Goldengirl

by Peter Lovesey

  “What will she get out of winning?”

  “Not so much as you could, but then it’s commonplace for East German women to do well in sports. Who was that swimmer in Montreal? Kornelia Ender. She won a stack of medals. I believe it set her up nicely. The state looks after its champions. Still, it damned well should. Ursula Krüll has been earmarked for gold medals since she was twelve. Believe me, she’ll deserve her success.”

  Goldine took the bait. “Deserves it? When she’s second-best?”

  “No,” said Dryden matter-of-factly. “Best. The Olympic champion is the best. That’s indisputable.”

  She reddened. “I could have run Krüll off her goddamned legs!”

  “I’m sure,” said Dryden, “but forget it. There’s nothing so boring as an athlete’s hard-luck story. Think of Klugman — that Achilles tendon.”

  “It isn’t like that,” protested Goldine passionately. “I know I could beat Krüll. Those medals are mine by rights.”

  “It’s time to let go, Goldine,” he insisted, confident now that she wouldn’t.

  “If there was some way to convince the doctors …” she said.

  He made it sound as if the idea dawned that second, instead of an hour before, when Melody had casually put it to him. “How about telling them you were diabetic before the Trials began? You qualified for three events, so they can’t stop you running the same three in Moscow.”

  She caught her breath, attracted, but hesitant. “It wouldn’t be true, but —”

  “There’s nothing to it,” said Dryden. “They want you to pass the medical, remember that. If those doctors kicked up, the whole of America would be down on them. It isn’t as if you’re cheating anyone out of a place on the team. You won the right to represent your country. How could they object if you tell them you’re a long-term diabetic? That would be blatant discrimination. The media would crucify them.”

  “Jack, you’re right!” She closed her eyes and pressed her hands to her face, resurrecting her dream.

  Each of the New York papers carried the same front-page picture next morning: Goldine in close-up, radiantly smiling. One headline consisted simply of the single word “SET.”

  Chapter 20

  Dryden was not in the Lenin Stadium, Moscow, on Saturday, August 9, 1980, when the Twenty-second Olympiad of the modern era was ushered in, watched by 103,000 people. Nor was he one of the two billion TV audience. This was not from contempt of the marching athletes, flags, pigeons, flame and oath that comprise the opening ceremony; who was he to knock this supreme sales vehicle as it was rolled out? Pressure of work was his reason, pressure that would keep him in New York till the eve of the one hundred meters Final on August 16. Ever since the kidnap story had broken, phenomenal interest had been generated in Goldine. The news that she was definitely going for three golds, despite almost a week’s loss of training, was seized on by editors as front-page material. Rumors of records broken in training runs watched only by Pete Klugman (who was to join the U.S. team as a supernumerary coach) and bodyguards kept things bubbling right up to the team’s departure on August 6. By then, with the name Goldine intelligible as a headline across America, and her picture splashed with each report, New York was no place for her to be. Dryden downed a double scotch as he watched the Boeing 747 Olympic Special take off from Kennedy Airport.

  The next week was the busiest in his experience, but the potential revenue in endorsements soared beyond the target he had privately set. The take-up was so promising he steadily raised the asking price, and still they couldn’t wait to shake on it. The sportswear deal alone was finalized at a million-dollar guarantee, with a built-in percentage bonus. The West German managing director, who had flown to New York to clinch it, afterward admitted it was the biggest endorsement contract he had ever negotiated, but the personal satisfaction he would get if Ursula Krüll took a beating was worth every Deutschmark. Cosmetics, electronic stopwatches and gold jewelry joined the list: the only problem was dissuading manufacturers from sending Goldine presentation boxes of their products, care of the Olympic Village. The most unaccountable thing to Dryden was that people now assumed the triple was not merely achievable, but in prospect. The kidnap publicity and rumors of a million-dollar ransom had created a legend that could only end as fairy tales do.

  The first five days of the Olympic program were taken up with basketball, cycling, gymnastics, swimming and weightlifting, but it is fair to say they were generally regarded as appetizers for the main course of track and field, starting August 14. There was more interest in the gossip percolating from the Olympic Village than the activity in the Luzhniki Sports Palace. The Herald Tribune ran a story that after watching an impressive workout by Goldine, East German officials were considering adding the 400 meters to Ursula Krüll’s program, because the girls already nominated were unlikely to match the U.S. Wundermädchen. Krüll, the article reported, had rarely run 400 meters, but earlier in the year had dipped under fifty seconds in a relay event, and was eager to challenge Goldine over any distance. Her form suggested it would take world records to beat her over the shorter sprint distances. “I shall do what is necessary in my principal events,” Krüll was reported as saying, “and if the team manager decides I would strengthen the four hundred-meter squad, that’s fine. The main thing is that East German girls should take the medals. I’m not seeking personal acclaim.” Dryden pictured the hip swivel as she walked away.

  The good news from Moscow that week was that a U.S. doctor had been appointed specially to monitor Goldine’s physical state during her five days of competition. The reason officially given was that no girl had attempted the “triple” before, and Goldine was blazing a trail. Pulse-readings, heartbeat, blood count taken regularly through the program would provide a physiological profile certain to assist physicians in advising girls whether to emulate this formidable schedule. Not a hint of the diabetes was leaked. From the pictures appearing daily in the press, Goldine had put back the weight she had lost, and recovered her zest for running.

  Dryden, by contrast, showed the strain of a week he wouldn’t care to repeat when he and Melody checked in at Kennedy for Pan Am’s 0810 Moscow flight on August 15. Moscow time is eight hours ahead of New York, so the final edition of the New York Times they bought before embarking carried the first news of the 100-meters heats. “GOLDINE QUALIFIES” ran the headline to the AP Report:

  Moscow, Aug. 15 — (AP) Goldine Serafin, victim of the recent kidnap drama in Cleveland, Ohio, reached the Quarter-Final of the Olympic 100 meters by finishing second in her First Round heat in Moscow this morning. The winner, Carol Estrada (Cuba), clocked 11.26 secs, to the U.S. girl’s 11.34. Goldine was not extended in qualifying, but her East German rival, Ursula Krüll, showed outstanding form by taking Heat Three in 10.95 secs, a new Olympic Record. The other U.S. girls, Shelley Wilson and Mary-Lou Devine, came through safely, winning their heats in 11.21 and 11.36 secs respectively.

  Higher up the page was an article comparing Moscow’s staging of the Games with Nazi Germany’s propaganda exercise in 1936. If the intention was similar, the techniques of persuasion had altered in forty-four years. Mass demonstrations, salutes and military uniforms were out; the propagandizing was more subtle. These had been billed in the West as the “Security Olympics”; in fact, there were fewer restrictions on movement than there had been in Montreal four years before. The emphasis in Moscow was heavily on cost efficiency. Eight billion dollars had been spent by the eleven-man Presidium, but buildings were designed for adaptation: the five twelve-story blocks of the Olympic Village, accommodating twelve thousand athletes and officials, would become a housing estate; the Press Center was to be taken over as headquarters of the Novosti Press Agency; and the Olympic Committee Offices would become the new base of the Soviet Journalists’ Union. These would be the last grand-scale Games — the IOC were determined drastically to reduce the number of sports by 1984 — and the Russians had provided an organization equal to the logistics of staging
the greatest sports occasion ever. The opening ceremony had set new standards in precision; as the Times man commented, “it was the May Day Parade without the missiles — unless I nodded off when they went past.”

  Dryden himself dozed through most of the nine-hour trip, and Melody, who had surprised him with her diligence and efficiency all week, seemed content to catnap between Camparis. She had fixed the flight and obtained a hotel reservation from Intourist, no slight achievement. It meant she would be pretty constantly in his company — he hadn’t inquired too closely into the details of the booking — but as she was one of the select group who knew the truth about Goldine’s condition, it would be perilous to neglect her.

  They touched down at Cheremetyevo Airport soon after midnight, Moscow time. As soon as they were through the formalities in the new Olympic terminal, Dryden picked up a copy of Izvestia, hopeful of deciphering some news of the Quarter-Finals, and learned that you just can’t skim through a Russian newspaper.

  They saw little of Moscow but pinpoints of light as the taxi skirted the western edge of the city on the Circular Motorway, but when they joined Mozhaiskoye Highway, Melody told Dryden they would soon see the River Moskva on their left. “Now we’re in Kutozovsky Prospect,” she confidently announced. “There’s the river, and this is our hotel coming up. Not that; the skyscraper. The Hotel Ukraina.” It was immense, twenty-nine stories high, and built in the gingerbread style known locally as Stalin Gothic. Floodlights played on the massive main tower. It wasn’t Dryden’s idea of a lovenest.

  Everything was very proper when they checked in at the Service Bureau. They were greeted in English and politely asked to produce their passports. The clerk herself transcribed their names into the register, they signed and learned they would occupy Rooms 811 and 812. Melody’s lips parted in a slight smile, which the girl returned. Two stone-faced porters approached and carried their suitcases to an elevator. The ascent to the eighth floor took all of three minutes, but the smile was still on Melody’s face when they stepped out. Even the scrutiny of the large woman behind the desk didn’t shift it. Only when the porters collected the keys, picked up the luggage and carried Melody’s in one direction, Dryden’s in another, did Melody blink and make a small sound of incomprehension. 811 and 812 were situated on either side of the forty yards or so of open area fronting the elevators and stairway. The duenna with the keys squatted between.

  “Seems we’ll meet at breakfast,” Dryden said, stepping after his luggage. He was grinning when he stood looking at his room. It was large, a little ornate for his taste, with dark furniture, but comforts too, notably a large tiled bathroom with a tub long enough for a basketball player. He decided to sample it at once.

  Sitting in bed afterward, he tried again to extract news of the Olympics from Izvestia. When he had scanned the back pages twice, it occurred to him that the Russians would give pride of place to gymnastics, which had reached the final stages, rather than track and field heats. Working down a column topped by a picture of a small girl poised on a beam, he got to a tabulated section with figures interpolated in the Russian alphabet that looked about right for 100-meter clockings. It didn’t take long after that to divine that Goldine had come through the Quarter-Final in second place in 11.05 seconds. The fastest qualifier was Krüll. She had set a new Olympic Record in the fourth heat in 10.94. Dryden put out the light and slept.

  He didn’t meet Melody at breakfast, after all. Possibly, he decided, as well as having boned up on Kutozovsky Prospect, she knew something about coffee and Danish, Soviet-style, but later he learned she had taken breakfast in her room.

  It was not a solitary meal for Dryden, however. He had just picked up his table napkin when he heard heavy breathing and sensed the imminent presence of someone of great size.

  “You don’t mind if I join you? One doesn’t eat alone in a Soviet restaurant. We’re all comrades, see?”

  Oliver Sternberg. The inquiry was academic. He was already in the act of depositing his weight on the chair. “How long you been here? I never noticed you before this.”

  Dryden explained that he had arrived late for the Games, and why. “I didn’t know anyone else was staying here.”

  Sternberg stopped to order, speaking apparently fluent Russian, then resumed the conversation. “You didn’t? Besides you and me, there are one thousand, nine hundred and ninety-eight others, including Valenti. He won’t be down to breakfast. We hoisted a few last night. Getting jumpy, I guess. It don’t look so good from here as it did back home in California.”

  “Ursula Krüll beating the Olympic Record twice?” said Dryden.

  “That is a little awesome, I admit. Did Goldine appear to have anything in reserve?”

  “Sure, she can go faster,” said Sternberg. “The heats don’t count a damn. It’s a poker game till the Final. What bugs me is the digging.”

  “Digging?”

  “Sure.” Sternberg’s eyes darted to left and right. “The media.”

  Dryden frowned. “They’re bothering you?”

  “Before I flew out, there was this creep sniffing around the gym asking my boys what my interest is in track. Seems he knew I was in Eugene for the Trials.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Did I hell! Boys gave him the bum’s rush. I took a look at him first. Smooth character. Flashy dresser. Wasn’t operating on a low budget.”

  Dryden gulped his coffee. “You didn’t get his name?”

  “Not then. But I know it now. What would you say if I told you I wound up sitting next to the guy in the flight out here?”

  “I’d say his name is Esselstyn,” said Dryden. “A free-lance digging up dirt on Goldine to sell to NBC if they’ll buy.”

  Sternberg gave a low whistle. “You’ve met the jerk?”

  “What did you tell him?” asked Dryden.

  “What do you think? I clammed up. For ten hours. But Esselstyn don’t give up easy. Yesterday he was trying to put the screws on Valenti. You see why we got jumpy, Dryden? He knows things. He could spook this one just when we’re due to collect.”

  “I doubt it,” said Dryden. “He has the guest list from the Jacaranda, but not much else. If we keep stonewalling, we’re okay. He’s seen you, me, Valenti. Dick Armitage and Cobb aren’t in Moscow. Nor are Lee and Serafin.”

  Sternberg pulled a wry smile. “I have news for you. Serafin has a suite in the Hotel Rossiya. NBC flew him out here Sunday. He’ll be doing proud-father interviews after each Final. Just thinking about it brings a lump to my throat.”

  While Sternberg systematically disposed of a vast fried breakfast, Dryden weighed the developments. Serafin’s presence in Moscow troubled him no less than Esselstyn’s. He had thought it was too neat, Serafin going back to watch TV in California, where he couldn’t upset Goldine. If NBC planned to get father and daughter into a studio together, they were due for a shock. After what she had learned in Cleveland, Goldine was going to throw a blue fit if she set eyes on Serafin again. So what did he plan to get out of this? Reflected glory? Dryden had an ugly idea it went further than that.

  “Proud-father interviews?” he said, thinking aloud. “Would NBC bring Serafin all the way here just for that?”

  Sternberg was chewing. He nodded as he wiped grease off his lips. “You figure they have something else in mind? Like Esselstyn has told them he can lift the lid on Goldine’s backup, and some wise-guy producer plans to spring it on Serafin in front of the cameras?”

  This exceeded anything Dryden had imagined. “Let’s not leap to conclusions,” he said. “Unless Esselstyn has learned a lot more than he knew when he spoke to me, he doesn’t know enough to fuel a demolition job like that. NBC wouldn’t touch it without cast-iron proof. You say Esselstyn is still digging. There’s no one else to see except Klugman. He won’t get much from him.” He stopped, as another shuddering possibility hit him. “Esselstyn couldn’t have spoken to Goldine, could he?”

  Sternberg swallowed the last of his breakfast. “Rel
ax. No pressman has got near the chick yet. You haven’t seen the security. Fort Knox ain’t in the same league.”

  “My paper said that was overstated, all that talk of the Security Olympics,” said Dryden. “I got the impression the Russians were more relaxed than anyone expected.”

  “Who’s talking about the Russkis?” squeaked Sternberg. “It’s U.S. heavies you have to get by if you want to meet Goldengirl. She has a two-man bodyguard day and night, orders of the team manager. No statements, except in scheduled press conferences. It’s obvious our people have realized Goldengirl is a national asset. They wouldn’t let a fink like Esselstyn louse up her chances bugging her with stupid questions.”

  “Well, that’s a help,” said Dryden. “You’re sure of this?”

  “I was drinking with newsmen last evening,” answered Sternberg. “There’s a story going around that one guy wasted eight hours yesterday trying to lay on an exclusive with Goldengirl. He ended up joining the queue for Lenin’s Tomb — said he was making sure he got a goddamned face-to-face with somebody.”

  Dryden and Melody started before midday for the afternoon’s events in the Stadium, but still found the buildup of traffic in the approach road so heavy that they paid the taxi driver almost a mile from the Stadium, and made their way with the crowd along Pirogovskaya Street. In the dazzling sunshine, progress up the wide pavement was slow, but anticipation ricocheted from group to group regardless of language. Occasionally it broke into chanting and cheers as the walkers spotted flags and emblems in the crawling line of cars. Then someone glimpsed the flame, just visible on the Lenin Stadium, beyond the volleyball arena. “La voilà!” Coos of recognition and a frenzy of photography.

  Dryden had decided he must get to Goldine and warn her about Esselstyn. A man smart enough to fix a flight reservation next to one of the consortium wasn’t going to be held off for long by U.S. team security. Goldine would need to know what to expect and how to freeze him off. She was sure to be preoccupied with the running. Dryden’s problem — if he got close enough to speak to her before Esselstyn — was convincing her it was important. Her moods were so volatile. But it couldn’t be shirked.