Knight stares at me with the same distrustful and fearful expression that Marta gave me when I offered to save her and her sisters in that police station in Bosnia.
‘But you were world champion,’ Knight says. ‘Twice.’
‘The immortals win Olympic gold. The superior wins gold. I was robbed of my chance by monsters. It was premeditated sabotage.’
Knight gazes at me in disbelief now, ‘And so you started plotting your revenge right then – eighteen years ago?’
‘The scope of my revenge grew over time,’ I admit. ‘It began with the Spanish doctors who doped me. They died of supposedly natural causes in September ’93. The referees who oversaw the event were killed in separate car crashes in ’94 and early ’95.’
‘And the Furies?’ Knight asks.
I sit on a stool a few feet from him. ‘Hardly anyone knows that after my regiment ended its service in the Queen’s Guard, we were sent into Sarajevo for a rotation with the NATO peacekeeping mission. I lasted less than five weeks due to a roadside bomb that cracked my head for the second time in my life.’
Knight’s words were less slurred now, and his eyes less glassy when he said ‘Was that before or after you helped the Brazlic sisters escape from that police station near Srebrenica?’
I smile bitterly. ‘After. With new passports and new identities, I brought the Furies to London and set them up in a flat next door. We even cut a secret door behind my armoire and their tapestry so we could appear to live separate lives.’
‘Dedicated to destroying the Olympics?’ Knight asks acidly.
‘Yes, that’s right. As I said, the gods were behind this, behind me. It was fate. How else do you explain that very early on in the process I was asked to be a member of the organising committee and, lo and behold, London won the bid. Fate allowed me to be on the inside from the start, hiding things where I needed them, altering them if they suited my purpose, given full access to every inch of every venue. And now with everyone hunting you and your children, fate will allow me to finish what I’ve begun.’
Knight’s face contorts. ‘You’re insane.’
‘No, Knight,’ I reply. ‘Just superior in ways you can’t understand.’
I stand up and start to walk away. He calls after me, ‘So are you going to wipe out all the Furies before your big finale? Kill Marta and then escape?’
‘Not at all,’ I chuckle. ‘Marta’s out putting your daughter’s necklace and your son’s watch on trains to Scotland and France respectively. When she’s done, she’ll return here, release Mr Daring and then kill your children. And then you.’
Chapter 100
KNIGHT’S POUNDING HEAD felt battered, as if it had been struck again. His attention lurched to his sleeping children. The necklace and wristwatch were gone. There was no way to trace them now. And what about the taxi driver? Why hadn’t he given the phone to Hooligan or Pottersfield? Why hadn’t they come for him? Were they tracking Marta to the trains?
Knight looked back to Lancer, who was gathering up a bag and some papers.
‘My kids have done nothing,’ Knight said. ‘They’re just three years old. Innocent.’
‘Little monsters,’ Lancer said flatly, turning for the door. ‘Goodbye, Knight. It was nice competing with you, but the better man has won.’
‘No, you haven’t!’ Knight shouted after him. ‘Mundaho proved it. You haven’t won. The Olympic spirit lives on whatever you do.’
That hit a nerve because Lancer turned and marched back towards Knight – only to flinch and stop at the sound of a gunshot.
It came from the television and caused Lancer to relax, a smirk on his face.
‘The men’s marathon has started,’ he said. ‘The final game has begun. And you know what, Knight? 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.’
Chapter 101
A HALF-HOUR LATER, approaching noon, Pope glanced nervously from coverage of the men’s marathon to Hooligan, who was still hunched over the shards of the iPhone, trying to coax Knight’s whereabouts from them.
‘Anything?’ the reporter asked, feeling completely stymied.
‘Sim card’s pretty fuckin’ hammered, eh?’ Private London’s chief scientist replied without looking up. ‘But I think I’m getting close.’
Jack had left to oversee security at the finish line of the men’s marathon. Elaine Pottersfield was in the lab, however. The police inspector had arrived only a few moments before, agitated and exhausted by the pressures of the preceding twenty-four hours.
‘Where did this cabbie say he picked up Peter?’ she asked impatiently.