Transition
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Transition
The Triathlon Thriller
Henry Charles Mishkoff
Deerfield Addison Books
©2020 Henry Charles Mishkoff
All rights reserved.
V1.0
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, events, and places (even those that are actual) either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Deerfield Addison Books
www.DeerfieldAddison.com
info@DeerfieldAddison.com
For Donna, who managed not to roll her eyes during the decades that I kept telling her that I would finish this book someday. I couldn’t have done it without her patience and her love.
And for Julie Moss, the iconic triathlete who inspired this book.
Golden Girl, by David Kessel
https://www.DeviantArt.com/DavidKessel
Social media
Some of the characters that you’re about to meet in the pages of Transition have their own Facebook pages and groups, Twitter accounts, blogs, and so on. You can read what they have to say when they’re not busy with their jobs as Transition characters (don’t worry, they promise not to post any spoilers), and you may even be able to interact with them to get to know them better. (Your posts may be moderated to make sure that you don’t post any spoilers, either.)
You can probably track down some of the characters’ social media accounts with some clever sleuthing. But just to make it easier for you (and to ensure that you’ll know when you’re interacting with genuine Transition characters), you can find links to the characters’ social media accounts on the Deerfield Addison website:
www.DeerfieldAddison.com/Transition
There’s a good chance that some of the characters are diligently preparing for the events in this book right now. If you want to find out what they’re talking about (and maybe even join the conversation), feel free to stop by.
Disclaimer: Fictional characters are notoriously unpredictable. Some of them are engaging in social media activities as of this writing, but they may drop out at any time as they get busy or bored or go on vacation or get hauled off to jail or get new jobs or find better things to do. But although it’ll be disappointing if you can’t find some of your favorite characters online, it’s comforting to know that you’ll always be able to find them hard at work in the pages of Transition.
Transition
Book Map
Prologue
Book 1: Readiness
The Meeting
The Interview
The Pool
Book 2: Conflict
The Alley
The Announcement
The Attack
The Aftermath
The Party
The Flashback
The Awakening
Book 3: Preparation
The Trials
The Recovery
Book 4: Danger
The Parents
The Surprise
The Reckoning
The Flight
Book 5: Struggle
The Incident
The Plan
The Response
Book 6: Transformation
The Race
The Finish
Victory
Prologue: Moscow
“It is good to see you again, Dimitri,” the old man says with a notable lack of enthusiasm. Without looking up from his work, he gestures vaguely in the direction of a stiff-backed wooden chair that stands alone on a threadbare rug on the far side of his desk.
“Thank you, Commissioner.” Dimitri Boronov settles into the hard chair and tries to get comfortable, only to realize that comfort is not the purpose of the chair. Clearing his throat, he plunges into his prepared speech. “I want you to know how much I appreciate that you have taken the time to see me on such short notice…”
The old man raises a gnarled hand. “One moment.” He scowls and shakes his head as he leafs through a stack of worn and dog-eared papers. “The Commission, in its wisdom, has decided that I no longer need an assistant.” He speaks in a raspy voice as he peers over his reading glasses at Dimitri. “There was a time when anyone who was foolish enough to challenge me would find himself on the next train to Siberia. But now we are a democracy,” he says with obvious distaste, “which is a Greek word that means, ‘everybody talks about everything all the time, but nobody ever does a damned thing.’”
“A sorry state of affairs,” Dimitri agrees, trying to adopt a tone somewhere between pleasant and obsequious.
The old man shrugs philosophically. “But we must accept things as they are, yes? Dwelling on the glorious past will not bring it back.” He removes his glasses, folds them carefully, and places them in front of him on the desk. “So tell me,” he says, with little apparent curiosity, “what brings you all the way to Moscow?”
“I have heard,” Dimitri says, “that the Commission is going to close the Institute.” Sound casual, he reminds himself. Conversational. Not desperate. “I would like to know if this is true.”
“Where did you hear such a thing?”
“Please, Commissioner. We have known each other for too long, let us not play games. Are you going to close the Institute? I must know.”
The old man steeples his fingers and stares at the ceiling. “If decisions are made that affect your facility, Dimitri, you will learn of them through official channels. But certainly you are aware that we are all tightening our belts. You can hardly expect anyone to be enthusiastic about continuing to devote extravagant sums of money to athletics when people are eating out of garbage bins on the streets of Moscow.”
“But I have trained many respected athletes, Commissioner. Surely that counts for something.”
“History no longer seems to be of any importance.” The old man sighs and shakes his head sadly. “You have, what, only four students left at the Institute?”
“Three students,” Dimitri admits. “Three extraordinary students.”
“Quality is subjective. Scarce resources must be allocated to those activities that are most productive. You read the newspapers. Factories are closing every day.”
“The Boronov Institute is hardly a factory,” Dimitri sniffs. “I do not assemble farm equipment. I train athletes. I shape young minds and bodies. I have developed my own methods – and, as you know, I have been extremely successful.”
“And you have offended many people in the process, Dimitri. Many important people.”
“You used to be able to protect me,” Dimitri says, surprised at the hint of bitterness that seems to have crept into his voice. “What are you saying, you no longer have any power? Are you not still the Commissioner?”
“I am the Director of the Russian Athletic Commission,” the old man concedes. “Things were much different when I was the Director of the Soviet Athletic Commission. But those days are long gone, Dimitri. We must adjust to new times and new realities. All of us. Even my wife’s favorite nephew.”
Dimitri is nonplussed. “But… I am her only nephew.”
“Exactly.” The corners of the old man’s lips curl up in what might be taken for a smile. “But I am very busy, Dimitri…”
“There is also a rumor,” Dimitri blurts, “that the French have developed a more effective test for EPO.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “It is also being said that the Americans can now detect even microscopic traces of Modafinil, and that they will soon be able to test for MGF and gene doping as well.”
The old man arches an eyebrow. “You hear as many rumors as a fishwife, Dimitri. Who tells you such things?”
“If there is any truth to these rumors,” Dimitri says, doggedly sticking to his script, “the Russian athletic program is i
n serious trouble. You need my help, Commissioner. No one in the world knows as much about natural athletics as I do. No one. I have successfully detoxified many Russian athletes. You know that I can do it. I have proven it.”
The old man spreads his hands. “The Russian athletic program has never endorsed the use of performance-enhancing substances, Dimitri. You know this.”
“I am aware of the official position,” Dimitri says, scornfully “We both know the truth.”
His chair has become remarkably uncomfortable in a surprisingly short period of time, and it is only with concentrated effort that Dimitri manages to keep from fidgeting. “You need my help,” he says softly. “Please, Commissioner. Let me help you.”
“This is very public-spirited of you, Dimitri,” the old man says, dryly. “But you have never shown any interest in helping us before. In fact, you have always avoided the athletic establishment as if we had some kind of disease. A skeptic might be led to question your motives.”
Dimitri shrugs. “You know that it is not in my nature to be devious, Commissioner. I merely suggest a trade.” He leans forward in the chair and speaks with what he hopes will come across as quiet confidence. “I will help you prepare the Russian Olympic team to compete without the benefit of these… these ‘performance-enhancing substances,’ as you call them. In return, you will allow me to continue my work at the Institute.”
The old man pulls a fat cigar from an ornate wooden box, holds it up to the light, and inspects it carefully. Reaching across his desk, he grabs a paperweight, a small statue of Lenin in a classic pose, his arm outstretched, exhorting the masses. The old man presses Lenin’s head. A flame shoots from the Great Leader’s fingertips. After a few quick puffs, the tip of the cigar glows resolutely.
“In the unlikely event that the Commission were interested in your proposal,” the old man finally says, as wisps of gray smoke begin to swirl menacingly around the room, “how quickly could this be done?”
“A year, year and a half.” Dimitri tries to control his excitement, but he knows that the old man would not have asked the question if he were not interested. “Two years at the most.”
“But not in time for the Olympics?”
“The Olympics? You mean the next Olympics? In Qen Phon? Certainly not. That is only… what, four months from now? But for the Olympics after that, absolutely, no problem.”
“Dimitri, listen to me.” The old man leans forward, as if he is sharing a confidence. “The Commission is not going to accept your offer simply because I tell them to. We need evidence that your methods work.”
“Karl Malenko has run a marathon in two hours and two minutes,” Dimitri says, proudly. “I timed him myself. This betters the world record by more than a minute. Is this the kind of evidence you seek?”
The old man pounds a fist on the desk with surprising strength. “I cannot go to the Commission with the news that ‘you timed him yourself,’” he roars. “I must have proof! I must have results! I must have medals!”
“I am certain that they could win medals in a variety of events,” Dimitri says evenly, as if he has not noticed the old man’s outburst. “The marathon is the most obvious option.”
“The marathon is not an option at all,” the old man growls, waving away the suggestion with a trail of smoke. “It is an extremely prestigious event. At this late date, it would be extraordinarily difficult for me to replace those who have already qualified. But I might be able to shift the participants in some of the shorter races, perhaps the ten-thousand meters…”
“Impossible.” Dimitri shakes his head, pleased that they seem to be negotiating rather than arguing. “My students are endurance athletes. Ten-thousand meters barely gives them time to warm up.”
“How unfortunate.” The old man frowns. “Are they just runners? Do they have other talents?”
“They are powerful swimmers, Commissioner. Lake Kiroly is nearly two thousand meters long. I have known them to swim to the far shore and back before breakfast, just for fun.”
“But again, I cannot replace the marathon swimmers. And the shorter swimming events, I suspect you will tell me, barely give them time to warm up.” The old man puffs on his cigar, sending an ominous cloud of dark smoke hurtling toward Dimitri. “Give the matter some thought,” he says, brusquely. “Have the receptionist schedule another appointment for you. Next week.” He retrieves his glasses and reaches for a stack of papers from across the desk.
“Yes, Commissioner,” Dimitri says. It isn’t until the silence becomes uncomfortable that he realizes that he has been dismissed. He clears his throat. “I want you to know how much I appreciate…”
The old man does not look up. “Next week,” he says, waving Dimitri away.
This has gone far better than I possibly could have hoped, Dimitri thinks, as he rises from the confines of the inhospitable chair and walks to the door. Even as difficult as he can be, it is much better to have the Commissioner as an ally than a foe. His power is not nearly so absolute as it was in the old days, but he still knows how to get what he wants.
So why, Dimitri wonders, as the office door swings shut behind him and he steps out into the long, gray corridor that leads to the creaky elevator, why do I have the uneasy feeling that what he wants may not be the same as what I want?
֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍
The old man allows himself the ghost of a smile. He pushes his chair back from his desk and rises stiffly to his feet with the help of an ornately carved walking stick, which he leans on lightly as he takes a few slow steps to a smoky window. He nods thoughtfully to himself as he gazes out over the city that stretches to the horizon like a gray shroud a dozen stories below.
That was entirely too easy, he thinks. You want someone to help you, so you plant a rumor, you make him believe that he needs your help. Soon, he comes to you and begs you to let him help you.
Much too easy. No challenge at all.
Still, there is the troubling matter of finding events for Dimitri’s students, and that could be a problem. Inserting even one of them into the marathon could certainly be done, but it would involve calling in many favors. Perhaps too many. If only there were some other event…
And then, in a moment of stunning clarity, all of the pieces fall neatly into place. He spins away from the window, strides briskly back to his desk without the aid of his walking stick, and snatches the phone from its cradle. “Has Dr. Boronov left the building? No? Good! Send him back upstairs…”
By the time a puzzled Dimitri Boronov raps lightly on the door and walks cautiously back into the Commissioner’s office, the old man is seated at his desk and appears to be engrossed in a mountain of paperwork.
“Commissioner?” Dimitri seems to be reluctant to risk a return, now that he has so nearly effected such a promising escape. “Excuse me, Commissioner, but the receptionist said…”
“Bicycles,” the old man barks, without looking up.
“Bicycles?”
“Yes, bicycles. You know, two wheels, pedals…”
“I know what a bicycle is, Commissioner. But I do not understand…”
The old man sighs and looks up from his work. “Your students, Dimitri. Do they ride bicycles?”
“I… I suppose they do. But we have no bicycles at the Institute, so I…”
“Get some,” the old man commands. He turns his attention back to his work. “Get some, and soon.”
Dimitri starts to reply, but the old man dismisses him with an imperious wave of his cigar. And for the second time in just a few minutes, Dimitri Boronov makes an uncertain exit from the Commissioner’s office. Once again, the door swings solidly shut behind him.
And only then does Dr. Ivan Petronovich, Director of the Russian Athletic Commission, look up from his paperwork. He leans back in his chair, puffing contentedly on the remains of his cigar. A satisfied smile creases his face as a halo of smoke encircles his head.
So, he thinks, it appears that this just might be a challen
ge after all.
Book 1
Readiness
Transition
Book 1: Readiness
Part 1:
The Meeting
1.1.1: Hopkinton
She rolls up to the transition area, presses lightly on both brake levers, slows her bright yellow Falconi GoldenGirl Racer to a smooth glide. She scans the dull metal bike racks that line Ash Street in front of the Common. Where’s her slot? She did a walk-through last night, but now she can’t seem to remember where she’s supposed to go.
She stands on the pedals, wiggles her knees, stretches her legs. Wayward strands of sweat-damp blond hair flutter out from under the edge of her helmet. She swings her head from side to side, searching for something – anything – that looks even vaguely familiar…
And then she sees him. A lone figure stands on the grass in front of a statue across the street from the Common. He appears to be draped in some kind of robe, a flowing white garment with layers and folds that flutter in the spring breeze. His face is ruddy red. His head is ringed with tufts of dark curly hair. He smiles mysteriously, as if he knows a wondrous secret, something that no one else knows, something that no one else has ever known.
But it’s his deep-set jet-black eyes that catch her. They burn into her, they take her breath away, she can see nothing else. They sparkle with an unworldly glow. Now they’re on fire and she’s being sucked into the flames… they’re so warm, so inviting… so terrifying…
“LOOK OUT!”
The shout comes from behind her, but she instinctively swings her head forward and sees that she’s about to roll up the back of a man in lime-green shorts who is trotting his bicycle into the transition area. She squeezes both brake levers as hard as she can and swerves sharply to the side. As her bike screeches to a sudden stop, she twists her feet clear of the pedals, swings a leg over the bar, and hops off onto the pavement.
“That was close,” she hears someone say. She looks to the side. A race marshal sporting a red armband catches her eye and points to the ground at her feet. When she looks down, she sees that the toes of her sneakers are mere inches from the dismount line.