Rush for the Gold: Mystery at the Olympics

by John Feinstein

  They looked at each other. It wasn’t as if either one of them had never skipped a warm-down; it was just that you didn’t want to get out of routine in the middle of the Olympics.

  “Okay,” Susan Carol said, “of course.” But she was really annoyed.

  She was looking around for Ed Brennan, but he was nowhere to be seen since they were in an area where only swimmers, TV personnel, and IOC officials were allowed. They followed Renaud under the stands to the drug-testing room.

  Happily they’d been drinking enough water that giving samples didn’t take very long. They had just walked out of the room with an IOC official who was escorting them to the interview room when there was another brief snag. Trevor James, the USA Swimming official who had so thoroughly explained the rules to them that he’d become a joke, stopped short when he crossed their path. He was dressed not in a USA Swimming outfit but in a FINA uniform—specifically that of a meet official.

  James was looking unpleasant as always. He didn’t bother to congratulate either swimmer.

  Elizabeth, polite as always, said, “Can we help you, Mr. James?”

  “No. But you can both help yourselves by watching your turns.”

  Susan Carol was confused. “Mr. James, I’ve never had a problem with my turns,” she said.

  “Me neither,” said Elizabeth.

  “And I keep telling you, this is the Olympics. You’ll be under more scrutiny here.”

  He turned and walked away. Susan Carol and Elizabeth just stared after him.

  “What was that?” Susan Carol said.

  “Another Olympic moment to treasure with Trevor James,” Elizabeth said wistfully.

  Both girls dissolved in laughter.

  They were both crying not long after. Susan Carol had almost felt like she was in a play when the medals were presented—it was hard to believe this was real. But with the weight of a medal around her neck, and “The Star-Spangled Banner” playing, and two American flags—one for her and one for Elizabeth—being raised to the rafters, it began to sink in. She’d actually done it.

  From the podium she could clearly see her family about ten rows up in the stands. Her brothers and sister were all waving when she walked out, and she waved back, feeling chills down her spine. Her mom, the family crier, was awash in tears.

  But the real surprise was her dad: He had tears streaming down his cheeks too. He was definitely not the family crier. He was always the calm one in good times and bad. That’s why it had been so hard to see him changed in the run-up to the Olympics. But this was a change Susan Carol could feel good about. Those tears told her all she needed to know about how her father really felt. And you couldn’t mistake the pride on his face.

  She spotted Stevie and Bobby and Tamara in the stands, waving and blowing kisses. And then she looked over at the other American swimmers, all of them facing the flags, hands on their hearts, singing. That was when she lost it completely. She thought back to all the times she had watched athletes stand at attention for their national anthems at the Olympics and imagined what an incredible moment that must be. Now she knew.

  When the final notes died away, Elizabeth grabbed her and pulled her onto the gold medal podium. Then she reached down and pulled Sjöström up too. The three of them, arms around one another, medals around their necks, waved to everyone as the applause washed down.

  Stevie had gotten back to the media seating area just as the three medalists walked back onto the deck.

  “I know you’ve got something,” Bobby said as the three women marched toward the medal podiums.

  “I’ll tell you when this is over,” Stevie said.

  But when it was over, he was in no condition to tell anyone anything. He was just about as choked up as Susan Carol.

  So it wasn’t until a couple of hours later that Stevie finally told Bobby and Tamara his tale. They had all gone downstairs to the media room in the Aquatics Centre to write their stories after the medal ceremony. Stevie was upset because he hadn’t gotten to talk to Susan Carol, but she had texted him, asking if he could have lunch the next day since she had a light workout in the morning and nothing going on after that.

  When they finished writing, they headed back to the Gloucester and had a late-night snack in the hotel. Stevie filled them in on his talk with Bill Arnold and Bobby Maurice as they ate.

  Bobby sat back in his seat and tossed his napkin onto his plate.

  “It’s this close,” he said, holding his thumb and forefinger about a half an inch apart. “But I have no idea what it is we’re close to.”

  Tamara shrugged. “It may just be that they’re all waiting to see what happens before they pounce on their next star.”

  They were all slumped in their seats, thinking. They still had only suspicions that something wasn’t right.

  “So,” Kelleher finally said, leaning forward. “Bobby Mo likes to get what he wants, and he wants either Krylova or Susan Carol. What can you do to guarantee gold? Go out and break Elizabeth Wentworth’s leg? Have Liu Zige kidnapped?”

  “We never really ruled out blackmail,” Tamara said.

  “How does he blackmail a Chinese swimmer? With what?” Bobby said. “For that matter, how does he blackmail an American swimmer? There’s no NCAA around here to declare someone ineligible.”

  “There is an IOC,” Stevie said. “They’ve certainly got lots of rules.”

  “The only one that would matter would be a dirty drug test. I don’t think Bobby Mo or J. P. Scott can get a drug test falsified.”

  Stevie thought for a minute. “If I was Bobby Mo or, for that matter, the Lightning Fast people, the person I’m most scared of is Elizabeth Wentworth. I know Liu’s a threat, but a lot of people think she’s a product of the rocket suits. She hasn’t been close to her record since they went out. Elizabeth just broke the world record in the 100 in a non-rocket suit.”

  “I agree on all counts,” Bobby said. “What’s your point?”

  “I’m back to bribery.”

  “You were the one who said you didn’t think Elizabeth would go for something like that,” Tamara pointed out.

  “And she clearly wasn’t being paid to lose tonight’s race,” added Bobby.

  “I know,” Stevie said. “But I wonder if that changes things—she’s already won gold. How bad does she want two? Maybe one gold medal and a lot of cash would seem like an okay outcome to her?”

  “It’s possible,” Bobby said.

  “I suppose,” Tamara said.

  “I know, I’m not convinced either,” Stevie confessed. “I still don’t think she’d do it.”

  “So let’s get some sleep, then,” Bobby said. “And hope for better luck tomorrow.”

  Stevie and Susan Carol met for lunch at a Chinese restaurant called the Good Earth, which was a few blocks from the Gloucester. She wanted to get away from the athletes’ village for a while, so they planned to walk around and see some of London after they ate.

  “Well, how does it feel being an Olympic medalist?” Stevie asked as soon as he’d given her a huge hug.

  Susan Carol laughed, clearly still giddy and excited and glowing. “Isn’t it crazy?! I can hardly believe it. I wonder when it will sink in.”

  “Okay, let’s order and then you can give me the blow by blow,” Stevie said.

  The race itself had taken less than a minute, but the retelling of it took them through most of lunch. Susan Carol was about to get choked up again, talking about being on the podium and seeing the flag raised, so she turned the conversation back to Stevie.

  “Okay, now your turn. You weren’t in the interview room, so I know you must be on the trail of something.”

  He filled her in on his conversation with Bill Arnold and Bobby Maurice and all of their speculations on what it could mean.

  Susan Carol didn’t say anything for a few seconds when Stevie finished.

  “Well, what do you think?” he said finally.

  “I just don’t know,” she said. “Look, J.P.
is slimy and Bill Arnold’s mean and slimy. And I’m sure they’d drop me and represent Svetlana in a heartbeat if she wins gold. But I’m not sure how far they’d go to make that happen.

  “Besides, J.P. has been hanging on to my father like a life raft since they got here. He knows I’m pretty much off-limits as long as I’m still swimming.”

  “Hanging out with your father doesn’t mean he isn’t up to something. Maybe that’s why it was Arnold we saw with Krylova and with Maurice instead of J.P. And what about our boy Bobby Mo?” Stevie asked. “Don’t tell me he’s not capable of some kind of dirty trick.”

  “Oh, he’s absolutely capable of it—or at least of wanting to do it,” Susan Carol said. “I just don’t see how.”

  Before Stevie could open his mouth, she jumped back in. “And don’t even say it, because Elizabeth is about as likely to go for a bribe as I am.”

  “You mean zero chance.”

  “Uh-huh. Look, maybe we’re not finding anything because there’s nothing there,” Susan Carol said. “I mean, yes, they want Krylova or me to win. But if we don’t, then they can move on to other swimmers or other athletes. It’s not like we’re the only athletes here.”

  “Yeah, but you are the most beautiful. And new and not yet committed to a lot of other contracts. You’re more unique than you think.”

  Susan Carol gave him The Smile. “What were you saying about beautiful?”

  They went for a walk after lunch. It turned out they weren’t far from Harrods, so they went in to see what the fuss was about over a department store. A glance at the giant store map explained—it was seven stories of … everything. Stevie’s favorite was the food halls, and Susan Carol couldn’t get over that you could order a saddle. After poking around and gawking like the tourists they were, they bought mugs with the Harrods logo and Susan Carol bought a small model of the store.

  Stevie had just suggested going back to the Gloucester for afternoon tea—he had learned it was served from three to five in the lobby every afternoon and thought it would be a London-y thing to do—when his cell phone buzzed, telling him he had a text.

  “Probably Bobby,” he said, reaching in his pocket. “Wanting to know if I’ve done anything today.”

  “Tell him you’ve been getting reacquainted with your girlfriend,” she said, linking her arm through his. He blushed, wished he hadn’t, and pulled his phone out. The text wasn’t from Kelleher. It was from Chip Graber.

  It said: Playing France at 4. Meet in mxd zone after? Important.

  Stevie looked at his watch. It was 3:30 already. He really would have preferred to continue getting reacquainted with his girlfriend.

  “What is it?” Susan Carol asked.

  He handed her the phone.

  “Interesting,” she said.

  “But what about getting reacquainted?”

  “We’ll always have Harrods.” She leaned down and gave him a kiss that made him feel much better—and also a bit worse that he had to go.

  “My last important race is Wednesday,” she said. “After that, all I have left is the prelims of the medley relay, which you could swim and we’d be fine. I’ll have lots of time.”

  Since Elizabeth had the best time in the 100 fly, she would swim the fly leg on the medley relay in the finals on Friday. Susan Carol, with the second-best time, would swim in the qualifying prelims in the morning. Technically, if the US won, she would be a gold medalist—she wouldn’t be on the podium, but she would receive a gold medal—but winning gold that way wasn’t what J. P. Scott and company had in mind.

  He sighed. “Okay. But if this isn’t really important, I’m going to kill Chip.”

  They took the subway back to Olympic Park together. From there, Susan Carol headed to the athletes’ village while Stevie went to the basketball arena.

  He found the media entrance and made his way upstairs to the media section. He was used to sitting courtside for basketball games, so sitting fifteen rows up in the stands felt odd to him. Even odder, he thought, was that the building wasn’t full even though it only seated about 12,000 people—considerably less than the Aquatic Centre. Apparently any Dream Team mania involving the US team was long gone.

  The game was already more than half over by the time Stevie arrived. Looking around, he saw his old friend Dick Weiss from the New York Daily News, watching the game avidly. That was why Weiss was called “Hoops.” If someone was playing basketball, Hoops was probably going to be there to watch.

  “Stevie!” Hoops said as he sat down next to him. “I heard you were here, but I thought you were spending all your time at the swimming center with Susan Carol.”

  “She’s off today,” Stevie said. “Heats and semis of the 200 fly are tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure you were vurry, vurry proud of her getting that silver medal last night,” Hoops said, his Philadelphia accent still unmistakable. “Though it’s got to be tough to come so close to gold and not get it.”

  “She was thrilled,” Stevie said.

  “Good. So what brings you over to our little corner of the world?”

  “Just wanted to see Chip.”

  “Of course. You guys are still pals. Well, he’s playing vurry, vurry well. I told Mike he’s going to have to play big minutes when they get to the medal rounds.”

  “I’m sure Coach K was grateful for the advice,” Stevie said with a smile.

  “He should be, shouldn’t he?” Hoops said.

  The US played everyone in uniform in the second half, easing to a 97–69 win. When the game was over, Stevie followed Hoops downstairs. He was heading for the interview room but pointed out the mixed zone to Stevie.

  “You aren’t going to see too many of the American players there,” Hoops said. “The ones who don’t come in with Krzyzewski tend to dress and bolt.”

  “Only need one,” Stevie said, heading down the hallway.

  Most of the journalists waiting in the mixed zone were French, hoping to talk to their players about their chances of getting through preliminary play to the round of sixteen. A few Americans were there too, hoping someone from the US team would come through.

  Stevie stood to the side and waited. A few minutes later, Chip appeared, the only American player in sight. A stampede ensued. Stevie stood back, not wanting to get hit in the head by a swinging camera. When the crowd began to dissipate, he moved a little closer so that Chip could see he was there. When Chip spotted him, he nodded and then kept talking. Finally, the last questioner, someone from the New York Times who was doing a story on the women’s team and wanted to know if Chip had watched them play, asked his last question and left.

  “Glad you could make it,” Chip said, shaking hands.

  He was not his usual playful self. Stevie could tell right away that something was up.

  “Of course,” he said. “What’s going on?”

  “Walk over here,” Chip said, pointing to the far corner of the “zone,” where they would be out of earshot of the French players and the media members who were still talking to them.

  Before Chip could say anything, another camera crew approached. Chip waved them off. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m done. I’m just talking to my friend here. Okay? Maybe tomorrow.”

  The guy with the microphone—an ESPN microphone, Stevie noticed—gave Chip a big TV smile. “Chip, you’re the only American who came out here. I need one non-interview-room quote. Come on. It’s ESPN.”

  Chip sighed. “Okay. But please make it quick.”

  The guy waved at his camera guy, who turned on a bright light. Stevie was starting to move when the camera guy said, “Hey, kid, get out of the shot.”

  Before he could say anything, Chip jumped in. “Hey, you guys interrupted a conversation I was having with this kid. You should be thanking him for waiting, not yelling at him.”

  The guy with the microphone just smiled and launched into a question about what it was like to play alongside Kobe and LeBron and Dwyane. Exciting stuff, Stevie thought. Chip’s ne
ver been asked that before. He tuned the rest out for the most part. But he thought Chip looked really uptight considering they had just won.

  At last the ESPN guys left and they found some out-of-the-way space to talk.

  “So what’s up?” Stevie asked.

  “Plenty,” Chip said. “Bobby Maurice called me last night and said we needed to talk. I was out at a team dinner but said I’d meet him at the hotel when we got back. I couldn’t imagine what it was about. My contract’s up right now and we’ve agreed to renegotiate once the Olympics are over, so it wasn’t that.”

  “So what was it?”

  “Hang on, I’m getting to it. So, I meet him at the bar. He asks me if I want a drink and I remind him I don’t drink during the season and I sure as hell don’t drink in the middle of the Olympics. He’s doing the ‘has your old pal Bobby Mo taken good care of you?’ bit that he’s been doing since I was in college.”

  “I remember that from New Orleans.”

  “Right. So finally he tells me that Brickley has put him in charge of ‘worldwide acquisitions.’ I figure he’s going to tell me I have to deal with a new rep for my NBA deal, which I’d be all broken up about, of course. But he says no, that’s not it. So I say, ‘Well, what is it? It’s late!’

  “And he says, ‘You’re real tight with those two kids, the girl swimmer and her boyfriend, right?’ I said what about it? and he says, ‘If Anderson wins the 200-fly Wednesday night, I have got to sign her. And if she finishes second to the Russian girl, I have to sign them both. I need the two of them. They’re my Dream Team.’

  “So I ask what this has to do with me, exactly, and he says, ‘I want you to convince Anderson she should be with Brickley. We’ve done right by you, haven’t we? And we’d do right by her too. But she’s got this matching clause in a lowball contract from Speedo. Now if she only gets silver, I’m good because Speedo won’t match what I’m prepared to offer for a silver medalist. But if she wins gold, it gets tougher, see. ’Cause I have to have her then and Speedo’s gonna be ready to pay too. But how much is what I need to know—just how high is too high for them.’