Goldengirl

Before leaving the Ukraina he was handed a message asking him to meet a Mr. Ford in the lobby. He was suspicious. Every traveler to Russia hears stories about tourists who inadvertently offend the authorities by photographing military personnel or violating travel regulations, but Dryden hadn’t stepped out of line. He hadn’t even checked his room for listening devices. Yet a message to meet someone with one of the best-known names in America was odd, particularly as he didn’t know a Mr. Ford.

The man was U.S.-raised, whatever he was called. Tall, gray-haired, in a brown lightweight, he greeted Dryden in an elegant Boston accent. ‘Hope I didn’t interrupt breakfast, Mr. Dryden. James Ford.’ He gripped Dryden’s hand firmly. ‘U.S. Embassy staff. Don’t let that alarm you. This isn’t official. It just happens that you might be able to help someone over a small problem. Not concerning you directly at all. It’s, er, kind of confidential, not for discussion in a Soviet hotel lobby. I have an Embassy car outside, if, er...’

‘Do you have any form of identity, Mr. Ford?’ Dryden asked. ‘One hears stories...’

‘But of course.’

Dryden wasn’t used to examining diplomatic identity cards, but the photo matched and the bald eagle was prominent.

‘I also have an American Express Card,’ said Ford with a half-smile.

‘That won’t be necessary. You don’t wish to see my papers?’

‘We just want your advice,’ said Ford, leading the way across the lobby.

The car was chauffeur-driven and bore the U.S. insignia. If this turned out to be a KGB trick, at least he would arrive at the collective labour camp in style. But they headed in the right direction, across the Moskva by Novo-Arbatsky Bridge, up Kalinin Prospect and into Tchaikovsky Street. There was a moment of unease when they pulled up at a gray stone building with Soviet soldiers on guard at the gates, but the eagle was over the door and the Stars and Stripes fluttered overhead. James Ford was on the level.

Dryden followed him up the Embassy steps, across the small entrance hall and into an elevator. They got out on the second floor. Ford stopped at a door and said, ‘This is where I leave you, Mr. Dryden. This isn’t official business at all, you understand. You’ve met two of the people inside, so introductions aren’t necessary.’ He held open the door.

Dryden walked in, still mystified. And though two of the faces that looked his way were familiar, he couldn’t immediately place them. It was a fairly ordinary office, not the Ambassador’s suite for sure.

The man he hadn’t seen before stood up to welcome him.

‘So good of you to come, Mr. Dryden. I’m Don McCorquodale of the U.S. Olympic Committee. I believe you already met Doctors Dalton and Nagel.’

Doctors. Of course. They were the two he had seen with Goldine in the Lenin Stadium. He nodded at them, finding no clue in their faces to explain what this was about.

McCorquodale had an easy style of speech and made it plain from the beginning that he was seeking co-operation. In his mid-fifties, he carried enough weight to suggest that relaxation was intrinsic to his way of life, not staged for the occasion. ‘You’ll have guessed that we want to talk about young Goldine Serafin,’ he said. ‘Quite some runner. Surprised a lot of people Saturday, me included. It’s raised her into the superstar class, that gold medal.’ He smiled. ‘Given us a few problems, keeping the media out of her hair, but that’s one of our functions as I see it, ensuring that an athlete has the chance of getting through the Games without undue harassment. I believe you heard we had to move her out of the Village.’

‘Pete Klugman told me,’ Dryden confirmed.

‘Klugman, yeah,’ repeated McCorquodale without showing interest. ‘Do you smoke? I’m getting quite a taste for these Soviet cigarettes with the cardboard filters, Papirosi. Care to try one? Don’t suppose you medics would.’

The doctors looked on while McCorquodale and Dryden lit up.