The Last Olympiad

By John Goodwin

Even before the British Olympic Committee won the right to stage the 2012 games, they confidently displayed a ‘Countdown to London’ banner on their website.
Little did they know that it was also a simultaneous countdown to events that, if they became known, would make London 2012:
‘The Last Olympiad.’

When Gavinder, a disaffected British born Moslem helped install an explosive device in the concrete undercroft of London’s new Olympic Stadium he thought it was set to destroy the structure and cause the cancellation of the games. But other forces are at work and the consequences are far more than his conscience can reconcile.

How did the son of a peace loving, law-abiding family find himself involved in terrorism? A remarkable athlete wasted when unwitting prejudice left him rejected and disillusioned. The well-intentioned attempts to turn him from the street-crime he was slipping into dropped him into the clutches of those who would capitalize on his troubled mental state for their own purposes.

Menaced by Shakir, a murderous munitions expert, he is torn between revenge, his innate humanity and his duty to the Jihad. He is involved in love, hate, murder, rape and retribution. Can he keep his faith? If he tells the authorities, will they believe him? Can he recover the computerized key that is the only way of disarming the device? Aided in London by a young Islamic student and complicated by a team of mercenaries with dubious loyalties, his adventures take him across Europe, into North Africa and back to London in time for the doomed opening ceremony. Fate, right wing extremists and Anglo-American confusion all play a vital part in the outcome.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Goodwin
• Release date: Mar 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9780957452312

John Goodwin

Born into a railway family, the author left school at fourteen. He spent the early years of the Second World War on Sussex Coast, armed with a rifle and awaiting a German invasion. Sent to the Middle East, he ended up in army headquarters in Baghdad and was responsible for secret signal communications, along the military convoy routes from Basra, on the Persian Gulf, to the Russian Army. He is a founder member and contributor to the Fortress Study Group.

Book preview

Countdown to London 2012: 2 years, 11 months, 6 days, 14 hours, 27 minutes

One mile off the mouth of the river Swale, where it joins the Thames estuary, Gavinder slipped over the stern of the yacht and, grasping the painter, placed a tenuous foot into the dinghy. At the moment he chose to transfer his weight the rubber boat bucked, pitching him headlong into the water. He gasped and spluttered his way to the surface, somehow maintaining his grip on the thin rope. The cold sea penetrated his jeans and tracksuit top, chilling him to the point of pain. Taking a grip of the dinghy’s bow, he heaved his slim frame over it, tumbling in a heap onto the sagging bottom of the unstable craft. He remained prone, coughing up the last of the salty liquid that threatened to invade his lungs. Above him, the overcast night sky was visible beyond the rubber walls of the dinghy. Waves slopped over the sides, adding to the puddles that formed around him and the black plastic clad cylinder bonded to the small craft’s bottom membrane. Tense and shivering from the cold, he fought his nausea, now worsened by the exaggerated movement of the smaller vessel.

‘Gavinder, ce va?’ a voice called. ‘You are okay?’ The words were heavy with a French accent.

Unable to catch his breath enough to speak, Gavinder raised his fist and waggled an extended thumb in acknowledgement. He thought he heard a wry chuckle in response.

There was a sudden change in motion as the dinghy was set adrift. The yacht was bearing away; he heard the mainsail crack as it jibed onto its new course. It would continue up the Thames to make landfall at St. Catherine’s Dock in the city of London. There, it would clear customs. If tracked by radar, its passage would not show any stops, nor was he on the crew list.

Gavinder eased his head over the gunwales; already, the yacht was only visible in the darkness by its stern light. He knew that, on board, the crew would be pumping up an identical dinghy and strapping it to the cabin roof to replace his one. On arrival, all would appear to be as it had been when they had left France.

Looking to his left he could make out the low, dark shape of the Kent coast and, ahead, the higher and closer bulk of the Isle of Sheppey. The rising tide would sweep him between the two landmasses and, when the time came, he would paddle ashore up a creek to the rendezvous and safety. He groped around in the bottom of the boat and found the plastic bag secured there. Opening it, he felt, inside, the familiar shapes of a torch, a plastic bottle of Evian water and, most importantly, a bailer. After a while, despite the addition of more salt water from the occasional high wave, he lightened the vessel enough to keep it dry. Due to the weight of its cargo, if swamped, it would no doubt sink to the bottom. Its valuable contents would be lost, or, worse, recovered by a fishing boat and handed to the authorities.

Wretched and still shivering he took a drink and looked around. The tide was doing its job; he was now between Sheppey and the mainland. Above him and to his right, he could see the lights of the Hartferry Inn. To his left, the mainland coast, a distant blackness without habitation.

The yacht skipper had told him that, if he paddled at a steady pace from this point towards the far shore, the tide would carry him along to his landing point. He should make landfall within the hour. He sat astride the cargo, reached down and dragged the single paddle out from its Velcro retainer. With several strokes on his right, he turned the bow towards the distant shore. Digging the paddle in one side, then the other, he propelled the boat forward. It was necessary to put in occasional extra strokes to his right to keep the correct heading. He gained momentum and settled down to a steady rhythm.

After a while, he started to appreciate the cool breeze. It cut through his wet clothing and dissipated the heat from his straining muscles. The lights of the pub slipped away to his left and, although the land behind him receded, the opposite shore did not seem to get any closer. He realised that he was alone, not a living thing in sight, just the wind, the waves and his precious cargo.

He used to enjoy being alone; that was one of the reasons he had taken up cross-country running whilst at school in Kent. Once away from the pack, he was able to set a remorseless pace, eating up the miles, losing himself in his own thoughts and oblivious to fatigue. However, this was a different kind of solitude. He was surrounded by an alien environment, without the option of stopping and going home, or any chance of rescue, should he succumb.

Trained hard at the camp in Pakistan, his slim body rippled with a tight musculature straining against his light brown skin. However, he had never learnt to cope with fatigue in his upper body the way he could with his legs. He felt the first burning sensation in his upper arms and pectorals as the lactic acid built up. The shore seemed a long way off.

Pushing this from his mind, he turned his thought to better things. Once he had completed his mission, he would be taken to London and then to Erith and home. He had not seen his parents in three years. Shortly after his recruitment at the age of seventeen, he had been sent to study Islamic culture in Pakistan and now he was almost home. He imagined the greeting he would receive. Hugs from Mother, a handshake, maybe even a pat on the back, from his father. All the family, his brother and sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles would come to his parents’ little corner shop for a party to welcome him home; a hero of Islam.

He scanned the shoreline; it was closer now. Glancing at his watch, the luminous hands showed it was almost four o’clock; he had been paddling for an hour. By this time he should be close, looking for a signal from the people on shore to guide him to the right creek and blessed relief.

No doubt, the tide had carried him far enough along, but the wind was holding him off. He dug in with the paddle blades, pushing harder and faster; glitters of phosphorescence sprang from their impact. His muscles screamed for relief, but on he ploughed. His left leg felt numb and a cramp had set into his right. The wind had freshened, chilling his sweating face and whistling in his ears; its salty tang stung his eyes and nostrils. He put his head down and paddled for all he was worth. Every ten strokes or so, he raised his eyes, searching for the signal light. He was sure he would be swept past.

The shore came closer; he could see the undulating edges lapped by small waves against the almost-black mud. Darker creases appeared where creeks and rivulets emptied into the estuary, the rising tide filling their recesses. Grasses that topped the mounds were visible now. He could smell the rotting vegetation and oily pollution of the salt marsh. Still he swept on. The current carried him faster than walking pace. Not daring to stop paddling, he peered into each creek as he passed. No sign of life. He must have overshot. He decided to get ashore anywhere he could, tie the boat and go to look for them on land.

Three short flashes - one long. The signal! He headed towards it, his flagging muscles burning with every stroke. As the boat turned in the current, his efforts only seemed to slow his progress. He was being swept away. He fumbled for the torch, turned it on and shone it at the light. They responded with the signal again. He tried to send the reply; his numb and puckered fingers could hardly feel the flash button: ‘two short, one long’. They turned their torch in his direction; they had seen him and started to signal again. The last short flash cut off as a muddy mound occluded the beam. Gavinder returned to paddling toward the mouth of the creek. He felt a jolt as the back of the boat struck the mud; it spun around and came free again. He grabbed the painter and rolled headfirst over the side. He struggled to the surface and, probing with his feet, found the soft and yielding bottom, his head barely out of the water. Each wave lifted him, threatening to topple him over. He struck out up the steep, muddy slope to the shallows, at last throwing himself onto the sticky black mass of the shore.

He lay there, gasping for breath. His eyes stung, his head pounded and his whole body ached. The dinghy floated alongside him, the painter tugging at his raw hand. After a while, his pulse slowed and he became more aware of the cold. He summoned the last of his strength and struggled to his feet. He was standing waist deep in water and calf deep in mud; his right leg bent almost double, with his left stretched out in order to stand upright. From this stance, he lurched forward towards the creek, dragging the dinghy. He was at the point of collapse when a light appeared above him.

‘Here he is,’ said a deep, unfamiliar voice. ‘Fetch that rope.’

Other voices muffled replies. A rope slapped down into the water beside him and two men in waders slithered down the steep bank

‘It’s okay, boy, we’ve got it now.’ The painter was eased from his hand.

Gavinder closed his eyes, too tired to help or care. With the rope secured under his arms, he was dragged up the muddy slope. Aware of being carried and dragged, pushed and shoved, he was eventually bundled into the back of a van. Wrapped in a blanket over his sodden clothes, the exposed skin of his hands and face burnt as the warmer air replaced the chilly wind. Feeling safe, at last, he fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

A sharp blow to the forehead jolted Gavinder awake. He was still in the van, which had pulled up sharply. As it pulled away again, he slid back across the metal floor, along with an assortment of hard, metal objects loose in the load space. He tried to see what they were, but it was so dark he could hardly tell if his eyes were open or closed.

The vehicle’s motion became more erratic. It was obvious they were in town now after the early morning drive on the motorway. He tried to brace against the side, jamming himself into the front left corner of the space. His whole body ached, his head throbbed and, touching his tender forehead, his hand came away sticky and wet. He was covered in foul-smelling mud and filth, drying and becoming stiff in some places. It made him so nauseous that vomit burnt in his throat, but he managed to swallow it back.

The journey continued uncomfortably, then ended with a sudden screech of brakes. He heard the front doors open and close. The van moved slowly on down a steep slope and stopped. The engine noise died away and the rear doors were thrown back. Dazzled by the daylight, he covered his eyes.

CHAPTER TWO

Countdown to London 2012: 2 years, 11 months, 6 days, 10 hours, 32 minutes

‘Fuck me, what a stink.’ A shrill voice came from one of two men silhouetted in the doorway.

‘Yeah, man,’ a deep voice replied.

Another door, alongside where he sat, slid back, causing him to topple outwards. He was caught by two strong arms and thrown over the man’s shoulder, knocking the wind out of his lungs.

‘I can walk,’ Gavinder croaked.

‘Shut up,’ came the flat reply.

He was carried through a doorway into a corridor. The other two men followed, carrying large bundles. One of them laughed as Gavinder’s head clattered against first the doorframe, then a metal light fitting. They entered a large, bright room, its walls and floor clad in white ceramic tiles. He was placed back on his feet, the bundles, oilskins and waders dumped on the floor beside him.

‘Sit down.’

Gavinder looked into the cold, grey eyes of the man who had carried him. That was all he could see as, like the others, he was wearing a black balaclava and an anonymous blue boiler suit. He felt a plastic chair pushed in behind his knees. He sat heavily, legs too weak to hold him up.

‘Don’t move from there.’

The three men left, leaving him to look around the room. He realised where he was; this was where the Halal meat was ritually slaughtered. Against one wall were the hooks where the animals hung after their throats were cut. A stainless steel bench was against the opposite wall and a rack of butchers’ knives hung menacingly above it. The floor sloped to a drain and a hose reel hung on the wall beside the open door. He heard noises from the corridor, curses, grunting, bumping and scraping.

The men reappeared, carrying between them the package that he had accompanied all the way from Afghanistan, still attached to the floor of the dinghy. They lowered it to the ground in front of Gavinder.

‘Jesus, that’s fucking heavy,’ said the smallest of the three.

Gavinder caught a glimpse of his eyes; they did not hold contact, but darted all over the place; wide and glittering pale blue, they gave an impression of insanity.

‘Shut it,’ said Cold Eyes. ‘Get the hose.’

Mad Eyes turned to the wall and pulled out a length of the hose, turned on a stop valve and squeezed the trigger on the nozzle. He began to wash the oilskins and waders; the powerful water jet chased them around the floor, blasting the mud all over the room. Then he turned his attention to the package; its weight sufficient to resist movement, it rocked back and forth in front of Gavinder.

Suddenly, Mad Eyes raised the jet, hitting Gavinder full in the face; its force, combined with his reaction, sent him toppling backwards in the light plastic chair. Laughing, Mad Eyes redirected the jet onto his sprawling body, deliberately targeting his genitals, then the pit of his stomach. Gavinder threw up; his stomach’s contents, mostly bile, stung his nose and dropped onto his arm. This was quickly washed away by the redirected stream.

‘Oh, Gawd, I think he’s shit himself, too,’ said Mad Eyes.

‘Take your clothes off.’ The voice matching his name, Cold Eyes walked over to the valve on the wall and reduced the pressure.

Gavinder struggled to his feet and started to strip. He had, indeed, defecated in his pants. He let them drop to the floor, leaving a foul smear down his legs. He had never felt so wretched in his life. Cold Eyes righted the chair and stood it close to Gavinder.

‘If you get any of that shit on me, you’re dead.’

Gavinder didn’t know if he was talking to him or Mad Eyes, who was now washing the spattered walls. Naked and shivering, his back to the men as they stood by the door, Gavinder leant on the chair. The deluge of cold water returned, no longer stinging in its intensity; it washed away the detritus and some of his shame.

‘Hey, man, what’s all this?’ asked the voice deep, with a slight West Indian accent.

Gavinder turned. The third man, who must have gone out unnoticed, was standing in the doorway, in his arms some towels and clothes topped by a pair of trainers.

‘Gotta get him cleaned up, aint we,’ Mad Eyes squawked

‘No need for all that. You’d better get these things put away. The boss will be down in a minute. . . Come with me, boy.’

On weak legs, Gavinder followed the black man along the corridor to a smaller room. Lit by a horizontal slit of a window high on the wall, it contained a bed, a table and a chair. Another door to one side was ajar and he could see the edge of a toilet and tiled walls.

‘There’s a shower in there; get properly cleaned up. These things are for you.’ He put the clothes on the bed.

‘Thanks.’ Gavinder pulled a towel from the bottom of the pile and headed for the bathroom.

‘Someone will bring you some food in a while. Don’t leave this room.’

‘Then can I go home?’ Gavinder asked.

‘I guess. Just rest here awhile, okay.’ The man left, pulling the door closed behind him.

Without the strength to remain standing, Gavinder slumped in the shower and allowed the warm water to ease the chill from his bones. He found the energy to wash his hair using the shampoo that he found hanging on the mixer-tap. He continued to wash his aching body, relishing the scented freshness. Feeling clean at last, he stepped out of the shower. Finding a disposable razor and shaving foam on the sink, he shaved and was grateful to discover a new toothbrush and toothpaste in the cabinet above.

He examined himself in the mirrored cupboard door. His normally bronze-coloured skin looked sallow and tight across his high cheekbones. He straightened his thick, black hair with his fingers and returned to the bedroom. A steaming bowl of vegetable soup and some bread had been set on the table. It’s delicious aroma made him realise how hungry he was. He wolfed it down before dressing. The clothes were new and a perfect fit, designer label jeans and sports shirt. He would look fine when he went home. He so looked forward to seeing his parents. Remembering his instructions to remain in the room, he stretched out on the bed and soon slipped into a doze.

‘You were late!’ The voice from the corridor was recognisable as his old teacher from the Mosque. ‘Is it here?’

‘Oh, it’s here, all right. We took it in there to hose it off. Everything is caked with mud,’ a gravel voice with an Irish accent replied.

‘And the boy?’

‘Him too. The boys gave him a scrub up and a change of clothes. He’s ready to go home.’

‘Not yet. I have another plan for him.’

‘He thinks he’s going home now.’

‘He’ll do what he is told! He will do anything for his God!’

‘Well, I work for cash.’

‘You will be paid when I have checked the cargo. Come back tomorrow.’

‘No, I’ll be back this afternoon and I expect payment in full. This was harder than we thought. In the meantime, I have to get the van cleaned out and returned before it’s missed.’

‘Do that and make sure you are not seen leaving.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll be back at four. Make sure it’s used notes, okay?’

Gavinder heard receding footsteps and the outer door close. There were further muffled voices, but he could not make out what was said. It appeared that his old master was talking to someone in another room. Gavinder, still very tired and, although saddened by what he had overheard, slipped into a troubled sleep.

‘Gav? Gavinder!’

He woke with a start. He had been dreaming of his home. He had been running in panic through his parents’ shop, trying to find them, but the place was deserted.

‘What, who are you?’ Gavinder rolled over and looked up.

The young man he saw grinning down at him looked about twelve, but with a burgeoning moustache glistening on his upper lip. He wore a white, long-sleeved galabiyya and was holding a large mug.

‘Time you got up. The master wants to see you. I’ve brought you some tea.’ He turned and put the mug down on the table. ‘You have ten minutes to freshen up.’ He left without closing the door. ‘I’ll be back to get you. Mind the tea; it’s hot!’ he called, as he disappeared down the hallway.

Gavinder sat up. He felt clammy. It was only a dream, thanks be to Allah. He shuffled into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. Looking in the mirror, he examined himself. Blood had dried to form a scab over the cut on his temple and there were dark rings around his eyes, but his colour was back to normal. His clothes were wrinkled after sleeping in them and had sweat stains under his arms. There was no time to do anything more, so he returned to the bedroom and took a swig of tea. The hot liquid burnt his lips and tongue; he spluttered and put the cup down. The tea was weak and without milk or sugar, the way he had grown to enjoy it in Afghanistan. He took the mug into the bathroom and added some cold water. Sipping again, it tasted good.

Refreshed and alert now, he recalled the conversation he had overheard. He wondered if that had also been a dream. He made his mind up to insist on going home, even if only for a short visit.

‘This way.’ The young man had reappeared in the doorway.

Gavinder took a last sip of tea, put the mug down and followed.

‘I’m Razeem, by the way,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I’m the master’s new student. I understand you were once a disciple here?’

‘I thought I still was,’ he replied.

‘Maybe so. Up here.’

They turned left onto the central landing of a spiral staircase.

One floor up was a small lobby. Razeem pushed on a panel in the wall and it swung open, smooth and silent.

‘I don’t remember this from when I was here.’

‘It’s very private. I was only shown it today.’

They stepped through into the master’s office. Behind them, the entrance door swung back merging seamlessly into a bookcase and display cabinet which lined most of the wall. On the shelves, beautiful and fragile examples of Islamic art did not even tremble as the panel clicked into place.

‘Gavinder, my son, come in, sit down. You have had quite an adventure, I understand.’ Master Mohamed beamed at him, his eyes shining and his dark beard bristling; he gestured to a chair in front of his desk. ‘You can go now, Razeem. Buzz me when that Irishman arrives.’

‘When can I go home, Master?’ Gavinder asked.

‘All in good time.’ The big man stood, walked round the desk and, looking down, placed a gentle but restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘Now tell me, did you see what was in the package you brought?’

‘Yes, I helped to wrap it up and glue it to the dinghy.’

‘And what did you see?’

‘It was a dull metal cylinder with a lid screwed on at both ends.’

‘Did anyone open it?’

‘No, sir. Not to my knowledge and I was within a few feet of it all the way from the Afghan border. I didn’t realise it at the time, of course, as it was built into the refrigeration unit of the truck we travelled in.’

‘Yes, an excellent subterfuge. Do you know what it is?’

‘No. What is it, sir?’

‘You will know in due course. You have done well.’

‘Can I go home now?’

‘Well, we have a little problem there, I am afraid.’

Gavinder’s heart sank.

‘You see, because of the way you entered the country, the authorities still believe you are in Pakistan.’

‘But who will know if I go home for a visit?’

‘Your family will know. They are not as devout as we are. They will tell all their friends. Furthermore, you have another part of the mission to perform. You wouldn’t want to put them in danger, would you?’

‘Another part?’

‘All will be revealed in the fullness of time but, for the moment, trust me and in Allah! I know we can trust you to do what is right for the cause.’

‘Can I not even see my mother to let her know I am all right? She is a good Moslem. I am sure she would keep our secret.’

‘I will see what can be done; in the meantime, you may write to her. A letter like those you have been doing. Make it appear that you are still in the Islamic College in Pakistan.’

The intercom buzzed and Mohamed walked around the desk.

‘That will be the mercenary returned. I hate dealing with these people. They have no convictions. Only money motivates them. Go back to your room now.’ Without any apparent operation, the hidden door swung open.

The cleric spoke into the machine. ‘All right, send him up and you had better have Joseph accompany him.’

Gavinder stepped through the portal and it closed behind him. He stood and listened for a moment, but could not make out the slightest sound. Downstairs, he paused and looked at the flight that continued downwards. No lights were on down there. Despite mounting curiosity, he resisted the temptation to check it out and returned to his room. The tea mug had been replaced by a pitcher of water and a copy of the Koran. Glancing at the freshly remade bed he saw a copy of a car magazine on the pillow.

‘Thanks, Raz,’ he muttered, as he picked it up and settled himself down on the bed to scan the pages. He had always loved fast cars.

A little while later, Razeem returned. ‘I thought I would join you for evening prayers.’

‘Eh, what time is it?’

‘It is time, listen.’

Through the open door, he could just make out the distant sound of the call to prayer. Gavinder had not prayed for a long time and felt ashamed. Together, they performed the ritual washing and formal prayers.

The formalities over, Raz left, but soon returned with a hot meal of lamb, couscous and vegetables. They sat at the small table and ate together, washing it down with water.

‘When was that secret panel put in?’ Gavinder asked.

‘Haven’t a clue, Gav. I didn’t even know it existed until yesterday.’

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Almost a year.’

‘I was here longer than that and never saw it used.’

‘It’s better not to ask about such things. The master can get very angry if you poke your nose into things that don’t concern you.’

‘That’s true. By the way, thanks for the magazine; it was a life saver; I would have died of boredom by now without it.’

‘No problem. I know you like cars. Got caught nicking them, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah, that’s how I got sent here to mend my ways.’

‘With me, it was motorbikes.’ Razeem stacked the dinner things onto a tray. ‘Time to turn in.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Allah be with you. Good night.’ Razeem left with the tray.

Tired though he was, Gavinder found he was unable to sleep. He wandered along the corridor to where he knew there was a training room. In his day, there had been a treadmill and other gym equipment; maybe a run and a workout would settle his nerves. He found the door locked and, for want of something to do, he took a look into the abattoir. It was its usual spotless white. No sign of the previous night’s activity. Now fully recovered from his journey, he could have done with some exercise.

He padded to the fire exit, pushed on the panic bar and poked his head outside; the cool night air felt refreshing against his face. He was tempted to go for a run, but found the yard gate secured with a padlock and chain. He could easily climb over, but somehow he felt this more disobedient than just walking out, so he returned to his room. If he could not go out in the morning, he would ask to use the gym.

Getting ready for bed he pondered the secret panel. Judging by the way the entrance into the master’s office blended into the wall units, it was skilfully constructed. He wondered how and when it had been built; surely, it was not part of the original nineteen-fifties’ structure. He also wondered why the training room was locked. He had often used it to work out when he was training for the London marathon. It had always been left open. It did contain some expensive items of equipment, but they were hardly portable. Sometimes it was used for lectures and to show videos to the students. Perhaps the projection equipment was in there, and it was locked for security. With a jumble of thoughts filling his head, Gavinder slept fitfully.

CHAPTER THREE

Countdown to London 2012: 2 years, 11 months, 5 days, 18 hours, 0 minutes

Gavinder awoke early, showered and dressed. Razeem appeared with a sports bag containing several changes of clothes. He tossed it on the bed.

‘Good morning, Gav. I thought I would catch you before you got dressed. It is only six o’clock.’

‘I know, but I couldn’t sleep. I need some exercise. Do you think I could go for a run?’

‘You’re not allowed out, I’m afraid, but there’s a jogging machine in the gym. You can use that if you like.’

‘It’s locked.’

‘I have the key. I have to set it up for a meeting this morning. Here.’ He handed Gavinder a key with a large, heavy fob. ‘You go ahead; I’ll go over to the residence and knock us up some breakfast.’

‘Thanks. When’s the meeting?’

‘It’s just after morning prayers. I’ll be back in about half an hour.’

When Razeem left, Gavinder shed his outer clothes and ran barefoot to the training room. When he turned on the light, he saw that all the gym equipment was pushed out of the way against the far wall. A dozen plastic chairs were stacked in two piles just inside the door and a folding table was set up in the middle of the remaining floor area. On the table was a large architectural model. He recognised it straight away. It was the new Olympic village currently under construction in the Lea Valley near Stratford. He had seen it on NBC during his journey across Europe. The build