Rush for the Gold: Mystery at the Olympics (17 page)

She was easy to distinguish from the other Chinese swimmers because she was just about six feet tall. Her walk, Susan Carol noticed, was full of confidence, the kind of strut—for lack of a better word—befitting an Olympic gold medalist.

“Miss Anderson,” she said, in very clear English, her hand extended. “I thought perhaps it was time we meet.”

Susan Carol had stood up straight when she saw Liu approaching. They were almost the same height.

“It’s a pleasure,” she replied, taking Liu’s extended hand. “This is—”

“Elizabeth Wentworth,” Liu said, turning to Elizabeth with a bright smile. “The two of you have certainly become stars very quickly.”

“A star is someone with an Olympic gold medal,” Susan Carol said.

“Perhaps so, but you beat me fair and square last year in Shanghai,” Liu said. “I very much look forward to our meeting again next week.”

The way she said it took Susan Carol aback. Not the idea that they would be competing again but that it would be
next week
. It was all happening very fast now.

“I guess we all have a lot of swimming to do before that,” Susan Carol said.

Liu nodded. “I know you will both swim the 100 butterfly too,” she said. Then, with a smile, she added: “I’ll wish you both the very best in
that
event.”

Elizabeth had been staring at Liu almost since she had first approached. Now, finally, she asked the question Susan Carol hadn’t wanted to ask: “Where did you learn to speak such good English?” she said.

Liu laughed. “It is taught in our schools,” she said. “But if someone shows potential as an international athlete, they’re put into a special program to accelerate their studies.”

Susan Carol was keenly aware of how monolingual most Americans were. Covering tennis, she had met a number of athletes from other countries who spoke English that ranged from passable to perfect.

A whistle blew, and Susan Carol and Elizabeth realized it was time to get in the water and warm up. They shook hands with Liu again. “Perhaps we will see each other when we are all in the athletes’ village,” Liu said. “I will buy you both a Coke.”

Whether it was because of Liu’s boldness or just a coincidence, Susan Carol met another major threat in the butterfly later that day. Svetlana Krylova was a Russian swimmer
and in much the same boat as Susan Carol and Elizabeth. She had just emerged on the international scene in the last year at age seventeen. Her swim at the Russian trials in April had announced her arrival. She had won the 200 in a time of 2:01.91—just one-tenth of a second shy of Liu’s world record.

Susan Carol had just finished her last 50-fly sprint of the day and was about to warm down when she noticed Krylova standing at the far end of the pool, clearly watching her. Krylova was impossible to miss. She had already been dubbed “swimming’s Maria Sharapova.” She was tall and blond and, according to Stevie and every other boy in the world, stunning. Mary Carillo had done a feature on her for NBC that had aired during the Olympic Trials. In the piece, Krylova had laid out her plans to Carillo very clearly: “I will win at the Olympics twice, this year and then again in four years, and then I will move to the USA and become a model and an actor,” she had said. “I think people will give me this chance, don’t you?”

No doubt people would give her that chance. But Susan Carol wasn’t going to let her win her first Olympic gold medal without a fight. (Rooting for Elizabeth was one thing, but this girl … no way!) Now, seeing Krylova eyeing her, she climbed out of the pool fifty meters sooner than she had planned so she could introduce herself.

Krylova saw her coming and put her hands on her hips as Susan Carol walked up.

“Svetlana, hi,” Susan Carol said, trying to keep her tone friendly. “I’m Susan Carol Anderson.”

“Yes, I know,” Krylova said. “Congratulations on your race in the trials. It was quite something to watch.”

There wasn’t a hint of a smile on her face, and she never moved her hands from her hips. It might have been Susan Carol’s imagination, but it seemed as if she was standing as straight as possible so she could look down at her. She
was
tall—easily three inches taller than Susan Carol.

“Well, thanks, I didn’t go quite as fast as you did in April, though,” she said.

“I suspect you will do better here,” Krylova said. “I think we all will have a good race, two good races, in fact.”

She was … polite. But unlike Liu, who seemed genuinely friendly, there was a coldness to Krylova. She had heard from her friend Evelyn Rubin, who was a top-ten-ranked tennis player, that Maria Sharapova wasn’t very friendly. It seemed as if Krylova had that in common with her as well as her looks.

“Well, I just wanted to introduce myself,” Susan Carol said. “I’m sure I’ll see you around the next few days.”

“Most important, you will see me in the water on Sunday night, no?” Krylova said with that icy smile. That was when the 100-butterfly final was scheduled.

Susan Carol decided two could play this game. “Yes, you will,” she said. “You most certainly will.”

She didn’t bother shaking hands before walking away. She needed a hot shower.

A
s usual, Stevie had to admit that Bobby Kelleher was right. Getting their credentials on Thursday took the entire morning. First they rode the subway—or, as it was called in London, the Underground—to the Stratford Station stop. From there they walked several blocks to the entrance of Olympic Park, where they had to go through a lengthy security check and show letters confirming they were credentialed to cover the Games.

From there they were directed to the check-in area at the main press center, where they waited in line for forty-five minutes and then endured what felt like an interrogation before being given their badges.

Once they had their badges, they went inside the vast press center, which looked like a giant warehouse, and began looking for the cubicle assigned to the
Washington Herald
and the
Washington Post
.

They walked forever—or so it seemed—before they found where they were going.

“Pretty grim place,” Stevie commented. He had kind of expected bright lights and glitter. This was, after all, the Olympics.

Tamara said, “Ah, budget cutbacks. There were supposed to be a couple of restaurants and bars in here, but now there’s apparently just a tent with cafeteria food. Cost overruns and the tough economy forced them to economize and, no surprise, the first thing they cut was amenities for the media.”

“Not necessarily a smart move,” Kelleher added. “The Atlanta people are still hearing about how bad the food was, and that Olympics was sixteen years ago.”

The
Post-Herald
cubicle had ten desks: five on one side of the “room”—there were no walls, just partitions separating them from the cubicles along the same row—for the
Post
, five more for the
Herald
. The only person inside was Matt Rennie, the
Herald
’s sports editor.

“Welcome to paradise,” Rennie said as Stevie, Tamara, and Bobby trooped in.

Kelleher shrugged. “No big deal,” he said. “After all, we’re not going to be spending much time here once the Games begin.”

“Speak for yourself,” Rennie said. “Someone has to edit what you write into readable English.”

Rennie was a classic editor. His attitude toward his writers was simple: If you don’t have something sarcastic to
say, don’t say anything at all. Stevie knew Kelleher loved Rennie because he was smart, funny, and knew what he was doing.

“We want to go over to the athletes’ village,” Kelleher said. “How tough do you think that will be?”

“No tougher than getting your credentials,” Rennie said. “What’d that take you, about three hours?”

They had to fill out a form requesting access to the village that explained who they were, who they wanted to see, and how long they intended to stay. They had to sign another form in which they agreed that if they spoke to any athlete
other
than the ones they said they were going to see, they could be stripped of their credentials.

Stevie had texted Susan Carol to let her know they had arrived and wanted to come see her. That was necessary because she had to send an email through the Olympic computer system saying she was willing to be interviewed by the three reporters who had requested to see her.

When they had finally cleared all the various hurdles, they were directed to a shuttle bus that would take them to the front gate of the athletes’ village. The “Guide to the Games” they had been given earlier said the village was within walking distance of all the venues in the park, but apparently they had a pretty liberal interpretation of the phrase “walking distance.”

Traffic around the Olympic Park was gridlocked, so it took the shuttle twenty-five minutes to go what couldn’t have been more than two miles. They had to go through
another lengthy security check at the gate, and when they were finally cleared, they were greeted by an unsmiling thirty-something guy who studied their badges, their faces, and their paperwork before saying, “Peter Brooks, IOC Communications. I’m your escort to Miss …” He paused to look down at his paperwork. “Anderson.”

There were brief handshakes, and then Peter Brooks began leading them through a plaza that had modern apartment buildings surrounding it. Each building looked to be about eight stories high.

Brooks was giving them a tour-guide spiel as they walked, explaining how designing the village so that the apartments surrounded several plazas “was done to give the athletes of the world a place to gather and come together and learn from one another.”

Gag me
, Stevie thought.

The village wasn’t all that crowded, which, according to Brooks, was because teams were still arriving. “By Friday, when we have the opening ceremony, ninety percent of the athletes will be here. Though some who don’t compete until the second week will arrive later.”

They finally reached building 14C, which, like the other buildings, had several flagpoles in front of it, one of which was flying an American flag. Susan Carol, dressed in a T-shirt with a USA logo on it, was sitting on a bench next to the entrance, talking to another girl. When she saw them approach, she jumped to her feet and ran straight to Stevie, shrieking, “You’re finally here!”

She gave Stevie a hug and a kiss, then did the same for Bobby and Tamara. Peter Brooks looked as if someone had said all future Olympics should be canceled. He recovered and, almost as if he hadn’t seen anything, said, “Are you Ms. Anderson?”

“She better be,” Kelleher said. “Because if she’s not, the real Ms. Anderson is going to be pretty upset when she hears someone else has been kissing Stevie.”

Stevie wasn’t sure who reddened more, Susan Carol or Brooks.

Brooks was still trying to perform his duties to the letter. “Ms. Anderson, this is Ms. Mearns from the
Washington Post
and Mr. Kelleher and Mr. Thomas from the
Washington—
”

“Herald,”
Kelleher said, trying to be helpful.

“Herald,”
Brooks repeated.

Stevie began to wonder if perhaps he was really a robot who could only respond to what was in his programming.

Susan Carol turned to the girl who had been sitting on the bench with her. She was standing now and looked very familiar.

“Stevie, Bobby, Tamara, this is Elizabeth Wentworth. I’m sure you remember her from the trials.”

“Sure do,” Kelleher said, shaking hands. “That was great swimming. I’m Bobby. This is my wife, Tamara, and I’m guessing Susan Carol has told you about Stevie.”

Before Elizabeth Wentworth could respond, Peter Brooks began to hyperventilate. Or something close to it.

“There is nothing … on my paperwork … about you interviewing a second athlete today.… You must have read the form.…”

Kelleher put his hand on Brooks’s shoulder to steady him.

“Really, it’s okay,” he said. “We’re here to see Susan Carol. I promise that we won’t ask Elizabeth to reveal any state secrets to us.”

Brooks was taking deep breaths, trying to regain his composure.

“There’s no authorization for this.”

“Is there actually a form that authorizes athletes to say ‘hello’ to journalists?” Susan Carol said. She was giving Brooks The Smile, but, being a robot, he wasn’t affected by it.

He was frowning and shaking his head.

“Ms. Wentroth—”

“Wentworth,” Elizabeth corrected him.

Stevie was completely convinced that Brooks’s head was going to explode.

“Ms. WentWORTH,” he said. “I have to warn you that if you speak to these people in any official way, there could be repercussions for you with your organizing committee.”

“I’ll risk it,” Elizabeth said.

Brooks decided he’d had enough. He pointed at his watch. “It is 4:10 p.m.,” he said. “Your passes expire at 6 p.m. If you aren’t back at the front gate by then, security will come and find you.”

Tamara gave him her version of The Smile and shook
his hand. “Mr. Brooks, we just want to thank you for making us feel so welcome. Being with you these past few minutes has enveloped us in the Olympic spirit.”

If Brooks picked up on the sarcasm in the slightest, he didn’t show it.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Six o’clock.”

He turned and walked away.

“Is it always like this?” Stevie asked.

“Oh no,” Kelleher said. “Most of the time it’s worse.”

Susan Carol had finished her first workout in one of the Olympic Aquatics Centre’s practice pools at three o’clock and hadn’t eaten lunch, so she suggested they all go get something to eat.

Elizabeth begged off, saying she’d promised her mother she would Skype with her. “It’s eleven o’clock back home,” she said. “They like to talk to me in the morning so they know everything is going okay.”

As they walked through yet another plaza en route to the nearest dining hall—apparently there were two in the village—Susan Carol was sending a text.

“So I gather there are computers in the room,” Bobby said. “Cell phone service pretty good?”