Goldengirl

Dryden himself dosed through most of the nine-hour trip, and Melody, who had surprised him with her diligence and efficiency all week, seemed content to catnap between Camparis. She had fixed the flight and obtained a hotel reservation from Intourist, no slight achievement. It meant she would be pretty constantly in his company — he hadn’t inquired too closely into the details of the booking — but as she was one of the select group who knew the truth about Goldine’s condition, it would be perilous to neglect her.

They touched down at Cheremetyevo Airport soon after midnight, Moscow time. As soon as they were through the formalities in the new Olympic terminal, Dryden picked up a copy of Izvestia, hopeful of deciphering some news of the Quarter-Finals, and learned that you just can’t skim through a Russian newspaper.

They saw little of Moscow but pinpoints of light as the taxi skirted the western edge of the city on the Circular Motorway, but when they joined Mozhaiskoye Highway, Melody told Dryden they would soon see the River Moskva on their left. ‘Now we’re in Kutozovsky Prospect,’ she confidently announced. ‘There’s the river, and this is our hotel coming up. Not that; the skyscraper. The Hotel Ukraina.’ It was immense, twenty-nine stories high, and built in the gingerbread style known locally as Stalin Gothic. Floodlights played on the massive main tower. It wasn’t Dryden’s idea of a lovenest.

Everything was very proper when they checked in at the Service Bureau. They were greeted in English and politely asked to produce their passports. The clerk herself transcribed their names into the register, they signed and learned they would occupy Rooms 811 and 812. Melody’s lips parted in a slight smile, which the girl returned. Two stone-faced porters approached and carried their suitcases to an elevator. The ascent to the eighth floor took all of three minutes, but the smile was still on Melody’s face when they stepped out. Even the scrutiny of the large woman behind the desk didn’t shift it. Only when the porters collected the keys, picked up the luggage and carried Melody’s in one direction, Dryden’s in another, did Melody blink and make a small sound of incomprehension. 811 and 812 were situated on either side of the forty yards or so of open area fronting the elevators and stairway. The duenna with the keys squatted between.

‘Seems we’ll meet at breakfast,’ Dryden said, stepping after his luggage. He was grinning when he stood looking at his room. It was large, a little ornate for his taste, with dark furniture, but comforts too, notably a large tiled bathroom with a tub long enough for a basketball player. He decided to sample it at once.

Sitting in bed afterward, he tried again to extract news of the Olympics from Izvestia. When he had scanned the back pages twice, it occurred to him that the Russians would give pride of place to gymnastics, which had reached the final stages, rather than track and field heats. Working down a column topped by a picture of a small girl poised on a beam, he got to a tabulated section with figures interpolated in the Russian alphabet that looked about right for 100-metre clockings. It didn’t take long after that to divine that Goldine had come through the Quarter-Final in second place in 11.05 seconds. The fastest qualifier was Krüll. She had set a new Olympic Record in the fourth heat in 10.94. Dryden put out the light and slept.

He didn’t meet Melody at breakfast, after all. Possibly, he decided, as well as having boned up on Kutozovsky Prospect, she knew something about coffee and Danish, Soviet-style, but later he learned she had taken breakfast in her room.

It was not a solitary meal for Dryden, however. He had just picked up his table napkin when he heard heavy breathing and sensed the imminent presence of someone of great size.

‘You don’t mind if I join you? One doesn’t eat alone in a Soviet restaurant. We’re all comrades, see?’

Oliver Sternberg. The inquiry was academic. He was already in the act of depositing his weight on the chair. ‘How long you been here? I never noticed you before this.’

Dryden explained that he had arrived late for the Games, and why. ‘I didn’t know anyone else was staying here.’

Sternberg stopped to order, speaking apparently fluent Russian, then resumed the conversation. ‘You didn’t? Besides you and me, there are one thousand, nine hundred and ninety-eight others, including Valenti. He won’t be down to breakfast. We hoisted a few last night. Getting jumpy, I guess. It don’t look so good from here as it did back home in California.’

‘Ursula Krüll beating the Olympic Record twice?’ said Dryden.

‘That is a little awesome, I admit. Did Goldine appear to have anything in reserve?’

‘Sure, she can go faster,’ said Sternberg. ‘The heats don’t count a damn. It’s a poker game till the Final. What bugs me is the digging.’

‘Digging?’

‘Sure.’ Sternberg’s eyes darted to left and right. ‘The media.’

Dryden frowned. ‘They’re bothering you?’