And, yet, this particular piece of intelligence bothered him more than the others.
He grimaced and when his secretary announced that his visitors were here, shut the computer screen off.
A few minutes later two men entered his office: Frederick Alston, whose American team was nearby, and his Russian counterpart, Vladimir Rudenko, whose team was across some miles away.
He’d met them weeks ago and they’d become friends, despite their different cultures and histories—“Strange bedfellows” was the expression that Alston had used. (Which Ch’ao at first thought he’d mistranslated.)
He greeted them in what was the virtual if not official language of the Olympics, English, though both Alston and Rudenko said hello in passable Mandarin.
Ch’ao said, “I must tell you something. I’ve received a communication of a security threat against either of your teams, or both.”
“Just Russian or American?” Rudenko asked.
“That’s right.”
“From the Arabs?” Alston asked. He had short gray hair and smooth skin, which pocked-faced Ch’ao envied.
“No information about the source of the threat.”
Rudenko, a large but spongy man, who stood out in contrast to the lean and muscular athletes he came to China with, gave a faint laugh, “I won’t bother to ask about us; the motherland has far too many enemies.”
“What’s the threat?” Alston asked.
“Not really a specific threat. It’s a tip-off.”
“Tip,” Alston corrected.
“Yes,” Rudenko added. “A tip-off is what happens in basketball, one of our favorite sports.” His wry look to Alston could mean only one thing—a reminder of the famous 1972 game and Russia’s controversial win. Alston ignored the dig.
Ch’ao continued, explaining that an informant said he’d seen someone in a green Chevy taking delivery of plastic explosives yesterday. “And another informant, independent of the first, said that there was going to be an attempt to target some of your players here. I don’t know if they’re related but it would seem so.”
“Green what?” Rudenko asked. “Cherry?”
Ch’ao explained about the inexpensive car that was sweeping the country.
“And you don’t know more than that?” Alston asked.
“No, we’re checking it out now.”
The Russian chuckled. “And there’s a look in your eye, may I say Comrade Ch’ao, that makes me concerned.”
Ch’ao sighed and nodded. “I’m asking you to pull your teams from tomorrow’s competition until we see what’s going on.”
Rudenko stared. Alston laughed. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“It’s the opening day of games. We have to compete. It would look very bad if we didn’t.”
“Yes, and some of these players are here for only one or two events. If they don’t play tomorrow, they might lose their only chance of a lifetime to compete in the Olympics.”
“Our young men and women have trained for years for this.”
“I understand the dilemma but I am concerned for the safety of your players.”
The Russian and American looked at each other. Alston said, “I’ll talk to the team. It will be their decision. But I can tell you right now how they’ll vote.”
“How many threats like this have you received?” Rudenko asked.
“We’ve received dozens of threats. Nothing this specific, though.”
“But,” the Russian pointed out, “that’s hardly specific.”
“Still, I must strongly suggest you consider withdrawing.”
The men said their good-byes and left the office.
An hour later Ch’ao’s phone rang. He picked it up. It was Alston explaining that he’d talked to everyone on the team and the decision was unanimous. They would compete. “We’re here to play. Not to hide.”
He’d no sooner hung up than he got a call from the Russian, saying that his team, too, would be participating on opening day.
Sighing, Ch’ao hung up thinking: No wonder the Cold War lasted so long, if the Kremlin and White House back then were like these two—stubborn and foolish as donkeys.
* * *
AROUND 9 A.M. on the first day of the games a man bicycled up to a low dusty building near Chaoyang Park, which was, coincidentally, a venue for one of the events: the volleyball competition. The man paused, hopped off and leaned the bike against the wall. He looked up the street, filled with many such bicycles, and observed the park, where security officers patrolled.
He kept his face emotionless but, in fact, he was incensed that the Chinese had won the Olympics this year. Furious. The man was a Uyghur, pronounced Wee-gur; these were a Turkic-speaking people from the interior of China, who had long fought for their independence—mostly politically but occasionally through terrorism.
He took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and slipped his stubby finger inside. He found the key that had been hidden there when he was palmed the pack and, looking around, undid a padlock on the large door, pulled it open and stepped inside.
There he found the green car, one of the small new ones that were flooding China. He resented the car as much as the Olympics because it represented more money and trade for the country that oppressed his people.
He opened the trunk. There he found several hundred posters, urging independence for the Uyghur people. They were crude but they got the point across. He then opened another box and examined the contents, which excited him much more than the Mao-style rhetoric: thirty kilos of a yellow, clay-like substance, which gave off a pungent aroma. He stared at the plastic explosives for a long moment, then put the lids back on the boxes.
He consulted the map and noted exactly where he was to meet the man who would supply the detonators. He started the car and drove carefully out of the warehouse, not bothering to close and lock the door. He also left behind his bicycle. He felt a bit sad about that—he’d had it for a year—but, considering the direction his life was about to take, he certainly wouldn’t need it any longer.
* * *
“LOOK AT YOU,” said Gregor, eyeing his young protégé’s training jacket and sweatpants, a Russian flag bold and clear on the shoulder. From a young age Yuri had been taught not to pay too much attention to his appearance but today he’d spent considerable time—after warming up, of course—to shaving and combing his hair.
The teenager smiled shyly, as Gregor saluted.
They were outside the stadium, near a security fence, watching the thousands of spectators head in serpentine lines toward the stadium. Near the two men, buses continued to disgorge the athletes as well, who were walking through their own entrance with their gear bags over their shoulders. Some were nervous, some jovial. All were eager.
Gregor consulted his watch. The Russian team would be taking pictures with the heads of the Olympic committee in a half hour, just before the games began. Yuri would, of course, be there, front and center. “You should go. But first…I have something for you.”
“You have, sir?”
“Yes.”
Gregor reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag. He extracted a gold-colored strip of satin.
“Here, this is for you.”
Yuri exclaimed, “It’s the second ribbon!”
Gregor was not given to soft expressions of face but he allowed himself a faint smile. “It is indeed.” He took it from the boy, tied a knot and slipped it over his neck.
“Now, go make your countrymen proud.”
“I will, sir.”
Gregor turned and stalked off in that distracted way of his, as if you’d slipped from his mind the instant he turned. Though Yuri knew that was never the case.
* * *
THE UYGHUR FOUND the intersection he’d sought and parked the green Chevy. Ahead of him, a mile away, he could see part of the Olympic stadium. It did indeed look like a bird nest.
For vultures, he thought. Pleased with hi
s cleverness.
Ten minutes until the man was to meet him here. He was Chinese and would be wearing black slacks and a yellow Mao jacket. The Uyghur scanned the people walking by on the streets. He hated it in Beijing. The sooner…
His thoughts faded as he saw motion in the rearview mirror.
Police were running toward him, pointing.
These were not your typical Beijing police, nor Olympic guards in their powder-blue jumpsuits. These were military security, in full battle gear, training machine guns his way. Shouting and motioning people off the street.
No! I’ve been betrayed! he thought.
He reached for the ignition.
Which was when he and the car vanished in a fraction of a second, becoming whatever a trunk full of plastic explosives turns you into.
* * *
YURI UMAROV CRINGED, like everyone else around him, when the bang came from somewhere south of the stadium.
The decorative lights around the stadium went out.
A few car alarms began to bleat.
And Yuri began to run.
He hurdled the security fence but the guards were, like everyone else, turning toward the explosion, wondering if a threat would follow from that direction.
Then he hit the ground in the secure zone and began running toward the stadium, sprinting for all he was worth, pounding along the concrete, then the grass.
Thirty seconds.
That was all the time, his mentor Gregor had told him, that he would have to sprint to the service door in the back of the stadium and open it up before the backup generators kicked in and the alarm systems went back online.
Breath coming fast, a machine gun firing, rocks avalanching down a mountain.
His lungs burned.
Counting the seconds: Twenty-two, twenty-one.
Not looking at his watch, not looking at the guards, the spectators.
Looking at only one thing—something he couldn’t even see: the second ribbon.
Eighteen seconds, seventeen.
Faster, faster.
The second ribbon…
Eleven, ten, nine…
Then, sucking in the hot, damp air, sweat streaming, he came to the service door. He ripped a short crowbar from his pocket, jimmied the lock open and leapt into the cold, dim storeroom inside the belly of the stadium.
Six, five, four…
He slammed the door shut and made sure the alarm sensors aligned.
Click.
The lights popped back on. The alarm system glowed red.
He said a brief prayer of thanks.
Yuri crouched, stretching his agonized legs, struggling to breathe in the musty air around him.
After five minutes he rose and stepped to one of the interior doors, which weren’t alarmed, and he entered the brightly lit corridor. He made his way past the shops and stands. He finally stepped outside into the stadium itself, which opened below him.
It was magnificent. He was chilled at the sight.
People were once more streaming into the stadium, apparently reassured by an announcement that the brief power outage was due to a minor technical difficulty.
Laughing to himself at the comment, Yuri oriented himself. He found the place on the stadium grounds, at the foot of the dignitaries’ boxes, where the Russian team was milling about, awaiting their photo session with officials.
Wonderful, he reflected. And there was also a video camera. God willing, it would be a live transmission and would broadcast throughout the world his shout: “Death to the Russian oppressors! Long live the Republic of Chechnya!”
He’d rehearsed the cry as many times as he had practiced his thirty-second run.
Competition. Winning. Bringing glory to your countrymen…
Now, Yuri knelt and unzipped his sports bag. He began slipping the detonating caps into the explosives inside and rigging them to the push button detonator. Sprinting full out from the security fence to the stadium with the bomb armed was, as Gregor had pointed out, not a good idea.
* * *
“WHAT WAS IT?” Ch’ao Yuan demanded, speaking into his secure cell phone.
“We aren’t sure, sir.”
“Well, somebody is sure,” Ch’ao snapped.
Because that somebody, from the public liaison office, had gone on the public address system to tell the 85,000 people in the stadium that there was no risk. It was a technical problem and it had been resolved.
Yet no one had called Ch’ao to tell him anything.
One of his underlings, a man who spoke Mandarin as if he’d been raised in Canton, was continuing. “We’ve checked with the state power company. We can’t say for certain, sir. The infrastructure…you know. This has happened before. Overuse of electricity.”
“So you don’t know if it was a bomb or it was the half-million extra people in the city turning on their air-conditioning.”
“We’re looking now. There’s a team there, examining the residue. They’ll know soon.”
“How soon?”
“Very soon.”
Ch’ao slammed the phone shut.
Very soon…
He was about to make another call when a man walked into his office. Ch’ao rose. He said respectfully, “Mr. Liu.”
The man, a senior official from internal security in Beijing, nodded. “I’m on my way to the stadium, Yuan.”
Ch’ao noted the dismissive use of his first name.
“Have you heard?”
“Nothing yet, sir.”
Liu, a long face and bristly hair, looked perplexed. “What do you mean?”
“About the explosion, I assume. Nothing. The men are still searching the relay station. It will be—”
“No, no, no.” The man’s expression was explosive. He gestured broadly with his hands. “We have our answer.”
“Answer.”
“Yes. I have my people there now. And they found Uyghur independence posters. The terrorist was on his way to the stadium when we found him on a tip. The bomb detonated prematurely as he was being arrested.”
“Uyghur?” This made some sense. Still, Ch’ao added, “I wasn’t told.”
“Well, we’re not making the information widely available as yet. We think he was going to drive the car into the crowd at the entrance. But he saw the police and detonated the bomb where it was. Or the system malfunctioned.”
“Or perhaps there was some gunfire.” Ch’ao was ever vigilant about being respectful. But he was furious at this peremptory disposition of the case. Furious, too, that, whatever the cause of the explosion, there was no witness to interrogate. And everyone knew the military security forces were quick to pull the trigger.
But Liu said calmly, “There were no shots.” He lowered his voice. “If the mechanism was constructed here, a malfunction is the most likely explanation.” He actually smiled. “So the matter is disposed of.”
“Disposed of?”
“It’s clear what happened.”
“But this could be part of a broader conspiracy.”
“When do the Uyghurs have broad conspiracies? They are always one man, one bomb, one bus. No conspiracy, Yuan.”
“We have to investigate. Find out where the explosives came from. Where the car came from. The informant said the targets were the Russians or the Americans. There was no mention of the Uyghurs.”
“Then the informant was wrong. Obviously.”
Before thinking, Ch’ao blurted, “We must postpone the games.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Until we find out more.”
“Postpone the games? Are you a madman, Yuan? We were presented with a threat. We have met that threat. It is no longer a threat.” Liu often spoke as if he were reading from old-time propaganda.
“You’re satisfied that there’s no risk, sir?”
“The backup generators are working, are they not?”
“Yessir.”
“All the security is in place and no one was admitted through the me
tal detectors until the power resumed, correct?”
“Yessir. Though the systems were down for a full thirty seconds.”
“Thirty seconds,” Liu mused. “What can happen in that time?”
In this age, 85,000 people can die, Ch’ao thought. But he could see Liu was not pleased with his attitude. He remained silent.
“Well, there we are. If something else turns up, we will have to consider it. For now the explosion was infrastructure. This evening we will announce the bombing was the result of the Uyghur movement. We’ll say that there was no intent to harm anyone; the explosion was meant to be an inconvenience…” Liu’s eyes grew focused and dark. “And you will say nothing for the time being except infrastructure. An overloaded electrical system. After all, we still have a few things left to blame the Chairman for.”
* * *
THERE WAS A FORTUITOUS DEVELOPMENT, Yuri noted, his bag over his shoulder, as he trooped down the endless steps toward the field.
He observed a number of American athletes were standing near the Russians, chatting and laughing.
This was perfect. The Americans had offered only lip service to the Chechen plight, being far more interested in foreign trade with Russia. In fact, back in Grozny, planning the attack, Gregor told him, they’d considered targeting Americans, too. But a dual attack was considered too difficult.
But now, Yuri was thrilled to see, he would take a number of the citizens of both countries to the grave with him.
He nodded at a guard, who gave the most perfunctory of glances at his pass and motioned him on.
Yuri stepped onto the Olympic field and made his way toward the two teams.
In his mind was a vision of the second ribbon.
* * *
STANDING ON THE GRASS GROUNDS of the Olympic field, Billy Savitch looked around him. The field had been impressive when he’d seen it upon arrival. It was even more so now.
He was near a group of American athletes. He nodded greetings.
They gave him thumbs-up, high-fives.
I’m actually on the field, he reflected. The first day of the games.
And then recalled, Don’t screw up.
I’ll try.
No, trying is what losers do.
I won’t screw up.
Trouble in Mind: The Collected Stories, Volume 3 Page 24
