Conspiracy (27 page)

Nonetheless, that night the prayer was granted.

After practice the next day, less from a spirit of piety than the kind of mood that causes men who have become rich to return to their humble beginnings, Keith stopped off in the Sacramento Maria y Jose. He lingered a short while, said a brief “Thank You, I hope it was all Your doing,” and then left.

Wednesday, June 30, the day of the U.S.-Brazil game, he stopped in again on his way to the stadium. During the four days since he had returned from the three victories in Seville, he and Sharon had not been able to spend as much time together as Keith would have liked, but then nothing less than twenty-four hours of each day would have been enough. The moments when he had been with her had felt better than anything he had imagined. It was as though he had found a point of stability within himself when he thought of her—an anchor of sorts, and yet something that inspired him and sent him moving. He kept thinking of those flickering candle flames in the church. 

So on that morning, he stopped by again to say thank you. As he waited, his thoughts drifted to the game that he and his team would soon be playing against Brazil. He recalled many of the “victory” prayers from his Brooklyn days, prayers that included hopes that the boys of the opposition would develop the flu or be flattened by trucks on the way to the game. Again he laughed to himself and left, his prayer for victory unsaid.

But after the one-to-nothing win over Brazil, he stopped by that nondescript little church again to express his appreciation.

On the morning of Saturday, July 3, before the game with Australia, Keith continued the ritual.

From his post at the rear gate of the Bernabeau Stadium, Raul Coquias was watching the cars and pedestrians along the Calle de Padre Damian. Raul had become familiar with American players before the Brazil game, just as he had memorized the faces of the Brazilians and Australians prior to that contest the previous Sunday. When Keith Palermo came out of the Sacramento Maria y Jose, Raul Coquias recognized him. “Good day, Senõr Palermo,” he said in English a few moments later, before Keith had time to show his player’s pass. “You may go directly in, and good luck to you.”

Keith looked at the robust round face under the patent-leather-billed uniform hat, pleased at the friendly greeting. “Thanks,” he said. “You have a good day now.” Then he went in to join the others in the locker room.

By the time the U.S.-Australia game was about to get under way, Sharon felt as though she had grown roots in the producer’s chair. “Here we go again,” she said over her shoulder to Cindy Ling, who now occupied the associate producer’s chair that had once been Sharon’s.

“Nervous about Keith?” Cindy asked. On the bank of monitors before them, four of the nine screens showed the American goalie stopping warmup shots.

“You’d think I’d be used to it by now. It’s their fifth game.”

Wayne Taggart spoke up as he entered the tiny control room area and slid into his chair beside Sharon. “This one’s gonna be a piece of cake,” he said. “The big one was when they beat Brazil. All they need here’s a tie to go on to the semifinals, but I’ve bet ’em to win by at least two goals.”

Having made the pronouncement, Taggart put on his headset microphone and quietly began issuing instructions to each of his cameramen. Sharon noted his subdued tone with approval. After nearly three weeks of daily taping sessions here in these close quarters, Taggart seemed to be mellowing. At least for the past few days, there had been no direct challenges to Sharon’s authority. Taggart’s work—that of the whole UBC team, in fact—had been of consistently high quality, especially in view of the amount of time involved: twenty-six days of coverage. There was no other event like it, except the Olympics, and for that the big networks used a staff five times the size of UBC’s.

Sharon felt pride in the way the UBC broadcasts had been received. The ratings had begun to even out too, so that now the audience on a night the U.S. didn’t play would be nearly as large as that from the “game nights.” Foreign networks continued to buy the rebroadcast rights for UBC features. Players on the other teams stopped in to do guest-commentary spots as their games were replayed. A stack of “personal profiles” on the remaining contenders awaited broadcast. A small “travelogue” series, “The World Cup Cities,” had begun and done well in the Nielsen time-slot samplings. Everything seemed to be falling into place. When she had spoken about the upcoming week with Keith, he laughed. “You’ve got it so well planned, you won’t have to work at all. Now if we lose tomorrow, I’ll be in the same boat and we can take a holiday together.”

Next week, though, whether the United States remained in the tournament or not, one piece of important business remained: UBC’s second attempt to free Katya Romanova. Assuming that the Soviet team would make the semifinals and play against Spain in Seville on Wednesday, Dan Richards had created a new and better plan. Katya would appear as a guest commentator, with her brother, if possible, at the taping studio in Bernabeau immediately following the game. She would go over the highlights and give her commentary in the same way other athletes did. Then she would visit the ladies’ room of the studio. The window would be prepared in advance as an escape hatch; a UBC van would be parked directly outside, blocking any view of the window, which would also be obscured by the night. 

“A direct move,” Dan had said when he told Sharon of the plan during lunch out on the field before the Brazil game. “No chance for stray Soviets to wander in between. I wish I’d thought of it before.”

“I’m glad you’re telling me about it out here instead of in the office,” Sharon said. “Even if Katya didn’t think so, I still find it too much of a coincidence that Zadiev just happened to appear at the wrong moment the last time. Ever since he was so quick to believe we’d mixed up the copies of your documentary, I’ve wondered if he’s got us wired.”

“Maybe he has. But that won’t help him now.”

“True enough,” Sharon said. “What I’m wondering, though, is whether we shouldn’t try something to cover ourselves, assuming that Zadiev is listening in when we talk in the studio.”

So they had talked of a cover plan. Wednesday, they said for the benefit of Russian ears, would be the convincer. No attempts would be made then. The move to free Katya would come either the following Saturday, if Russia played in the consolation game, or that Sunday, if they were in the championships. In either case they’d use the same ploy as before:

Katya would come out for an on-the-field interview and then disappear into a UBC van.

Monitoring the tape recorder that played for him alone, Yuri Zadiev had listened to the plan with interest. The Americans, he thought, were showing a remarkable consistency of method.

8

Nearly two hours following America’s convincing two-to-nothing victory over the Australians, Keith Palermo was still surrounded by reporters and bystanders, autograph seekers and well-wishers. The afternoon was hot. It was nearly five-thirty. Keith had already sweated through his interview time with the UBC crew, on the field just after the game and then in the studio, watching replays. Sharon would be through with her preparations for this evening’s broadcast by seven.

Tonight he and Sharon would celebrate. Keith had planned dinner in a fourteenth-century castle, followed by an American film with Spanish subtitles that could be ignored. The others on the team would be celebrating too, some with wives, some in groups. None, Keith knew, would come back to their hotel rooms “European style,” dragged or carried, comatose with drink. The prevailing attitude was that their physical conditioning had taken the team this far; why take a chance on spoiling it now?

Keith was explaining this American attitude to a reporter from the London Times and one from the Tokyo Sun as he signed the last of the programs thrust into his hands. “It’s not that we’re more monastic than the others,” he said with a smile. “We just like to win enough to wait until the tournament’s over to do any hell-raising.”

“You’ve lost no men to injuries thus far,” the Times interjected. “Do you attribute that fact to your team’s superior conditioning?”

“You gotta remember,” Keith said with a grin, “we haven’t played the Russians yet.”

The two reporters grinned back and wrote furiously. Keith handed back the program to the last fan, a grateful old woman with only two teeth in her smile of gratitude. “For my great-nephew,” she said in Spanish, and Keith nodded as though he understood. “Well, I’d best be getting back to the locker room,” he said. “I’ve got a few more things to attend to.”

The locker room was nearly deserted. Jerry Jellicoe, the team’s bright young assistant trainer, was putting his towels and bottles together after the last whirlpool and rubdown. And two of the stadium work crew were running the vacuum cleaner over the blue indoor-outdoor synthetic carpet.

“Hey, Jerry,” said Keith. “Take a look out there for me, will ya?”

“Still after you, are they?” Jerry shook his head as he went to the door and opened it a crack to look out. “Can’t say I blame ’em. They don’t see that kind of style back home. Incidentally, how’s that metabolism? You feeling up to par again?”

“I’ll live through it,” said Keith. “I’m getting to think it’s just the letdown after the game. Never had this much of one before, but I’ve never been in the World Cup before, either. You see anything out there?”

“Just the security guard. You gonna try those vitamin E supplements?”

“Maybe. But it’s four days till we play again, and already I feel better than I did an hour ago. I figure maybe I’ll just keep on the same track.”

“Can’t argue with success,” said Jerry, going back to his equipment. “Just two more to go.”

Outside in the heat of the concrete stadium corridors, Keith decided to visit the church. Afterwards he would stop in to Sharon’s office and write to those two kids whose letters he’d stuffed into his jacket pocket. One from Caracas, one from Mexico City, both crazy about
futbol
. Sharon had been sponsoring both boys for nearly two years now and knew they’d be excited to get a letter from Keith Palermo—especially now that the team was winning.

He was walking toward the rear exit when the security guard hailed him.

“Senõr Palermo, may I have a word?”

It was the guard who had wished him luck at the stadium entrance this morning. He had some papers with him that appeared to be official documents. “Forgive me for disturbing you, Senõr,” he explained, “but the stadium has a security problem concerning you and two others of your American team.”

Keith listened as the guard explained. Threats had been received. As with all public events at the stadium, procedures had been worked out for this type of occurrence. The stadium could not take responsibility for the safety of all concerned, of course, but when there were specific threats directed against individuals, a service was provided. Protection in the form of a single armed escort would be extended during travel to and from the stadium, if the person so wished. Beyond that, the Madrid police had been notified and would be waiting to work out whatever arrangements would be satisfactory within the limitations of their abilities.

“Probably they will already be waiting at your hotel, Senõr,” the guard said. “If you wish it, I can drive you there. If you would prefer to take alternate transportation of your own, would you please sign this release? It says I have notified you and so on—that the responsibilities of the stadium management have been fulfilled.”

Keith considered the official form. He had become accustomed to threats and hate mail during any pro season. Most of it, he was convinced, was just psychological warfare from people who wanted a player to lose sleep and foul up in the next game. The threats came before the big games, never after. Still, there was always the chance that one of them would turn out to be serious. It was possible that the Madrid police might do him some good.

But the last thing he wanted for the evening’s celebration with Sharon was to have the Madrid police along for company. The next-to-last thing he wanted was to find them waiting for him when he returned from the stadium with Sharon to freshen up before going out. Maybe, he thought, the best plan would be to go there now and work out arrangements for the police to keep their distance. Then he could come back to Bernabeau for Sharon at seven o’clock with the police moves settled.

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “If I don’t want your protection, I sign here, right? What if I just want a ride down to my hotel, and then I’ll go with whatever the police work out?”

“Whatever you wish.” The guard tapped his sheaf of documents with a stubby finger. “These are procedures for only your benefit. So long as you wish some help from the stadium, nothing necessarily has to be signed.”

As they walked to the parking lot, Keith asked which other Americans had received the threats. Jamison and Wyler, the guard told him. It figured. Jamison led in goals, Wyler in assists. Somebody was trying to rattle the team and was concentrating on the leaders. Keith would have to give both men a call when he reached his hotel.

“It’s this car here,” said the guard, pointing proudly to a squat black Renault four-door. “My own personal vehicle. We try to remain inconspicuous on a job like this.”

He unlocked the door on the passenger’s side and opened it. “Better wait a minute,” he said. “The air is hot from the sun.” He leaned inside, dusted off the vinyl passenger’s seat with a cloth from the glove compartment, and then turned to Keith like a barber who has just prepared his chair for a customer. “Okay,” he said, flourishing the cloth one last time, “it’s all ready.”

Keith got in and the guard closed the door. The air inside the car remained stuffy, so Keith reached out to crank down the window. As he did so, he noticed a curious thing. The window handle seemed to be dwindling in size, as if it were receding downward at an ever-increasing rate of speed. For a brief moment Keith saw it was the same with the dashboard, the door, the floor carpeting—all had begun to rush away from him at a great rate, hurtling toward a dark and endless void. Keith tried to grasp the door handle, to hold back from this strange new abyss.