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  Astonishingly, however, mere feet from the finish line, the Brighton lad slowed, the runners raised their flags, and the foursome went through the tape together.

  For a second, the crowd was stunned and Knight could hear broadcasters braying about the unprecedented act and what it was supposed to mean. And then everyone on The Mall saw it for what it was and started lustily to cheer the gesture, Peter Knight included.

  He thought: You see that, Lancer? Cronus? You can’t snuff out the Olympic spirit because it doesn’t exist in any one place; it’s carried in the hearts of every athlete who’s ever striven for greatness, and it always will be.

  ‘No attack,’ Jack said when the cheering died down. ‘Maybe the show of force along the route scared Lancer off.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Knight allowed. ‘Or maybe he wasn’t talking about the end of the marathon at all.’

  Chapter 108

  THE NAUSEATING ENDING to the men’s marathon keeps replaying on the screens around the security stations as I wait patiently in the sweltering heat in the line at the north entrance to the Olympic Park off Ruckholt Road.

  My head is shaven and, along with every bit of exposed skin, has been stained with henna to a deep russet tone ten times as dark as my normal colour. The white turban is perfect. So is the black beard, the metal bracelet on my right wrist and the Indian passport, and the sepia-brown contact lenses, the glasses and the loose white Kurta pyjamas and tunic that together with a dab of patchouli oil complete my disguise as Jat Singh Rajpal, a tall Sikh textile trader from Punjab lucky enough to hold a ticket to the closing ceremony.

  I’m two feet from the screeners when my face, my normal face, appears on one of the television screens that had been showing the finish of the marathon.

  At first I feel panicky. But then I quickly compose myself and take several discreet glances at the screen, hoping it’s just some kind of recap of the events of the Olympics including my dismissal from the organising committee. But then I see the banner scrolling beneath my image and the news that I’m wanted in connection with the Cronus murders.

  How is it possible! Many voices thunder in my head, triggering one of those insanely blinding headaches. It’s everything I can do to stay composed when I step towards an F7 guard, a burly woman, and a young police constable who are inspecting tickets and identification.

  ‘You’re a long way from home, Mr Rajpal,’ the constable says, looking at me expressionlessly.

  ‘One is willing to make the journey for an event as wonderful as this,’ I say in a practised accent that comes through flawlessly despite the pounding in my skull. I have to fight not to reach up under my turban to touch that scar throbbing at the back of my head.

  The F7 guard glances at a laptop computer screen. ‘Have you been to any other events during the games, Mr Rajpal?’ she asks.

  ‘Two,’ I say. ‘Athletics this past Thursday evening, and field hockey earlier in the week. Monday afternoon. The India-Australia game. We lost.’

  She scans the screen and nods. ‘We’ll need to put your bag and any other metal objects through the screener.’

  ‘Without hesitation,’ I say, putting the bag on the conveyor belt and depositing coins, my bracelet, and my mobile in a plastic tray that follows it.

  ‘No kirpan?’ the constable asks.

  I smile. Clever lad. ‘No, I left the ceremonial dagger at home.’

  The constable nods. ‘Appreciate that. We’ve had a few of your blokes try to come in with them. You can go on through now.’

  Moments later my headache recedes. I’ve retrieved my bag, which contains only a camera and a large tube of what appears to be sunscreen. Moving quickly past Eton Manor I cross an elevated pedestrian bridge that leads me onto the north-east concourse. Skirting the Velodrome, the basketball arena and the athletes’ village, I make my way continuously south past the sponsors’ hospitality area. I pause to look at them, realising that I’ve overlooked many possible violators of the Olympic ideals.

  No matter, I decide. My final act will more than compensate for the oversight. At that thought, my breath quickens. So does my heart, which is hammering when I smile at the guards at the bottom of the loose spiral staircase that climbs between the legs of the Orbit. ‘The restaurant?’ I say. ‘Still open?’

  ‘Until half-past three, sir,’ one of them replies. ‘You’ve got two hours.’

  ‘And if I wish for food after that?’ I ask.

  ‘The other vendors down here will all be open,’ he says. ‘Only the restaurant is closing.’

  I nod and start the long climb, barely giving heed to the nameless monsters descending the staircase, all of them oblivious to the threat I represent. Twelve minutes later, I reach the level of the slowly turning restaurant, and go up to the maître d’.

  ‘Rajpal,’ I say. ‘Table for one.’

  She frowns. ‘Would you be willing to share?’

  ‘It would be a great pleasure,’ I reply.

  She nods. ‘It will still be ten or fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Might I use the gents’ while I wait?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course,’ she says and stands aside.

  Other prospective patrons press in behind me, leaving the woman so busy that I’m sure she’s already begun to forget about me. When she calls my name, she’ll figure I got tired of waiting and left. Even if she has someone check the toilet, they won’t find me. Rajpal is already gone.

  I go to the gents’, and take the stall I need, which is luckily vacant. Five minutes go by before the rest of the facility empties. Then, as quickly as I can, I pull myself up to a sitting position on the stall dividers and push up one of the ceiling tiles to reveal a reinforced crawl-way built so that maintenance workers can easily get at the electrical and cooling systems.

  A few moments of struggle and I’m laying up there in the crawl-way, the ceiling tile back in place. Now all I have to do is calm myself, prepare myself, and trust in fate.

  Chapter 109

  KNIGHT AND JACK were inside the Olympic Park by four that afternoon. The sunlight was still glaring and the heat shimmered off the track. According to Scotland Yard and MI5, which had together seized control of security under orders from the Prime Minister, Mike Lancer had made no effort to get inside the park with his security pass, which someone had smartly flagged immediately after the warning about him had been issued.

  Around four-thirty, Knight’s head was still aching as he followed Jack into the empty stadium where teams with sniffer dogs were patrolling. At the moment, his thoughts were less about finding Lancer than they were about his children. Were they all right in hospital? Was Amanda by their side?

  Knight was about to make a call to his mother when Jack said, ‘Maybe he did get spooked at the marathon. Maybe that was his last chance: he saw it wasn’t going to work, and he’s making his escape.’

  ‘No,’ Knight said. ‘He’s going to try something here. Something big.’

  ‘He’ll have to be Houdini,’ Jack observed. ‘You heard them, they’ve gone to war-zone security levels. They’re putting double teams of SAS snipers up high and every available cop in the halls and stairways.’

  ‘I’m hearing you, Jack,’ Knight said. ‘But given what the insane bastard has done so far, we can’t be sure that any security level is going to work. Think about it. Lancer oversaw a billion and a half dollars in security spending for the Olympics. He knows every contingency that Scotland Yard and MI5 provided for in their plans. And for much of the past seven years that lunatic has had access to every inch of every venue as it was built. Every goddamn inch.’

  Chapter 110

  AT THREE-THIRTY THAT afternoon, echoing through the fourteen-inch gap between the restaurant ceiling and the roof of the Orbit, I hear hydraulic gears being braked and halted, and feel the slow rotation of the observation deck stop. Closing my eyes and calming my breathing, I prepare for what lies ahead. My fate. My destiny. My just and final due.

  At ten minutes to four I squeeze the tube o
f special skin cream onto the turban cloth and use it to turn my skin near-black. A maintenance crew enters and cleans the room below me. I can hear their mops sluicing the floor for several minutes, followed by half an hour of silence that is interrupted only by the soft sounds of the movement it takes to stain my head, neck and hands.

  At twelve minutes past four, the first sniffer dog team enters the gents’, and I have the sudden terrible thought that the monsters might have been clever enough to bring an article of my clothing to prime their beasts. But the patrol is in and out in under a minute, fooled no doubt by the smell of the patchouli oil.

  They return at five and again at six. When they leave after the third time, I know that my hour is at hand. Cautiously, I grope around under a strip of insulation, finding a loaded ammunition clip put there seven months ago. Pocketing the clip, I lower myself into the stall and then strip off my remaining clothes, leaving me two-tone, black and white, and a terror to behold in the mirror.

  Naked now except for my wristwatch, I rip a length of the turban fabric and wrap the two ends around my hands, leaving an eighteen-inch section dangling slack. Taking a position tight to the wall next to the gents’ door, I settle down to wait.

  At six forty-five, I hear footsteps and men’s voices. The door opens and comes right up against my face before it swings back the other way to reveal the back of a tall, athletic black monster in a tracksuit and carrying a large duffel bag.

  He is big. I assume he’s skilled. But he is no match for a superior being.

  The slack turban fabric flicks over his head and settles below his chin. Before he can even react, I’ve got my knee in his back and I’m throttling the life out of him. Seconds later, still feeling the quivering and soft nasal whining of his death, I drag the monster’s body to the farthest stall, and then move to his duffel bag, glancing at my watch. Thirty minutes until showtime.

  It takes me less than half that to don the parade uniform of the Queen’s guardsman and set the black bearskin hat on my head, feeling its familiar weight settle above my eyebrows and tight to my ears. After a minor adjustment, I’ve got the leather chinstrap taut and snug against my jaw. Last, I pick up his automatic rifle, knowing very well that it’s empty. I don’t care. The ammo clip is full.

  Then I return to the middle stall and wait. At a quarter past seven, I hear the door open and a voice growl, ‘Supple, we’re up.’

  ‘On it in two,’ I reply, disguising my voice with a cough. ‘Go to the hatch.’

  ‘See you topside,’ he says.

  I hope not, I think before I hear the door close behind him.

  Out of the stall now, I go to the door, tracking the sweep second hand of my watch. At exactly ninety seconds, I take a deep breath and step out through the door and into the hallway, carrying the duffel bag.

  At a quick pace, eyes gazing straight ahead, my face expressionless, I walk through the restaurant to the glass doors on the right-hand side of the dining room. Two SAS men are already unlocking the doors. As they swing them open, exposing me to the heat, I set my dufflel bag to one side next to another identical one, and charge past them onto the observation platform and towards a narrow doorway that is open and guarded by yet another SAS man.

  I’ve timed it perfectly. The guard hisses, ‘Cutting it bloody close, mate.’

  ‘Shaving it close is what the Queen’s Guard do, mate,’ I say, ducking past him and into a tight stairwell with a narrow steel staircase that rises to a retracting hatch door and open air.

  I can see the early-evening sky and clouds racing above me. Hearing distant trumpets calling, I climb towards my fate, so close now that I can feel it like a muscle burn and taste it like sweet sweat on my lips.

  Chapter 111

  THE TRUMPETERS STOOD to either side of the stage down on the floor of the Olympic Stadium, blowing a plaintive melody that Knight did not recognise.

  He stood high in the stands at the north end of the venue, using binoculars to scan the crowd. He was tired, his head aching, and was feeling overly irritated by the lingering heat and the sound of the trumpets launching the closing ceremony. As it stopped, the screens around the stadium jumped to a feed showing a medium-range view of the Olympic cauldron high atop the Orbit and flanked as it had been since the opening ceremony by the ramrod-straight Queen’s guardsmen.

  The guardsmen on the raised platform above the roof shouldered their guns, pivoted through forty-five degrees and marched stiff-legged, their free arms pumping, in opposite directions towards two new guardsmen who climbed up onto the roof from hatches on either side of the observation deck and moved towards the platform and cauldron. The guards passed each other exactly halfway between the cauldron and the stairwell. The guards who were being relieved of duty disappeared from the roof and the new pair climbed the platform from either side to stand rigidly at attention beside the Olympic flame.

  Knight roamed the crowd for the next hour and a half. As the summer sky began to darken and breezes began to stir, he was buoyed by the fact that despite the threat Lancer still posed, an incredible number of athletes, coaches, judges, referees and fans had decided to attend the closing ceremony when they could just as easily have gone home to more certain safety.

  The affair had originally been planned as a celebration as joyous as the opening ceremony had been before the death of the American shot-putter. But the organisers had tweaked the ceremony in light of the murders, and had made it more sombre and meaningful by enlisting the London Symphony Orchestra to back Eric Clapton who delivered a heart-wrenching version of his song ‘Tears in Heaven’.

  In that same vein, as Knight moved south inside the stadium, Marcus Morris was now giving a speech that was part elegy to the dead and part celebration of all the great and wonderful things that had happened at the London Games in spite of Cronus and his Furies.

  Knight glanced at the programme and thought: We’ve got a few more speeches, a spectacle or two, the turning over of the Olympic flag to Brazil; and then a few words by the mayor of Rio and …

  ‘Anything, Peter?’ Jack asked over the radio. They’d changed security frequencies in case Lancer was trying to monitor their broadcasts.

  ‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘But it still doesn’t feel right.’

  That thought was paramount in Knight’s mind until the organisers broke from the scheduled programme to introduce some ‘special guests’.

  Dr Hunter Pierce appeared on the stage along with Zeke Shaw and the four runners who’d won marathon gold. They pushed Filatri Mundaho in a wheelchair before them, a sheet over his legs. Medical personnel followed.

  Mundaho had suffered third-degree burns over much of his lower body, and had endured several excruciating abrasion procedures during the past week. The co-world-record holder in the 100 metres should have been in agony, unable to rise from his hospital bed. But you’d never have known it.

  The orphaned ex-boy soldier’s head was up, proud and erect. He was waving to the crowd, which leaped to its collective feet and began cheering for him. Knight’s eyes watered. Mundaho was showing incredible, incredible courage, along with an iron will and a depth of humanity that Lancer could not even begin to fathom.

  They gave the sprinter his gold-medal ceremony, and during the playing of the Cameroonian national anthem Knight was hard pressed to find someone in the stadium who wasn’t teary-eyed.

  Then Hunter Pierce began to talk about the legacy of the London Games, arguing that it would ultimately signify a rekindling of and rededication to Pierre de Coubertin’s original Olympic dreams and ideals. At first Knight was held enraptured by the American diver’s speech.

  But then he forced himself to tune her out, to try to think like Lancer and like Lancer’s alter ego Cronus. He thought about the last few things that the madman had said to him. He tried to see Lancer’s words as if they were printed on blocks that he could pick up and examine in detail: AT THE END, JUST BEFORE YOU DIE, KNIGHT, I’M GOING TO MAKE SURE THAT YOU AND YOUR CHILDREN WITNESS HO
W I INGENIOUSLY MANAGE TO SNUFF OUT THE OLYMPIC SPIRIT FOR EVER.

  Knight considered each and every word, exploring their meaning in every sense. And that’s when it hit him, the seventh to last word in the sentence.

  He triggered his radio microphone, and said, ‘You don’t snuff out a spirit, Jack.’

  ‘Come back with that, Peter?’ Jack said.

  Knight was already running towards the exit, saying, ‘Lancer told me he was going to “snuff out the Olympic spirit forever”.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You don’t snuff out a spirit, Jack. You snuff out a flame.’

  Chapter 112

  LOOK AT ME now, hiding in plain sight of a hundred thousand people and cameras linked to billions more.

  Fated. Chosen. Gifted by the gods. I am clearly a being superior in every way, certainly superior to pathetic Mundaho and Shaw and that conniving bitch Hunter Pierce, and the other athletes down there on the stage inside the stadium, all of them condemning me as a …

  The wind is picking up. I shift my attention into the wind: north-west, far beyond the stadium, far beyond London. Out there on the horizon dark clouds are boiling up into thunderheads. What could be more fitting as a backdrop?

  Fated, I think, before I hear a roar go up in the stadium.

  What’s this? Sir Elton John and Sir Paul McCartney are coming onto the stage and taking seats at opposite white pianos. Who’s that with them? Marianne Faithfull? Oh, for pity’s sake, they’re singing ‘Let it Be’ to Mundaho.

  At their monstrous screeching, you can’t begin to understand how much I want to abandon my stance of attention, rub my scar and end this hypocritical pap right now. But, with my eyes locked dead ahead into the approaching storm, I tell myself to stay calm and follow the plan to its natural and fated ending.