seventy- five grand.’

‘Good decision,’ said one of the locals, as his fellow conspirator nodded sagely.

Booth Watson quickly returned to the bar and placed his Gladstone bag on the counter.

They all looked up to see Rogge entering the arena for the final time.

Booth Watson opened his bag and extracted a well- prepared contract with no loopholes. He turned to the last page,as Miles sat back down at the bar and wrote out a cheque for seventy-five thousand pounds.

The publican hesitated as he stared at the figures. He looked up at the television screen to see the French already on their feet, some linked arm in arm, singing ‘La Marseillaise’. Booth Watson removed the top from his pen.

Rogge rose slowly from his place on the centre of the stage to address the delegates. He began by praising both teams for their dedicated hard work and excellent presentations, then reminded everyone that, in the end, only one city could be selected to host the Thirtieth Olympiad. He took even longer opening the envelope before extracting the card. He tapped the microphone once again before he looked down at the name of the city that would host the 2012 Olympic Games.

All the French delegates in that room were already on their feet waiting in anticipation.

The landlord grabbed the proffered pen and quickly signed on the dotted line.

An eerie silence fell on the gathering both at home and abroad when the President of the International Olympic Committee declared, ‘The Games of the Thirtieth Olympiad in 2012 are awarded to,’ he paused, ‘the city of London.’

The ink had dried.

•••

‘Prepare for the toughest assignment of your career,’ the Hawk said to William, as he rose from his place at the back of the hall and joined in the applause. ‘And don’t even think about relaxing until you hear that man say,’ he added, pointing at Rogge, ‘I declare the Games of the Thirtieth Olympiad closed.’

‘That won’t be for another seven years,’ William reminded him.

The Hawk turned to him. ‘Seven years may sound like a long time to prepare for a single event,’ he said, ‘but you know as well as I do that it isn’t – not when that single event is like no other on earth.’

William nodded. In the past, he had been involved in the security for the Queen Mother’s funeral, several state visits, including that of the President of the United States, and countless FA Cup Finals. However, come the summer of 2012, he would be expected to police forty-two world championships in the space of just a few weeks. A few weeks that would define his career.

He watched the British team, led by Sebastian Coe, continue to leap up and down as the realization of triumph began to sink in.

The French sat alone at the other end of the room, desolate, voices silenced, champagne unopened, like a deserted bride waiting for an absent groom to appear.

•••

The landlord switched the television off, looking not unlike a member of the French team.

Booth Watson hurried after his client, who had already left the pub, along with the two locals. Miles slipped them both a hundred pounds in cash. After all, they’d played their walk-on parts without fluffing a line.

Booth Watson caught up with Miles just as he was climbing into a taxi, and quickly joined him in the back. Once he’d got his breath back, he asked, ‘What would you have done if Paris had been awarded the Games?’

‘As it’s a Wednesday,’ Miles reminded him, ‘the landlord couldn’t have hoped to see the cheque cleared before the weekend and, sadly, by then it would have bounced all the way back to his pub with the words “insufficient funds”, making the contract null and void, if I remember the wording correctly.’

‘Whereas now, you can call the bank when it opens for business tomorrow morning to make sure the cheque is cleared immediately,’ said Booth Watson. ‘And if he doesn’t cash the cheque, the contract is still valid – the wording makes that perfectly clear.’

‘And I won’t be in any hurry to part with my new asset,’ said Miles, ‘because if the government wants to buy my pub and car park, or – should I say – my home straight and long jump pit, it’s going to cost them.’

•••

Less than twenty-four hours later, Commander Warwick was among the first in Singapore to hear the news. He was sitting alone in his hotel room, watching breakfast television. Three bombs had exploded on the London underground and a fourth on a bus, killing fifty-two and injuring over eight hundred innocent victims, most of them on their way to work.

William recalled that Sebastian Coe, during his confidential chats to delegates over the past fortnight, had frequently repeated the fact that twenty-five thousand people a day would be able to travel from Victoria to the Olympic Park on the London underground in half an hour.

As the new head of Public Order and Operational Support for the 2012 Olympic Games, William was preparing to address the British bidding team in the same room where only the day before they had celebrated a famous victory.

The following day, a sombre, but not altogether sober, group arrived back in London, not to the deserved accolades of an exuberant, welcoming crowd, but to be slipped quietly through a private exit so they could avoid the press, who would have only one question on their lips: if the bombing had taken place the day before the final vote, and not the day after, do you think London would have been selected to host the 2012 Olympic Games?

Everyone knew the answer.

 

BOOK ONE

Countdown

 CHAPTER 1

August 2005

For several reasons, Vladivostok was the chosen venue for the meeting between the two heads of state, primarily because of its proximity to the border of both their countries, meaning that the leaders could return to their capitals with very few prying eyes aware that the get-together had ever taken place. The press had not been invited to attend, and if the story had leaked, the meeting would have been cancelled.

The two presidents met in a railway carriage at the far end of a shunting yard, with no tall buildings overlooking them. The carriage had once been part of the Trans-Siberian Express, and exuded the kind of gracious opulence of abygone age that was considered appropriate for such a momentous occasion.

On arrival, only moments apart, both dictators took their places at each end of a long table. They sat in large, high-backed chairs with cushions to make them appear taller. The two remaining seats at the table were occupied by their ambassadors to London. Half a dozen senior mandarins sat around the outside of the carriage, notebooks open, pens in hand.

President Putin was the first to speak. ‘May I enquire, comrade,’ he began, ‘how your preparations are going for the 2008 Beijing Olympics?’

‘They are proceeding to plan,’ replied Hu Jintao, ‘and even the West will have to admit they have never seen a spectacle like it.’ He paused, then added quickly, ‘It will be comparable only with the 1980 Moscow Olympics.’

Putin waved a dismissive hand. ‘Once the Americans failed to turn up and took their quislings with them, we were never given the opportunity to prove our true worth, but with London now set to host the Olympics in 2012, I intend to return the compliment.’

‘Does that mean that Russia will be boycotting the London Olympics?’ asked Hu Jintao.

‘Certainly not,’ said Putin. ‘We must appear to be magnanimous, while not losing any and every opportunity to compare the London Games unfavourably with Beijing. The Olympics have long been a symbol of power and prestige. Every four years, athletes from across the globe come together to compete, while every country in the world looks on. All eyes will be on the host city.

‘The city that is chosen and given the opportunity to host the Olympics reveals what everyone thinks about that country, but the world is behind the times. They still trust the British – and we cannot allow that to continue. It is vital that we demonstrate to every country around the globe that power is shifting and it’s no longer the West that holds the cards. If we were able to destroy Britain’s reputation, we would at the same time destroy the trust other countries place in them. Once we’ve achieved that, we become more powerful.’ He paused. ‘With that in mind, comrade, I will ask my Ambassador to London to brief you on our plans.’

He turned to his right and nodded.

Anatoly Mikailov, the Russian Ambassador to London, had been carefully selected for the job. Mikailov had been educated at Harvard and Oxford, and many people in London and Washington counted him as a respected colleague, while he considered them nothing more than fair-weather friends. His new mission was to ensure the London Olympics were perceived as a disastrous failure from which they would never recover, and he’d already begun to put detailed plans in place to achieve that outcome.

‘For a start, London’s budget will be less than half of Beijing’s,’ he began. ‘However, you can be sure the British will put on a good show,’ he added, with an exaggerated posh accent. ‘One must remember, theatre is in their DNA, and they will be performing on the largest stage on earth. To that end, I have selected a team who have been working on a dozen different scenarios, which cannot be revealed yet, for obvious reasons, but I can assure you that any one of them will make London wish they had never been selected as the host city, as their reputation will be in tatters.’

Putin gave a faint smile. ‘And how about you comrade?’ he asked, as he looked towards the other end of the table.

The Chinese leader didn’t respond, but turned to his right and nodded at his London Ambassador.

‘Although we intend to work closely with you in the build-up to the London Games and during the opening ceremony,’ began Wei Ming, without referring to a note, ‘it has already been agreed that you will take the lead once the Games begin, but we will be in sole charge of what takes place at the closing ceremony.’

‘If they ever get that far,’ said Mikailov, loud enough for his leader to hear.

‘Naturally,’ the Chinese Ambassador continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted, ‘the Olympics will have tight security measures in place, so the strategy we have agreed on is simple: distract the police with as many irrelevant, time-consuming inconveniences as possible, thus keeping their eyes away from our ultimate goal: our own particular closing ceremony.’ He smiled. ‘To that end, we have selected a highly trained team led by a woman who’s lost count of how many people she’s killed. Most of our operatives are more frightened of her than the enemy.’

It was Hu Jintao’s turn to smile.

‘And may I ask what exactly she has planned?’ asked Putin, raising an eyebrow.

‘The downfall of what’s left of the British Empire in a single evening,’ said Wei Ming. ‘A disaster that the rest of the world will agree could have been avoided, if only the British had been better prepared to deal with security threats.’ A faint smile crossed Hu Jintao’s lips. ‘I can assure you, last month’s terrorist attack on the London underground will be nothing compared to what we have planned for the closing ceremony.’