Tomorrow was the start of the games and he knew he’d be virtually ignored.
He shouldn’t complain. But he was ambitious and had a restless streak about him — that’s what had driven him here in the first place. Doing what he believed he was meant to do.
He lifted the bottle of water to his lips and drank a huge amount. He looked at his watch. In a half hour he could get into the gym and work out. He was looking forward to it. He’d worked out for two hours yesterday and he’d work out for two hours again today. His arms were solid as steel, his legs, too.
“Savitch!”
He turned immediately, hearing the voice of the man who was responsible for his being here.
Muscular and with a narrow, etched face, Frederick Alston strode quickly over the grass. That was one thing about him. He never made you come to him. He had that kind of confidence. He could walk right up to you and you’d still feel you’d been summoned. Despite the heat, he wore a suit and tie — which he always did. Whatever the weather, whatever the occasion.
Alston stopped and looked him over. The young man didn’t expect a long conversation; that wasn’t Alston’s way. While some directors here would micromanage and look over the shoulder of their teams, Alston didn’t. If you couldn’t pull your share, you were out. Just like that.
And in fact this encounter was brief.
What did surprise — no, shock — Billy, though, was the content of the short exchange.
“I think you’re ready to go on the field. Are you?”
“Ready to what?”
“Are you ready to go on the field?” Alston repeated, seemingly irritated that he had to.
“Yessir.”
“Good. Tomorrow. Nine a.m.”
“Opening day?” Billy blurted.
Alston’s mouth tightened. “When is opening day?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Then I guess that’s what I mean.” He started away. Then stopped. “One thing, Savitch?”
“Yessir?”
“Don’t screw up.”
“No, sir.”
And with that his only advice, Alston turned, walking away briskly, leaving the young man standing beside a practice track, sweating in sunlight as strong and hot as anything Texas had ever produced.
Ch’ao Yuan was in his forties, a solid man with lotioned hair, cut short. He was wearing a dark suit and white shirt. He was a government bureaucrat, former Communist Party official, and presently the head of security at the stadium. He was one of a half-dozen such security officers — as with all Olympics, there were dozens of venues around the city — but he knew that his was the most prestigious of the assignments. And the most stressful. The big bird nest would be the target for enemies, of which his country had more than a few.
Not to mention the Israelis and Americans and Iranians.
And the Iraqis…Oh, please.
Now, late afternoon before the first day of games, he was sitting in a modest room in one of the many temporary office buildings constructed for the Olympics. (The games, Ch’ao had learned, were partly athletic, but mostly business, which meant paperwork.)
He was sitting forward, looking over his computer on which was a decrypted email, which had been sent to him from an internal intelligence contact. He’d read it once. And now he was reading it again.
Trying to figure out where this fell on the scale of dangers.
Security for the event was, of course, intense.
There were a number of systems in place. A security fence perimeter around the stadium. Passes with computer chips embedded in them. Fingerprint detectors, iris scanners. Metal detectors, of course, as well as bomb sniffers — dogs and machines at entryways. Alarms on all the service doors. Automatic backup generators that took only thirty seconds to kick in and could support the entire power requirements of the stadium. And there were backups on those.
Ch’ao had five hundred security officers at his disposal.
He was confident of the protective measures that had been taken.
And, yet, this particular piece of intelligence bothered him more than the others.
He grimaced and when his secretary announced that his visitors were here, shut the computer screen off.
A few minutes later two men entered his office: Frederick Alston, whose American team was nearby, and his Russian counterpart, Vladimir Rudenko, whose team was across some miles away.
He’d met them weeks ago and they’d become friends, despite their different cultures and histories—“Strange bedfellows” was the expression that Alston had used. (Which Ch’ao at first thought he’d mistranslated.)
He greeted them in what was the virtual if not official language of the Olympics, English, though both Alston and Rudenko said hello in passable Mandarin.
Ch’ao said, “I must tell you something. I’ve received a communication of a security threat against either of your teams, or both.”
“Just Russian or American?” Rudenko asked.
“That’s right.”
“From the Arabs?” Alston asked. He had short gray hair and smooth skin, which pocked-faced Ch’ao envied.
“No information about the source of the threat.”
Rudenko, a large but spongy man, who stood out in contrast to the lean and muscular athletes he came to China with, gave a faint laugh, “I won’t bother to ask about us; the motherland has far too many enemies.”
“What’s the threat?” Alston asked.
“Not really a specific threat. It’s a tip-off.”
“Tip,” Alston corrected.
“Yes,” Rudenko added. “A tip-off is what happens in basketball, one of our favorite sports.” His wry look to Alston could mean only one thing — a reminder of the famous 1972 game and Russia’s controversial win. Alston ignored the dig.
Ch’ao continued, explaining that an informant said he’d seen someone in a green Chevy taking delivery of plastic explosives yesterday. “And another informant, independent of the first, said that there was going to be an attempt to target some of your players here. I don’t know if they’re related but it would seem so.”
“Green what?” Rudenko asked. “Cherry?”
Ch’ao explained about the inexpensive car that was sweeping the country.
“And you don’t know more than that?” Alston asked.
“No, we’re checking it out now.”
The Russian chuckled. “And there’s a look in your eye, may I say Comrade Ch’ao, that makes me concerned.”
Ch’ao sighed and nodded. “I’m asking you to pull your teams from tomorrow’s competition until we see what’s going on.”
Rudenko stared. Alston laughed. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“It’s the opening day of games. We have to compete. It would look very bad if we didn’t.”
“Yes, and some of these players are here for only one or two events. If they don’t play tomorrow, they might lose their only chance of a lifetime to compete in the Olympics.”
“Our young men and women have trained for years for this.”
“I understand the dilemma but I am concerned for the safety of your players.”
The Russian and American looked at each other. Alston said, “I’ll talk to the team. It will be their decision. But I can tell you right now how they’ll vote.”
“How many threats like this have you received?” Rudenko asked.
“We’ve received dozens of threats. Nothing this specific, though.”
“But,” the Russian pointed out, “that’s hardly specific.”
“Still, I must strongly suggest you consider withdrawing.”
The men said their good-byes and left the office.