Private Games (Private 3)

‘Absolutely,’ Jack said, and smiled genuinely

Knight admired the owner and founder of Private. Jack was younger than Knight, and even more in a hurry than Knight. He was also smart and driven, and believed in surrounding himself with smart, driven people and paying them well. He also cared about the people who worked for him. He’d been devastated at the loss of Carter and the other Private London operators and had come across the Atlantic immediately to help Knight pick up the slack.

The foursome went to Hooligan’s lab one floor down. Jack fell in beside Knight who was moving much more slowly than the others. ‘Good job with Lancer,’ he said. ‘Saving his ass, I mean.’

‘We aim to please,’ Knight said.

‘He was very grateful, and said I should give you a raise,’ Jack said.

Knight did not reply. They had not yet talked about any salary upgrade that might be due in light of his new responsibilities.

Jack seemed to remember and said, ‘We’ll talk money after the Games.’ Then the American shot him a more critical look. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Feel like I’ve been playing in a rugby scrum, but I remain chipper,’ Knight assured him as they entered Private London’s science unit, a cutting-edge operation in every respect.

Hooligan led them to a far corner of the area, to an anteroom off a clean lab where he told them all to don disposable white jumpsuits and hoods. Knight groaned, but once in the suit and hood he followed Hooligan through an airlock and into the clean room. The science officer moved to a workstation that included an electron microscope and state-of-the-art spectrographic equipment. He took the envelope from Pope, opened it, and looked inside.

He asked, ‘Did you put these in sleeves or did they come to you like this?’

Knight heard the question over a headset built into his hood, which made all their ensuing conversation sound like transmissions from outer space.

‘I did that,’ Pope replied. ‘I knew right away that they’d need to be protected.’

‘Smart,’ Hooligan said, wagging a gloved finger at her and looking over at Knight and Jack. ‘Very smart.’

Despite his initial dislike of Pope, Knight had to agree. He asked, ‘Who touched these before you protected them?’

‘Just me,’ Pope said as Hooligan removed the sleeve that contained the letter. ‘And the killer, I suppose. He has a name. You’ll see it there. He calls himself “Cronus”.’

Chapter 15

SEVERAL MOMENTS LATER the weird flute music from the card played, irritating Knight and making him feel as though the killer was toying with them. He finished scanning the letter and the documents.

The strange sound must have got to Jack as well because he slammed the card shut, cutting off the music, and then said, ‘This guy’s off his rocker.’

Pope said, ‘Crazy like a fox, then, especially those bits about Marshall and his former partner, Guilder. The documents back his allegations.’

‘I don’t believe those documents,’ Knight said. ‘I knew Denton Marshall. He was a supremely honest man. And even if the allegations were true, it’s hardly justification for cutting the man’s head off. Jack’s right. This guy is seriously unbalanced, and supremely arrogant. The tone is taunting. He’s telling us that we can’t stop him. He’s saying this is not over, that it could be just the beginning.’

Jack nod

ded, and said, ‘When you start with a beheading, you’re taking a long walk down Savage Street.’

‘I’ll start running tests,’ Hooligan said. He was looking at the card that played the music. ‘These chips are in a lot of greeting cards. We should be able to trace the make and model.’

Knight nodded, saying, ‘I want to read through the letter one more time.’

While Pope and Jack watched Hooligan slice out the working components of the musical greeting card, Knight returned to the letter and began to read as the flute music died in the lab.

The first sentence was written in symbols and letters that Knight did not recognise but guessed was ancient Greek. The second and all subsequent sentences in the letter were in English.

The ancient Olympic Games have been corrupted. The modern Games are not a celebration of gods and men. They are not even about goodwill among men. The modern Games are a mockery, a sideshow every four years, and made that way by so many thieves, cheats, murderers, and monsters.

Consider the great and exalted Sir Denton Marshall and his corpulent partner Richard Guilder. Seven years ago, Marshall sold out the Olympic movement as a force for honest competition. From the documents that accompany this letter, you will see that they suggest that in order to ensure that London would be selected to host the 2012 games, Marshall and Guilder cleverly siphoned funds from their clients and secretly moved the money into overseas bank accounts owned by shell corporations that were in turn owned by members of the International Olympic Selection Committee. Paris, runner-up in the selection process, never had a chance.

And so, to cleanse the Games, the Furies and I found it just that Marshall should die for his offences, and so that has come to pass. We are unstoppable beings far superior to you, able to see the corruption when you cannot, able to expose the monsters and slay them for the good of the Games when you cannot.

– Cronus