Going for the Gold

by Emma Lathen

  The sergeant was not appreciative. “You could,” he said sourly, “before you heroes added another 30 or 40 sets.”

  But the problems of the past were soon displaced by the problems of the future. Before the sergeant could continue, a wiry middle-aged man appeared. At his approach the young skiers all fell back respectfully.

  “François Vaux, coach of the French jumping team,” he introduced himself. “Do I understand that there is a member of the Olympic Committee here?”

  Withers barely had time to agree before Vaux was in full flight. “Our team has suffered a great loss. An hour ago Yves Bisson was alive. Look at him now!”

  Involuntarily they all turned to where the body still lay, now surrounded by a corps of police technicians. Brad shook his head sadly. “It’s tragic. You have our deepest sympathy at this terrible outrage.”

  “I don’t want condolences. I want protection. What is the Committee doing to prevent this happening again? How many of my team am I going to see this way? Do you think they’ll be satisfied with one? Were they satisfied with one at Munich?”

  “For God’s sake, Vaux!” stammered Withers, appalled at this prospect. “Think what you’re saying.”

  The Frenchman folded his arms. “I am merely being realistic,” he growled. “And I repeat, what are you proposing to do about it?”

  Thatcher looked on sympathetically. Vaux’s concern was more than justified, but it was being aired to the wrong man. Brad could cope with a simple physical threat as he had already proved. But planning ahead, weighing contingencies, minimizing risks were as alien to him in Lake Placid as they were on Wall Street.

  “Mr. Withers shares your anxiety,” Thatcher intervened. “That is why he wishes to meet with the full IOC so that they can formulate their program as rapidly as possible.”

  Everett instantly came to his assistance. “And you should be getting your men off this exposed hillside. Isn’t there some security at Olympic Village?”

  “Of course there is,” Vaux snapped.

  “Then that’s where they should be.”

  Brad had now recovered his breath sufficiently to close the interview with dignity. “Mr. Vaux, you—and all the other teams—will be hearing from the Committee the minute they’ve decided what measures to take. In the meantime it makes sense to avoid unnecessary risks.”

  The French coach was torn. On the one hand, he still wanted to discharge his shocked outrage. On the other hand, he was concerned about the vulnerability of the remaining French jumpers.

  “Very well,” he finally decided, preparing to leave. “But I shall expect effective action to be taken.”

  François Vaux was not the only one with unreasonable expectations. By the time the International Olympic Committee met in emergency session later that night, the world-wide media had done their work. Even John Thatcher, pressed into service as Withers’ aide, was appalled at the number of institutions stirred to life by the tragic news. 36 embassies had already made representations to the State Department concerning the safety of their nationals. The official security force of the Olympic Games had been displaced, first by the County Sheriff, then by the State Police. Sharpshooters from the FBI were heading north.

  Now, if ever, was the time for brilliant executive leadership at the IOC. Unfortunately its president had taken an incautious step on the ice two days earlier, and he was now in an Albany hospital with a broken leg. Officiating in his place was Anthony Melville of Canada. Melville was the IOC’s most intransigent foe of the Winter Olympics. According to him, they did not conform to the ancient Greek pattern, they detracted from the Summer Games, and they were a hotbed of commercialism.

  “And furthermore they are not representative. Half our members never participate. That’s why we’re in this mess. Some crazy radicals are protesting a so-called international event that excludes the Third World. And you,”—he paused to glare at the State Police officer who had just delivered his report—“you tell us there’s nothing you can do to stop them.”

  “Not the way you want it,” Captain Ormsby said stolidly. “I can protect the competitors all right, but only if they stay in Olympic Village.”

  “How the hell do you expect us to operate the Games with all the athletes locked up?” demanded a long-time supporter of the winter event. “Why don’t you use some manpower? In Germany they called out the army.”

  The underlying quarrel had been apparent to John Thatcher for some time. Although the IOC members were addressing their remarks to the police captain, they were actually arguing with each other. Anthony Melville was demanding absolute security for 1800 participants scattered over the countryside. At least half the table was afraid that, when this impossible guarantee was not forthcoming, he would try to call off the Games.

  “In Munich you had a hostage situation,” Ormsby explained patiently. “There were men with guns in one place that you could attack. We’ve got one individual who took one shot and beat it. By now he’s probably in Canada.”

  Melville bristled. “Why bring Canada into this?”

  “It’s the nearest border. He could be there in an hour and a half.”

  “Canada does not harbor terrorists!”

  Thatcher was forced to admire the way Ormsby refused to lock horns with Melville. Instead he used the digression for his own purposes. “I don’t think this guy was a terrorist. I think he was hoping we’d all be brainwashed by Munich. But a lot of things point the other way. First off, the ski tracks show there was only one man in there. That’s not the way terrorists work.”

  Brad Withers always had difficulty adjusting to new ideas. “But you said yourself the tracks went back to the road. There could have been accomplices in the car.”

  “I’m not denying there could have been a wheel man. But terrorists send in an attack team. It makes psychological sense. They keep each other keyed up. Lying belly down in the snow can be a lonely business. Besides, radicals wouldn’t have taken one shot. They would have sprayed the place with automatic weapons.”

  This horrifying possibility silenced everyone at the table except the IOC’s public relations man. He was contemplating something worse.

  “Do you know what you’re saying?” he cried. “The alternative to terrorists is a mad sniper. Can you imagine the effect that will have on spectators? To tell them that somewhere in the snow there’s a marksman drawing a bead at random. No sir! I’d rather stick with the Red Brigade.”

  Ormsby shook his head. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. Even though the ground out there was trampled, the security men were still able to get some information. They could see where the sniper’s skis were resting, they found some cigarette butts and the marks of the tripod. They figure he was there for over an hour. That means he waited while the German team finished its practice, and he let two French jumpers go by. I think he was out to get Yves Bisson and nobody else.”

  Brad Withers was indignant. “You’re saying the killer followed Bisson over here? Good God, if someone wanted to shoot him in midair, it was just as easy to do it in Europe. They didn’t have to cross the Atlantic to ruin our Olympics. I never heard of such a thing in all my life.”

  While Brad gobbled, Thatcher was considering this new approach. “I doubt if it was sheer perversity on the sniper’s part. If you look at it from his point of view, there were distinct advantages. Killing Bisson in France would have brought the local police down on his relatives and acquaintances. But here? Even if the authorities are 90% convinced that the motive is personal, they still have to take precautions against a political plot. Inevitably a good deal of their attention will be diverted toward protecting the remaining competitors, reviewing the movements of known terrorists, cooperating with the State Department. Why, even dealing with their own communications . . .” Thatcher let his voice trail away as he bobbed his head apologetically.

  Ormsby did not take offense. “You’re right, Mr. Thatcher. We’ve already got ten men doing liaison work full-time. But sooner o
r later we’ll get information from Paris. Sooner or later we’ll get flight lists. Already we’ve come up with something interesting over at—”

  He was. interrupted by a harried secretary. “Mr. Roger Hathaway,” she said, “insisted that he see Mr. Withers and Mr. Thatcher at once.”

  “Ah,” murmured Brad, gratified. “Roger has heard about our trouble and he’s offering to help.”

  “I doubt if he’s come about Bisson,” said Thatcher. The Sloan’s manager in Lake Placid had other fish to fry. “There must be trouble at the branches.”

  Their visitor was right on the heels of the secretary. “I’m afraid it’s both,” he announced from the doorway.

  Normally Roger Hathaway’s rugged blondness and lean vigor made him look right at home in Lake Placid. But now he was showing his 30 years. The tight frown creasing his forehead was echoed by a score of tiny wrinkles at his temples, and his eyes were red with fatigue. His shoulders were so determinedly square that he reminded Thatcher of a man ready to face the firing squad.

  “Maybe you’ll think I should have contacted you sooner,” he continued painfully, “but I wanted to establish the size of the loss first.”

  He had sounded a tocsin.

  “Loss?” Thatcher prompted him.

  “It began after lunch today. I got a courtesy call from the bank at Saranac Lake, warning me that a counterfeit traveler’s check had been deposited in one of their commercial accounts yesterday. It was a foreign currency check, and they thought there might be some fakes circulating in Olympic Village. So I got busy on a memo to the home office asking them to verify our receipts. But then the second call came through, and I decided to start with what we have here. That’s what I’ve been doing ever since. I went through all three vaults, and I fed the number of every single traveler’s check into the Telex.” He paused to lick his lips, and then his final words erupted in one burst. “Mr. Thatcher, we’ve taken in a $500,000 worth of fakes over our counters.”

  Thatcher did not make an immediate reply; he was too busy running down an appalling list of possibilities.

  Withers was not operating under the same burden. But the Sloan presence in Lake Placid had been his own particular brainchild and any threat to its success moved him.

  “I thought you said this had something to do with the murder,” he complained.

  “I’m coming to that.” Hathaway cast an uneasy glance at Thatcher’s frozen countenance before plunging ahead. “The second call was from Saranac after they heard about the shooting. They wanted me to know that their fake check was passed in the name of Yves Bisson.”

  The IOC was not slow to realize that Roger Hathaway was dispelling the specter of a terrorist invasion. They were openly relieved to trade in radical assassins for professional criminals. In the outburst of self-congratulation that followed, John Thatcher found Captain Ormsby at his elbow.

  “Now, I call that real interesting,” Ormsby began. “Especially when you consider what we found in Bisson’s room. You know, Mr. Thatcher, we’ve sent away to Albany for a financial expert, but I’ll bet you could tell us as much as any outsider.”

  Thatcher was very grim. “And if it has anything to do with traveler’s checks, I have a $500,000 inducement to cooperate.”

  “Well, why don’t you come and see for yourself.”

  Chapter 3

  Degree Days

  AN hour later Thatcher was ready to start work. Almost half that period had been spent gaining admission to Olympic Village. The security precautions now reigning made a mockery of Everett Gabler’s earlier question to the French jumping coach. After they had driven seven miles west from Lake Placid on the road to Saranac, Thatcher had expected something resembling a gigantic country club. Instead he found a barren rural site in the center of which lay a newly constructed compound of nine buildings. The entire complex was surrounded by a double-fence system enclosing a broad swath of ground. Armed units were patrolling the floodlit outer perimeter. Guard dogs were running between the fences. Jeeps bristling with paramilitary personnel swept along surrounding trails.

  “Good God!” exclaimed Thatcher. “It looks like a prison.”

  Ormsby was amused. “It is. Didn’t you know? That’s how the town got this place free. They agreed to have a new federal prison here if they could use it first for the Olympics. I hear that a lot of participating countries didn’t like the idea.” Then he sobered. “But it’s been a godsend today. All we had to do was implement the federal plans.”

  Thatcher was sorry that Everett had missed this experience. Gabler would have been genuinely interested in a new approach to financing temporary housing. But Everett was busy extracting the sad details from Roger Hathaway.

  Their first stop had been the security building at the gates. Tonight there was no nonsense about flourishing ID’s. Phone calls had been made to the State Police and to the IOC. Then, past the gates and the dogs, was the administration building and a further check. Ormsby made no attempt to hurry the process.

  “When you set up a procedure, you want to encourage them to follow it,” he explained as they waited to be escorted across the compound. “I’m surprised you haven’t been here before. Your bank is over there with the Post Office and the Medical Center.”

  Obediently Thatcher looked toward the darkened expanse. His interest in short-lived branches was minimal. Long-term losses were something else again.

  Ormsby continued his role as guide when they were finally ushered along the brilliantly lit path toward the dormitory buildings in the rear.

  “That’s their entertainment center. It’s got a disco,” he said unnecessarily, indicating windows from which pulsating sounds and lights were flowing. “And movies and game rooms and God knows what else.”

  A particularly vibrant chord sounded, accompanied by enthusiastic yells and stampings.

  “I’m glad to see that the young people aren’t letting the situation depress them,” Thatcher remarked.

  Ormsby was a veteran of many disasters. “It’s always that way. You’d be surprised how fast most people get back to business as usual.”

  Further proof of this truth was waiting at Dormitory H. Here the usual reception committee of security guards had been reinforced by a band of athletes ready to sound the alarm and to stage a delaying action. But beyond the entrance everything seemed normal. As they passed the doorway of a lounge, they could see a group clustered around the bright screen of a television set from which no sound came.

  “I wonder what they’re watching with the audio off,” Thatcher murmured.

  “Themselves,” Ormsby replied as they mounted the stairs to the second floor. “All the dormitories have a television playback system. That way they can analyze their own performance and get tips from their teammates. Well, here we are. This is where Bisson was staying.”

  He barely gave Thatcher an opportunity to glance at the twin-bedded cubicle. Upon signal, the trooper on duty produced a stack of traveler’s checks and a magnifying glass.

  “This is what I wanted you to look at,” Ormsby invited.

  It did not take Thatcher long to arrive at his conclusion. “There really isn’t any doubt. This one folder is genuine and the rest are counterfeit. The rag content is quite different.”

  “That’s what we thought,” Ormsby nodded. “We didn’t know about the rag content, but we noticed that most of them didn’t have any signature at all while that particular flap had been signed in one corner. I assume these foreign traveler’s checks work like American Express?”

  “Almost exactly. On a bona fide sale of Eurochecks, the customer signs when he makes the purchase and then countersigns whenever he cashes one. I see that Bisson has Eurochecks in three currencies here— French francs, German marks and Swiss francs. Hathaway will be able to tell us if that accords with what we’ve taken in.”

  Ormsby did not want Thatcher to think that the State Police were not doing their share. “And we’ll get on to the other banks in the area. They ma
y have been hit, too.”

  “I doubt it.” Thatcher had been pondering Roger Hathaway’s disclosure. “You may not realize this, Captain, but the Sloan opened here in Lake Placid because the Olympic Games were bringing in a volume of foreign visitors and foreign currencies that the local banks were not equipped to handle. Now, the counterfeiters obviously decided to capitalize on this situation by passing their fakes where they would seem to be normal transactions. They probably had a whole gang of people like Bisson ready to go into action at the same time. And the others did go into action today. The only thing I don’t understand is how that stray check turned up a day early in Saranac.”

  “It may not be the only one. Tell me what you think of this.” Ormsby was crossing to the other side of the room. Until now their attention had been centered on the belongings of Yves Bisson. “While we were searching the room we went through the roommate’s side, too. Here are his traveler’s checks.”

  Thatcher flipped through the folder, counting. Then he meticulously studied each check. “The first ten are all right. But the last five are not. And although I’m no expert, I’d say the last five signatures are forgeries as well.”

  Ormsby agreed. “That’s how I make it. I think Bisson couldn’t resist the temptation to do a little substituting. Why don’t we hear what the roommate has to say?”

  But they soon realized that Raoul Thibault was not going to be any help. When he was shown his folder of checks, he beamed. When he was told there were fifteen left, he looked sad. When the discontinuity in numbers was mentioned, he was blank.

  “Still,” Thatcher persisted, “when you cashed the eleventh check, you would have guessed something was wrong, wouldn’t you? Because its number wouldn’t match your list.”

  “My list?” Thibault repeated suspiciously.

  “The list of numbers you keep for your own protection.”

  Thibault, however, had lost patience. “I know nothing of numbers. When I want money, I sign in this corner and they give me money. When I have no more checks to sign, I have no more money. Numbers are not necessary.” Conscious of a certain lack of enthusiasm from his audience, he suddenly smiled brilliantly. “It is really very simple.”