Going for the Gold Page 11

  “The Northland Motel,” said the driver bitterly. “Last trip but one. Remember, Jack?”

  “How could I ever forget?” Jack asked. “30 Frenchmen and two pregnant women. If you want my opinion, people should pray quietly, not at the top of their lungs.”

  Thatcher left them to their chores. Hardship, he reflected, was taking on new dimensions for Yves Bisson’s hapless compatriots. Proceeding, he encountered Roger Hathaway letting himself out of the bank.

  “Yes, we opened today, a little late, but we opened,” he said.

  “Congratulations,” said Thatcher. “Apparently, the same cannot be said for many of our Long Island branches. Of course, we do not hand pick the personnel there for athletic ability. Tell me, how are conditions up at the Andiron Inn?”

  Hathaway had not been expecting the conversation to take this tack. “Fine,” he said blankly.

  “Enough food?” Thatcher pressed.

  Hathaway cast around. “Food’s no problem. We are running a little short of bed space since these guys from New York landed. But on the whole, everything’s fine.”

  Thatcher asked about the progress being made by Quarles’ delegation.

  “None,” said Hathaway with the ghost of a smile. “They couldn’t manage to get down here to the bank today. But fair’s fair. They didn’t come prepared. We’re scouring Lake Placid right now for a pair of size 13EE boots.”

  Since Thatcher could think of no appropriate comment, they strolled on in silence. After a while, however, it became apparent that Hathaway was progressing with a sense of purpose.

  “Heading for the figure skating?” Thatcher asked.

  “Only incidentally,” Hathaway replied. “I’m trying to track down Ralph Beeman, and I might be able to catch him at the Arena. He’s in charge of Olympic maintenance and equipment. He told me this morning that they hadn’t sent anybody out to Hoevenberg or Whiteface yet. I want to find out how the situation looks now.”

  When Thatcher did not immediately take him up on this, he explained. “Even when the weather lifts, grooming for the outdoor events will take time. I’d like some sort of working estimate on how much longer the Games are going to last so I can plan.”

  This, of course, made good sense to Thatcher. Once the Olympic Games were over, the process of dismantling the Lake Placid Sloan would commence. But, under the circumstances, this was a case of locking the barn door with a vengeance. There was no way that Hathaway could bring this particular project in under budget. So Thatcher said, “Well, I think I will look in on the skating. Why don’t you join me?”

  It was hard to tell whether Hathaway welcomed this invitation or not, but he dutifully changed course and in a few minutes they reached the rink. It was a vast oval, glowing opalescently under artful illumination. At the far end, a judging panel sat strung out in straight-backed chairs, studying every move made by the slim figure at center ice. Along the sides, limbering up or toweling perspiration away, were other slim figures, surrounded by retinues. Beyond, in semidarkness, were the onlookers. They did not fill the Arena to capacity, Thatcher saw, as he and Hathaway hesitated at the top of an aisle. But there were enough spectators to make a sizable crowd, buzzing with enthusiasm and, occasionally, flowing over into noisy cheers.

  “Good heavens,” said Thatcher, following Hathaway to a seat, “I hadn’t realized that the Olympic family was so big. In theory, they’re the only ones who could get in tonight, aren’t they?”

  “There are nearly 2000 out in the Village,” Hathaway said. “And add to that the television people, the Olympic staff, and all the sponsors.”

  “And most of them are here tonight,” Thatcher concluded. Anthony Melville had been right. An unusually strong and pleasing sense of camaraderie created a feeling of real community.

  For a while, they sat in silence, watching spins, pirouettes, and double-axle leaps.

  “Do you know who this skater is?” Thatcher asked.

  Hathaway squinted at the board but, before he could reply, an outburst from several rows ahead answered Thatcher’s question for him. The young lady was Czechoslovakian.

  Thereafter, the announcer identified succeeding skaters and Thatcher watched them with a banker’s interest. Here, if Katarina Maas was to be believed, was where the money was.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Hathaway, when this was put to him. “Sure, that used to be true. But things have changed. Nowadays it isn’t a matter of glamour events versus nonglamour events. Almost all of these kids have a shot at making real careers for themselves out of the Olympics.”

  “Go on,” Thatcher encouraged him.

  “Oh, I don’t say that the bobsledders have much riding for them, but as for the rest of them, well, look at Jean-Claude Killy. He’s done as well, if not better, than most figure skaters.”

  “That’s true,” said Thatcher. “Yves Bisson was trading on his name at a travel agency, wasn’t he?”

  Hathaway preferred to keep the conversation general. “In Europe, a big-name skier is like a rock star, complete with groupies. They do pretty well out of their amateur status. And if they play their cards right, they can parlay it into big things.”

  Thatcher found himself thinking of Tilly Lowengard. But before he could formulate a question, a great tumult broke loose. “What is it?” he yelled above the roar.

  Voices in every imaginable language told him. Vera Darskaya from the U.S.S.R. had just taken an impressive lead. And barely was she off the ice than the announcer, with a tremor of excitement, boomed the name of the final contestant: “For France, Suzanne Deladier.”

  From where Thatcher sat she looked unbelievably vulnerable.

  Chapter 12

  Discomfort Index

  TEN minutes later found John Thatcher again congratulating Anthony Melville. Suzanne Deladier’s performance was something he would never forget. It was physical perfection, succeeding physical perfection. But what set it apart, Thatcher realized as he watched, was the special quality of this particular audience. Like the public, these spectators oohed and ahed. There was applause, critical attention, rapture. Yet the atmosphere was unlike anything Thatcher had encountered at previous Olympic events. There was a sense of intimacy in the vast skating rink. Suzanne Deladier was not a person apart, performing, and entertaining. Somehow everybody was skating with her, sharing her effort. They knew, as no other audience could, what she was doing. For one breathless moment, the contest element faded. They were all together, linked by the Olympic spirit of athletics for the sake of excellence and nothing else.

  This, it soon developed, was the last empyrean interlude Thatcher was destined to enjoy for the rest of the evening. Almost immediately he was pitched willy-nilly into a roller coaster of sensations.

  Thatcher, on his feet and cheering like everybody else, felt an urgent hand on his elbow. Turning, he encountered Bradford Withers.

  “That was a splendid performance, wasn’t it?”

  “This time,” said his chief with dark emphasis and an unmistakable waft of brandy. “This time I’m not taking no for an answer, John. Come on!”

  Implementing this show of force, he dragged Thatcher into the aisle and began propelling him toward the exit. Thatcher had no alternative but to let himself be towed away with nothing but the briefest nod over his shoulder to Hathaway.

  Detaching Withers was not the problem. The brandy was. Alcohol in Withers’ bloodstream raised unpredictability to toxic levels.

  “Where are we going, Brad?” he asked, as they cleaved through the crowd.

  Withers was astonished he had to ask. “Why, to the disco, of course!”

  “Of course,” said Thatcher hollowly.

  Discos are discos, on 33rd Street, in Peoria or in Olympic Village. Blackness stabbed with crazy-house lights . . . tribal frenzy and individual trance . . . a giant pulse of music flaming and inflaming, clutching and releasing, filling reality.

  John Thatcher perched on an inadequate wire chair as near the exit as he could
get. He accepted the need for disco in the modern world. War, pestilence, and fever exist. Why not disco?

  He was alone. Withers had disappeared in the lemming run from the minivan into Olympic Village. Possibly he was somewhere out there in that jungle tangle. If so, let him look out for himself. There were limits to the risks that Thatcher was prepared to take.

  “Mr. Thatcher, may we join you?”

  Carlo Antonelli stood over him, arm in arm with Katarina Maas. Thatcher, for want of anything better to do, studied them. Antonelli wore a turtleneck and ski pants. Miss Maas sported an exiguous silver lamé frock with infinitesimal straps. Both of them glowed with a faint sheen.

  “Please do,” he said, rising. Never had he felt more like a port in a storm.

  “I am afraid not,” said Miss Maas unapologetically. “Now, I must go.”

  She caught Antonelli unawares. “Go?” he repeated, a wire chair dangling unheeded from one hand. “But the party is just beginning.”

  Even without a clipboard, Katarina Maas was crisp. “For you athletes, for the dignitaries, it is a party. For me, it is work. I have been here since six o’clock, arranging the buffet.”

  Thatcher was growing bored with Olympic logistics. “I thought there was a non-stop disco here in Olympic Village, Miss Maas. Why has this caused you extra work?’

  “Because,” she said, her cool superiority totally unruffled, “our discos are for the residents of Olympic Village. Mr. Melville insisted that we throw open the doors to everyone in Lake Placid who was able to come. Now, I must bid you good evening.”

  Antonelli chuckled as she disappeared into the darkness. “The displeasure is aimed at me, not you,” he explained. “Miss Maas is dismissing an unsatisfactory courtier.”

  “How have you offended?” Thatcher asked curiously.

  “It was not difficult. That one expects to be treated like a queen. I merely suggested, after one dance with her, that we sit the next one out. She chose to interpret that as a criticism.”

  “And was it?”

  Antonelli permitted himself a faint smile. “I am accustomed to a higher standard of dancing,” he admitted.

  Thatcher could imagine the encounter. Miss Maas and Antonelli were both used to calling the tune. She probably expected disproportionate gratitude for any favors she bestowed. He moved in a world where he could take his pick of nameless pretty girls to squire to sumptuous house parties.

  Antonelli, in fact, had the air of a loner amidst all these exuberant young people.

  “I gather that Miss Maas was too busy to see the ice skating this evening,” Thatcher said.

  “Did you?”

  “Of course. What else was there to do?”

  “I thought the performances by Suzanne Deladier and the Russian girl were quite exceptional.”

  “They were very fine indeed,” Antonelli agreed amiably.

  Thatcher himself had stonewalled too often not to recognize the technique. Carlo Antonelli had no intention of discussing his desires, his habits or his views. Without abating his good manners, he would return perfunctory agreement to every remark until his inquisitor was stupefied by boredom. Thatcher retreated into more impersonal areas.

  “I see that almost everyone is here tonight, and that is understandable with no outdoor events tomorrow. But what about those who are competing? Miss Deladier and Miss Darskaya, for instance, are going to meet in a dramatic duel tomorrow. Do they relax here after today’s bout or do they go to bed early for tomorrow’s?”

  Antonelli seemed to welcome the change in approach. “It’s a matter of individual temperament. Suzanne Deladier, I believe, has not joined us. The Russian girl I am almost sure I recognized earlier.” Then he uttered an exclamation. “But look who is here, Mr. Thatcher.”

  Swiveling in his chair, Thatcher saw Tilly Lowengard standing on the threshold of the room. Her escort was Dick Noyes, but they were not alone. Surrounding Tilly was a whole platoon of stern-faced young men. Thatcher recognized Gunther Euler towering above the rest.

  Tilly paused in the doorway, blocking traffic and deliberately inviting attention. Conversation at one table after another died away until even the dancers, sensing something unusual, faltered and came to rest.

  Then, from far back in the disco a single yell rang out.

  “Attagirl, Tilly!”

  Instantly a clear British voice echoed, “Cheers, Tilly!”

  And suddenly the whole room was stamping and applauding.

  Tilly, her jaw outthrust and her level gaze fixed, was taken aback. She had nerved herself to outface hostility and the wave of approval broke through her defenses. Blushing rosily, she clasped her hands to her lips and looked around in confusion until her companions took over. They secured a table by simply waving away its occupants, seated Tilly as if they were enthroning her, then plunked themselves down in a protective circle. Their outriders began to drift away, one of them coming to rest by Thatcher and Antonelli.

  “These Swiss know how to do things,” Gunther Euler remarked enthusiastically. “It’s time we all had a chance to show how we feel about the IOC.”

  Even as he was moving his chair over to make room, Antonelli shook his head. “I think you’re wrong, Euler. People are just showing how they feel about Tilly Lowengard.”

  “Then you haven’t heard what the IOC said to the Swiss team manager. Christ, you’ve been around the Olympics long enough to know they think they can treat us like dirt. They make up silly rules, throw us out on a whim and think nobody should even ask questions.”

  The hotter Euler became, the cooler Antonelli grew.

  “Well, they seem to be able to get away with it.”

  “That’s what makes a demonstration like this so important. For once we’ve all rallied behind an IOC scapegoat.”

  Antonelli shrugged. “So you’ve rallied. What good will it do? The IOC is right across the hall at the buffet. Do you think they’re going to change their minds because they can hear applause for Tilly? She’ll be on her way as soon as they open a road.”

  But Euler was showing a stubborn dedication to someone else’s cause that Thatcher would never have anticipated. “They’ve got to listen if we all complain about their arbitrary regulations.”

  “No they don’t.” There was a glint in Antonelli’s eye as he continued. “But I’ll tell you something that might help Tilly. After all, they can’t hold the Games without us. We could start a boycott You could say you won’t compete in the jumping.”

  Euler flinched as if he had been stung. “When I’ve practically got the gold medal in my hand? I’d have to be crazy.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “It’s all right for you. You just fool around bob-sledding to pass the time. But I’m serious about jumping,” Euler continued to justify himself.

  Antonelli, however, had lost interest. “I didn’t think it would be a popular suggestion,” he murmured.

  Euler looked in two minds about continuing the discussion. Then, clamping his mouth shut, he levered himself to his feet. “I think I’ll find myself a partner,” he said stiffly. “This is supposed to be a disco.”

  After he had gone, Antonelli was mildly apologetic. “I don’t know why Euler gets to me,” he confessed. “But Tilly Lowengard has enough trouble without his trying to turn her into his own personal bandwagon.”

  “You don’t think he’s sincere in his attack on the IOC’s high-handedness?” Thatcher asked.

  “Let’s say I don’t believe it’s the drugging regulation he’s worried about,” Antonelli said shortly, then changed the subject. “I think I’ll drop by Tilly’s table and say an encouraging word. Do you want to come or does your official capacity make it embarrassing to acknowledge an IOC mistake?”

  “I’m not official at all,” said Thatcher, sinking his appearances as Withers’ deputy, “and I can’t say that I care for the IOC’s methods. But what makes you assume an error? I thought the urine sample technique was foolproof.”

&nb
sp; The mask of long-suffering that clouded the Italian’s face was familiar to Thatcher. It signaled the yawning of a gigantic generation gap. For most social purposes, Antonelli would qualify as part of the herd of indistinguishable adults. But on the subject of drugs, he would inevitably regard anyone Thatcher’s age as impossibly ignorant.

  “It is really quite simple,” he said with exaggerated patience. “There are uppers and there are downers. Plenty of contestants will hype themselves with an upper if they think they can get away with it. Nobody in their right mind would take a downer just before competition. The test they ran at the Medical Center merely proved there was an alien substance. But you saw Tilly ski, you were standing right next to me. Every athlete there, as soon as he got over the shock, realized she had been heavily sedated. In other words, somebody slipped her a Mickey.”

  No wonder the Swiss delegation was up in arms!

  “And she had a good chance of winning,” Thatcher mused, following his own line of thought.

  “An excellent chance.”

  Under these circumstances, Thatcher decided to follow his inclination and join Antonelli’s mission. They found Tilly a good deal more realistic about displays of support than Euler had been.

  “Oh, it’s kind of everybody and I appreciate it. But it isn’t what I want,” she exclaimed, running a hand frantically through her short crop. “I want the IOC to listen to me and they won’t!”

  “You wouldn’t believe the way they’re acting,” Dick Noyes burst forth. It was plain to Thatcher that this was his first encounter with bull-headed officialdom. “They refused to meet formally with the team reps and then, when Egon and Bernard tried to talk to Melville at the skating tonight, he threatened to have them thrown out of the box.”

  There was a sullen mutter of assent from the blond giants at the table.

  “It’s more than the IOC, much more.” Tilly spread her brown workmanlike hands in a gesture of despair. “Everything’s been crazy for days. First they claim I’ve been passing counterfeit. Then they say I’ve been stuffing myself with drugs in order to make sure I’ll lose. The next thing I know, they’ll be accusing me of murdering Yves Bisson and have some fantastic evidence to prove it.”