Goldengirl

‘Before I flew out, there was this creep sniffing around the gym asking my boys what my interest is in track. Seems he knew I was in Eugene for the Trials.’

‘Did you talk to him?’

‘Did I hell! Boys gave him the bum’s rush. I took a look at him first. Smooth character. Flashy dresser. Wasn’t operating on a low budget.’

Dryden gulped his coffee. ‘You didn’t get his name?’

‘Not then. But I know it now. What would you say if I told you I wound up sitting next to the guy in the flight out here?’

‘I’d say his name is Esselstyn,’ said Dryden. ‘A free-lance digging up dirt on Goldine to sell to NBC if they’ll buy.’

Sternberg gave a low whistle. ‘You’ve met the jerk?’

‘What did you tell him?’ asked Dryden.

‘What do you think? I clammed up. For ten hours. But Esselstyn don’t give up easy. Yesterday he was trying to put the screws on Valenti. You see why we got jumpy, Dryden? He knows things. He could spook this one just when we’re due to collect.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Dryden. ‘He has the guest list from the Jacaranda, but not much else. If we keep stonewalling, we’re okay. He’s seen you, me, Valenti. Dick Armitage and Cobb aren’t in Moscow. Nor are Lee and Serafin.’

Sternberg pulled a wry smile. ‘I have news for you. Serafin has a suite in the Hotel Rossiya. NBC flew him out here Sunday. He’ll be doing proud-father interviews after each Final. Just thinking about it brings a lump to my throat.’

While Sternberg systematically disposed of a vast fried breakfast, Dryden weighed the developments. Serafin’s presence in Moscow troubled him no less than Esselstyn’s. He had thought it was too neat, Serafin going back to watch TV in California, where he couldn’t upset Goldine. If NBC planned to get father and daughter into a studio together, they were due for a shock. After what she had learned in Cleveland, Goldine was going to throw a blue fit if she set eyes on Serafin again. So what did he plan to get out of this? Reflected glory? Dryden had an ugly idea it went further than that.

‘Proud-father interviews?’ he said, thinking aloud. ‘Would NBC bring Serafin all the way here just for that?’

Sternberg was chewing. He nodded as he wiped grease off his lips. ‘You figure they have something else in mind? Like Esselstyn has told them he can lift the lid on Goldine’s backup, and some wise-guy producer plans to spring it on Serafin in front of the cameras?’

This exceeded anything Dryden had imagined. ‘Let’s not leap to conclusions,’ he said. ‘Unless Esselstyn has learned a lot more than he knew when he spoke to me, he doesn’t know enough to fuel a demolition job like that. NBC wouldn’t touch it without cast-iron proof. You say Esselstyn is still digging. There’s no one else to see except Klugman. He won’t get much from him.’ He stopped, as another shuddering possibility hit him. ‘Esselstyn couldn’t have spoken to Goldine, could he?’

Sternberg swallowed the last of his breakfast. ‘Relax. No pressman has got near the chick yet. You haven’t seen the security. Fort Knox ain’t in the same league.’

‘My paper said that was overstated, all that talk of the Security Olympics,’ said Dryden. ‘I got the impression the Russians were more relaxed than anyone expected.’

‘Who’s talking about the Russkis?’ squeaked Sternberg. ‘It’s U.S. heavies you have to get by if you want to meet Goldengirl. She has a two-man bodyguard day and night, orders of the team manager. No statements, except in scheduled press conferences. It’s obvious our people have realised Goldengirl is a national asset. They wouldn’t let a fink like Esselstyn louse up her chances bugging her with stupid questions.’

‘Well, that’s a help,’ said Dryden. ‘You’re sure of this?’

‘I was drinking with newsmen last evening,’ answered Sternberg. ‘There’s a story going around that one guy wasted eight hours yesterday trying to lay on an exclusive with Goldengirl. He ended up joining the queue for Lenin’s Tomb — said he was making sure he got a goddamned face-to-face with somebody.’

Dryden and Melody started before midday for the afternoon’s events in the Stadium, but still found the buildup of traffic in the approach road so heavy that they paid the taxi driver almost a mile from the Stadium, and made their way with the crowd along Pirogovskaya Street. In the dazzling sunshine, progress up the wide pavement was slow, but anticipation ricocheted from group to group regardless of language. Occasionally it broke into chanting and cheers as the walkers spotted flags and emblems in the crawling line of cars. Then someone glimpsed the flame, just visible on the Lenin Stadium, beyond the volleyball arena. ‘La voilà!’ Coos of recognition and a frenzy of photography.