Private Games-Jack Morgan 4 jm-4 Read online

  ‘He’ll take a sample and leave them the rest,’ Jack promised.

  Knight headed towards the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Pope demanded.

  Knight paused, not sure of what to tell her. Then he gave her the truth. ‘I’m guessing that first sentence is written in ancient Greek so I’m going to pay a call on that bloke James Daring – you know, the fellow who has that show Secrets of the Past on Sky – see if he can decipher it for me.’

  ‘I’ve seen him,’ Pope snorted. ‘Nattering boob thinks he’s Indiana Jones.’

  Hooligan shot back, ‘That “nattering boob”, as you call him, holds doctorates in anthropology and archaeology from Oxford and is the bloody curator of Greek Antiquities at a famous museum.’ The science officer looked at Knight. ‘Daring will know what that says, Peter, and I’ll wager he’ll have something to say about Cronus and the Furies too. Good call.’

  Through the glass plate of her hood Knight could see the reporter twist her lips, as if she was tasting something tart. ‘And then?’ Pope asked at last.

  ‘Guilder, I suppose.’

  ‘His partner?’ Pope cried. ‘I’m coming with you!’

  ‘Not likely,’ Knight said. ‘I work alone.’

  ‘I’m the client,’ she insisted, looking at Jack. ‘I can trot along, right?’

  Jack hesitated, and in that hesitation Knight saw the weight of concern carried by the owner of Private International. He’d lost five of his top agents in a suspicious plane crash. All had been integral players overseeing Private’s role in security at the Olympics. And now Marshall’s murder and this lunatic Cronus.

  Knight knew he was going to regret it but he said, ‘No need for you to be on the spot, Jack. I’ll change my rules this once. She can trot along.’

  ‘Thanks, Peter,’ the American said, with a tired smile. ‘I owe you once again.’

  Chapter 17

  IN THE DEAD of night, forty-eight hours after I opened fire and slaughtered seven Bosnians sometime in the summer of 1995, a shifty-eyed and swarthy man who smelled of tobacco and cloves opened the door of a hovel of a workshop in a battle-scarred neighbourhood of Sarajevo.

  He was the sort of monster who thrives in all times of war and political upheaval, a creature of the shadows, of shifting identity and shifting allegiance. I’d learned of the forger’s existence from a fellow peace keeper who’d fallen in love with a local girl who was unable to travel on her own passport.

  ‘Like we agree yesterday,’ the forger said when I and the Serbian girls were inside. ‘Six thousand for three. Plus one thousand rush order.’

  I nodded and handed him an envelope. He counted the money, and then passed me a similar envelope containing three fake passports: one German, one Polish and one Slovenian.

  I studied them, feeling pleased at the new names and identities I’d given the girls. The oldest was now Marta. Teagan was the middle girl, and Petra the youngest. I smiled, thinking that with their new haircuts and hair colours, no one would ever recognise them as the Serbian sisters that the Bosnian peasants called the Furies.

  ‘Excellent work,’ I told the forger as I pocketed the passports. ‘My gun?’

  We’d left my Sterling with him as a good-faith deposit when I’d ordered the passports. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I was thinking just that.’

  The forger went to a locked upright safe, opened it, and took out the weapon. He turned and aimed it at us. ‘On your knees,’ he snarled. ‘I read about a slaughter at a police barracks near Srebrenica and three Serbian girls wanted for war crimes. There’s a reward out. A large one.’

  ‘You stinking weasel,’ I sneered, keeping his attention on me as I slowly went to my knees. ‘We give you money, and you turn us in?’

  He smiled. ‘I believe that’s called taking it coming and going.’

  The silenced 9mm round zipped over my head and caught the forger between the eyes. He crashed backward and sprawled dead over his desk, dropping my gun. I picked it up and turned to Marta, who had a hole in her right-hand jacket pocket where a bullet had exited.

  For the first time I saw something other than deadness in Marta’s eyes. In its place was a glassy intoxication that I understood and shared. I had killed for her. Now she had killed for me. Our fates were not only completely entwined, we were both of us drunk on the sort of intoxicating liquor that ferments and distils among members of elite military units after each mission, the addictive drink of superior beings who wield the power over life and death.

  Leaving the forger’s building, however, I was acutely aware that more than two days had passed since the bomb had hurled me from the Land Cruiser. People were hunting for the Furies. The forger had said so.

  And someone had to have found the blown-up and burned vehicle I’d been thrown from. Someone had to have counted and examined the charred bodies and figured out that I was missing.

  Which meant that people were hunting for me.

  Maybe, I decided, they should find me sooner rather than later.

  Chapter 18

  AT THREE-TWENTY THAT Thursday afternoon, Karen Pope and Peter Knight crossed the courtyard and climbed the granite front steps of the venerable British Museum in central London. As they entered the museum, Knight was grinding his teeth. He liked to work alone because it gave him enough silence to think things through during the course of an investigation.

  Pope, however, had been talking almost non-stop since they’d left Private London, feeding him all sorts of trivial information he really had no need to know, including her career highlights, the creep Lester she’d dated in Manchester, and the travails of being the only woman currently working on the Sun’s sports desk.

  ‘Got to be tough,’ he said, wondering if he could somehow ditch her without adding to Jack’s problems.

  Instead, Knight led them to an older woman at the information desk, where he produced his identification and said that someone from Private had called ahead to arrange a brief interview with Dr James Daring.

  The woman had sniffed something about the curator being very busy, what with his exhibit about to open that very evening, but then she gave them directions.

  They climbed to an upper floor and walked towards the rear of the massive building. At last they came to an archway above which hung a large banner that read The Ancient Olympic Games: Relics & Radical Retrospective.

  Two guards stood in front of a purple curtain stretched across the archway. Caterers were setting up for a reception to celebrate the opening, with tables for food and a bar in the hallway. Knight showed his Private badge and asked for Daring.

  The guard replied, ‘Dr Daring has gone to take a—’

  ‘Late lunch, but I’m back, Carl,’ called a harried male voice from back down the hallway. ‘What’s going on? Who are these people? I clearly said no one inside before seven!’

  Knight pivoted to see hurrying towards them a familiar handsome, ruggedly built man wearing khaki cargo shorts, sandals and a safari-style shirt. His ponytail bounced on his shoulders. He carried an iPad. His gaze jumped everywhere.

  Knight had seen James Daring on television several times, of course. For reasons Knight did not quite understand, his son Luke, almost three years old, loved to watch Secrets of the Past, though Knight suspected that the appeal lay in the melodramatic music that accompanied the man in virtually every programme.

  ‘My kids are big fans,’ Knight said, extending his hand. ‘Peter Knight, with Private. My office called.’

  ‘And Karen Pope. I’m with the Sun.’

  Daring glanced at her and said, ‘I’ve already invited someone from the Sun to view the exhibit along with everyone else – at seven. What can I do for Private, Mr Knight?’

  ‘Actually, Miss Pope and I are working together,’ Knight said. ‘Sir Denton Marshall has been murdered.’

  The television star’s face blanched and he blinked several times before saying, ‘Murdered? Oh, my God. What a tragedy. He …’

  Daring g
estured at the purple curtains blocking the way into his new exhibit. ‘Without Denton’s financial support, this exhibit would not have been possible. He was a generous and kind man.’

  Tears welled in Daring’s eyes. One trickled down his cheek. ‘I’d planned to thank him publicly at the reception tonight. And … what happened? Who did this? Why?’

  ‘The killer calls himself Cronus,’ Pope replied. ‘He sent me a letter. Some of it is in ancient Greek. We’d hoped you could translate it for us.’

  Daring glanced at his watch and then nodded. ‘I can give you fifteen minutes right now. I’m sorry but …’

  ‘The exhibition,’ Pope said. ‘We understand. Fifteen minutes would be brilliant of you.’

  After a pause, Daring said, ‘You’ll have to walk with me, then.’

  The museum curator led them behind the curtains into a remarkable exhibition that depicted the ancient Olympic Games and compared them to the modern incarnation. The exhibit began with a giant aerial photograph of the ruins at Olympus, Greece, site of the original Games.

  While Pope showed Daring her copy of Cronus’s letter, Knight studied the photograph of Olympus and the diagrams that explained the ruins.

  Surrounded by groves of olive trees, the area was dominated by the ‘Atlis’, the great Sanctuary of Zeus, the most powerful of the ancient Greek gods. The sanctuary held temples where rituals and sacrifices were performed during the Games. Indeed, according to Daring’s exhibit, the entire Olympus site, including the stadium, was a sacred place of worship.

  For over a thousand years, in peace and in war, the Greeks had assembled at Olympus to celebrate the festival of Zeus and to compete in the Games. There were no bronze, silver, or gold medals given. A crown of wild olive branches was sufficient to immortalise the victor, his family, and his city.

  The exhibit went on to contrast the ancient Games with the modern.

  Knight had been highly impressed with the exhibit. But within minutes of reaching the displays that contrasted the old with the new, he began to feel that the ancient Games were heavily favoured over the modern Olympics.

  He’d no sooner had that thought than Pope called to him from across the hall. ‘Knight, I think you’re going to want to hear this.’

  Chapter 19

  STANDING IN THE exhibition hall in front of a display case featuring Bronze Age discuses, javelins, and terracotta vases painted with scenes of athletic competitions, Dr Daring indicated the first sentence in the text.

  ‘This is ancient Greek,’ he said. ‘It reads, “Olympians, you are in the laps of the gods.” That’s a term in Greek mythology. It means the fate of specific mortals is in the gods’ control. I think the term is most often used when some mortal has committed a wrongdoing grave enough to upset the residents of Mount Olympus. But do you know who it would be better to ask about this sort of thing?’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Knight asked.

  ‘Selena Farrell,’ Daring replied. ‘Professor of Classics at King’s College, London, eccentric, brilliant. In another life she worked for NATO in the Balkans. That’s where I, uh, met her. You should go and see her. Very iconoclastic thinker.’

  Writing down Farrell’s name, Pope said, ‘Who is Cronus?’

  The museum curator picked up his iPad and began typing, saying, ‘A Titan – one of the gods who ruled the world before the Olympians. Again, Selena Farrell would be better on this point, but Cronus was the God of Time, and the son of Gaia and Uranus, the ancient, ancient rulers of earth and sky.’

  Daring explained that, at his enraged mother’s urging, Cronus rebelled eventually against his father and ended up castrating him with a scythe.

  A long curved blade, Knight thought. Wasn’t that how Elaine had described the murder weapon?

  ‘According to the myth, Cronus’s father’s blood fell into the sea and re-formed as the three Furies,’ Daring continued. ‘They were Cronus’s half sisters – spirits of vengeance, and snake-haired like Medusa.

  ‘Cronus married Rhea and fathered seven of the twelve gods who would become the original Olympians.’ Then Daring fell silent, seeming troubled.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Pope asked.

  Daring’s nose twitched as if he smelled something foul. ‘Cronus did something brutal when he was told of a prediction that his own son would turn against him.’

  ‘What was that?’ Knight asked.

  The curator turned the iPad towards them. It showed a dark and disturbing painting of a dishevelled bearded and half-naked man chewing on the bloody arm of a small human body. The head and opposite arm were already gone.

  ‘This is a painting by the Spanish painter Goya,’ Daring said. ‘Its title is Saturn Devouring his Son. Saturn was the Romans’ name for Cronus.’

  The painting repulsed Knight. Pope said, ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘In the Roman and Greek myths,’ the curator replied testily, ‘Cronus ate his children one by one.’

  Chapter 20

  ‘ATE THEM?’ POPE said, her lip curling.

  Knight glanced at the painting and envisioned his own children in a playground near his home. He felt even more revolted.

  ‘It’s a myth – what can I say?’ Daring replied.

  The curator went on to explain that Rhea hated her husband for devouring their children and she vowed that no more of her unborn children would suffer the same fate. So she snuck off to have the son she named Zeus, and hid him immediately after birth. Then she got Cronus drunk, and gave him a rock wrapped in a blanket to eat instead of her son.

  ‘Much later,’ Daring continued, ‘Zeus rose up, conquered Cronus, forced him to vomit up his children, and then hurled his father into the darkest abysmal pits of Tartarus, or something like that. Ask Farrell.’

  ‘Okay,’ Knight said, unsure if any of this helped or not, and wondering if this letter could possibly be a ruse designed to take them in a wrong direction. ‘You a fan of the modern Olympics, doctor?’

  The television star frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Your exhibit strikes me as a bit slanted in favour of the ancient Games.’

  Daring turned coolly indignant. ‘I think the work is quite even-handed. But I grant you that the ancient Games were about honour and excelling in celebration of the Greek religion, while the modern version, in my personal opinion, has become too influenced by corporations and money. Ironic, I know, since this exhibit was built with the assistance of private benefactors.’

  ‘So, in a way, you agree with Cronus?’ Pope asked.

  The curator’s voice went chilly. ‘I may agree that the original ideals of the Olympics could be getting lost in today’s Games, but I certainly do not agree with killing people to “cleanse” them. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must finish up and change before the reception.’

  Chapter 21

  SEVERAL HOURS AFTER Marta killed the forger, the four of us were staying in a no-star hotel on the outskirts of western Sarajevo. I handed the sisters envelopes that contained their passports and enough money to travel.

  ‘Take separate taxis or buses to the train station. Then use completely separate routes to the address I put in your passports. In the alley behind that address, you’ll find a low brick wall. Under the third brick from the left you’ll find a key. Buy food. Go inside and wait there quietly until I arrive. Do not go out if you can avoid it. Do not be conspicuous. Wait.’

  Marta translated and then asked, ‘When will you get there?’

  ‘In a few days,’ I said. ‘No more than a week, I should imagine.’

  She nodded. ‘We wait for you.’

  I believed her. After all, where else were she and her sisters to go? Their fates were mine now, and mine was theirs. Feeling more in control of my destiny than at any other time in my life, I left the Serbian girls and went out into the streets where I found dirt and grime to further soil my torn, bloody clothes. Then I wiped down the guns and threw them in a river.

  An hour before dawn I wandered up to the security gate at t
he NATO garrison, acting in a daze. I had been missing for two and a half days.

  I gave my superiors and doctors vague recollections of the bomb that tore apart the Land Cruiser. I said I’d wandered for hours, and then slept in the woods. In the morning, I’d set off again. It wasn’t until the previous evening that I’d remembered exactly who I was and where I was supposed to go; and I’d headed for the garrison with the fuzzy navigation of an alcoholic trying to find home.

  The doctors examined me and determined that I had a fractured skull for the second time in my life. Two days later, I was on a medical transport: Cronus flying home to his Furies.

  Chapter 22

  AT FIVE MINUTES to four that Thursday afternoon, Knight left One Aldwych, a five-star boutique hotel in London’s West End theatre district, and found Karen Pope waiting on the pavement, looking intently at her BlackBerry screen.

  ‘His secretary wasn’t putting you off. The doorman says he does come for drinks quite often, but he’s not in there yet,’ Knight said, referring to Richard Guilder, Marshall’s long-time financial partner. ‘Let’s go and wait inside.’

  Pope shook her head, and then gestured across the Strand to a row of Edwardian buildings. ‘That’s King’s College, right? That’s where Selena Farrell works, the classical Greek expert that Indiana Jones wannabe told us to talk to. I looked her up. She has written extensively about the ancient Greek playwright Aeschylus and his play The Eumenides, which is another name for the Furies. We could go and chat with her and then swing back for Guilder.’

  Knight screwed up his face. ‘In all honesty, I don’t know if understanding more about the myth of Cronus and the Furies is going to help us get any closer to catching Marshall’s killer.’

  ‘And now I know something you don’t,’ she said, shaking her BlackBerry at him haughtily. ‘Turns out that Farrell fought against the London Olympics tooth and nail. She sued to have the whole thing stopped, especially the compulsory purchase orders that took all that land in East London for the Olympic Park. The professor evidently lost her house when the park went in.’