Private Games (7 page)

– Cronus

AS HE FINISHED
reading the letter a second time, Knight felt more upset, more anxious than before. Thinking of the letter in the light of what had been done to Marshall, Cronus came across as a madman – albeit a rational one – who made Knight’s skin crawl.

Making it worse, the creepy flute melody would not leave Knight’s thoughts. What kind of mind would produce that music and that letter? How did Cronus make it work together to produce such a sense of imminent threat and violation?

Or was Knight too close to the case to feel any other way?

He got a camera and began shooting close-ups of the letter and the supporting documents. Jack came over. ‘What do you think, Peter?’

‘There’s a good chance that one of the Furies, as he calls them, tried to run Lancer down this afternoon,’ Knight replied. ‘A woman was driving that cab.’

‘What?’ Pope exclaimed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that?’

‘I just did,’ Knight said. ‘But don’t quote me.’

Hooligan suddenly brayed, ‘Big mistake!’

They all turned. He was holding something up with a pair of tweezers.

‘What’ve you got?’ Jack asked.

‘Hair,’ Hooligan said in triumph. ‘It was in the glue on the envelope flap.’

‘DNA, right?’ Pope asked, excited. ‘You can match it.’

‘Gonna try, eh?’

‘How long will that take?’

‘Day or so for a full recombinant analysis.’

Pope shook her head. ‘You can’t have it for that long. My editor was specific. We had to turn it all over to Scotland Yard before we publish.’

‘He’ll take a sample and leave them the rest,’ Jack promised.

Knight headed towards the door.

‘Where are you going?’ Pope demanded.

Knight paused, not sure of what to tell her. Then he gave her the truth. ‘I’m guessing that first sentence is written in ancient Greek so I’m going to pay a call on that bloke James Daring – you know, the fellow who has that show
Secrets of the Past
on Sky – see if he can decipher it for me.’

‘I’ve seen him,’ Pope snorted. ‘Nattering boob thinks he’s Indiana Jones.’

Hooligan shot back, ‘That “nattering boob”, as you call him, holds doctorates in anthropology and archaeology from Oxford and is the bloody curator of Greek Antiquities at a famous museum.’ The science officer looked at Knight. ‘Daring
will
know what that says, Peter, and I’ll wager he’ll have something to say about Cronus and the Furies too. Good call.’

Through the glass plate of her hood Knight could see the reporter twist her lips, as if she was tasting something tart. ‘And then?’ Pope asked at last.

‘Guilder, I suppose.’

‘His partner?’ Pope cried. ‘I’m coming with you!’

‘Not likely,’ Knight said. ‘I work alone.’

‘I’m the client,’ she insisted, looking at Jack. ‘I can trot along, right?’

Jack hesitated, and in that hesitation Knight saw the weight of concern carried by the owner of Private International. He’d lost five of his top agents in a suspicious plane crash. All had been integral players overseeing Private’s role in security at the Olympics. And now Marshall’s murder and this lunatic Cronus.

Knight knew he was going to regret it but he said, ‘No need for you to be on the spot, Jack. I’ll change my rules this once. She can
trot
along.’

‘Thanks, Peter,’ the American said, with a tired smile. ‘I owe you once again.’

IN THE DEAD
of night, forty-eight hours after I opened fire and slaughtered seven Bosnians sometime in the summer of 1995, a shifty-eyed and swarthy man who smelled of tobacco and cloves opened the door of a hovel of a workshop in a battle-scarred neighbourhood of Sarajevo.

He was the sort of monster who thrives in all times of war and political upheaval, a creature of the shadows, of shifting identity and shifting allegiance. I’d learned of the forger’s existence from a fellow peace keeper who’d fallen in love with a local girl who was unable to travel on her own passport.

‘Like we agree yesterday,’ the forger said when I and the Serbian girls were inside. ‘Six thousand for three. Plus one thousand rush order.’

I nodded and handed him an envelope. He counted the money, and then passed me a similar envelope containing three fake passports: one German, one Polish and one Slovenian.

I studied them, feeling pleased at the new names and identities I’d given the girls. The oldest was now Marta. Teagan was the middle girl, and Petra the youngest. I smiled, thinking that with their new haircuts and hair colours, no one would ever recognise them as the Serbian sisters that the Bosnian peasants called the Furies.

‘Excellent work,’ I told the forger as I pocketed the passports. ‘My gun?’

We’d left my Sterling with him as a good-faith deposit when I’d ordered the passports. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I was thinking just that.’

The forger went to a locked upright safe, opened it, and took out the weapon. He turned and aimed it at us. ‘On your knees,’ he snarled. ‘I read about a slaughter at a police barracks near Srebrenica and three Serbian girls wanted for war crimes. There’s a reward out. A large one.’

‘You stinking weasel,’ I sneered, keeping his attention on me as I slowly went to my knees. ‘We give you money, and you turn us in?’

He smiled. ‘I believe that’s called taking it coming and going.’

The silenced 9mm round zipped over my head and caught the forger between the eyes. He crashed backward and sprawled dead over his desk, dropping my gun. I picked it up and turned to Marta, who had a hole in her right-hand jacket pocket where a bullet had exited.

For the first time I saw something other than deadness in Marta’s eyes. In its place was a glassy intoxication that I understood and shared. I had killed for her. Now she had killed for me. Our fates were not only completely entwined, we were both of us drunk on the sort of intoxicating liquor that ferments and distils among members of elite military units after each mission, the addictive drink of superior beings who wield the power over life and death.

Leaving the forger’s building, however, I was acutely aware that more than two days had passed since the bomb had hurled me from the Land Cruiser. People were hunting for the Furies. The forger had said so.

And someone had to have found the blown-up and burned vehicle I’d been thrown from. Someone had to have counted and examined the charred bodies and figured out that I was missing.

Which meant that people were hunting for me.

Maybe, I decided, they should find me sooner rather than later.

AT THREE-TWENTY THAT
Thursday afternoon, Karen Pope and Peter Knight crossed the courtyard and climbed the granite front steps of the venerable British Museum in central London. As they entered the museum, Knight was grinding his teeth. He liked to work alone because it gave him enough silence to think things through during the course of an investigation.

Pope, however, had been talking almost non-stop since they’d left Private London, feeding him all sorts of trivial information he really had no need to know, including her career highlights, the creep Lester she’d dated in Manchester, and the travails of being the only woman currently working on the
Sun
’s sports desk.

‘Got to be tough,’ he said, wondering if he could somehow ditch her without adding to Jack’s problems.

Instead, Knight led them to an older woman at the information desk, where he produced his identification and said that someone from Private had called ahead to arrange a brief interview with Dr James Daring.

The woman had sniffed something about the curator being very busy, what with his exhibit about to open that very evening, but then she gave them directions.

They climbed to an upper floor and walked towards the rear of the massive building. At last they came to an archway above which hung a large banner that read
The Ancient Olympic Games: Relics & Radical Retrospective
.

Two guards stood in front of a purple curtain stretched across the archway. Caterers were setting up for a reception to celebrate the opening, with tables for food and a bar in the hallway. Knight showed his Private badge and asked for Daring.

The guard replied, ‘Dr Daring has gone to take a—’

‘Late lunch, but I’m back, Carl,’ called a harried male voice from back down the hallway. ‘What’s going on? Who are these people? I clearly said no one inside before seven!’

Knight pivoted to see hurrying towards them a familiar handsome, ruggedly built man wearing khaki cargo shorts, sandals and a safari-style shirt. His ponytail bounced on his shoulders. He carried an iPad. His gaze jumped everywhere.

Knight had seen James Daring on television several times, of course. For reasons Knight did not quite understand, his son Luke, almost three years old, loved to watch
Secrets of the Past
, though Knight suspected that the appeal lay in the melodramatic music that accompanied the man in virtually every programme.

‘My kids are big fans,’ Knight said, extending his hand. ‘Peter Knight, with Private. My office called.’

‘And Karen Pope. I’m with the
Sun
.’

Daring glanced at her and said, ‘I’ve already invited someone from the
Sun
to view the exhibit along with everyone else – at seven. What can I do for Private, Mr Knight?’

‘Actually, Miss Pope and I are working together,’ Knight said. ‘Sir Denton Marshall has been murdered.’

The television star’s face blanched and he blinked several times before saying, ‘Murdered? Oh, my God. What a tragedy. He …’

Daring gestured at the purple curtains blocking the way into his new exhibit. ‘Without Denton’s financial support, this exhibit would not have been possible. He was a generous and kind man.’

Tears welled in Daring’s eyes. One trickled down his cheek. ‘I’d planned to thank him publicly at the reception tonight. And … what happened? Who did this? Why?’

‘The killer calls himself Cronus,’ Pope replied. ‘He sent me a letter. Some of it is in ancient Greek. We’d hoped you could translate it for us.’

Daring glanced at his watch and then nodded. ‘I can give you fifteen minutes right now. I’m sorry but …’

‘The exhibition,’ Pope said. ‘We understand. Fifteen minutes would be brilliant of you.’

After a pause, Daring said, ‘You’ll have to walk with me, then.’

The museum curator led them behind the curtains into a remarkable exhibition that depicted the ancient Olympic Games and compared them to the modern incarnation. The exhibit began with a giant aerial photograph of the ruins at Olympus, Greece, site of the original Games.

While Pope showed Daring her copy of Cronus’s letter, Knight studied the photograph of Olympus and the diagrams that explained the ruins.

Surrounded by groves of olive trees, the area was dominated by the ‘Atlis’, the great Sanctuary of Zeus, the most powerful of the ancient Greek gods. The sanctuary held temples where rituals and sacrifices were performed during the Games. Indeed, according to Daring’s exhibit, the entire Olympus site, including the stadium, was a sacred place of worship.

For over a thousand years, in peace and in war, the Greeks had assembled at Olympus to celebrate the festival of Zeus and to compete in the Games. There were no bronze, silver, or gold medals given. A crown of wild olive branches was sufficient to immortalise the victor, his family, and his city.

The exhibit went on to contrast the ancient Games with the modern.

Knight had been highly impressed with the exhibit. But within minutes of reaching the displays that contrasted the old with the new, he began to feel that the ancient Games were heavily favoured over the modern Olympics.

He’d no sooner had that thought than Pope called to him from across the hall. ‘Knight, I think you’re going to want to hear this.’

STANDING IN THE
exhibition hall in front of a display case featuring Bronze Age discuses, javelins, and terracotta vases painted with scenes of athletic competitions, Dr Daring indicated the first sentence in the text.

‘This
is
ancient Greek,’ he said. ‘It reads, “Olympians, you are in the laps of the gods.” That’s a term in Greek mythology. It means the fate of specific mortals is in the gods’ control. I think the term is most often used when some mortal has committed a wrongdoing grave enough to upset the residents of Mount Olympus. But do you know who it would be better to ask about this sort of thing?’

‘Who’s that?’ Knight asked.

‘Selena Farrell,’ Daring replied. ‘Professor of Classics at King’s College, London, eccentric, brilliant. In another life she worked for NATO in the Balkans. That’s where I, uh, met her. You should go and see her. Very iconoclastic thinker.’

Writing down Farrell’s name, Pope said, ‘Who is Cronus?’