Goldengirl

There had been a moment in that grim showdown with Serafin in Caradock Lodge when Goldine had believed the diabetes had put an end to her brief career as a track star. Ended everything her upbringing had prepared her for. As her world collapsed, he had offered to take her to New York and asked her to trust him and she had answered with her eyes. Nothing of significance had been said. There had just been this spark of understanding that passed between them, but it meant more than anything they had said to each other before, in the Sierras, on La Jolla Beach or in Eugene.

Then Serafin had let slip the shattering possibility that Goldine might, after all, compete, and the moment had gone. She was going for gold. The impulse was too powerful to resist. She had found the strength to reject Serafin, but she couldn’t reject the idea he had nurtured in her. She had convinced herself she was free to decide her own future, but she had no choice at all. It was settled.

‘Thinking about her, huh?’ said Melody.

He nodded.

‘I guessed it,’ said Melody. ‘Do you figure she’ll win in Moscow?’

‘She has to get there first.’

Melody smiled. ‘Listen, I know Goldengirl, lover boy, and I know what three gold gongs mean to her. She’ll be on that plane for Moscow, take it from me.’

‘Even if she decides to go, she’ll have to get medical backing,’ said Dryden. ‘Can you see the Olympic Committee letting her compete so soon after the onset of diabetes?’

‘They don’t have to know,’ said Melody casually. ‘She could tell them she’s had it for years.’

He looked out the window.

Next morning in the office he listened to phone messages the machine had logged over the weekend. Before running out of tape, it had taken calls from Adidas, Puma, Pepsi-Cola, Chrysler, TWA and a dozen others anxious to know if the kidnaping meant the end of Goldine’s Olympic ambitions. He put Melody on to answering them with a standard message that Mr. Dryden was unable to add anything yet to the statement issued by Dr. Serafin on the weekend, but was energetically pursuing the matter.

There had also been calls from Valenti and Sternberg. He rang them personally. Valenti was convinced the whole thing was a publicity stunt — ‘Got to hand it to you — great idea — wish I’d thought of it myself.’ Sternberg wanted to know who had put up the ransom, because if they expected a cut of the profits, they could go stuff themselves.

Around midmorning, a call came in from Serafin. He had been contacted by the secretary of the U.S. Olympic Committee, demanding to know whether Goldine still planned to compete. They had reserves standing by, but the girls were entitled to more than a day’s notice to get through the formalities for the flight on Wednesday.

‘What did you tell him?’ asked Dryden.

Serafin answered in the same flat tone he had used to make the press statement. ‘I admitted I was not certain where Goldine was, but I would see that the message reached her. He told me they are fixing a medical for nine o’clock Tuesday morning. If Goldine doesn’t report, she is off the team.’

‘I’ll tell her. It’s her decision alone.’

‘She’ll be there,’ said Serafin positively. ‘By the way, I’m flying back to Los Angeles with Lee this afternoon. Goldine left me in no doubt that my presence is no longer congenial, and I think the same would go for Lee. She appears to find you a more sympathetic mentor.’

‘That’s not my function, Dr. Serafin.’

‘Is it unwelcome?’ said Serafin. ‘Mr. Dryden, I believe in facing facts. Goldine has no further use for me. For all practical purposes, you are now in charge of the project. Does that alarm you? Really, it is nothing. A sinecure. The important decisions have been taken. She will compete, and she will win. I doubt whether I shall go to Moscow at all. I can see it all on television in my own home. I have so much work to do, updating my case study.’

When Dryden put down the phone he was bothered. It was unlike Serafin to bow out now, when everything was building to a climax. True, he had taken a tongue-lashing from Goldine, but he wasn’t the type to let that influence him. He had been at the center of this scheme from the start, dominating it with an obsessiveness bordering on monomania. Just to retire from the scene at this stage didn’t make sense. Either he knew something, or he was up to no good.

That was not all Dryden had to worry about. A few minutes after he had put down the phone, a young man walked into his office. They had phoned from downstairs to say he was from NBC-TV. People in Dryden’s business didn’t turn away callers from the media.

His name was Esselstyn. He was probably not thirty, short, tanned, with the cool of a croupier behind a wide smile. A sharp dresser, with fawn trousers, brown velvet jacket, pale-yellow shirt and green silk scarf fixed with a gold ring.