Page 54 of End Game
His phone rang moments later.
‘It’s him,’ said Ross. ‘The man I saw with Faulkner at the Oval. The man who I later drove back to the Russian Embassy.’
William sighed. He was beginning to think it had been a mistake not to check the contents of the box when Faulknerreturned to Biggin Hill. Was he about to find out just how grave a mistake?
•••
If one thing could be relied on, it was Councillor Dawson being on time for his monthly payment. Today was no exception.
Dawson confirmed that the one million deposit had been received, before he asked, ‘Can I assume the other nine million will be paid before the August deadline?’
‘Long before,’ said Bernie Longe, hoping he sounded convincing.
Longe had become painfully aware during the past month that no bank or serious financial institution was willing to do business with him – especially as he couldn’t reveal the potential return he expected from the stadium deal, which for obvious reasons had to be kept under wraps for the foreseeable future.
Raising a million hadn’t proved too difficult. He’d mortgaged his house, called in a few favours and twisted several arms, but nine million was in a different league. He wanted his rivals to believe he was in that league, but he wasn’t.
Longe was beginning to believe there was only one person who could come up with the full amount in time to close the deal. There were, however, two major drawbacks: one, he didn’t trust the man, and two, it would mean having to sacrifice half the profits. Not a pleasing prospect, but he hadn’t been left with a lot of choice. Something Miles Faulkner would be well aware of.
There were just twenty-seven days left before the contract had to be settled. Otherwise, Bernie would lose his deposit as well as the deal, and there were no prizes for guessingwho would happily take his place and end up with one hundred per cent of the profits.
He stared at his phone and had to admit he had run out of options. He dialled a number and waited.
‘Mr Booth Watson’s chambers. How may I help you?’
•••
‘So, did you manage to get into the athletes’ village?’ Robert asked, when Artemisia returned home that evening.
‘Sure did,’ she responded, sounding rather pleased with herself.
‘No one suspected that you weren’t even a reserve for your school second eleven hockey team?’
‘No way,’ said Artemisia, as she came into the kitchen, where Robert was filling a saucepan with water before putting it on the stove. ‘If you look the part, no one gives you a second thought,’ continued Arte. ‘However, I’m still no nearer to getting that exclusive, though I do have a few leads.’
Robert couldn’t help laughing when Arte went on to tell him about her meeting with Kelly. ‘Whatever you do, don’t lose her,’ said Robert, as Arte began to lay the table for supper. ‘Kelly sounds like a rare gem and she might just supply you with that elusive exclusive.’
‘Which is why I’ll be going back to the village tomorrow morning to try and catch up with her.’
‘There’s no need to rush,’ said Robert, as he continued slicing a tomato. ‘Be patient and you might end up with an even bigger story.’
‘Patience and deadlines don’t make good bedfellows,’ said Artemisia, tucking her arms around his waist. ‘What sort of day did you have?’
‘The House of Commons is in recess, so most members have returned to their constituencies or are taking a short break,’ he replied. ‘Still, there’s always plenty of work for a special adviser.’ A little bell buzzed, and Robert switched off the stove and began to drain the spaghetti.
‘One day,’ said Artemisia, as she grated some parmesan, ‘it will be you taking a short break during recess, as the Member of Parliament for …’
‘… whoever will have me,’ said Robert.
‘And when you do become a Member of Parliament,’ Artemisia teased, as she sat down at the table and twisted a fork of spaghetti, ‘best not tell the voters how we first met.’
Robert sat down beside her. ‘Andwheremight be their next question.’
‘In prison, I shall tell them.’ Artemisia smirked. ‘After all, my father taught me to always tell the truth.’
‘Then you’d better take your Olympic pass off,’ said Robert, ‘or someone might think you’re Annie Charnock.’
CHAPTER 18
