Private Games

by James Patterson

  ‘That’s not my call, Elaine,’ Knight shot back. ‘It’s the Sun’s call. The paper is Private’s client!’

  ‘I don’t care who the—’

  ‘What about your end?’ Peter demanded. ‘I always seem to be giving you information.’

  There was a pause before she said, ‘The big focus is on how Cronus managed to hack into the …’

  Knight noticed that the twins weren’t in their cots and stopped listening. His attention shot to the clock. Ten a.m.! He hadn’t slept this late since before the twins were born.

  ‘Gotta go, Elaine! Kids,’ he said and hung up.

  Every worrying thought that a parent could have sliced through him, and he lurched through the nursery door and out onto the landing above the staircase. What if they’ve fallen? What if they’ve mucked around with …?

  He heard the television spewing coverage of the 400-metre freestyle relay swimming heats, and felt as if every muscle in his body had changed to rubber. He had to hold tight to the railings to get down to the first floor.

  Luke and Isabel had pulled the cushions off the sofa and piled them on the floor. They were sitting on them like little Buddhas beside empty cereal and juice boxes. Knight thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

  He fed, changed and dressed them while tracking the broadcast coverage of Teeter’s murder. Scotland Yard and MI5 weren’t talking. Neither was F7, the company hired by LOCOG to run security and scanning at the Games.

  But Mike Lancer was all over the news, assuring reporters that the Olympics were safe, defending his actions but taking full responsibility for the breaches in security. Shaken and yet resolved, Lancer vowed that Cronus would be stopped, captured, and brought to justice.

  Knight, meanwhile, continued to struggle with the fact that he had no nanny and would not be actively working the Cronus case until he could find one. He’d called his mother several times, but she hadn’t answered. Then he called another of the agencies, explained his situation, and begged for a temp. The manager told him she might be able to recruit someone by Tuesday.

  ‘Tuesday?’ he shouted.

  ‘It’s the best I can do – the Games have taken everyone available,’ the woman said and hung up.

  The twins wanted to go to the playground around noon. Figuring it would help them to nap, he agreed. He put them in their buggy, bought a copy of the Sun, and walked to a playground inside the Royal Hospital Gardens about ten minutes from his house. The temperature had fallen and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. London at its finest.

  But as Knight sat on a bench and watched Luke playing on the big-boy slide and Isabel digging in the sandbox, his thoughts weren’t on his children or on the exceptional weather for the first full day of Olympic competition. He kept thinking about Cronus and wondering if and when he’d strike again?

  A text came in from Hooligan: ‘Skin cells in second letter are male, no match yet. Off to Coventry for England-Algeria football match.’

  Male? Knight thought. Cronus? So Farrell was one of the Furies?

  In frustration, Knight picked up the newspaper. Pope’s story dominated the front page under the headline: Death Stalks The Olympics.

  The sports reporter led with Teeter’s collapse and death in a terse, factual account of the events as they had unfolded at the opening ceremony. Near the end of the piece, she’d included a rebuttal of Cronus’s charges from Teeter’s brother-in-law who was in London for the Games. He claimed that the lab results Cronus had provided were phoney, and that he, in fact, was the person who had bought deer-antler velvet. Working on construction sites all day long as he did, he said it gave him relief from chronic back spasms.

  ‘Hello? Sir?’ a woman said.

  The sunlight was so brilliant at first that Knight could only see the outline of a female figure standing in front of him holding out a flyer. He was about to say he wasn’t interested, but then he put his hand to his brow to block the sun’s glare from his eyes. The woman had a rather plain face, short dark hair, dark eyes, and a stocky athletic build.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, taking the flyer.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ she said with a humble smile, and he heard the soft East European accent for the first time. ‘Please, I see you have children and I was wondering do you know someone who needs or do you yourself need a babysitter?’

  Knight blinked several times in astonishment and then looked down at her flyer, which read: ‘Experienced babysitter/nanny with excellent references available. Undergraduate degree in early-childhood development. Accepted into graduate programme in speech-language pathology.’

  It went on, but Knight stopped reading and looked up at her. ‘What’s your name?’

  She sat down beside him, with an eager smile.

  ‘Marta,’ she said. ‘Marta Brezenova.’

  Chapter 48

  ‘YOU’RE AN UNEXPECTED answer to my prayers, Marta Brezenova, and your timing could not have been better,’ Knight announced, feeling pleased at his good fortune. ‘My name is Peter Knight, and I am actually in desperate need of a nanny at the moment.’

  Marta looked incredulous and then happy. Her fingers went to her lips as she said, ‘But you are the first person I’ve handed my flier to! It’s like fate!’

  ‘Maybe,’ Knight said, enjoying her infectious enthusiasm.

  ‘No, it is!’ she protested. ‘Can I apply?’

  He looked again at her flier. ‘Do you have a C.V.? References?’

  ‘Both,’ she said without hesitation, then dug in her bag and brought out a professional-looking C.V. and an Estonian passport. ‘Now you know who I am.’

  Knight glanced at the C.V. and the passport before saying: ‘Tell you what. Those are my kids over there. Luke’s on the slide and Isabel is in the sandbox. Go and introduce yourself. I’ll look this over and give your references a call.’

  Knight wanted to see how his kids interacted with Marta as a total stranger. He’d seen them revolt against so many nannies that he did not want to bother calling this woman’s references if she and the twins did not click. No matter how badly he needed a nanny it wouldn’t be worth the effort if they did not get along.

  But to his surprise Marta went to Isabel, the more reserved of his children, and won her over almost immediately, helping her build a sandcastle and generating such enthusiasm that Luke soon left the slide to help. In three minutes, she had Lukey Knight – the big, bad, biting terror of Chelsea – laughing and filling buckets.

  Seeing his children fall so easily under Marta’s sway, Knight read the C.V. closely. She was an Estonian citizen, mid-thirties, but had done her undergraduate studies at the American University in Paris.

  During her last two years at the university, and for six years after graduating, she had worked as a nanny for two different families in Paris. The mothers’ names and phone numbers were included.

  Marta’s C.V. also indicated that she spoke English, French, Estonian and German, and had been accepted into the graduate programme in speech-language pathology at London’s City University. She was due to join the course in 2014. In many ways, Knight thought, she was typical of the many educated women streaming into London these days: willing to take jobs beneath their qualifications in order to live and survive in the greatest city in the world.

  My luck, Knight thought. He got out his mobile and started calling the references, thinking: Please let this be real. Please let someone answer the—

  Petra DeMaurier came on the line almost immediately, speaking French. Knight identified himself and asked if she spoke English. In a guarded tone, she said that she did. When he told her that he was thinking of hiring Marta Brezenova as a nanny for his young twins, she turned effusive, praising Marta as the best nanny her four children had ever had, patient, loving, yet strong-willed if necessary.

  ‘Why did she leave your employ?’ Knight asked.

  ‘My husband was transferred to Vietnam for two years,’ she said. ‘Marta did not wish to accompany us, but we p
arted on very good terms. You are a lucky man to have her.’

  The second reference, Teagan Lesa, was no less positive, saying, ‘When Marta was accepted for graduate studies in London, I almost cried. My three children did cry, even Stephan who is normally my brave little man. If I were you, I’d hire her before someone else does. Better yet, tell her to come back to Paris. We wait for her with open arms.’

  Knight thought for several moments after hanging up, knowing he should check with the universities here and in Paris, something he couldn’t do until Monday at the earliest. Then he had an idea. He hesitated, but then called Pottersfield back.

  ‘You hung up on me,’ she snapped.

  ‘I had to,’ Knight said. ‘I need you to check an Estonian passport for me,’

  ‘I most certainly will not,’ Pottersfield shot back.

  ‘It’s for the twins, Elaine,’ Knight said in a pleading tone. ‘I’ve got an opportunity to hire them a new nanny who looks great on paper. I just want to make sure, and it’s the weekend and I have no other way to do it.’

  There was a long silence before Pottersfield said, ‘Give me the name and passport number if you’ve got it.’

  Knight heard the Scotland Yard inspector typing after he read her the number. He watched Marta get onto the slide, holding Isabel. His daughter on the slide? That was a first. They slid to the bottom with only a trace of terror surfacing on Isabel’s face before she started clapping.

  ‘Marta Brezenova,’ said Pottersfield. ‘Kind of a plain Jane, isn’t she?’

  ‘You were expecting a supermodel moonlighting as a nanny?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Pottersfield allowed. ‘She arrived in the UK on a flight from Paris ten days ago. She’s here on an educational visa to attend City University.’

  ‘Graduate programme in speech-language pathology,’ Knight said. ‘Thanks, Elaine. I owe you.’

  Hearing Luke shriek with laughter, he hung up and spotted his son and his sister running through the jungle gym with Marta in hot pursuit, playing the happy monster, laughing maniacally.

  You’re not much to look at, Knight thought. But thank God for you, anyway. You’re hired.

  Chapter 49

  Monday, 30 July 2012

  EARLY THAT AFTERNOON, Metropolitan Police Inspector Billy Casper eyed Knight suspiciously, and said, ‘Can’t say I think it’s proper for you to have access. But Pottersfield wanted you to see for yourself. So go on up. Second floor. Flat on the right.’

  Knight mounted the stairs, fully focused on the investigation now that Marta Brezenova had come into the picture. The woman was a marvel. In less than two days she’d put his children under a spell. They were cleaner, better behaved, and happier. He’d even checked with City University. No doubt. Marta Brezenova had been accepted on their speech-language pathology programme. He hadn’t bothered to call the American University in Paris. That aspect of his life felt settled at last. He’d even called up the agency that had offered him part-time help and had cancelled his request.

  Now Inspector Elaine Pottersfield was waiting for Knight at the door to Selena Farrell’s apartment.

  ‘Anything?’ he asked.

  ‘A lot, actually,’ she said. After he’d put on gloves and slipons she led him inside. A full crime-scene unit from Scotland Yard and specialists from MI5 were tearing the place apart.

  They went into the professor’s bedroom, which was dominated by an oversized dressing table that featured three mirrors and several drawers open to reveal all manner of beauty items: twenty different kinds of lipstick, an equal number of nail-polish bottles, and jars of make-up.

  Dr Farrell? It didn’t fit with the professor whom Knight and Pope had met in the office. Then he looked around and spotted the open closets, which were stuffed with what looked like high-end expensive women’s clothing.

  Was she a secret fashionista or something?

  Before Knight could express his confusion, Pottersfield gestured past a crime tech examining a laptop on the dressing table towards a filing cabinet in the corner. ‘We found all sorts of written diatribes against the destruction the Games caused in East London, including several poisonous letters to Denton—’

  ‘Inspector?’ the crime tech interrupted excitedly. ‘I think I’ve got it!’

  Pottersfield frowned. ‘What?’

  The tech struck the keyboard and from the computer flute music began to play, the same haunting melody that had echoed inside the Olympic Stadium on the night Paul Teeter was poisoned, the same brutal tune that had accompanied Cronus’s letter accusing him of using an illicit performance-enhancing substance.

  ‘That’s on the computer?’ Knight asked.

  ‘Part of a simple .exe file designed to play the music and to display this.’

  The tech turned the screen to show three words centred horizontally:

  OLYMPIC SHAME EXPOSED

  Chapter 50

  Tuesday, 31 July 2012

  WEARING A SURGICAL hair-cap and mask, a long rubber apron and the sort of high-sleeved rubber gloves that butchers use to disembowel cattle, I carefully load the third letter into an envelope addressed to Karen Pope.

  More than sixty hours have passed since we slew the monster Teeter, and the initial frenzy that we caused in the global media has subsided considerably because the London Games have gone on, and gold medals have been won.

  On Saturday we dominated virtually every broadcast and every written account of the opening ceremonies. On Sunday, the stories about the threat we posed were shorter and focused on law-enforcement efforts to figure out how the Olympic computer system was hacked, as well as insignificant coverage of the impromptu memorial service that the US athletes held for the corrupt swine Teeter.

  Yesterday we were merely context for news features that trumpeted the fact that, apart from Teeter’s murder, the 2012 Summer Olympics were going off flawlessly. This morning we didn’t even make page one, which was dominated by the search of Serena Farrell’s home and office where conclusive evidence had been found linking her to the Cronus murders; and by reports that Scotland Yard and MI5 had launched a nationwide manhunt for the classics professor.

  This is troubling news at some level, but not unexpected. Nor is the fact that it will take more than a death or two to destroy the modern Olympic movement. I’ve known that ever since the night when London won the right to host the Games. My sisters and I have had seven years since to work out our intricate plan for vengeance, seven years to penetrate the system and use it to our advantage, seven years to create enough false leads to keep the police distracted and uncertain, unable to anticipate our final purpose until it’s much too late.

  Still wearing the apron and gloves, I slip the envelope into a plastic Ziploc bag and hand it to Petra, who stands with Teagan, both sisters clad in disguises that render them fat and unrecognisable to anyone but me or their older sister.

  ‘Remember the tides,’ I say.

  Petra says nothing and looks away from me, as if she is having an internal argument of some sort. The act creates unease in me.

  ‘We will, Cronus,’ Teagan says, sliding on dark sunglasses below the official Olympic Volunteer cap she wears.

  I go to Petra and say, ‘Are you all right, sister?’

  Her expression is conflicted, but she nods.

  I kiss her on both cheeks, and then turn to Teagan.

  ‘The factory?’ I ask.

  ‘This morning,’ she replies. ‘Food and medicine enough for four days.’

  I embrace her and whisper in her ear: ‘Watch your sister. She’s impulsive.’

  When we part, Teagan’s face is expressionless. My cold warrior.

  Removing the apron and gloves, I watch the sisters leave, and my hand travels to that crablike scar on the back of my head. Scratching it, the hatred ignites almost instantly, and I deeply wish that I could be one of those two women tonight. But, in consolation, I remind myself that the ultimate revenge will be mine and mine alone. The disposable mobile in my po
cket rings. It’s Marta.

  ‘I managed to put a bug in Knight’s mobile before he left for work,’ she informs me. ‘I’ll tap the home computer when the children sleep.’

  ‘Did he give you the evening off?’

  ‘I didn’t ask for it,’ Marta says.

  If the stupid bitch were in front of me right now, I swear I’d wring her pretty little neck. ‘What do you mean, you didn’t ask?’ I demand in a tight voice.

  ‘Relax,’ she says. ‘I’ll be right where I’m needed when I’m needed. The children will be asleep. They’ll never even know I was gone. And neither will Knight. He told me not to expect him until almost midnight.’

  ‘How can you be sure the brats will be sleeping?’

  ‘How else would I do it? I’m going to drug them.’

  Chapter 51

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER, inside the Aquatics Centre in the grounds of the Olympic Park, US diver Hunter Pierce flipped backwards off the ten-metre platform. She spun through the chlorine-tainted air, corkscrewing twice before slicing the water with a cutting sound, leaving a shallow whirlpool on the surface and little else.

  Knight joined the packed house, cheering, clapping and whistling. But no one in the crowd celebrated more than the American diver’s three children – one boy and two girls – in the front row, stamping their feet and waving their hands at their mother as she surfaced, grinning wildly.

  That was Pierce’s fourth attempt, and her best in Knight’s estimation. After three dives she had been in third place behind athletes from South Korea and Panama. The Chinese were a surprisingly distant fourth and fifth.

  She’s in the zone, Knight thought. She feels it.

  As he’d been for much of the past two hours, Knight was standing in the exit gangway opposite the ten-metre platform, watching the crowd and the competition. Nearly four days had passed since Teeter’s death, four days without subsequent attack, and one day since the discovery of the software program in Selena Farrell’s computer designed to breach and take over the Olympic Stadium’s electronic scoreboard system.