[b]Wembley Stadium, London
2:35 PM[/b]

There was a carnival atmosphere on the streets of London. Nowhere was it greater than in the immediate proximity of England’s fabled Wembley Stadium – the home of world football. Its two white towers loomed over the streams of excited football fans making their way to the stadium to watch the game. Among them was Bobby Lewandowski.

The Pole had tried his best to keep a low profile on his way to the stadium. At least, as well as one could in the get-up that Bobby was wearing. There had been a few smiles and sniggers here and there but in the main Lewandowski had kept his head down and pushed through the embarrassment.

By the time he had arrived in Wembley itself his discomfort had all but disappeared. Even dressed as colourfully as he was, the streets were so awash with flags and football supporters kitted out in equally garish fashion that Bobby was one with the crowd.

He trudged towards the stadium behind a group of a dozen or so England supporters. They were all burley, heavy-set men in their forties and fifties. Unlike Bobby, they had come dressed in their Sunday best. He couldn’t help but smirk as he listened in to the bickering of the two walking nearest to him.

“Hurst [i]has[/i] played well, I’ll give the boy that, but you cannot leave Greavsie out of the team. I know he picked up a knock against France, but this is the World Cup Final, for christ’s sake. You cannot leave a player of Greaves’ quality out. It makes no sense.”

“England wouldn’t even be in the final if it weren’t for Hurst. He scored against Argentina and he set up Charlton’s second against Portugal. And after all that you want to drop the poor sold? Come off it.”

The argument continued as the group filtered towards the turnstiles.

“That’s all well and good – but in a World Cup Final you need experience in the side, Tom. You know what th- ”

Finally one of the older men, who had stopped to pat down his pockets in search of his ticket, cast a scornful look in their direction.

“Give it a rest you two, would you? It’s been bad enough reading it in the papers all week.”

The two men sheepishly fell silent, produced their own tickets, and followed after the rest of their group into the stadium. 

Bobby took a moment to take the scene in, glancing up at Wembley’s famous two towers one last time, before stepping towards the turnstiles with his ticket in hand. A mustachioed man in his late twenties took a quick glance at the ticket and then peered at Bobby’s outfit.

“Nice hat, mate.”

“Thank you,” Lewandowski replied, suddenly self-conscious again.

The man nodded and the turnstiles cranked as Bobby stepped through them. He slipped his ticket back into the inside pocket. As he did so, he made sure to feel around the extra lining that Red had asked the tailor to stick into the suit. Satisfied that the bangers had survived the journey in one piece, Lewandowski made his way to the stands.

[center]***[/center][b]2:42 PM[/b]

A bead of sweat trickled down James Crowder’s forehead. Within a half second, he had mopped it away with the sleeve of his ambulance driver’s uniform. The material was coarse – and it was warmer today than he’d anticipated it being. Coach’s ambulance had sat unmoving in traffic for the past ten minutes. With each minute, he’d grown more nervous. He couldn’t afford to be late. More importantly, the crew couldn’t afford for him to be late.

Luckily for Coach, no one knew the roads quite like he did. At the very sight of a traffic jam, he knew how to reroute himself to cut the worst of it out. It was a skill that had served him well over the years. Unluckily for him, there was [i]no[/i] avoiding this one. He was on the long straight road to Wembley – its pristine white towers staring at him from the distance.

Red and Charlie had gone together in the Wolseley so Crowder only had the radio to keep his mind occupied. Truth be told, he was as nervous about the game as he was about the job. Some music to put his mind at ease would have been welcome – but given the occasion there was little on but wall-to-wall football coverage.

“England manager Alf Ramsey’s decision [i]not[/i] to choose the prolific Tottenham forward has ruffled feathers in some corners, but the side look to be in good hands with young Hurst leading the front line.” 

“That's enough of that,” Coach muttered as he flicked the radio off.

The car in front of Coach pulled forward a few inches and someone in the lane next to him him tried to pull in front of him.

“Cheeky bastard.”

Crowder pulled ahead and denied the car’s attempt to pull ahead of him. As he pulled forward he resisted the temptation to brandish his fingers in the driver’s direction. Slowly, but surely, Coach was making his way towards the stadium. He took solace in knowing he’d be able to use the siren on the way back – and that, with any luck, England would be World Cup champions.

[center]***[/center][b]2:50 PM[/b]

With ten minutes to spare, Turner and Enfield had arrived in Wembley. The traffic on the drive over had been much worse than even Crowder – with all his knowledge of London’s roads – had anticipated. Despite that, Turner had still been forced to remind Charlie to ease up on the accelerator on several occasions on the drive there. They hadn’t talked an awful lot outside of that. The nerves were setting in, as they always did. Red told himself that people that don’t understand what’s at risk get nervous. [i]And people that don’t understand what’s at risk are dangerous[/i], he mused.

The Wolseley pulled to a stop a short walk from the stadium and Turner prepared to exit the vehicle. As he did so, one last pang of doubt rang through him and he felt obliged to impart Charlie with some information about their inside man.

“A word of advice about Cecil,” Red said as he grasped the passenger-side handle. ”He’s a very [i]sensitive[/i] soul. Not quite au fait with our way of doing things, if you know what I mean? So don’t be too handsy with him if you can help it.”

One of Enfield’s arched up suspiciously at the sensitive comment.

“How exactly do you know this boy again?”

Red shot Charlie a look that would turn most men’s blood cold. The implication to the question was clear – and it wasn’t one he appreciated. Enfield was the only member of the crew that knew about his private life. Back in 1961, a now-departed associate of Turner's had misunderstood the nature of his relationship with Charlie and shared a little too much with him. 

They hadn’t once spoken about it in all the time that had passed since. Turner wasn’t about to change that in the middle of a job. 

“Cecil’s uncle and I served together in Korea. Poor bastard didn’t make it back. Made me promise to check in on him from time to time. He’d murder me for getting the boy involved in all of this if he were still alive.”

“Good thing he’s not then,” Enfield said with a shrug.

Turner took a quick glance down at his watch. Kick-off was in seven minutes. He opened the door and stepped out of the car into the waiting street. Before he shut it, he peered back into the Wolseley at Charlie one last time.

“Watch yourself in there, Charles – and remember, I’ll be round the back waiting for the take by sixteen-thirty-five.”

Red caught the end of Enfield’s curt nod as he slammed the door shut and made his way into the crowd. He used his gloved hands to clear a path through it, snaking through the throngs of ticketless people that had gathered outside of the stadium. He envied them. In another life, he would have been out there with them. But he had a job to do – and nothing was going to get in the way of his seeing it through to the end.

[center]***[/center][b]2:58 PM[/b]

“God Save the Queen” rang out from the stands at Wembley Stadium in anticipation of Ramsey’s men taking to the field. Sat by the halfway line, Bobby spotted the red shirts making their way down the tunnel on the opposite side of the stadium. Bobby Moore led the Three Lions out onto the pitch and was met by a deafening roar from the English crowd. Lewandowski could feel the noise in his chest. For a moment, he was overtaken by the emotion. A broad smile appeared on his face and he began clapping enthusiastically in support of his adopted nation.

In two minutes, footballing history was going to be made. In seventy-two, Bobby, in his own way, was going to write his own chapter in it.