Private Games (18 page)

She kept one and passed the other under the partition that separated the stalls. In return, Petra handed Teagan two tiny darts, scarcely as long as a bee’s sting, with miniature plastic vanes glued to tiny insulin needles and stuck to a small strip of duct tape.

Next came a six-inch length of thin clear plastic tubing with miniature pipe-fitting hardware at either end. Teagan took off her ring and then screwed the male fitting into one of the silver pits on the back of the ring.

Satisfied with the connection, she unscrewed it and coiled the line back to where she’d attached the CO
₂
cartridge. She taped the cartridge and coiled gas line to her forearm, and then slid on the ring.

She’d no sooner finished than Petra pushed the vial from the insulin kit under the partition. Teagan used her tweezers to grab one of the darts. She stuck the tip of its needle through the rubber gasket into the vial and the liquid it contained, drew it out, and inserted it vane first into a tiny hole on her ring opposite the gas connection.

After dipping the second tiny dart, she blew on it until the liquid dried, and then stuck it ever so carefully into the lapel of her uniform in case she needed a second shot. With utmost care, she drew down her blouse sleeve before flushing the loo and leaving the stall.

Petra appeared as Teagan washed her hands. She smiled uncertainly at her older sister, but then whispered, ‘Aim twice.’

‘Shoot once,’ Teagan said, thinking that this felt like part of a dream already. ‘Do you have your bees?’

‘I do.’

UNDER A SPITTING
rain an unseasonal fog crept west up the Thames to meet the river bus as it sped past the Isle of Dogs, heading towards the North Greenwich peninsula and the Queen Elizabeth II Pier. The boat was packed with latecomers holding tickets to the team gymnastics finals, which were just a few minutes from starting.

Knight’s attention, however, was not on the other passengers; it roved off the bow of the ferry, looking towards the brilliantly lit O2 Arena dome coming closer, feeling strongly that it could be the scene of Farrell and Daring’s next strike.

Beside him, Lancer was talking insistently on his phone, explaining that he was on the way with reinforcements for the security detail, which he ordered to be on highest alert. He had already called Scotland Yard’s Marine Unit and had been told that a patrol boat was anchored off the back of the arena.

‘There it is,’ Jack said, pointing through the mist at a large rigid inflatable craft with dual outboard engines bobbing in the water south of them as they rounded the head of the peninsula.

Five officers in black raincoats and carrying automatic weapons stood in the boat, watching them. A single officer, a woman in a dry suit, rode an ultra-quiet black jet ski that trailed the river bus into the dock.

‘Those are primo counter-terror vessels, especially that sled,’ Jack said in admiration. ‘No chance of entry or escape by water with those suckers around.’

Security around the actual arena was just as tight. There were ten-foot-high fences around the venue with armed Gurkhas every fifty yards. The screening process was tough. There was still a long line waiting to get in. Without Lancer it would have taken them at least half an hour to clear the scanners. But he’d got them inside in less than five minutes.

‘What are we looking for?’ Knight asked as they heard applause from the entryway in front of them, and a woman’s voice on the public address system announcing the first rotation of the women’s team finals.

‘Anything out of the ordinary,’ Lancer said. ‘Absolutely anything.’

‘When was the last time dogs swept the building?’ Jack asked.

‘Three hours ago,’ Lancer said.

‘I’d bring them back,’ Jack said as they emerged into the arena itself. ‘Are you monitoring mobile traffic?’

‘We jammed it,’ Lancer said. ‘We figured it was easier.’

While LOCOG’s security chief gave orders over his radio to recall the canine-sniffer bomb squad, Knight and Jack scanned the arena floor, seeing teams lining up near individual pieces of gymnastics apparatus.

The Chinese were at the south end of the venue, preparing to compete on the uneven parallel bars. Beyond, the Russians were doing stretching exercises beside the balance beam. The UK contingent, which had performed remarkably well in the qualifying rounds thanks to gutsy performances by star gymnast Nessa Kemp, was arranging gear near the floor-exercise mat. At the far end of the arena, the Americans were preparing to vault. Guards, many of them Gurkhas as well, stood at their posts around the floor, facing away from the competitors so they could scan the crowd for threat with zero distraction.

Knight concluded that an attack on one of the athletes down on the floor was virtually impossible.

But what about their safety back in the locker rooms? Or on the way to and from the Olympic Village?

Would the next target even be an athlete?

AT SIX-FIFTEEN THAT
Tuesday evening, the last of the Chinese gymnasts stuck her dismount off the balance beam, landing on her feet with nary a bobble.

The crowd inside the Chinese Gymnastics Federation’s luxury box high in the arena roared with delight. With one round to go, their team was winning handsomely. The Brits were a surprising second, and the Americans sat solidly in third place. The Russians had unexpectedly imploded and were trailing a distant fourth.

Amid the celebration, Teagan set her drinks tray on the bar and then dropped a pen on purpose. She squatted and in seconds had the thin gas line running beneath her wrist, up across her palm, past her little finger and attached to the back of the ring.

She stood to smile at the bartender. ‘I’m going to clear glasses for a bit.’

He nodded and returned to pouring wine. As the Chinese team moved to the vaulting pit, Teagan’s senses were on fire. She slipped through the crowded luxury box towards a stocky woman in a grey suit who was watching at the window.

Her name was Win Bo Lee. She was chairman of the national committee of the Chinese Gymnastics Association, or CGA. She was also, in her own way, as corrupt as Paul Teeter and Sir Denton Marshall had been. Cronus was right, Teagan thought. People like Win Bo Lee deserved exposure and death.

As she neared the woman, Teagan held her right arm low and by her waist while her left hand slipped into the pocket of her uniform coat and felt something small and bristly. When the distance between her and Win Bo Lee was less than two feet, she snapped her hand sharply upward and squeezed the right side of the ring with her little finger.

With a soft spitting noise rendered inaudible by the joyous conversations in the hospitality suite, the tiny dart flew and stuck in the back of Win Bo Lee’s neck. The CGA’s chairman jerked, and then cursed. She tried to reach around the back of her neck. But before she could, Teagan slapped her there, dislodging the dart, which fell to the floor. She crushed it with her shoe.

Win Bo Lee twisted around angrily and glared at Teagan, who looked deeply into her victim’s eyes, savouring them, imprinting them in her memory, and then said, ‘I got it.’

She crouched down before the Chinese woman could reply and acted as if she were picking something up with her left hand. She stood and showed Win Bo Lee a dead bee.

‘It’s summer,’ Teagan said. ‘Somehow they get in here.’

Win Bo Lee stared at the bee and then up at Teagan, her temper cooling, and said, ‘You are quick, but not quicker than that bee. It stung me hard!’

‘A thousand pardons,’ Teagan said. ‘Would you like some ice?’

The CGA chairman nodded as she reached around to massage her neck.

‘I’ll get you some,’ Teagan said.

She cleared the table in front of the CGA chairman, took one last look into Win Bo Lee’s eyes, and then left the glasses at the bar. Heading towards the exit with no intention of returning, Teagan was already replaying every moment of her quiet attack as if it were a slow-motion highlight on a sports reel.

I AM SUPERIOR
, Petra told herself as she moved parallel to the vault pit along the railing and towards the Gurkha with the thin black moustache. I am not like them. I am a weapon of vengeance, a weapon of cleansing.

She carried a stack of towels that hid her right hand when she smiled at the Gurkha with the moustache, and said, ‘For the vault station.’

He nodded. It was the third time the fat woman had brought towels to the pit, so he didn’t bother to go through them.

I am superior, Petra said over and over in her mind. And then, as it had as a young girl, during the rape and the killings, everything seemed to go strangely silent and slow-motion for her. In that altered state, she spotted her quarry: a slight man in a red sweat-jacket and white trousers, who was starting to pace as the first Chinese woman adjusted the springboard and prepared to vault.

Gao Ping was head coach of the Chinese women’s gymnastics team and a known pacer in big competitions. Petra had seen the behaviour in several films of Ping that she’d
studied
. He was a demonstrative, high-energy man who liked to goad his athletes to big performances. He was also a coach who had committed repeated crimes against the Olympic ideals, thereby sealing his fate.

The assistant coach, a woman named An Wu, and no less a criminal herself, had taken a seat, her face as emotionless as Ping’s was expressive. An Wu was an easier target than the ever-moving head coach. But Cronus had ordered Petra to take Ping first, and the assistant coach only if the opportunity followed.

Petra slowed in order to match her movement to Ping’s pacing. She handed the towels over the rail to another Game Master, and moved at an angle to the Chinese coach, who was bent over, exhorting his tiny athlete to greatness.

The first Chinese girl took off down the runway.

Ping took two skipping steps after her, and then stopped right in front of Petra, no more than eight feet away.

She rested her hand on the rail, intent on the head coach’s neck. When the Chinese girl hit the springboard, Petra fired.

I am a superior being, she thought as the dart hit Ping.

Superior in every way.

THE CHINESE COACH
slapped at the back of his neck just before his athlete nailed her landing and a roar went up from the crowd. Ping winced and looked around, bewildered by what had happened. Then he shook the sting off and ran clapping towards his vaulter, who beamed and shook her clasped hands above her head.

‘That little girl crushed that,’ Jack said.

‘Did she?’ Knight said, lowering his binoculars. ‘I was watching Ping.’

‘The Joe Cocker of gymnastics?’ Jack remarked.

Knight laughed, but then saw the Chinese coach rubbing at his neck before starting his histrionic ritual all over again as his next athlete got set to vault.

‘I think Joe Cocker got stung,’ Knight said, raising his binoculars again.

‘By what, a bee? How can you see that from here?’

‘I can’t see any bee,’ Knight said. ‘But I saw his reaction.’

Behind them, Knight heard Lancer talking in a strained voice into his radio to the arena’s internal and external
security
forces, fine-tuning how they were going to handle the medal ceremony.

Knight felt uneasy. He raised his binoculars and watched the Chinese coach cheer three more women through their vaults. As his last athlete took off down the runway, Ping danced like a voodoo man. Even his taciturn assistant, An Wu, got caught up in the moment. She was on her feet, hand across her mouth as the last girl twisted and somersaulted off the horse.

An Wu suddenly slapped at her neck as if she’d been stung.

Her athlete stuck her landing perfectly.

The audience erupted. The Chinese had won gold, and the UK silver, the best finish ever for a British gymnastics team. The coaches and athletes from both nations were celebrating. So were the Americans, who’d taken bronze.

Knight was aware of it all while using his binoculars to scan the raucous crowd cheering and aiming cameras above the vaulting pit. With Ping doing a high-step dance and his girls celebrating with him, the attention of virtually everyone at that end of the arena was on the victorious Chinese team.

Except for a heavyset platinum-blonde Game Master. She had her back turned to the celebration and was hurrying with an odd gait up the stairs away from the arena floor. She disappeared along the walkway, heading for the outer halls.

Knight felt suddenly short of breath. He dropped his binoculars and said to Jack and Lancer, ‘There’s something wrong.’

‘What?’ Lancer demanded.

‘The Chinese coaches. I saw them both slap at their necks, as if they’d been stung. Ping and then Wu. Right after the assistant coach slapped her neck, I saw a chunky platinum-blonde female Game Master hurrying out when everyone else was focused on the Chinese, cheering that last vault.’