The Medusa Game

by Cindy Dees

  Lazlo watched, his fists clenched in impotent fury, as Ilya moved silently to the door. The dark-haired man paused only long enough to murmur, “We will speak again.”

  And then he was gone.

  Chapter 4

  The Olympic Torch Stadium loomed in the night, orchestral music and blue light from the opening ceremonies emanated from it. It took something extraordinary nowadays to make Isabella nervous. This did it. She tugged at her borrowed official sheepskin jacket. She’d been assigned to walk in front of Anya and her coach in the parade of nations, carrying the sign that said Emirate of Bhoukar. Dex had decided only this morning to put her on the field, too late for her to attend the rehearsals. An IOC coordinator had talked her through a diagram of the parade and given her a single, succinct instruction. “Don’t screw it up.”

  No pressure there. Billions of people would be watching her on TVs around the world.

  As for Anya, she squirmed in the bulletproof vest Isabella had insisted she wear under her green and gold ski ensemble. “It makes me look fat,” Anya complained.

  Isabella laughed. “I could inflate your jacket like a beach ball and you’d still look elegant. You’re a stunning representative of your country.”

  Anya glanced at the flag propped against her side. “I’m scared, ’Bella.”

  Isabella blinked, rocked by the lilting Arabic pronunciation of the nickname. That was exactly how her grandmother used to say it. She mumbled, “I won’t let anything bad happen to you. And if you’re scared of messing up in the parade, don’t be. All you have to do is follow me and I’ll go down in history as the numbskull who wrecked the opening ceremony.”

  Anya laughed.

  “We’ll get through this together, eh?”

  A trumpet, marking the beginning of the parade of nations, sounded inside the stadium. They waited while the A nations marched in, and then an IOC official carrying a radio waved at them.

  Isabella murmured into the microphone concealed in the fleece of her collar, “We’re entering the tunnel. Do I have a go?”

  Dex’s voice crackled in her ear. “Roger…are a go.” He added dryly as they neared the stadium exit and her reception cleared up, “Don’t forget to smile for the cameras.”

  He just had to remind her of all those people who’d be watching. Jerk.

  When Isabella and Anya stepped out of the tunnel into the giant stadium, the kaleidoscope of colors was almost blinding. How was she supposed to protect Anya amidst all of this? She felt naked before the scale of the stadium, the sheer numbers of spectators. Please don’t let anyone take a shot at Anya. Please don’t let…

  The plea repeated itself in her head. They reached the oval path around which they’d promenade before taking their place on the infield.

  “Right! Go right!” Anya whispered behind her.

  Crap. She’d been veering left. She corrected course, the Bhoukar sign above her head dipping. She caught sight of the last athletes from the delegation in front of her, and sped up to draw nearer to them. They’d act as a partial shield against shots from in front of Anya.

  Then Isabella became aware of a new sound. Cheering. A wave of voices shouting and whistling as Anya passed in front of the crowd. Isabella strained to hear jeers or catcalls buried within the noise, but all she heard were cries of approval.

  Pride in Anya’s courage and grit surged in Isabella’s breast. The girl might be clueless as to her true significance on the world’s political stage, but she was back there walking on a sore and taped up knee. She was carrying the flag of a nation that historically treated women as little more than chattel and certainly had never before let them compete in an Olympics. And she represented the hopes and dreams of young girls all over the world who were still caught behind the veil.

  Okay, the commando in charge of keeping Anya alive was not going to get all choked up here, dammit. But it was still as cool as hell to be with Anya for this moment.

  The rest of the long walk around the stadium passed in a blur until they were guided to their spot on the infield. Decorative inflatable tubes disguised large blowers that sent warm air over the athletes as they waited out the rest of the parade in the night’s frigid cold. The Olympic oaths were recited, the Olympic torch lit—which was also incredibly cool to witness in person—the Games declared open, and then the opening ceremonies adjourned. A formless mob of athletes made their way toward the exits, already partying among themselves. Isabella grabbed Anya’s arm to ensure the two of them didn’t get separated. There was only the slightest chance of any harm coming to Anya, surrounded as she was.

  When they got back to the village, Aleesha was on hand to have a look at Anya’s knee. She gave the girl two approved anti-inflammatory pills, iced the joint and rewrapped it. Aleesha was packing up her bag to leave when a quiet knock sounded on the door. Not a signal from one of the Medusas or the other security people.

  Aleesha dropped her bag and glided fast to stand behind the door. Isabella moved just as quickly. “Who’s there?” she called through the panel.

  A male voice said hesitantly, “My name is Lazlo Petrovich. I’m a skater.”

  Isabella’s eyebrows shot up. Aleesha’s face registered surprise as well. This was the kid who’d slammed into Anya. What did he want? Isabella cracked open the door. “Ms. Khalid is resting—”

  “Let him in!”

  Isabella made a slashing gesture across her neck. She did not want the young man who’d intentionally hit Anya in her room!

  “I mean it,” Anya threatened. “I’m not your prisoner and you can’t tell me what to do. I want to see him.”

  Isabella scowled. Indeed, she didn’t have the power to dictate Anya’s movements. But how had the girl figured that out? Reluctantly, Isabella stepped back from the door, opening it far enough to admit the Chechnyan skater. After a quick glance into the hall to make sure he was alone, she shut and locked the door behind him and Mamba, who followed—or more like stalked—the young man into the room. She stopped behind him in such a way that she could jump forward and break his neck in under a second.

  Isabella pushed a chair forward and gestured for the young man to sit. He sat.

  “I’m here to apologize for running into you,” Lazlo said earnestly. “I feel terrible about it. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  Isabella frowned. His body language was sincere. And his vocal vibrations made him sound like he was telling the truth. But the image of him picking up speed as he rounded that corner and aimed for Anya was still fresh in her mind.

  Anya smiled up brilliantly at the kid. Aww, crap. That was a crush glistening in her eyes. Isabella looked back at Lazlo. He was good-looking in an intense, artistic way.

  Aleesha glanced over at her and murmured, “I’ve got an OSG staff meeting. Do you have this under control?”

  Isabella nodded and her teammate departed.

  She watched carefully as the young people traded basic information, where they lived and trained, who their coaches and mutual skating acquaintances were, favorite movies, bands and food. It would have been sweet if she hadn’t been hovering on the balls of her feet waiting for Lazlo to attack Anya.

  But as the two continued to talk she relaxed slightly. The boy honestly seemed to feel bad about Anya’s sore knee and apologized for it approximately every two minutes. Not that it was her job to listen to their conversation, of course. She was only eavesdropping so she could listen for a threat to her charge. She let their conversation pass by her while she kept an alert eye on Lazlo’s movements and body language. Gradually, the two young people began to ignore her. Their conversation waxed more intimate as they talked about their hopes and fears regarding competing in the Games.

  Slowly, something profoundly disturbing dawned on Isabella. Anya and Lazlo—both products of Muslim cultures—had fallen into the rhythm of treating her like a traditional Muslim chaperone. And so had she. She couldn’t count how many times she’d watched older, married women sit quietly in the corner
s of rooms while young lovers whispered together. Now she was that silent, watchful grandmother or aunt.

  No matter how far she ran from her roots, they always managed to reach out and ensnare her. She was missing only the black robes and veils of her Iranian heritage as she guarded Anya’s virtue in the centuries-old fashion. Unbelievable. She was a highly trained Special Forces operator, but she might as well be in the parlor above her grandfather’s tobacco shop in Tehran. How in the hell had this happened?

  Her mind snapped back to the situation at hand as Lazlo pushed to his feet with a quiet admonition to Anya to get some rest and let him know if there was anything—anything at all—he could do for her. The two skaters shared a long, sappy look before he turned to go. Egads. Puppy love all the way.

  Isabella escorted Lazlo to the door and let him out, then turned to Anya. Darned if the girl didn’t continue as if Isabella was her auntie chaperone. “What did you think of him? Doesn’t he have the most gorgeous eyes? And that smile…”

  “Honey,” Isabella said gently. “Be careful, okay? You will be here for two weeks, and then you’ll both go home and be halfway around the world from each other. Enjoy the moment, but keep your wits about you.” How was she supposed to explain to an innocent young girl what it felt like to lose a love? Or to make choices that cost you traditional men who couldn’t understand why you’d do something insane like skate at the Olympics or join the Air Force.

  Anya huffed. “This is my one chance to do exactly as I please. As much as I love my family, they can be a little…suffocating. You wouldn’t understand.”

  Isabella laughed ruefully. “Trust me, Anya. I do understand. Completely.”

  “How’s that?”

  She shrugged off the girl’s question. “It doesn’t matter. Lazlo was right. Get some rest. You have a couple of big weeks in front of you.”

  Isabella reached for the light switch, and just before the room plunged into darkness, she caught the dreamy smile on Anya’s face. The girl said, “They are going to be big weeks, aren’t they?”

  Crap. If Anya and Lazlo saw themselves as star-crossed lovers torn apart by the big, bad bodyguard, they could make Isabella’s job a living hell. Romeo and Juliet both ended up dead, dammit! Lazlo had tried to harm Anya. And the girl now fancied herself madly in love with him. Well, wasn’t this just shaping up to be a fun Olympics?

  When Isabella reported to the ops center the next morning, one of the men from Dex’s team called out from across the room, “Mail for you, Torres.”

  She fetched the overnight envelope, tore it open and was pleased to see the FBI’s preliminary background check on Harlan Holt. She settled into a free chair and browsed through the document. Holt’s career as a research chemist was distinguished and thoroughly documented. Not a hint of subversive or extremist leanings showed up in the guy’s past. He was as clean as the driven snow.

  The guy’s wife, Emma, wasn’t far behind. The pair had led quiet lives of scientific research and college professorship until Harlan applied a technology used by firefighters to ice-skating. Friction-reducing polymers were added to the water passing through fire hoses to increase its velocity and hence the volume of water that could be delivered to a fire. Holt added similar polymers to water to make the surface of ice smoother and lower in friction. In addition, he’d figured out how to add in chemicals that changed the molecular structure of the ice crystals, aligning them so the ice actually had a small amount of resiliency—or spring—to it. Skaters could glide faster and farther and jump higher. It was no wonder that Holt’s invention had rapidly earned the name “super ice.”

  But even with this information, the background check was a dead end. She’d gotten such a strong vibe when he’d argued that the ice must be relaid, but the file said her hunch was wrong.

  “Whatchya looking at?” a voice said above her head.

  She looked up. Dex. “The Holt file.”

  “Find anything?”

  “Yeah. Absolutely nothing. The guy’s too clean to be real if you ask me.”

  Dex shook his head. “You rely too much on your gut feelings. If the facts say the guy’s clean, then he probably is.”

  “You didn’t see the way he insisted on laying a new ice surface. He was panicked. I still think something’s wrong with him.”

  Thorpe exhaled sharply. “Look. The IOC’s not amused by the waves you ladies are making. You’ve got to back off for a while. Lay low.” As her brows drew together, he added, “Just until the flap over Anya dies down some.”

  “They’ll get over it,” she snapped.

  He shrugged. “Part of my job is to keep the peace between the military side of the house and the IOC. This is their show. We’re just here to supplement the Olympic Security Group.”

  “You and I both know that’s not true,” she retorted. “The most highly trained counter-terrorist teams in the world are sitting in this room, not across the hall at the IOC. We’re the experts, here.”

  “Be that as it may, we’re still under orders to make nice. And I need you to back off of Holt. He’s the skating world’s wunderkind right now, and we’re not going to make any friends by poking around and destroying his reputation.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Back off.”

  She huffed, irritated. She understood his dilemma. Jack Scatalone griped about getting caught in the middle of politics, too. But she didn’t have to like it. She closed the Holt folder and stood up. “I’m off duty, now. I’m gonna go catch some z’s.”

  “Sweet dreams,” Thorpe murmured as she brushed past him.

  Was he being sarcastic? Better to assume that he was because the alternative made her stomach flutter uncomfortably. She stepped outside into the gray morning. Temperatures had warmed up overnight to a balmy fifteen degrees Fahrenheit, and more snow was in the forecast. The folks in charge of the downhill skiing events were hoping for a little fresh snow, but too much would give them problems getting the courses groomed in time. Nothing like having to rely on the vagaries of Mother Nature. It was almost as much fun as juggling the vagaries of politics and a young girl’s heart.

  It felt good to stretch her legs, to breathe in the cold, bracing air. Without thinking about where she was going, she found herself standing in front of the giant Olympic Ice facility. What the hell. She was off duty. And she smelled a rat in Harlan Holt’s perfect past.

  Isabella’s vinyl pouch of credentials, complete with photograph, fingerprint, bar code and hologram, was examined at the rink entrance. Then she was asked to produce the proper bracelet—a hospital-style plastic affair—that granted her access to this venue. Once inside, she had to produce her color-coded bracelet again, this time for access to the field of play or, in other words, down by the ice itself. It took a third stripe of color in her bracelet to let her into the women’s locker rooms, but it so happened she had that access as well. One of the perks of being Olympic security.

  As it turned out, she didn’t have to go any farther than the end of the ice skating rink to find Harlan Holt, who was giving instructions to a burly, black-haired Zamboni driver. The Zamboni rumbled into gear and took off across the ice, laying down a film of spray that glistened wetly.

  She’d had a look at one of the giant, propane-propelled, ice resurfacers the day before. They used a two-part process. In front was a long razor blade that shaved off the surface of the ice. A turning screw behind the blade lifted the shavings into the belly of the machine. Then, at the back of the machine, a row of sprayers laid down a mist of heated water to replace the lost ice. It took between two and three hundred gallons of water to resurface a single skating rink. Today, the Zamboni’s blade was lifted well above the ice, and only the sprayer function was in use.

  Isabella strolled up to Holt. “How’s the new ice coming?” she asked casually.

  He looked over at her in subtle alarm. “Uh, fine. It’s nearly an inch thick.”

  “Is that good?” she asked.

  The scientist
in him overrode his caution. “Super ice needs to be thicker than normal ice to maximize its spring. We’ll keep laying on layers of water until the ice is around two inches thick.”

  “Two inches? That’s all?” she asked in surprise. “I guess I thought of ice-skating rinks as being like ponds.”

  He looked down his long nose at her scornfully. “Not at all. The sheets of ice lie on a sand or concrete base and only have to be thick enough not to break or develop holes.”

  Keep the guy talking. Loosen him up a little and see where he takes the conversation. Maybe at some point she could shift gears and shock him into an honest answer. “How do they get the lines for hockey games and the logos under the ice, then?”

  “After about a quarter inch of ice is laid, they paint the lines, circles, or logos right onto the ice. It’s a special lacquer that never actually dries. It’s designed not to run after it’s encased in ice. Once it’s painted on, more ice is laid on top of it.”

  “Does the Zamboni lay down all of the water for the ice?”

  “Good Lord, no. Men walked around the rink all night last night with backpack sprayers, putting down a fine mist of water. It usually takes several days to do that, but a double crew did it in under twenty-four hours.”

  His shoulders were coming down and his facial muscles were relaxing. Almost ready for her to pull an abrupt change of subject and see what popped out. Just another question or two. “How does the ice freeze?”

  “Refrigeration coils run through the concrete base, of course. Those are chilled, and then a fine layer of water is sprayed on that freezes almost immediately. Once it’s good and cold, another layer of mist is sprayed on the ice. The initial layer is the hardest to put down. Once a substantial sheet has formed, say, an inch thick, then we can start running over it with an ice resurfacer, like that Zamboni, and spray on more and more thin layers.”

  This guy was clearly proud of his super ice. That would be the best opening hook. Trying her best to sound impressed, she asked, “Do the additives in your ice make the process harder?”