by F. J. Chase
“Oh, please. At least I got to practice some medicine so he wouldn’t think I was completely useless.”
“Did you ask him out?”
“I was going to, but I froze again. But he asked me. We’re having dinner.”
“Let’s hope he’s not married.”
Doctor Rose sat up in her chair, suddenly concerned. And then, “I didn’t see a ring.”
“Child, that doesn’t necessarily mean a thing.”
4
Oh, you should have known better than to go to the gymnastics competition, Avakian told himself. You should have known that hanging around the stadium with nothing to do was first going to drive you crazy, and then make you want to start running around correcting things. That would be great. You could be the kind of old fart colonel you always despised, sticking your nose into everything and giving the young ’uns the benefit of your wisdom. Stay in your lane, he kept telling himself. You’d rip the lips off anyone who poked his nose in your job. Oh, it was going to be a great day.
At least the Chinese were doing everything right. They’d taken a page out of the U.S. Secret Service book and issued special color-coded lapel pins to anyone who had access beyond the regular seating: the media, coaches and trainers, and the security personnel of all the teams. Right when they’d arrived at the Indoor Stadium that morning, everyone’s face cross-checked against the database. That way it wouldn’t matter if someone had managed to steal or forge a set of the laminated credentials they all wore around their necks. No lapel pin and they’d be exiting the hard way. Very important, because security personnel didn’t go through the metal detectors. It was expected that they were armed.
The president of Taiwan was sitting ringside, or whatever it was called in gymnastics, with the president of the Beijing Gymnastics on one side and the minister in charge of sports on the other. A nice way for the Chinese government to finesse how to be seen in public with him. Not such a high level that it would imply any present or future relationship, but not insulting either. And everyone sitting beside, in front, and behind them were Chinese security, both male and female.
The U.S. Secretary of State was on the other side of the floor, and probably grateful for that. Boxed in by Marquand and his diplomatic security people.
So for now, at least, there was nothing to do but watch the gymnastics. And watch the lapel pins.
Though he would never, ever admit it to anyone, Avakian found the whole thing almost unbearably sad. On TV you only saw the top ten girls competing to see who was going to win the medal and be on the cereal box. But there were a hundred of them here. Every last one having given up their adolescence to be trained like cute little poodles for the circus. Except Avakian suspected that circus dogs were treated better by their trainers and parents. Watching a coach snap at a limping girl to stand up straight and then hug her once he knew the cameras were on them was enough to incite him to violence. Or catching a glimpse of another kid throwing up in a bucket offstage while another coach looked impatiently at his watch. He had to restrain himself from hitting them. He was glad he didn’t have a daughter.
And then when the scores came up there was only one example of joy through sport to be seen, and that was on the face of the winner. Everyone else didn’t take it very well. A little girl shattered by failure was enough to break his heart.
Avakian decided to continue his habit of keeping an eye on the spot that was away from the center of attention. As he went through the tunnel leading into backstage two Chinese cops on either side nodded him through.
With the teams still out on the floor, there wasn’t much traffic. The venue had been designed for other uses, like expositions, so there were a few smaller public spaces in addition to the 19,000-seat main floor and dressing/locker room areas. The reason why Avakian was checking the seals on all the doors he walked past.
Then something made him stop. Two Chinese photographers were leaning against the tunnel wall, chatting. Avakian had to ask himself why they were there instead of out photographing the awards ceremony. He stared at them, probing for a reaction. One of them finally noticed and nudged the other. They both stared back at him and continued talking.
Avakian was wary of crying wolf. But if something did go down it was always the guy like him who got shot by mistake. He walked back down the tunnel and caught the eye of one of the Chinese cops, cocking his head in the direction of the photographers and firing off a questioning look. The cop got it immediately. With his partner watching with one hand on his sidearm and the other on his radio, he went over, checked their pins and credentials, and rooted around in the camera bags. When he finished he said something to them, and as he passed Avakian gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Okay, Avakian thought, so much for instinct.
Loud applause rose up from the other end of the tunnel, and the photographers came flooding in. A few minutes later a parade of girl gymnasts in their warm-up suits, trailed by coaches and trainers. The ones with the medals around their necks were prancing and smiling. The rest were not. A few were still red-eyed, sniffling, and wiping their faces on their sleeves. Avakian positioned himself out of the way of the rush, off to the side near one of the sealed doors.
Camera flashes popped wildly. Then the teams were through but the photographers stayed where they were, muttering impatiently.
A few minutes later the noise rose again from the tunnel entrance. Avakian knew what was coming next. In the trade they called it “riding the diamond.” The security men in the point sweeping everyone out of their way like a human snowplow. The seal on the sides, all facing outward, pushing everyone toward the walls, carefully watching hands. Cocooned in the middle of the diamond formation were the VIPs, the Taiwanese president and the two Chinese sports bigwigs. More security men closed off the rear. The four points of the diamond meant that the whole formation could change direction instantly.
It was a common sight on TV, but what the viewing public couldn’t see on the other side of those cameras looked like a cross between a bread riot and a goal line stand in the Super Bowl. The gentle members of the press were elbowing and kicking each other for position with an abandon that explained why, other than terrorism, they had all been searched for weapons at the door. When the flashes and TV lights went off again Avakian kept seeing white spots before his eyes. And they were all screaming questions, literally screaming, all at the same time. Why, he had no idea, since it was impossible to pick out a single word they were saying. The effect inside the tunnel was like unfolding your lawn chair next to a jackhammer. Avakian was afraid his eardrums were going to burst. He pressed a finger to each ear canal to try and reduce that awful pressure. And in the eye of that hurricane the VIPs strolled along as if nothing was happening, waving casually and wearing steady, pleasant, pasted-on smiles for the cameras. It gave Avakian something he thought he’d never have: respect for politicians. To hang tough in the middle of all that was an achievement.
The diamond passed by him, sucking along the rear security and more photographers. Then it was like the storm had passed and the ocean was calm. The noise diminished only slightly as the crowd moved a little farther down the tunnel.
Just then the door in front of Avakian opened, the tape seal twanging off. A Chinese in a maintenance uniform emerged, credentials dangling around his neck and a little walkie-talkie clipped to his belt. Avakian relaxed. Just another dope taking the wrong door at the wrong time. But then the right hand came out of the pants pocket clutching something, and the left hand swung over to yank the pin from a hand grenade.
Avakian froze for a second out of sheer disbelief, took another second to reprocess the whole image to confirm what he was really seeing, then burst forward, the adrenaline tunneling his vision and seeming to slow everything down. He swept his jacket back, clawing for the homemade anti-mugger blackjack stuck in his waistband at the small of his back.
The maintenance man was standing sideways so the rear security couldn’t see his hand. His body te
nsed and his right shoulder dropped as he started into his pitching motion.
Avakian had the tape-wrapped steel rod out but the arm was coming up and he was still a good two steps away. Everyone was naturally looking toward the front, and the assassin was obviously planning on letting his grenade fly and being back through the door before it even went off.
Avakian dove forward, swinging his arm over his head like a tennis serve. He caught the maintenance man a solid shot on the back of the head, and they both went down together. Avakian landed across the back of the man’s legs. His knee hit the floor hard and sent an electric jab of pain up his leg and into his groin.
When his mind finished processing that he looked up and saw the grenade finish a short bounce and land back down on the floor in front of him. It was Russian, looking like a green soup can with the shiny metal detonator housing sticking out from the body like a pencil. Only Russian grenades had that feature. Didn’t get the pin out, Avakian thought desperately, more in the form of a prayer than an observation.
But as the grenade spun on the floor it suddenly twitched with a sharp, clearly audible pop. Another unique feature of Russian grenades. Other countries developed primers that initiated silently to start a grenade’s fuse burning. But the Russians never believed in going to all that fuss and expense.
So the pop told Avakian he had less than four seconds. If he picked it up there were people in every direction he could possibly throw it. Screaming, “Grenade!” he bounced up and grabbed the maintenance man’s belt, then lunged forward to get ahold of the back of his collar. With one foot underneath him and one knee still on the ground, and a powerlifter’s scream, he jerked the Chinese up off the floor as if he were a 150-pound barbell instead of the equivalent in human dead weight. Avakian lifted him about two feet in the air and, still screaming from the exertion, thrust the body forward onto the grenade. His shoulder popped like the primer with another hot poker of pain but he didn’t release his grip, landing on top of the maintenance man to tamp him onto the explosive.
He waited there all tensed up, eyes screwed shut, for what seemed a very long time. It might just be a dud, he thought. And in the midst of a muffled roar he was launched into the air with enough force to snap his neck back and his teeth together.
He landed hard on the floor with another shooting pain, in his elbow this time. That, and the stink of explosives in his nostrils told him he was still alive. He was in the midst of a cloud of black grenade smoke and couldn’t see a thing. And then someone jumped on top of him, pointed knees stabbing into his back. Jesus. His arm was wrenched behind his back, and if the pain in his shoulder had been a little less intense he might have screamed before all the air went out of his lungs. He was just about to spaz out and start fighting when he realized he was being frisked. It had to be the Chinese cops. Just relax, he told himself. We’ll get this straightened out. That is, if he wasn’t bleeding to death—something he couldn’t tell at the moment. Just don’t resist and make it worse.
Something clicked in his head, and it was like the first time he’d heard sound in a while. The screaming echoing through that tunnel was ungodly. As his head was pulled up off the floor a bunch of pistol shots, like a string of firecrackers, went off down in the direction of the VIPs. And an instant later an absolute roar of more gunfire, too many rounds to count. Avakian’s head cracked nose-first onto the floor as whoever had his arms let go and jumped back on top of him to try and get closer to the ground. Christ that hurt. Avakian could feel the warm liquid tickling of his nose bleeding, and as he turned his head to the side to try and get some air, all he could see and feel was feet stampeding past. The screaming was even worse now, something he would not have thought possible.
Eventually whoever was lying on him got up, very cautiously. His arms were twisted back once again, and cold metal handcuffs snapped on. He was grabbed and thrown with his back up against the wall, though still sitting on the floor. There was nothing he could do about the blood streaming from his nose onto his shirt front. On the bright side, it was actually the least painful position he’d been in for a while. Every photographer in Asia stopped to take his picture as the cops pushed them down the tunnel toward the arena floor.
Once his vision cleared from the flashes he managed a look up at the two cops standing above him with their pistols drawn, preening like heroes. And then over at the maintenance man facedown on the floor, seemingly intact but lying in a literal lake of spreading blood. It wasn’t going to be pretty when someone tried to roll him over. That triggered a thought that struck Avakian as incredibly funny. If anyone was ever going to die of an untreated nosebleed, it would be him. He’d always suspected it would be his karma to go out in the least dignified way possible.
Casualties on stretchers, he couldn’t tell who, went rolling by. In the midst of all that bedlam, Avakian couldn’t make heads or tails of what had happened. Then a female Chinese photographer came running up, flanked by two cops of her own, super agitated. She was screaming, too. Pointing down at Avakian and screaming, pointing over at the body of the maintenance man and screaming. Look, take me out and shoot me, Avakian thought desperately. Give me People’s Justice. Just tell her to shut the hell up.
But it got worse, because the cops started yelling back at her. Then she screamed some more. For the sake of his sanity Avakian tried to find his happy place and tune it all out, which wasn’t easy with his knee, shoulder and elbow killing him, and blood continuing to pour from his nose.
But something happened, because suddenly he was pulled to his feet and the handcuffs came off. The cops were brushing him off and patting him on the back. Maybe she was on his side after all.
Avakian pointed to his jacket, asking permission to open it. The cops nodded, and he pulled out his handkerchief and pinched his nose shut and dropped his chin to his chest. The woman photographer tugged his sleeve and gave him the thumbs-up. Avakian nodded gratefully, still clutching his nose.
Once he got the bleeding stopped they led him down to the dressing rooms. There were at least half a dozen bodies covered with sheets and jackets, smears of blood all over the floor, dropped handguns, and expended shell casings. The Chinese police were busy taking photos of everything.
All the gymnasts and coaches were still under guard in the dressing rooms. Avakian got a look at himself in a mirror, and damn he was grim. You could barely tell his shirt had been white. He definitely looked like he’d lost the title bout.
As he came limping in, one of the trainers from the Polish team came over, took him by the arm, and shooed some girls off a massage table so he could sit down. A blond Viking in braids, a pocket battleship of a woman who looked like she could have pressed that grenade thrower right over her head. She got his jacket and shirt off and began cleaning him up with a bottle of water and a handful of gauze pads.
All he knew were the languages of former enemies. He almost spoke to her in Russian, but that would only work on a Pole his own age. Someone in her twenties wouldn’t even remember the Berlin Wall coming down. “Do you speak German?” he asked in German. His German wasn’t as fluent as his Spanish but he could hold his own with it. As a more senior officer he’d done tours with the 10th Special Forces Group in Germany.
“A little,” she replied, now half wary and half suspicious. “You German?”
“No, American,” said Avakian.
Now a smile came over her face. “Then why not did you say so?” she demanded in somewhat better English than her German.
“I wanted to thank you,” said Avakian.
“Then thank me,” she said gruffly.
“Thank you,” Avakian said softly.
She blushed red as she smiled. Then turned gruff again, as if embarrassed. “Where hurt?”
Avakian pointed to his knee, elbow, and shoulder. The knee was already nicely swollen, and the elbow and shoulder were as sore as a toothache.
She poked and prodded him relatively gently. One of the other trainers came over and said s
omething to her in Polish. She laughed and told Avakian, “She say, coach on Russia team. Look same as you. Could be brother.”
“No Russian brothers,” Avakian said.
“I no think so. Russian bad teeth. Smell bad.” She pinched Avakian’s cheeks together with thumb and forefinger until his mouth opened involuntarily. “You, good teeth. Smell good.”
Lying flat on a table with two Polish Amazons peering at his teeth, Avakian could come up with no adequate response.
She finished her examination and told him, “Be strong man now.”
Oh, that didn’t foreshadow anything good. Before Avakian could reply, she grabbed him by the upper arm, pulled back, moved it around, and slammed the heel of her other hand into his shoulder. Which he felt click back into place.
It hurt so bad he almost bit his tongue through. He hoped he’d been at least outwardly stoic, since he got the impression she might beat him out of sheer disgust if he started whimpering.
But he must have done all right, because she patted him on the head like, well, a circus dog, before strapping ice packs onto him with Ace bandages.
“What is your name?” Avakian asked.
“Jozefa.”
“Piotr. Thank you, Jozefa.”
She gave him another smile, and two enormous brown pills that he hoped were anti-inflammatories. No matter, as he was too afraid of her not to take them. Then she made him lie down on the table, creating a pillow and shoulder support from some towels. Avakian almost proposed to her right then and there.
The pills were the real deal, because in short order he was pain free and a nice warmth had replaced the chill of the ice. Despite the noise of a room packed full of excited people all talking in twelve different languages, he drifted off to sleep.
He was awakened by someone tugging on his uninjured arm. He opened his eyes and there was a pair of Chinese, a man in plainclothes and a female sergeant in police uniform, with Jozefa hovering protectively behind them.