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?
Chapter 57
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!’