Rush for the Gold: Mystery at the Olympics (20 page)

Like Susan Carol, she was extremely attractive: not as tall, at about five-eight—which meant Stevie was actually an inch taller than she was—but with piercing blue eyes and a devilish grin and dimples. And, not surprisingly, she’d made a lot of money off the court.

“Here’s my building,” Evelyn said. “If we sit on this bench, I’m sure we’ll see Krylova come back.”

Susan Carol’s plan was simple: When Krylova returned after her workout, Stevie would have his notebook out, “interviewing” Evelyn. Evelyn would wave her over and introduce her, and the rest would be up to him.

“Okay,” Stevie said, pulling out his notebook as they sat down. “What should I interview you about?”

Evelyn smiled. “You’re the reporter. Why don’t you ask me about all the sightseeing I’ve done in London?”

“Have you done much?” he asked. “I haven’t been anywhere yet.”

“Some,” she said. “I’ve been to the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace, Parliament, Big Ben … and Harrods, of course!”

Evelyn spent the next several minutes talking about London and some of the sights she had seen in her travels around the world. “When I can, I try to get to places a couple of days early, or stay a day after, so I can see the sights,” she said. “This year I made the final at Eastbourne, so I didn’t get to London until the day Wimbledon started. I’m glad to be back to see—”

She broke off in mid-sentence. Stevie looked up from the notes he had been scribbling and saw a group of young women dressed in red sweat suits with the word
Russia
across the front approaching them. Even walking with other swimmers, Svetlana Krylova stood out. She was easily the tallest of the group and her golden-blond hair, hanging straight down and still a little bit wet, was impossible to miss.

“Here we go,” Evelyn said softly. She waved at the approaching swimmers, who waved back.

“Hey, Svetlana, you have a minute?” she said. “I want you to meet someone.”

Krylova broke off from the others and walked over.

“You are being interviewed, Evelyn?” Krylova said. “I do not want to interrupt.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Evelyn said. “I thought you’d like to meet Steven Thomas. He works for a very important American newspaper, the
Washington Herald
.”

Stevie stood up to shake hands with Krylova, which was a mistake. She was tall enough to block the sun.

Krylova smiled down at him.

“You are young for a reporter, no?” she said.

“He is,” Evelyn said. “But he won a writing contest when he was just thirteen and he’s worked for the
Herald
ever since. He’s broken a lot of big stories.”

“Evelyn should be my PR person,” Stevie said, blushing. “It’s a pleasure to met you, Svetlana.”

Krylova smiled again—a dazzling smile, Stevie had to admit, if you could see that far up.

“The
Washington Herald
. This is not the famous one, right?” she said. “That is the
Washington Post
. They find out the American president Nixon was a liar.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Stevie said. “The reporters who covered that story were Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. I’ve met Mr. Woodward.”

“So, you are doing a story on Evelyn?” Krylova said, clearly not overly impressed that Stevie had met Woodward. “You think perhaps she can beat Sharapova?”

“She’s done it before,” Stevie said.

“True. But not on the grass court, right, Evelyn?”

“I have to win a lot of matches before I worry about playing Sharapova,” Evelyn said. “Stevie, did you know that Svetlana and Maria have become good friends?”

This was Stevie’s cue.

“Really? That’s interesting especially since you do, if you don’t mind my saying so, look quite a bit like her.”

Krylova smiled, clearly not minding the comparison at all. “I am actually a little taller. We have measured. She has been very helpful to me, advising me on how to deal with so much attention so fast.”

Stevie nodded with what he hoped didn’t come across as false enthusiasm. “That’s actually a great story.” He paused, as if thinking. “You don’t think … I mean I know this is sudden … but could I maybe talk to you for a few minutes?”

“But what about Evelyn?”

“We were just finishing when you walked up,” Evelyn said.

“Well,” Krylova said, clearly not accustomed to such a sudden request. “I was going to go and eat.…”

“Maybe I could just take a few minutes while you’re eating?” Stevie said.

Krylova nodded, having made a decision. “Yes, it’s fine,” she said. “I need to go inside to drop my bag off. Washington, DC, the US capital. Yes, sure, I can talk to you about this. Give me five minutes.”

She walked inside, leaving Stevie with Evelyn.

“Well played,” Evelyn said.

“I think she just liked the idea of being written about in
a Washington paper, even if it isn’t the famous one,” Stevie said, flattered nonetheless by the compliment.

“That and your charm,” Evelyn said.

Stevie reddened for a moment. “Probably her pal Sharapova told her that the more publicity she can get from the American media, the better. Now if only I can figure out how to get her to tell me what’s going on with our Lightning Fast pals.”

“Oh, Stevie, I am
certain
you can charm the story right out of her.”

She had Susan Carol’s southern accent down cold.

“I’m begging you,” he said. “One Scarlett O’Hara in my life is enough.”

Krylova was walking back out the door. She had changed from her sweats into shorts, and Stevie was convinced she’d grown another six inches. The sooner they could sit down, the better. It was hard to be charming with a crick in your neck.

F
ifteen minutes later, Stevie found himself seated across from Svetlana Krylova in the now-familiar surroundings of the athletes’ dining area. She had gone the pasta route. Stevie, who had explained that he had eaten earlier with Evelyn, decided a jolt of caffeine wouldn’t be a bad idea and opted for coffee.

“So, what is it like to live in the American capital city?” Krylova said as she dug into her pasta.

“Oh, I don’t live there,” Stevie said. “I live in Philadelphia, which is about two hours away.”

Krylova frowned. “I don’t understand. How does this work?”

Stevie explained briefly how he had come to work for the
Herald
—leaving out all the parts involving Susan Carol: He had won the writing contest, gone to New
Orleans, met Bobby Kelleher, and started freelancing for the
Herald
.

Stevie could see Krylova’s eyes wandering around the room as he told his story. She was being polite, he realized, in asking the question and wasn’t all that interested. He pulled out his notebook and tape recorder.

“Okay if I tape the interview?” he asked. “I’m more accurate that way.”

“This is a good thing,” she said, smiling.

Stevie started with easy, innocuous stuff, knowing it was the best way to get someone comfortable enough to then tell him something they probably shouldn’t. He lobbed softball questions at Krylova about her upbringing, how she’d gotten into swimming, when she first thought she might someday be an Olympian, how she and Sharapova came to be friends and what kind of advice she had. Her answers were lengthy; she was trying to make a good impression. As long as an NBC crew didn’t show up and steal her, Stevie sensed Krylova would talk as long as he wanted her to.

At last she gave him the opening he was looking for when she mentioned that she hoped to travel to the US sometime after the Olympics were over. Still going slowly, Stevie said that of course she’d want to go to New York, but she should definitely come to his hometown of Philadelphia as well. It turned out she was a basketball fan. “I like Dirk Nowitzki,” she said. “Even though he is German. He’s very tall and a great shooter too.”

Stevie enthused about how Philadelphia was a great
basketball city. He told her a little about the Palestra and the Big Five and then, almost in mid-sentence, he said, “But maybe you won’t have so much time for being a tourist. You’ll probably be meeting with many American companies and agents. I hear lots of them are interested in you.”

She beamed when he said that. “You’ve heard this?” she said. “I’m surprised. I haven’t talked to very many people yet at all.”

“No?
I’m
surprised. I mean, I feel like I’m hearing about you everywhere—you’re such a favorite. And after your terrific interview with Mary Carillo on NBC, where you said you might be interested in modeling …” Stevie blushed but then stammered on. “Well, you’re so beautiful, I just figured people would be clamoring for you already.”

She looked confused. “Clamoring?”

“Fighting over you.”

“Oh yes. Well, thank you. I hope this will be true, but I think I have to win. American companies like winners, not second place.”

Now that sounded like a line that had come straight from J. P. Scott’s mouth.

“Where did you hear that?” he asked.

She leaned forward as if she didn’t want anyone else to hear what she was about to say. “My father and I have met with a very important American agent,” she said. “He says if I win one gold, he can make me ten million American dollars next year. Two gold and it will be much more.”

Since he already knew who the agent was, Stevie didn’t
ask for a name, though he noted they were promising a lot more money to Krylova than to Susan Carol. Instead, he nodded and said, “Wow,” intentionally using a word he usually tried to avoid.

She nodded just as eagerly. “Yes, and I know he is telling the truth. Already one very important company has told my father if I win gold, they are willing to pay me into the millions.”

That
name Stevie really wanted to know. His first guess was Nike. Speedo already had Phelps, Susan Carol, Lochte, and Coughlin, so they seemed less likely.

“Wow, that’s amazing,” he said again. Then, as casually as possible, added, “Which company?”

She looked around again. “If I tell you this, you must not put it into your newspaper,” she said. “They would be very mad, I think.”

Stevie looked around too. “I promise,” he said, since he had no interest in naming the company in print at this point.

“It is Brickley,” she said. “They want to go international, and the man we talked to says I will be their …” She paused looking for a phrase. “Poster girl.”

Stevie was stunned. He had read about Brickley changing its name from Brickley Shoes to just Brickley to be more like Nike and Adidas and Reebok. He knew they were trying to expand out of the basketball world, where the company had started, but he had no idea they were thinking about swimming or any Olympic sport or that they wanted to recruit international athletes.

“That’s really interesting,” Stevie said. “I thought Brickley was mostly a sneaker company.”

“But they are expanding. Clothing, swimwear … big exposure.” Svetlana smiled.

“Wow,” Stevie said again, thinking three
wows
should definitely be his limit. “So, did you meet with the Brickley people here?” he asked.

“Yes, when we were still training north of London,” she said. “Mr. Maurice came to our practice one day and then he had lunch with us when it was over.”

The name Maurice rang a distant bell in Stevie’s memory. Then it came to him: New Orleans, the Final Four. He had been the Brickley rep who was hovering around Chip Graber, then the star player at Minnesota State, now the point guard for the Minnesota Timberwolves. And, Stevie just remembered, a member of the US Olympic basketball team. That could be helpful. But he had to concentrate on this conversation now.

“Bobby Maurice?” he said. “Is that who you met with?”

She looked surprised. “He called himself Robert,” she said. “But in the US that name becomes Bobby sometimes, no? How are you knowing him?”

Stevie said, “I’ve met him covering basketball.”

“Oh yes, that’s right,” she said. “He said he was a basketball person until he was promoted to this new job.”

“Oh. I didn’t know he had a new job.”

“Yes. I don’t remember the exact title, but he is in charge of finding international athletes to promote Brickley around the world. They want to sign two or three athletes
here and start something they will call the Brickley Gold Line.”

“Ah. So they must want athletes they think will win gold—like you.”

She smiled. “I guess so.”

“Your agent must be pleased.…”

She shook her head. “I don’t have an American agent yet, remember? I only
spoke
to one. Mr. Maurice asked us not to mention it to anyone. He doesn’t want anyone talking about it until my events are over.”

She reached across the table and put her hand on his. “I can trust you?” she said. “You won’t tell anyone? Even Evelyn?”

This was getting more intriguing by the minute. “Of course,” he said, feeling just a little bit guilty. “This is totally off the record.” As he didn’t want to print what she said, he wasn’t strictly lying.

Strictly.

He parted ways with Krylova outside the dining hall. She said she was going to walk over to the village souvenir store to see if there were people around, trading pins. Stevie knew from some of his pre-Olympics research that pin-trading was a very big deal at the Olympics—even among the athletes. Stevie thanked her, repeated his promise not to write or say anything about the Brickley deal, and headed off to find Susan Carol so he could break that promise as soon as possible.

He texted Susan Carol, who said she would meet him outside her building. It was a warm day, the morning’s
drizzle had cleared away, and Stevie took a minute to look around in wonder—he was in an Olympic village! In London! He was rounding the corner onto Susan Carol’s square when he heard someone behind him calling his name.

“Mr. Thomas!”

The tone, even in just two words, was clearly unfriendly. Stevie turned to see Peter Brooks, the IOC Communications guy, walking briskly in his direction, talking into a walkie-talkie. This wasn’t going to be good.

“Mr. Thomas,” Brooks repeated as he reached Stevie. “I’m informed you were just seen in the dining area with”—he stopped to look down at a piece of paper in his hand—“Svetlana Krylova of the Russian swim team.”