Private Games

by James Patterson

  An hour before dawn I wandered up to the security gate at the 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.’

  Feeling his heart begin to race, Knight set off in the direction of the college, saying, ‘Denton ran the process that took that land. She had to have hated him.’

  ‘Maybe enough to cut off his head,’ Pope said, struggling to keep up.

  Then Knight’s mobile buzzed. A text from Hooligan:

  1ST DNA TEST: HAIR IS FEMALE.

  Chapter 23

  THEY FOUND SELENA Farrell in her office. The professor was in her early forties, a big-bosomed woman who dressed the part of a dowdy Earth child: baggy, faded peasant dress, oval black glasses, no make-up, clogs, and her head wrapped in a scarf held in place by two wooden hairpins.

  But it was the beauty mark that caught Knight’s eye. Set above her jawline about midway down her right cheek, it put him in mind of a young Elizabeth Taylor and made him think that, given the right circumstances and manner of dress, the professor could have been quite attractive.

  As Dr Farrell inspected his identification, Knight glanced around at various framed pictures: one of the professor climbing in Scotland, another of her posing beside some Greek ruins, and a third in which she was much younger, in sunglasses, khaki pants and shirt, posing with an automatic weapon beside a white truck that said NATO on the side.

  ‘Okay,’ Farrell said, returning Knight’s badge. ‘What are we here to discuss?’

  ‘Sir Denton Marshall, a member of the Olympic Organising Committee,’ Knight said, watching for her reaction.

  Farrell stiffened, and then pursed her lips in distaste. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s been murdered,’ Pope said. ‘Decapitated.’

  The professor appeared genuinely shocked. ‘Decapitated? Oh, that’s horrible. I didn’t like the man, but … that’s barbaric.’

  ‘Marshall took your house and your land,’ Knight remarked.

  Farrell hardened. ‘He did. I hated him for it. I hated him and everyone who’s in favour of the Olympics for it. But I did not kill him. I don’t believe in violence.’

  Knight glanced at the photo of her with the automatic weapon. But he decided not to challenge her, asking instead: ‘Can you account for your whereabouts around ten forty-five last night?’

  The classics professor arched back in her chair and took off her glasses, revealing amazing sapphire eyes that stared intently at Knight. ‘I can account for my whereabouts at that time, but I won’t unless it’s necessary. I enjoy my privacy.’

  ‘Tell us about Cronus,’ Pope said.

  The professor drew back. ‘You mean the Titan?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ Pope said.

  She shrugged. ‘He’s mentioned by Aeschylus, especially during the third play in his Oresteia cycle, The Eumenides. They were the three Furies of vengeance born from the blood of Cronus’s father. Why are you asking about him? All in all, Cronus is a minor figure in Greek mythology.’

  Pope glanced at Knight, who nodded. She dug into her bag. She came up with her mobile, which she fiddled with for several seconds as she said to the professor, ‘I received a package today from someone who calls himself Cronus and who claims to be Marshall’s killer. There’s a letter and this: it’s a recording of a recording, but …’

  As the reporter returned to her bag, looking for her copy of Cronus’s letter, the weird, irritating flute music began to float from her phone.

  The classics professor froze after a few notes had played.

  The melody went on and Farrell stared at her desk, becoming agitated. Then she looked around wildly as if she was hearing hornets. Her hands shot up as though to cover her ears, dislodging the hairpins and loosening her headscarf.

  She panicked and raised her hands to hold the scarf in place. Then she leaped to her feet and bolted for the door, choking: ‘For God’s sake turn it off! It’s giving me a migraine! It’s making me sick!’

  Knight jumped to his feet and went out after Farrell, who clopped at high speed down the hall before barging into a women’s loo.

  ‘That set off something big,’ Pope said. She’d come up behind him.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Knight said. He went back into the office, headed straight to the classics professor’s desk and plucked a small evidence bag from his pocket.

  He turned the bag inside out before picking up one of the hairpins that had fallen before Farrell bolted. He wrapped the bag around the pins and then drew them out before dropping them back on the desk.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Pope demanded in a whisper.

  Knight sealed the bag and murmured, ‘Hooligan says the hair sample from the envelope was female.’

  He heard someone approaching the office, slid the evidence into his coat chest pocket and sat down. Pope stood, and was looking towards the door when another woman, much younger than Farrell but with a similar lack of fashion sense, entered and said: ‘Sorry. I’m Nina Langor, Professor Farrell’s teaching assistant.’

  ‘Is she all right?’ Pope asked.

  ‘She said she’s suffering from a migraine and is going home. She said if you’ll call her on Monday or Tuesday she’ll explain.’

  ‘Explain what?’ Knight demanded.

  Nina Langor appeared bewildered. ‘I honestly have no idea. I’ve never seen her act like that before.’

  Chapter 24

  TEN MINUTES LATER, Knight followed Pope up the stairs into One Aldwych, looking questioningly at the hotel doorman he’d spoken with earlier and getting a nod in response. Knight slipped the doorman a ten-pound note and followed Pope towards the muffled sounds of happy voices.

  ‘That music got to Farrell,’ Pope said. ‘She’d heard it before.’

  ‘I agree,’ Knight said. ‘It threw her hard.’

  ‘Is it possible she’s Cronus?’ Pope asked.

  ‘And uses the name to make us think she’s a man? Sure. Why not?’

  They entered the hotel’s dram
atic Lobby Bar, which was triangular in shape, with a soaring vaulted ceiling, pale marble floor, glass walls and intimate groupings of fine furniture.

  While the bar at the Savoy Hotel along the Strand was about glamour, the Lobby Bar was about money. One Aldwych was close to London’s legal and financial districts, and exuded enough corporate elegance to make it a magnet for thirsty bankers, flush traders, and celebrating deal-makers.

  There were forty or fifty such patrons in the bar, but Knight spotted Richard Guilder, Marshall’s business partner, almost immediately: a corpulent, silver-haired boar of a man in a dark suit, sitting at the bar alone, his shoulders and head hunched over.

  ‘Let me do the talking at first,’ Knight said.

  ‘Why?’ Pope snapped. ‘Because I am a woman?’

  ‘How many allegedly corrupt tycoons have you chatted up lately on the sports beat?’ he asked her coolly.

  The reporter grudgingly made a show of letting him lead the way.

  Marshall’s partner was staring off into the abyss. Two fingers of neat Scotch swirled in the crystal tumbler he held. To his left, a bar stool stood empty. Knight started to sit on it.

  Before he could, an ape of a man in a dark suit got in the way.

  ‘Mr Guilder prefers to be alone,’ he said in a distinct Brooklyn accent.

  Knight showed him his identification. Guilder’s bodyguard shrugged, and showed Knight his. Joe Mascolo worked for Private New York.

  ‘You in as backup for the Games?’ Knight asked.

  Mascolo nodded. ‘Jack called me over.’

  ‘Then you’ll let me talk to him?’

  The Private New York agent shook his head. ‘Man wants to be alone.’

  Knight said loud enough for Guilder to hear: ‘Mr Guilder? I’m sorry for your loss. I’m Peter Knight, also with Private. I’m working on behalf of the London Organising Committee, and for my mother, Amanda Knight.’

  Mascolo looked furious that Knight was trying to work around him.

  But Guilder stiffened, turned in his seat, studied Knight and then said, ‘Amanda. My God. It’s …’ He shook his head and wiped away a tear. ‘Please, Knight, listen to Joe. I’m not in any condition to talk about Denton at the moment. I am here to mourn him. Alone. As I imagine your dear mother is doing, too.’

  ‘Please, sir,’ Knight began again. ‘Scotland Yard—’

  ‘Has agreed to talk with him in the morning,’ Mascolo growled. ‘Call his office. Make an appointment. And leave the man in peace for the evening.’

  The Private New York agent glared at Knight. Marshall’s partner was turning back to his drink, and Knight was growing resigned to leaving him alone until the next morning when Pope said, ‘I’m with the Sun, Mr Guilder. We received a letter from Denton Marshall’s killer. He mentions you and your company and justifies murdering your partner because of certain illegal activities that Marshall and you were alleged to have been involved in at your place of business.’

  Guilder swung around, livid. ‘How dare you! Denton Marshall was as honest as the day is long. He was never, ever involved in anything illegal during all the time I knew him. And neither was I. Whatever this letter says, it’s a lie.’

  Pope tried to hand the financier photocopies of the documents that Cronus had sent her, saying, ‘Denton Marshall’s killer alleges that these were taken from Marshall & Guilder’s own records – or, to be more precise, your firm’s secret records.’

  Guilder glanced at the pages but did not take them, as if he had no time for considering such outrageous allegations. ‘We have never kept secret records at Marshall & Guilder.’

  ‘Really?’ Knight said. ‘Not even about foreign currency transactions made on behalf of your high-net-worth clients?’

  The hedge fund manager said nothing, but Knight swore that some of the colour had seeped from his florid cheeks.

  Pope said, ‘According to these documents, you and Denton Marshall were pocketing fractions of the value of every British pound or US dollar or other currency that passed across your trading desks. It may not sound like much, but when you’re talking hundreds of millions of pounds a year the fractions add up.’

  Guilder set his tumbler of scotch on the bar, doing his best to appear composed. But Knight could have sworn that he saw a slight tremor in the man’s hand as it returned to rest on Guilder’s thigh. ‘Is that all the killer of my best friend claims?’

  ‘No,’ Knight replied. ‘He says that the money was moved to offshore accounts and funnelled ultimately to members of the Olympic Site Selection Committee before their decision in 2007. He says that your partner bribed London’s way into the Games.’

  The weight of the allegation seemed to throw Guilder. He looked both befuddled and wary, as if he’d suddenly realised he was far too drunk to be having this conversation.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, that’s not … Please, Joe, make them go.’

  Mascolo looked torn but said, ‘Leave him be until tomorrow. I’m sure that if we call Jack he’s going to tell you the same thing.’

  Before Knight could reply there was a noise like a fine crystal wine glass breaking. The first bullet pierced a window on the west side of the bar. It just missed Guilder and shattered the huge mirror behind the bar.

  Knight and Mascolo both realised what had happened. ‘Get down!’ Knight yelled, going for his gun, and scanning the windows for any sign of the shooter.

  Too late. A second round was fired through the window. The slug hit Guilder just below his sternum with a sound like a pillow being plumped.

  Bright red blood bloomed on the hedge fund manager’s starched white shirt and he collapsed forward, upsetting a champagne bucket as he fell and crashed to the pale marble floor.

  Chapter 25

  IN THE STUNNED silence that now briefly seized the fabled Lobby Bar, the shooter, an agile figure in black motorcycle leathers and visor helmet, spun away and jumped off the window ledge to flee.

  ‘Someone call an ambulance,’ Pope yelled. ‘He’s been shot!’

  The bar erupted into pandemonium as Joe Mascolo vaulted over his prone client and bulled forward, ignoring the patrons screaming and diving for cover.

  Knight was two feet behind the Private New York operator when Mascolo jumped over a glass cocktail table and up onto the back of a plush grey sofa set against the bar’s west wall. As Knight tried to climb up beside Mascolo, he saw to his surprise that the American was armed.

  Gun laws in the UK were very strict. Knight had had to jump through two years of hoops in order to get his licence to carry a firearm.

  Before he could think any more about it, Mascolo shot through the window. The gun sounded like a cannon in that marble and glass room. Real hysteria swept the bar now. Knight spotted the shooter in the middle of the cul-de-sac on Harding Street, face obscured but plainly a woman. At the sound of Mascolo’s shot she twisted, dropped and aimed in one motion, an ultra-professional.

  She fired before Knight could and before Mascolo could get off another round. The bullet caught the Private New York agent through the throat, killing him instantly. Mascolo dropped back off the sofa and fell violently through the glass cocktail table.

  The shooter was aiming at Knight now. He ducked, raised his pistol above the sill and pulled the trigger. He was about to rise when two more rounds shattered the window above him.

  Glass rained down on Knight. He thought of his children and hesitated a moment before returning fire. Then he heard tyres squealing.

  Knight rose up to see the shooter on a jet-black motorcycle, its rear tyre smoking and laying rubber in a power drift that shot her around the corner onto the Strand, heading west and disappearing before Knight could shoot.

  He cursed, turned and looked in shock at Mascolo, for whom there was no hope. But he heard Pope cry: ‘Guilder’s alive, Knight! Where’s that ambulance?’

  Knight jumped off the couch and ran back through the shouting and the gathering crowd towards the crumpled form of Richard Guilder. Pope was
kneeling at his side amid a puddle of champagne and a mass of blood, ice and glass.

  The financier was breathing in gasps and holding tight to his upper stomach while the blood on his shirt turned darker and spread.

  For a moment, Knight had an unnerving moment of déjà vu, seeing blood spreading on a bed sheet. Then he shook off the vision and got down next to Pope.

  ‘They said there’s an ambulance on the way,’ the reporter said, her voice strained. ‘But I don’t know what to do. No one here does.’

  Knight tore off his jacket, pushed aside Guilder’s hands and pressed the coat to his chest. Marshall’s partner peered at Knight as if he might be the last person he ever saw alive, and struggled to talk.

  ‘Take it easy, Mr Guilder,’ Knight said. ‘Help’s on the way.’

  ‘No,’ Guilder grunted softly. ‘Please, listen …’

  Knight leaned close to the financier’s face and heard him whisper a secret hoarsely before paramedics burst into the Lobby Bar. But as Guilder finished his confession he just seemed to give out.

  Blood trickled from his mouth, his eyes glazed, and he slumped like a puppet with its strings cut.

  Chapter 26

  A FEW MINUTES later, Knight stood on the pavement outside One Aldwych, oblivious to patrons hurrying past him to the restaurants and theatres. He was transfixed by the sight and sound of the wailing ambulance speeding Guilder and Mascolo to the nearest hospital.

  He remembered standing on another pavement late at night almost three years before, watching a different ambulance race away from him, its siren’s fading cry accompanying a feeling of misery that still had not lifted entirely for him.

  ‘Knight?’ Pope said. She’d come up behind him.

  He blinked and noticed the double-decker buses braking and taxis honking and people hurrying home all around him. Suddenly he felt disjointed in much the same way that he had on that long-ago night when he’d watched the other ambulance speed away from him.