Rush for the Gold: Mystery at the Olympics (18 page)

“Actually, it’s great,” Susan Carol said. “They have every piece of technology you could hope for. We’re four to a suite and there are four computers in each suite. You can Skype, video-chat, pretty much anything you want.”

“Who were you texting?” Stevie asked.

“You’ll see,” she said mysteriously.

They walked into the most massive cafeteria Stevie had ever seen.

“Place is open twenty-four hours a day,” Susan Carol said. “You wake up at three in the morning with an ice cream craving or you’re just nervous and want a snack, you can walk over here.”

“Have you done that yet?” Stevie asked.

“No. But we just got here yesterday.”

There were food stations all over the place. Stevie grabbed a tray and was headed for a line that said
GRILL
when Susan Carol gently took his arm.

“I’d advise you against your usual burger,” she said. “Not the best thing over here. Their version of rare is our version of extremely well done.”

“So what’s good?” he said.

She pointed in another direction. “I’ll bet the fish and chips are good.”

“Okay. But do you think there’s somewhere I can get fries?”

Susan Carol laughed. “Stevie, you’re going to have to start learning the lingo. Chips
are
fries.”

“Then why do they call them chips?”

“They would ask you why we call chips French fries. I’m going to get some pasta. Find a table near a window if you get there first.”

Even though the place wasn’t crowded, Stevie could hear several different languages being spoken while he waited for his food. When he stopped to take a bottle of
Coke out of a giant-sized container, Kelleher came up behind him.

“Good thing you don’t like Pepsi,” he said. “If someone tried to bring a Pepsi in here, Peter Brooks of the IOC might have them shot.”

“Why?” Stevie asked.

“Official sponsor. Everything you will see for the next ten days—sodas, food, sweat suits, sneakers, you name it—comes from an official sponsor. No food is fed to an Olympic athlete and no clothes are worn by an Olympic athlete unless someone has paid the IOC or their country’s Olympic committee for the right to do so.”

“Just like the NCAA Tournament,” Stevie said, remembering the logoed cups that had been handed to anyone who wanted to bring a drink courtside.

“You got it,” Kelleher said.

Susan Carol and Tamara, both holding plates of pasta, arrived a moment after Stevie and Bobby sat down at a table by the windows. Stevie was digging into his fries—chips—when he heard a voice say, “Susan Carol, you were right, he is cuter than ever!”

Stevie did a double take. Evelyn Rubin, also with a plate of pasta on her tray, was standing there with a huge grin on her face.

She put her tray down, and she and Susan Carol embraced like long-lost friends.

Evelyn had been involved in one of Stevie and Susan Carol’s early adventures—at the US Open tennis
tournament. She was now the eighth-ranked player in the world. Stevie had completely forgotten that she’d be competing in the Olympics.

Evelyn was now looking at Stevie, who was still paralyzed in his chair.

“Remember me?” she said.

“Of course I do,” Stevie said, trying not to sound too defensive. He finally remembered how to stand up, and Evelyn gave him a warm hug. “I’d just forgotten that you’d be here.”

“Ah, yes, only one Olympian is on
your
mind, I’m sure.”

Stevie blushed, but Evelyn breezed on.

“I just got in yesterday,” she said. “We don’t start playing until the middle of next week, but I wanted to get here early to take the whole thing in. I think I’m the only tennis player here already. Actually, I may be the only one staying in the village. I’ve heard all the big names will be staying in luxury hotels.”

“Typical,” Kelleher said. “I bet most of them are only coming because their agents told them an Olympic medal could help their sponsorship deals.”

Tamara elbowed him, but Evelyn just laughed. “To be honest, my deals have bonuses for Olympic medals too,” she said. “I would have made
more
money if I had played World Team Tennis. But this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Everyone sat down, and Evelyn and Susan Carol began comparing notes—Susan Carol telling stories about swimmers,
Evelyn dispensing tennis gossip. Stevie felt left out. Now that Susan Carol was a world-class athlete, she was traveling in different circles than he was.

Evelyn was telling a story about Serena Williams bringing four different outfit changes into the locker room one day at Wimbledon when Stevie, eyes and mind wandering, saw a familiar figure across the room.

“Susan Carol,” Stevie said, interrupting Evelyn in the middle of a description of one of Serena’s outfits. “Isn’t that one of your agents over there?”

He nodded in the direction of the man—who stood out like a sore thumb because he was in a suit.

Susan Carol, looked and nodded. “Ah, good old Bill. I wonder what he’s doing here. He didn’t say anything about coming over when I saw him at the pool.”

“Maybe he heard the food here is good,” Kelleher said. “Or, maybe he’s here to see her.”

Stevie saw a very tall blonde with her long hair tied back in a ponytail walking to the table where Bill Arnold had sat down. She was followed by another man in a suit.

“She looks familiar,” Stevie murmured.

“She should,” Evelyn Rubin said. “She’s been on about fifteen magazine covers in the last month. That’s Svetlana Krylova. She’s staying in the same building I am. All the Russian women swimmers are there. I met her. That other guy is her dad.”

“But what’s she doing meeting with your agent?” Stevie said, turning back to Susan Carol.

Susan Carol shrugged. “They must have other clients. Why wouldn’t he want her as a client? God knows if she wins here, she’s going to make a lot of money.”

“Yeah, but don’t you feel just a little uncomfortable that he’s chatting up one of your main competitors?” Tamara said.

“Plus, doesn’t she already have an agent?” Stevie said.

“She has a Russian agent, I know that,” Kelleher said. “But she might want someone based in the US. That’s where the biggest sponsorship dollars are.”

“I’m going over there,” Stevie said, standing up.

“What for?” Susan Carol demanded, her eyes narrowing into her familiar “what are you up to now, Steven Thomas?” look.

“Maybe I just want to meet Krylova,” he said.

“Maybe you should sit down right now,” Kelleher said, his voice about as stern as Stevie could remember it. “How many times have I told you that you don’t tip your hand to an opponent?”

“Okay, okay.” Stevie sat back down. “But what do you think that sleazebag is up to?”

“Who knows?” Susan Carol said. “Maybe nothing.”

“Or maybe,” Stevie said, “not nothing.”

I
f Bill Arnold and the Krylovas spotted their group, they didn’t show it. The room was filling up pretty quickly, but Stevie kept an eye on
them
until they left.

Evelyn volunteered to be super-friendly with Krylova and see what she could find out. As it closed in on six o’clock, they decided they’d better head for the front gate rather than risk the wrath of Peter Brooks and the IOC thought police.

They walked outside and exchanged hugs. When Susan Carol hugged Stevie, she said quietly, “Stay calm. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say to you?”

Susan Carol laughed and gave him another squeeze. “Maybe, but I know that look on your face—like you’ve smelled a rat. I think you’re reading too much into one meeting. How could it possibly affect me?”

Stevie didn’t know exactly. But he had a bad feeling about it. It
didn’t
smell right. And this time he wouldn’t have Susan Carol working with him to figure it out.

“We need some kind of strategy,” Kelleher said.

They were back in the media center, thinking about their stories for the day. It was after seven o’clock, but since it was only two o’clock in Washington, they had some time before starting to write. Kelleher and Mearns were going to write about some of the pre-Olympic glitches that were still being ironed out, and Stevie was going to do a first-person piece on his impressions of London and the Games to come.

“A strategy for what?” Tamara asked. “An agent backdooring a client isn’t exactly a story. It happens all the time.”

“What’s back-dooring?” Stevie asked.

“It’s when you go after someone who is in direct competition with one of your clients,” Bobby said. “It’d be like Tiger Woods’s agent suddenly showing up with Phil Mickelson. It’s kind of sleazy, but it happens.”

“Two days before the Olympics start?” Tamara asked.

“Now you’re making my argument for me,” Bobby said. “That’s why it feels weird. It could be that Lightning Fast wants to be covered no matter who wins the two fly events.”

“What if Liu wins? Or Elizabeth Wentworth?” Stevie asked.

“Then they’ve got troubles. Liu has an agent, so they’re
out of luck there. And Elizabeth is a great story, but she isn’t going to be the new It Girl.”

“It’s kind of sick that so much of what an athlete can earn depends not on their talent but on their image,” Stevie said.

“I know,” Tamara said. “It’s really glaring sometimes. I mean, Chris Evert made millions of dollars as a tennis player because she was America’s sweetheart. Martina Navratilova was a better player, but she made next to nothing because she was from Czechoslovakia and was open about being gay.”

“Right,” said Bobby. “It’s been this way for a long time.”

“Okay, but what I don’t get,” Stevie said, “is why all this focus on the butterfly events? Aren’t there swimmers in other events Lightning Fast could glom onto?”

“Not necessarily,” Kelleher said. “There aren’t that many swimmers who win gold medals to begin with. There are—what?—fifteen individual events for men and fifteen for women. A lot of swimmers win multiple events. Some are repeat winners—Phelps, Lochte, Coughlin—so they have agents and deals already in place. Throw in the cute factor and it’s a short list.”

“So,” Stevie said, “Bill and J.P. could want to sign Krylova to increase their chances of having a gold medalist.”

“
If
they’re trying to sign her.”

“What else could they want?” Stevie asked.

“That’s the question,” said Tamara.

Kelleher leaned forward to put his drink down on a
table. “I think you need to go back to the village tomorrow—alone,” he said. “Susan Carol, or maybe Evelyn, can set you up with what they call a ‘one-on-one’ pass. It gives you four hours instead of two.”

“And then what?” Stevie said.

“Once you’re in there, they seem to leave you alone. So try hanging around the building where the Russian swimmers are staying. Maybe you’ll see something or hear something. Or get a chance to talk to Krylova. Something always seems to happen when you’re around; maybe you’ll get lucky.”

“Okay,” Stevie said. “And if I see Bill Arnold again, I
am
going to talk to him. The direct approach might work.”

“Just be sure to think like a reporter,” Tamara said. “Not a boyfriend.”

As it turned out, Stevie ended up with
two
four-hour passes the next day. After he had texted Susan Carol to tell her what he wanted to do, she texted back to say that Evelyn would “accept” his request for a one-on-one too. Both she and Evelyn had practice sessions in the morning, so Stevie was supposed to request time with her from noon to four and with Evelyn from four to eight.

So on day two in London, Stevie headed out to Olympic Park on his own. Kelleher had gone out to Wimbledon because Andy Roddick, who was also in town early, had agreed to talk to him after his practice session. Tamara had headed to IOC chairman Jacques Rogge’s pre-Olympics press conference at eight a.m.

With a little bit of trepidation, Stevie walked the one block to Gloucester Road Station and took the long escalator down to the platform. He had to change trains at Piccadilly Station but there were so many signs to the “Javelin Line,” the special train set up to get the expected hordes of spectators to Olympic Park, that it would have been difficult to get lost.

There was a light rain falling as he made the fifteen-minute walk from the train station to the corner of the park where those with media credentials could enter without having to reclear security. At the media center he went to the “interview request” desk and filled out two forms asking for one-on-ones with Susan Carol and Evelyn.

When he handed them in, the IOC guy behind the desk frowned (surprise) as he looked over the forms.

“Problem?” Stevie said. “Did I get something wrong?”

“Are these two athletes aware that you are requesting these interviews?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“It’s unusual for us to allow a journalist to be in the village for that long.”

“From what I understand, though, it’s within the rules.”

“I don’t know if it’s within the rules,” said the man, whose name tag read
ROBIN ALLRED
. “I’ll have to check.”

“Well, if there’s any problem, please let me know. I’ll contact the USOC right away if need be.”

Kelleher had told him to drop the US Olympic Committee into the conversation if there was any hassle and had given him a specific name, Mike Moran, to use if he
had to. Apparently the IOC didn’t like to get into any more battles than necessary with the USOC since it was American television money that paid most of the IOC’s bills.

“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.