Page 25 of End Game
‘The Home Office are reporting that an unusually large number of officials are attached to the Russian Olympic squad,’ said Paul, ‘and our Ambassador in Moscow has contacted the Foreign Office to inform them that President Putin is planning to make a major speech the day after the opening ceremony, so heaven knows what the Russians have planned for the next eleven days.’
‘Cry “Havoc!”, and let slip the dogs of war. No more than revenge for Margaret Thatcher trying to boycott the Moscow Games, so we must assume the worst and prepare accordingly.’
18 July 2012 – 9 days to go
ROSS COULDN’T BELIEVE HIS EYESas he watched Faulkner’s Rolls come to a halt about a hundred yards from Tower Bridge. Not one of his usual destinations. Collins got out of the car, opened the boot and took out a folding bicycle.Then came the next surprise. Faulkner, dressed in a smart blue tracksuit, mounted the bicycle and began to pedal towards the bridge, where he joined a large group of younger cyclists.
Ross abandoned his taxi on a double yellow line, ran across to a row of Boris bikes, and unlocked one before making his way towards the back of the group as quickly as he could. He listened carefully to several conversations going on around him, and quickly discovered the group met fairly often at different points in the city, from where they would set off with a single purpose: to temporarily bring London’s traffic to a halt, so the Mayor of London would have to take seriously their demands for more cycle lanes. In fact, one of the cyclists insisted that she wouldn’t give up until London was one long cycle lane.
What Ross couldn’t work out was why Faulkner had joined the group. After all, he wasn’t an obvious candidate to support bicycle lanes. However, whatever Faulkner was up to, it was bound to mean trouble, so Ross was determined to keep him under close surveillance.
Just after six o’clock, their leader addressed his disciples. ‘The chosen route this week,’ he announced, ‘will take us over Tower Bridge, past the Tower of London and then along the Embankment towards Westminster. When we reach the House of Commons, we will circle Parliament Square several times before returning along the other side of the Embankment, when we’ll make our way back to Tower Bridge. Remember, we are not in a hurry, and you should slow down at every zebra crossing and occupy the whole road whenever you stop at a traffic light.’ Without another word, he mounted his bike and pedalled slowly off, leading his band of warriors across Tower Bridge.
Ross remained tucked in at the back of the group, well out of sight of Faulkner, who was pedalling furiously just to keep up with the group leader. Ross would have liked to overhear their conversation.
It seemed to be an exchange of views that didn’t take too long, because by the time the group reached the Embankment, Faulkner had fallen back, and when they came to a halt at the traffic lights opposite the Savoy, he took the slip road on the right, crossed the road, got off his bike and climbed back into the waiting Rolls. Ross waited, watching as Collins folded up the bike and placed it back in the boot.
What exactly was Faulkner up to? Ross couldn’t understand why someone like him would be interested in building cycle lanes. He could only wonder what his real purpose was.
He hung back until the Rolls was out of sight, then began to pedal faster and faster, and by the time the group had reached Parliament Square, he’d caught up with their leader. Although Ross was out of breath, he began a stilted conversation.
‘I saw you chatting to my friend,’ was Ross’s opening ploy.
‘Your friend?’ queried the group leader.
‘The older guy on the folding bike, in the smart blue tracksuit.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said the leader. ‘Told me he wouldn’t be able to come next Friday, because he has seats for the opening ceremony of the Olympics, and in any case, he assumed we’d be banned from carrying out our usual Friday protest.’
‘And will you?’ asked Ross.
‘Not a chance, I told him,’ replied the leader. ‘Not now the Law Lords have ruled that cyclists are not protesters, but a public procession.’
Having worked in traffic control for the past few years,Ross was well aware of the Law Lords’ decision, and the hold-ups this group had caused over the past two years without the police being able to do anything about it.
‘However,’ the leader continued, ‘your friend made a pretty interesting suggestion which, if we’re able to pull it off, would make everyone aware of our cause.’
‘What was his suggestion?’ asked Ross.
The leader glanced across at Ross, a look of suspicion on his face. ‘If he’s your friend, why don’t you ask him yourself?’ He pedalled off.
Ross fell back and tried to work out what Faulkner could possibly have suggested, and, perhaps more importantly,whyhe had suggested anything to this group. He must have some ulterior motive. However, even though he pedalled slowly and kept his ears open, Ross was none the wiser by the time they got back to Tower Bridge.
When the group came to a halt on the far side of the bridge, the leader declared, ‘Job done.’ He then got off his bike and addressed his followers once again. ‘I look forward to seeing you all next week. In fact, a week on Friday, I’m hoping for a record turnout, as the Olympics will give us a chance to bring our cause to the attention of a far wider public. Details of the different starting points will be emailed to each member of the group during the week.’ He paused, and as he did so, his eyes ran over the crowd. ‘Remember, not a word about this to anyone, as it could harm our cause.’
Ross didn’t like the words ‘different starting points’, nor the emphasis on secrecy. The cyclists were planning something big, and whatever it was, Faulkner had planted the seed in their leader’s mind. The real question was:where andwhy?
When Ross arrived home later that evening, he didn’t discuss the problem with Alice. However, during supper, his mind kept returning to Faulkner and what idea he could have suggested to the team leader.
He was no nearer to finding an answer by the time Alice turned off the bedroom light. Ross didn’t toss and turn, because he hardly slept.
He rose early, skipped his morning run and drove his taxi back to Tower Bridge before first light.
When Ross reached the far side of the bridge, he spotted a large arrow with the words ‘Olympic Stadium’ printed on it. He swung right and not left. His first thought was: are they going to try to disrupt the traffic heading towards the stadium, causing thousands of spectators to be late for the opening ceremony, possibly even holding it up?
He’d only driven another couple of miles before he worked out exactly what Faulkner must have suggested. He pulled into a petrol station, parked to one side, and made a telephone call.
When a familiar voice came on the line, all he said was, ‘I need to see you urgently, and I mean urgently.’
