Private Games (34 page)

Instead, the organisers opted to have the marathon contestants run four 6.5-mile laps, each of them featuring some of London’s most notable landmarks as telegenic backdrops for the race: from Tower Hill to the Houses of Parliament along the Thames, past the London Eye and Cleopatra’s Needle. The start and finish would take place on The Mall, well in sight of Buckingham Palace.

‘I want his picture in everyone’s mobile, iPhone, BlackBerry,’ Pottersfield shouted into her radio. ‘Find him! Having the marathon here was his idea!’

Knight was thinking about how bloody brilliant she was at her job. She’d called up the Trace Angels site, seen that the children had been put on trains, but then thought to look at their whereabouts earlier and saw the address on Porchester Terrace.

After contacting the trains and getting word from conductors that there was no one matching the Knight children’s description aboard, she’d led the police contingent to the building near Lancaster Gate. They’d been in the Furies’ flat when the crudely silenced gun had gone off next door and they’d heard it. They’d discovered the entrance to Lancer’s place behind that tapestry on the wall, and had then thrown a stun grenade a moment after Knight had fired the weapon.

Setting down her radio, Pottersfield said shakily, ‘We’ll get him. Everybody’s hunting him now.’

Knight grunted, staring out the window into the glaring sunlight, still feeling dizzy and sore from the blows he’d taken. ‘You okay, Elaine? Having to shoot?’

‘Me? You shouldn’t even be here, Peter,’ Pottersfield scolded. ‘You should be back there in that ambulance with your kids, going to hospital. You need to be looked at yourself.’

‘Amanda and Boss are on their way to meet Luke and Bella. I’ll get examined when Lancer’s stopped.’

Pottersfield changed down and shot out onto Buckingham Palace Road. ‘You’re sure Lancer said the attack was on the marathon?’

Knight struggled to remember before replying: ‘Before he left, I told him that no matter what he might do, the Olympic spirit would never die. I told him that Mundaho had proved it, and Shaw, and Dr Pierce. That got him insanely angry, and I was certain he would kill me. But then the starting gun for the marathon went off. And he said something like: “The men’s marathon. The final game has begun. And because I’m the superior man, I’m going to let you live to see the ending. Before Marta kills you, she’s going to let you witness exactly how I snuff out that Olympic spirit once and for all.” ’

Pottersfield skidded the car to a stop in front of the police barrier opposite St James’s Park and got out, holding up her badge to the officers guarding it. ‘He’s with Private and with me. Where’s Inspector Casper?’

The policeman who looked miserable in the stifling heat, pointed north towards the roundabout in front of Buckingham Palace, and said, ‘You want me to call him?’

Knight’s sister-in-law shook her head before vaulting the barrier and battling her way through the crowd onto Birdcage Walk with Knight following somewhat woozily right behind her. Runners who were well behind the leaders were heading painfully towards the Queen Victoria Memorial at the centre of the roundabout.

Billy Casper was already hustling towards Knight and Pottersfield. ‘Sweet Jesus, Elaine,’ he said. ‘I had the bastard right in front of me not an hour ago. He went into St James’s Park.’

‘Did you get Lancer’s picture?’

‘Everyone in the force got it ten seconds ago,’ Casper replied, and then looked grim. ‘The route is more than ten kilometres long. There’s half a million people – maybe more – lining the route. How the hell are we going to find him?’

‘At the finish, or somewhere near it,’ Knight said. ‘It fits his flair for the dramatic. Have you seen Jack Morgan?’

‘He’s way ahead of you, Peter,’ Casper said. ‘As soon as he heard Cronus was Lancer and that he was still on the loose, he went straight to the finish arena. Smart guy for a Yank.’

But twenty-six minutes later, as roars went up from back along the marathon route south of St James’s Park, Lancer had still not been sighted, and every aspect of the timing system had been re-examined for possible booby traps.

Standing high atop stands erected along The Mall, Knight and Jack – who had shown up minutes after Knight had asked after him – were using binoculars to look up into the trees to see if Lancer had climbed one and taken up position as a sniper. Casper and Pottersfield were doing much the same on the other side of the street. But their views were hampered by scores of large Union Jack and Olympic flags fluttering on poles running westward towards Buckingham Palace.

‘I checked him out myself,’ Jack said sombrely, lowering his binoculars. ‘Lancer, I mean. When he did some work for us a few years back in Hong Kong. He was squeaky clean, nothing but raves from everyone who’d ever known him. And I don’t remember ever seeing that he’d served in the Balkans. I’m sure I would have remembered that.’

‘He was there for less than five weeks,’ Knight said.

‘Long enough to recruit bloodthirsty bitches as mad as he is,’ Jack said.

‘Probably why he left the deployment off his C.V.,’ Knight said.

Before Jack could reply, the roar of the crowd came closer and people in the stands around the Queen Victoria Memorial leaped to their feet as two policemen on motorcycles appeared about a hundred yards in front of the same four runners who’d broken free of the main pack back at mile twelve.

‘The motorcyclists,’ Knight said, and threw up his binoculars, trying to see the faces of the officers. But he could tell quickly that neither man was Lancer.

Behind the motorcycles, the top four runners appeared – the Kenyan, the Ethiopian, the barefoot Mexican, and that lad from Brighton – each of them carrying Olympic and Cameroonian hand flags.

After twenty-six miles, three hundred and eighty-five yards, after forty-two thousand, one hundred and ninety-five metres, the Kenyan and the Brit were leading, sprinting side by side. But at the two-hundred-yard mark and hard behind the leaders, the Ethiopian and the Mexican split and sprinted to the leaders’ flanks.

The crowd went wild as the whippet-thin runners churned down the final straight towards gold and glory, four abreast and none of them giving ground.

Then, twenty yards from the finish, the lad from Brighton surged forward, and it looked as if the UK was going to have its first men’s-marathon gold to go with the historic win by Mary Duckworth in the women’s race the previous Sunday.

Astonishingly, however, mere feet from the finish line, the Brighton lad slowed, the runners raised their flags, and the foursome went through the tape together.

For a second, the crowd was stunned and Knight could hear broadcasters braying about the unprecedented act and what it was supposed to mean. And then everyone on The Mall saw it for what it was and started lustily to cheer the gesture, Peter Knight included.

He thought: You see that, Lancer? Cronus? You can’t snuff out the Olympic spirit because it doesn’t exist in any one place; it’s carried in the hearts of every athlete who’s ever striven for greatness, and it always will be.

‘No attack,’ Jack said when the cheering died down. ‘Maybe the show of force along the route scared Lancer off.’

‘Maybe,’ Knight allowed. ‘Or maybe he wasn’t talking about the end of the marathon at all.’

THE NAUSEATING ENDING
to the men’s marathon keeps replaying on the screens around the security stations as I wait patiently in the sweltering heat in the line at the north entrance to the Olympic Park off Ruckholt Road.

My head is shaven and, along with every bit of exposed skin, has been stained with henna to a deep russet tone ten times as dark as my normal colour. The white turban is perfect. So is the black beard, the metal bracelet on my right wrist and the Indian passport, and the sepia-brown contact lenses, the glasses and the loose white Kurta pyjamas and tunic that together with a dab of patchouli oil complete my disguise as Jat Singh Rajpal, a tall Sikh textile trader from Punjab lucky enough to hold a ticket to the closing ceremony.

I’m two feet from the screeners when my face, my normal face, appears on one of the television screens that had been showing the finish of the marathon.

At first I feel panicky. But then I quickly compose myself and take several discreet glances at the screen, hoping it’s just some kind of recap of the events of the Olympics including my dismissal from the organising committee. But then I see the banner scrolling beneath my image and the news that I’m wanted in connection with the Cronus murders.

How is it possible! Many voices thunder in my head, triggering one of those insanely blinding headaches. It’s everything I can do to stay composed when I step towards an F7 guard, a burly woman, and a young police constable who are inspecting tickets and identification.

‘You’re a long way from home, Mr Rajpal,’ the constable says, looking at me expressionlessly.

‘One is willing to make the journey for an event as wonderful as this,’ I say in a practised accent that comes through flawlessly despite the pounding in my skull. I have to fight not to reach up under my turban to touch that scar throbbing at the back of my head.

The F7 guard glances at a laptop computer screen. ‘Have you been to any other events during the games, Mr Rajpal?’ she asks.

‘Two,’ I say. ‘Athletics this past Thursday evening, and field hockey earlier in the week. Monday afternoon. The India-Australia game. We lost.’

She scans the screen and nods. ‘We’ll need to put your bag and any other metal objects through the screener.’

‘Without hesitation,’ I say, putting the bag on the conveyor belt and depositing coins, my bracelet, and my mobile in a plastic tray that follows it.

‘No kirpan?’ the constable asks.

I smile. Clever lad. ‘No, I left the ceremonial dagger at home.’

The constable nods. ‘Appreciate that. We’ve had a few of your blokes try to come in with them. You can go on through now.’

Moments later my headache recedes. I’ve retrieved my bag, which contains only a camera and a large tube of what appears to be sunscreen. Moving quickly past Eton Manor I cross an elevated pedestrian bridge that leads me onto the north-east concourse. Skirting the Velodrome, the basketball arena and the athletes’ village, I make my way continuously south past the sponsors’ hospitality area. I pause to look at them, realising that I’ve overlooked many possible violators of the Olympic ideals.

No matter, I decide. My final act will more than compensate for the oversight. At that thought, my breath quickens. So does my heart, which is hammering when I smile at the guards at the bottom of the loose spiral staircase that climbs between the legs of the Orbit. ‘The restaurant?’ I say. ‘Still open?’

‘Until half-past three, sir,’ one of them replies. ‘You’ve got two hours.’

‘And if I wish for food after that?’ I ask.

‘The other vendors down here will all be open,’ he says. ‘Only the restaurant is closing.’

I nod and start the long climb, barely giving heed to the nameless monsters descending the staircase, all of them oblivious to the threat I represent. Twelve minutes later, I reach the level of the slowly turning restaurant, and go up to the maître d’.

‘Rajpal,’ I say. ‘Table for one.’

She frowns. ‘Would you be willing to share?’

‘It would be a great pleasure,’ I reply.

She nods. ‘It will still be ten or fifteen minutes.’

‘Might I use the gents’ while I wait?’ I ask.

‘Of course,’ she says and stands aside.

Other prospective patrons press in behind me, leaving the woman so busy that I’m sure she’s already begun to forget about me. When she calls my name, she’ll figure I got tired of waiting and left. Even if she has someone check the toilet, they won’t find me. Rajpal is already gone.

I go to the gents’, and take the stall I need, which is luckily vacant. Five minutes go by before the rest of the facility empties. Then, as quickly as I can, I pull myself up to a sitting position on the stall dividers and push up one of the ceiling tiles to reveal a reinforced crawl-way built so that maintenance workers can easily get at the electrical and cooling systems.

A few moments of struggle and I’m laying up there in the crawl-way, the ceiling tile back in place. Now all I have to do is calm myself, prepare myself, and trust in fate.

KNIGHT AND JACK
were inside the Olympic Park by four that afternoon. The sunlight was still glaring and the heat shimmered off the track. According to Scotland Yard and MI5, which had together seized control of security under orders from the Prime Minister, Mike Lancer had made no effort to get inside the park with his security pass, which someone had smartly flagged immediately after the warning about him had been issued.

Around four-thirty, Knight’s head was still aching as he followed Jack into the empty stadium where teams with sniffer dogs were patrolling. At the moment, his thoughts were less about finding Lancer than they were about his children. Were they all right in hospital? Was Amanda by their side?

Knight was about to make a call to his mother when Jack said, ‘Maybe he did get spooked at the marathon. Maybe that was his last chance: he saw it wasn’t going to work, and he’s making his escape.’