by Dana Black
Besides, Keith had thought of a better way to repay Farber for what he had done.
“I’ve got one statement to make,” he said. “You guys probably won’t be much interested, but I’ve decided to change my brand of shoes.”
“Somebody outbid Far-lite?” asked a sharp-eyed woman from the New York Daily News. Keith told her no, Far-lite was being very generous with their contract; it was their shoes that were the problem. He’d had an opportunity to try on a pair of another brand of American-made soccer shoes. They seemed to be of much higher quality. He had no contract arrangement with the other manufacturer, had never discussed one, and didn’t intend to. He was just going to wear their shoes instead of Far-lites.
He wanted that on the record because there’d been a lot of Far-lite advertising lately that had used his name, and Keith didn’t want to mislead the public about his future intentions.
While he talked, he kept looking around for Sharon, but he didn’t see her.
“Going to watch the game with your TV friend?” asked the News woman, as though reading his mind. “Or are you going to stay down here with us proletarians?”
“Down here?”
“I saw her with Ross Cantrell, getting into his private elevator to ride up to his fancy glass penthouse. Just a few minutes before the game started.”
“I guess I’ll see if I can locate her,” he told the reporter.
17
“Eleven minutes remain,” Bill Brautigam’s voice chattered from the wall speakers in Cantrell’s office. “The defending champions of the world are desperately clinging to a two-to-one lead against the powerful Soviet offensive.”
Strands of perspiration-wet hair clung to Sharon’s forehead. Since the moment Cantrell had left her, she had struggled and screamed—but her muffled cries had gone unanswered. The adhesive tape that bound her to Cantrell’s big chair would not yield. Her fingers felt numbed; her arms and legs felt weakened, as though the gas had already begun its work.
Then she heard something. Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement. The door to the hallway, where Cantrell had gone out—the door was opening!
“Keith!” She cried his name into the tape as he came into the room. She cried his name again as with strong fingers he began to strip the adhesive from her face. The tape pulled at her skin and stung painfully as it tore away. Tears glistened in the corners of Sharon’s eyes. “Oh, Keith,” she whispered when she could finally speak. “Oh, darling, get my hands free!”
She went on, explaining as he loosened her bonds. Keith’s eyes widened in horror. “The Patrón!” he said. “Cantrell was the Patrón, and we came right back to him!”
The moment her arms were untied, Sharon reached for the Cobor grenade. “This thing will detonate in only a few minutes,” she said. “I watched a man from the Air Force take one like it apart not long ago—I hope this one is put together the same way. Hold your breath now—”
She twisted the detonator box counterclockwise, the way she had seen Dr. Ferguson do. Nothing happened. The box would not move.
I can’t fail now, she thought, I just can’t, and pulled at the box as she twisted.
Still nothing.
“It’s as if it was welded together—” And then she realized. A spring clip. They’d have to have some mechanism to keep the detonator box attached while the other mechanism was opening the valve. A spring clip. Like a childproof top on an aspirin bottle.
She pushed the box down onto the grenade, pushed hard, and turned it counterclockwise. The two pieces slid smoothly and came apart in her hands.
At the top of the grenade she could see the silvered metal wing nut, the valve that the doctor had said would release the gas if it was turned. The valve appeared to be closed, the wing nut tightened down as far as it would go.
Sharon put the grenade back on the desktop. Her hands shook with relief. “Now,” she said. “Now we call Wayne Taggart and tell him why he can’t play that newsreel tape.”
She knew the producer’s extension number in the control truck, and dialed it on Cantrell’s phone. She waited for the ring, listening. Only the clicks of the equipment. They echoed as though from far away. Then silence.
“Something’s wrong with the phone,” she told Keith, and dialed again.
Once more she heard the switches click open as the signal began to work its way through to the studio truck. Then, nothing. The call was being held up somewhere in the network of wires and relays. “We’ve got to get through to Taggart,” she said. “We can’t let him broadcast that tape!”
Keith removed the last of the adhesive from Sharon’s ankles. “I’d say we ought to go down there ourselves,” he said, getting to his feet, “but all three of the trucks are sealed off inside the tunnel. I thought you might have gone back down there earlier and tried to get in, but the guards wouldn’t let me past. I showed ’em my card and told ’em who I was, and one even recognized me. But they said they still had to follow their orders. It was all I could do to get one to open the elevator to this office with his passkey.”
“. . . and the scoreboard clock reads nine minutes, fifteen seconds of playing time . . .”
Sharon stared at the wall monitors, willing away the panic. Barely four minutes remained until Taggart would roll the tape to detonate the three grenades down there. Why wouldn’t this telephone—
Then she remembered.
“Molly!” Sharon ran for the door to the reception area. Molly knew the switchboard. Maybe there was an alternate routing that could get a call through.
Molly turned in surprise as Sharon opened the door. “Hi,” she said. “Where’s—”
“No time to explain,” Sharon interrupted. “We need you to get a call through to Wayne Taggart in the control studio. If he doesn’t hear from us within four minutes, we’re all going to die!”
Molly blinked as though she didn’t understand, but she pressed two buttons on her switchboard anyway, and picked up the receiver. She dialed Taggart’s extension.
After a moment or two she shook her head. “I remember now,” she said. “They sealed off telephone access to the studio truck when the game started. They were afraid someone from outside would know the numbers and interfere with the final telecast.”
“You mean we can’t get through?”
Molly shook her head. “I’m afraid not, honey. Now can you tell me where the boss went to, and what this is all about?”
Behind them, Sharon heard Keith’s voice. “I’ve found plans here for the stadium!”
He had spread them out on Cantrell’s coffee table. In moments, Sharon was at his side. Quickly she paged through the blue-tinted papers. “We’re looking for the field-level diagram,” she said. “That’s where—”
She had it. Not a field-level diagram after all, but a birdseye view of the stadium. Throughout the wide oval that represented the seats, small red dots had been inked in. Another red mark had been placed at the upper edge. “That’s the one in the penthouse, right here,” Sharon said, pointing at the paper. “And this dot on the field—that’s the storm drainage system. He said there were three grenades on the field level, so these two red squares must be—”
“The cameras,” Molly said from behind them.
Sharon and Keith looked up. Molly was standing in front of the door to the hallway.
The black cylinder of Cobor was in her hands.
“They’re in the field-level cameras,” Molly repeated. “And they’re going to go off without your interfering. If either of you moves, I’m going to open this valve.”
Her fingers were on the silvered wing nut.
Sharon stared, uncomprehending. “You—knew about Cantrell?”
“I was with him in Moscow twenty years ago, Sharon. I’m just as much a part of this mission as he is.”
“You’re a fool if you think that,” said Keith. “Cantrell left the grenade you’ve got there to kill you along with Sharon. If she hadn’t disconnected—”
“No.”
Molly shook her head, her face obstinate. “Pyotr would not leave me here that way. He’s coming back for me. When he does, he’ll deal with the two of you, so don’t make a move.”
“I’m going to tear out this piece of paper,” Keith said evenly. “If you want to commit suicide over that, fine. Go ahead.”
He folded the page with the red markers on it and handed it over to Sharon. “When you see me move,” he whispered, “hold your breath and run for the door. We’ve got to get down to the field and disconnect—”
“No talking!” Molly said sharply.
“Oh, come on, Molly,” Sharon said. “With only three minutes, you can’t really believe he’s coming back! He had other women! I saw one of them myself one night—”
The gaunt Russian woman refused to admit that she had been betrayed. “There is time,” she said stubbornly. “The camera grenades were not to be detonated until the final minute. I’m sure it is the same with the one here—”
Keith sprang. He was on her like a tiger, hands grasping for the black cylinder. With surprising quickness, the tall woman spun away, keeping the Cobor just out of his reach. Her long fingers swiftly worked the valve.
When she turned to face him, there was a gleam of triumph in her eyes. “I told you!” she cried, lifting the hissing cylinder up in front of her like a dreadful talisman. “I told you!”
“Sharon! Run!” Keith yelled the command and then went for the grenade. This time Molly offered no resistance. “Now you are too late,” she said, and handed him the cylinder.
Sharon’s legs felt immobile. She held her breath, knowing that was what Keith was doing too. In a moment Keith would have shut off the flow of poison gas, and then they would ran downstairs together—
But as Keith grasped the Cobor grenade and closed the valve, Molly struck. Her knee flashed upward from less than a yard away from him and caught Keith squarely in the pit of his stomach. The breath went out of him in a rush. Involuntarily he gasped, his face contorted with surprise and pain.
The Cobor entered his lungs.
“Pyotr will come back,” Molly said, defiant. “He’ll see what I’ve done and he’ll be proud—”
“Sharon! Hold your breath and run!” The desperation in Keith’s voice made Sharon tremble inside and galvanized her to move. She stumbled forward, too shaken to realize that she was wasting valuable seconds. All that she could think of was Keith.
He was holding Molly now, struggling to keep her away from Sharon.
Then the gas took effect.
In a fraction of a second, Molly suddenly doubled over as her muscles went into spasm. Her arms drew in at her sides. Her hands balled themselves into fists. As she dropped to the carpeted floor, her lips drew back from her teeth in a horrible rictus of death.
Keith shuddered. He turned to Sharon. His voice sounded quiet now, as though he had made his peace. “I love you,” he said, “but you must go before it’s too late. Or else what we’ve done will all be for nothing.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, knowing he was right. “Goodbye,” she whispered, and touched his cheek. Somehow she moved to open the door.
Just before she closed it again, she heard a gasp of pain and looked back.
He was kneeling on the carpet, bent double.
Mercifully, she could not see his face.
18
There were four gray-uniformed security guards at the opening to the field-level seats, blocking the entrance. All four had short-barreled machine guns. The sight of the squat, brutal weapons spurred Sharon on. Weakened, numb with the shock of Keith’s death, she fumbled in her jacket pocket for her ID card. The muzzles of two of the machine guns were trained on her as she approached. She held up her UBC card in her right hand and the folded diagram of the stadium in her left. In her mind, Keith’s voice echoed and reechoed. Before it’s too late, before it’s too late!
Beyond the guards she could see the scoreboard clock framed by the entrance. Five minutes, thirty-five seconds left in the game.
Thirty-five seconds until the tape began broadcasting its murderous signal.
The urge to panic and run away flashed through her. She felt the impulse as though from a great distance, as though the terror dwelt in someone apart from her. Keith had died trying to stop the Cobor; his memory would never leave her. No matter what the cost, Sharon had to reach those grenades.
She eyed the nearest guard and forced steel into her voice. “Habla inglis?”
He shrugged and pointed to a fifth guard, inside the entrance. The man was watching the game.
“You!” Sharon cried. “Guard! Quickly! Pronto!”
The man turned and saw the others looking at Sharon. He came over. “Were you among the ones,” Sharon asked him, “who searched for the poison grenades?”
“No,” said the man, a red-faced youth with a mustache like Wayne Taggart’s. “But Pablo here—”
“You know about them, then?” Sharon cut him off. “Excuse me for interrupting, but this is most urgent. There are three more grenades on the field!”
He looked at Sharon and at the red markings on the paper she held before him. The other guard said something in Spanish.
“We’ve got to get out there and disconnect their detonators,” Sharon continued. “In less than four minutes they will explode and kill us all. Do you understand? In less than four minutes!”
The man’s eyes widened. He looked back at the field, and at the sixteen-foot chain-link fence, topped by barbed wire, that separated the spectators from the playing area. “I believe you,” he said, “but to climb that fence? Other guards have orders to shoot.” He spoke as though thinking aloud. “And there is no radio—”
“The Cobor has already killed Keith Palermo,” Sharon said. “You’ve got to think of a way to get me onto that field!”
“Palermo?” said the other guard.
He pointed down the corridor.
The one who spoke English nodded. “The players’ entrance,” he told Sharon. “Come with me. And for both our sakes, I hope you find what you are speaking about!”
19
In his chair before the UBC control monitors, Wayne Taggart felt superbly in command. There was a lot of tension in doing another live broadcast only twenty-six hours after Seville, but he knew he was handling it beautifully. The shots were falling in place as he knew they would.
He’d written up the camera plan for the game last night and gone over it with the boys, and this evening it was paying off. They were giving him great shots. Terrific balance. He’d put up Camera Nine a little too often, maybe, but that was justified—how many times did you get the chance for a nice, clear closeup of Katya Romanova, watching her brother play?
He had Max down on the field, shooting Katya whenever the play was at a lull. Great human interest. Especially for the fans at home who’d seen last night’s broadcast. Wayne just knew they’d be edging their chairs up closer to the living room set, each time he put up Katya’s face. Is she pregnant or isn’t she? they’d be asking each other.
By God, he thought, this is one sports event they’re going to remember. He smiled a little to himself as he called the camera shots for Billy to put up. Less than fifteen minutes remained now till the post-game wrapup would be over, and then they’d roll the credits. He’d been in the Chyron truck late last night, working them out on the teleprinter. The idiots in there had been planning to run “Produced and Directed by Wayne Taggart,” but he’d changed that in a hurry to “PRODUCED BY WAYNE TAGGART.” In big block letters.
That phrase would hang on the screen for a full five seconds, and then, for another five, the folks at home would see “DIRECTED BY WAYNE TAGGART.”
Much better impact, spreading it out that way.
Five minutes and ten seconds left in the game. “Prepare to roll Able,” he said, and started counting down. “Nine . . . eight . . . Baker and Charlie, get set to take from TV Espana. . . .” It was a pisser, he thought, having to interrupt, but the disclaimer m
essage after the short five-minute clip ought to smooth down their feathers back home. He’d be taping the last five minutes of the game with both the Baker and Charlie units using the Spanish “feed”— double-covering in the event of a failure in one of the taping units—so nobody would miss a moment of the action. They’d just have to wait a little while.
As he finished the countdown, it occurred to him that he might want to work this moment into the TV movie Ross Cantrell had promised to finance for him: a two-hour feature that would be produced by Wayne Taggart, directed by Wayne Taggart, and would star Wayne Taggart as the lead character, a TV sports director.
Something to look forward to.
“. . . three . . . two . . . roll Able, Baker, Charlie,” he said crisply into his headset mike. “Put up Able.”
When Taggart’s command was executed, within milliseconds an unmistakable pattern of electronic impulses, generated by magnetized chromium dioxide granules, raced through the Able tape player in the UBC control truck, through several hundred feet of four-inch-thick shielded coaxial cable, to the UBC transmitter truck parked alongside in the stadium tunnel.
A powerful Thomson CSF transmitter unit inside the truck amplified those electronic waves to an energy level of fifty kilowatts and sent them on their way, through additional miles of cable, to the uplink antenna building near Madrid International Airport.
Inside that building, the switching device Raul had installed days earlier “recognized” the pattern programmed into it by Helen Bates’s mini transmitter unit during the predawn hours.
Two electronic switches clicked into place. A timing device began to run. For the next five minutes the switches would remain in position. One blocked the “feed” from the cable that brought the signal from TV Espana’s transmitter truck in Bernabeau Stadium.
The other switch replaced the TV Espana “feed” with the signal from UBC.