Rush for the Gold: Mystery at the Olympics

by John Feinstein

  “The USOC has no jurisdiction in this,” Allred said.

  “Oh, I know,” Stevie said. “But Mr. Moran said if I had any trouble getting access to American athletes, I should contact him.”

  “Mike Moran said that?” Allred said.

  For a second Stevie thought he had dropped the name of someone he had never met a little too quickly.

  “Sounds like something he’d say,” Allred added, so Stevie exhaled. “We’ll page you after we confirm with the athletes.”

  Stevie decided to wait in the media dining area since he was nearly always hungry. There weren’t many options, so he settled for a second breakfast of some dicey-looking scrambled eggs and toast.

  He was picking at the eggs, thinking he should’ve just waited for lunch, when he heard a voice behind him say, “Wow, Steve Thomas. Wilbon, you were right, this is an important event.”

  He turned and saw Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon, the hosts of ESPN’s one watchable show, PTI, approaching. He had run into the two of them on various occasions in the past but was surprised to find them here: Kornheiser notoriously hated to fly, and since NBC had the TV rights, Stevie hadn’t expected ESPN to bring them here.

  He stood up and shook hands with both men.

  “May we join you?” Kornheiser asked. They were both carrying trays. “This way when we both die trying to eat this food, there will be a witness.”

  “It isn’t that bad,” Wilbon said as they sat down.

  “You’re right,” Kornheiser said. “It’s much worse than that.”

  “The food in the athletes’ village is pretty good,” Stevie said.

  “You’ve been there?” Kornheiser said. “You see, Wilbon, real reporters, you know the ones who actually go out and talk to athletes? They get to eat better food.”

  “Speaking of that, where’s your partner in crime?” Wilbon asked.

  “Susan Carol?” Stevie asked. “Right now she’s swimming.”

  “Working out, huh?” Wilbon said. “Good idea. Where’d she find a place to swim?”

  Stevie was confused. “The practice pools in the Aquatics Centre are open,” he said.

  “She got them to let her work out there?” Wilbon appeared stunned.

  Kornheiser dropped his fork and leaned forward. “Wilbon, are you not aware of the fact that she’s on the Olympic team? Do you pay attention to anything other than the NBA? She’s one of the best stories going over here.”

  Wilbon looked completely confused. “She’s on the swim team?” he said. “Really?”

  “She’s swimming the 100 fly and the 200 fly,” Stevie said.

  “Seriously, Wilbon, you didn’t know?” Kornheiser said. “Even I knew about this. She could be one of the big stars here. She’s gotten massive coverage.”

  “The only swimmer who matters here is Michael Phelps,” Wilbon said. “We’ll talk about swimming when he’s in the pool. That’s it.”

  “You’re an idiot,” Kornheiser said.

  If that bothered Wilbon, it didn’t show. He was dumping about eight sugar packets into a small cup of tea.

  Kornheiser took two bites of the eggs on his plate, declared them inedible, and then explained that ESPN had sent PTI to the Olympics because lack of access affected their show less than most. “We just blather and yodel anyway, so we’re perfect for this.”

  “But you don’t fly,” said Stevie.

  “I fly if I’m heavily drugged and heavily overpaid.”

  Wilbon looked up from the tabloid newspaper he had been reading.

  “So I see where Barack is coming to the opening ceremony,” he said.

  “Really,” Kornheiser said. “I figured you’d be sitting with him.…”

  He paused because the PA system was blaring Stevie’s name. “Steven Thomas, Washington Herald, report to the interview request desk. Steven Thomas, if you please.”

  “Sounds like I have to get going,” Stevie said.

  “Shame you can’t go back for seconds,” Kornheiser said, nodding at Stevie’s uneaten food.

  “All the more for you,” Stevie said. He shook hands with both of them.

  Wilbon’s cell phone was buzzing.

  “Probably Barack.” Kornheiser winked as Wilbon answered.

  Stevie heard his name again. The entertainment portion of his morning was over. It was time to get to work.

  Whether it was dropping Mike Moran’s name or just his lucky day, Robin Allred had two four-hour passes waiting for him when he reported back to the interview request desk.

  “No problems, I take it?” Stevie said, unable to resist a light jab.

  “Both athletes confirmed that they had accepted your request,” he said. “Sign here and here.”

  Stevie rode the shuttle bus again and was escorted by a female IOC-bot who recited the same speech he’d heard the day before.

  “I was here yesterday,” he said when she got to the part about being shot on sight if he happened to speak to, as she put it, “an unauthorized athlete.”

  “I know the drill.”

  “We’re required to remind you regardless of how many times you’ve been here,” she said. “Can’t have someone claiming they weren’t properly warned.”

  “No, can’t have that,” Stevie said, which earned him a withering look.

  Susan Carol and Elizabeth Wentworth were again waiting outside their building. Stevie was officially handed over to Susan Carol, and the IOC-bot managed not to short-circuit when Stevie and Elizabeth actually said hello. Alone at last, the three of them headed straight to the cafeteria.

  “We’re starved,” Susan Carol said. “We figured we’d get some food and talk strategy while we eat.”

  Stevie was surprised that she was talking so openly in front of Elizabeth. Susan Carol, as she had done almost since the day they’d met, read his mind before he could say anything.

  “Don’t worry. Liz knows everything. She’s about as big a fan of J.P. and his people as you are.”

  “Really?” Stevie said. “How come?”

  “After the trials my coach, Mike Schulte, sent out letters to all the big-time agents,” Elizabeth said. “Most of them wrote back and said, ‘Let’s talk after the Games,’ which is agent-speak for, ‘If you win a gold medal, we might be interested.’

  “I mean, I get it. If I looked like Susan Carol or Krylova, there’d be more interest in me. So fine. But one agent wrote back and said, ‘We’re too busy right now to consider taking on any new clients.’ ”

  “And—oh, let me guess,” Stevie said.

  “Exactly right,” Susan Carol said. “Liz told me last night after I mentioned seeing Krylova and her dad eatin’ with Bill. I swear, I wish I’d never signed with Lightning Fast. Worst thing I’ve ever done.”

  She was in full southern accent mode. Which in this case meant she was mad.

  “You shouldn’t sweat it,” Elizabeth said. “It’s not as if finding out that agents are idiots is a surprise to me. And really, the more you tell me, the less appealing that whole side of things looks. I’m here to swim. And I don’t need the distraction or the extra pressure.”

  “It still makes me mad,” Susan Carol said as they pulled open the doors to the dining hall. As they walked inside, she pointed her finger at Stevie.

  “If you don’t write a story about Liz in the next couple of days, I will never speak to you again,” she said.

  He put his hands up. “Don’t shoot. You don’t have to convince me. I’m on your side, remember?”

  She picked up a tray and shook her head, still upset.

  “I thought my dad was on my side too,” she said. “Look how that’s turned out.”

  “But … hasn’t he been better lately?”

  She glared at him in a way that told him he had better cut his losses then and there. It was not a good idea to mess with Susan Carol when she was mad.

  19: THE CHARMING PLAN

  While Elizabeth went in search of some protein, Susan Carol and Stevie waited in l
ine at the pasta bar. The room was a lot more crowded than it had been the day before, and you could almost feel the electricity building among the athletes with the opening ceremony that night.

  “I’m sorry I jumped on you like that,” Susan Carol said when Elizabeth was out of earshot. “It just makes me angry that in the year 2012, female athletes are still valued more for their looks than for their ability.”

  “It’s true of men too,” Stevie said. “Do you think Tiger Woods and Michael Jordan would have been such iconic figures if they weren’t considered good-looking? Same with Phelps.”

  “Okay, first of all, you’re talking three men who were arguably the best ever in their sports. Second, none of them are to die for, exactly.”

  “What about Roger Federer?” he said, pausing long enough to ask for spaghetti with marinara sauce and some meatballs on the side.

  “Now he’s gorgeous,” Susan Carol said. “But he also may be the greatest tennis player in history. The point is this: Unless J.P. is flat-out lying to my father, if I win a gold medal here, I’ll make at least five million in the next year—maybe a lot more. Elizabeth might win two gold medals and not make a penny. How is that fair?”

  “It’s not,” Stevie said. “You’re right. But what about this?—and don’t bite my head off. Is it fair that a gorgeous fifteen-year-old who swims fast can make millions? Think about your mom the teacher and your dad the minister. They won’t make that kind of money ever. And that doesn’t seem fair either.”

  Susan Carol stared. “So, do you think I shouldn’t take the money?”

  “No, I don’t mean that at all. I’m just saying—we’ve both seen enough in the sports world to know that money is everywhere, but fairness is harder to come by.”

  Susan Carol was quiet, and Stevie was afraid he’d made her feel worse. When would he learn to keep his mouth shut? But he couldn’t stand the silence either, so he tried again. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. You didn’t make the rules. It’s not your fault that you have opportunities Elizabeth doesn’t. And neither of you is here for the money anyway. You’re both here to swim.”

  “I know. I always feel much better at the pool.… Everything else is just so confusing.”

  “So, do you want to just drop this? Forget about Bill and Krylova? It’s probably nothing, and you should be concentrating on swimming.”

  “Well, I’m as ready to swim as I can be already,” Susan Carol said slowly, considering. “Do you really think there’s nothing funny going on?”

  Stevie laughed. “With the two of us here, Scarlett? Of course there’s something going on.”

  They were now searching for a table in the midst of a blur of sweat suits with the flags of different countries on them—along with corporate logos, of course.

  “Too true,” she said. “By the way, did you know that Vivian Leigh was English?”

  “Um, no. But probably because I have no idea who Vivian Leigh is.”

  She gave him her “you’re too stupid to live” look.

  “She played Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind. Both she and Olivia de Havilland, who played Melanie, were Brits playing southern belles.”

  “And you’re a southern belle in Britain right now. Is there some deep meaning in that nugget of useless information?” he said as they finally found an empty table.

  “Useless? That’s a laugh coming from someone who takes pride in knowing who the tenth man is on Villanova’s basketball team.”

  “What does this have to do with Maurice Sutton?” he said.

  They were both still laughing when Elizabeth Wentworth, carrying a plate that had a steak the size of Stevie’s room on it, joined them.

  “What did I miss?” she asked.

  “Nothing useful,” Susan Carol said, The Smile lighting up her face.

  “So, have you guys got some kind of plan?” Elizabeth said, digging into her steak.

  “I promise you, Elizabeth, she has a plan,” Stevie said, nodding at Susan Carol. “She always does.”

  “Matter of fact, I do,” she said. “But it involves a little bit of risk for you, Mr. Big-Shot Reporter.”

  “Risk is my middle name,” Stevie shot back, although a little shiver had just run through him.

  “Okay, then, Steven Risk Thomas, listen up.”

  Susan Carol’s plan involved a fairly major risk: the potential loss of his media credential. But it also had a good deal of possible upside: He might be able to find out what Bill Arnold had been discussing with Svetlana Krylova.

  Apparently Susan Carol was convinced that Stevie would go along with the idea because she had already enlisted Evelyn Rubin’s help. Evelyn arrived back from Wimbledon at 1:30 and joined Stevie and the two swimmers at the table soon after Stevie had gone to the ice cream bar and returned with a massive ice cream sundae.

  “So,” Evelyn said as she sat down. “Are we on?”

  “Mr. Risk Is My Middle Name says he’s in,” Susan Carol said.

  “Which means we should be back at my building by two o’clock,” Evelyn said. “We don’t want any of the other Russian athletes who might be around to think we’re rushing over to meet up with Krylova.”

  “Right,” Susan Carol said. “Their practice session is wrapping up soon, so we should get going.”

  The building where the Russian female swimmers and the American female tennis players were staying—the Americans represented solely by Evelyn at that moment since none of the others had arrived—was on the far side of the village, a solid ten-minute walk from the dining hall. Stevie and Evelyn dropped Susan Carol and Elizabeth off at their building on the way since Susan Carol had promised Ed she would try to nap, or at least stay off her feet, before the opening ceremony that night.

  She pointed a finger at him and said firmly: “Do not do anything stupid, Steven Thomas. If it looks like it won’t work, just forget about it. We’ll figure something else out.”

  “So now you’re worried about me?” he said.

  “Not a bit. You always figure your way out of trouble.”

  “Seems to me he always figures his way into trouble,” said Evelyn.

  Susan Carol rolled her eyes. “He just does that for attention.” She gave him a quick kiss, and she and Elizabeth went inside.

  Stevie fell into step as Evelyn led the way through the various plazas to her building. The flagpoles all seemed to have flags flying now, indicating that most teams had officially arrived in the village.

  “So, you and Susan Carol are still an item?” Evelyn asked as they went.

  “I guess so,” Stevie said. “I mean, we don’t see each other all that often, living 500 miles apart. But the last few months I don’t think I’ve had fifteen minutes alone with her, so it’s kind of difficult.”

  “I know what you mean,” Evelyn said. “With my travel schedule it’s really hard to date anyone on a steady basis. When I’m at home, guys at school ask me out, but then I’ll be gone for a month and not there the entire summer. What are they supposed to do, sit home and wait for me to show up?”

  Stevie understood a lot better now what her life must be like. She’d just turned seventeen and was considered the American most likely to succeed the Williams sisters as a genuine threat in major championships. She’d made it to the quarterfinals at both the US Open and Wimbledon.

  Like Susan Carol, she was extremely attractive: not as tall, at about five-eight—which meant Stevie was actually an inch taller than she was—but with piercing blue eyes and a devilish grin and dimples. And, not surprisingly, she’d made a lot of money off the court.

  “Here’s my building,” Evelyn said. “If we sit on this bench, I’m sure we’ll see Krylova come back.”

  Susan Carol’s plan was simple: When Krylova returned after her workout, Stevie would have his notebook out, “interviewing” Evelyn. Evelyn would wave her over and introduce her, and the rest would be up to him.

  “Okay,” Stevie said, pulling out his notebook as they sat down. “What should I
interview you about?”

  Evelyn smiled. “You’re the reporter. Why don’t you ask me about all the sightseeing I’ve done in London?”

  “Have you done much?” he asked. “I haven’t been anywhere yet.”

  “Some,” she said. “I’ve been to the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace, Parliament, Big Ben … and Harrods, of course!”

  Evelyn spent the next several minutes talking about London and some of the sights she had seen in her travels around the world. “When I can, I try to get to places a couple of days early, or stay a day after, so I can see the sights,” she said. “This year I made the final at Eastbourne, so I didn’t get to London until the day Wimbledon started. I’m glad to be back to see—”

  She broke off in mid-sentence. Stevie looked up from the notes he had been scribbling and saw a group of young women dressed in red sweat suits with the word Russia across the front approaching them. Even walking with other swimmers, Svetlana Krylova stood out. She was easily the tallest of the group and her golden-blond hair, hanging straight down and still a little bit wet, was impossible to miss.

  “Here we go,” Evelyn said softly. She waved at the approaching swimmers, who waved back.

  “Hey, Svetlana, you have a minute?” she said. “I want you to meet someone.”

  Krylova broke off from the others and walked over.

  “You are being interviewed, Evelyn?” Krylova said. “I do not want to interrupt.”

  “No, no, it’s fine,” Evelyn said. “I thought you’d like to meet Steven Thomas. He works for a very important American newspaper, the Washington Herald.”

  Stevie stood up to shake hands with Krylova, which was a mistake. She was tall enough to block the sun.

  Krylova smiled down at him.

  “You are young for a reporter, no?” she said.

  “He is,” Evelyn said. “But he won a writing contest when he was just thirteen and he’s worked for the Herald ever since. He’s broken a lot of big stories.”

  “Evelyn should be my PR person,” Stevie said, blushing. “It’s a pleasure to met you, Svetlana.”