Rush for the Gold: Mystery at the Olympics

by John Feinstein

  Krylova smiled again—a dazzling smile, Stevie had to admit, if you could see that far up.

  “The Washington Herald. This is not the famous one, right?” she said. “That is the Washington Post. They find out the American president Nixon was a liar.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Stevie said. “The reporters who covered that story were Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. I’ve met Mr. Woodward.”

  “So, you are doing a story on Evelyn?” Krylova said, clearly not overly impressed that Stevie had met Woodward. “You think perhaps she can beat Sharapova?”

  “She’s done it before,” Stevie said.

  “True. But not on the grass court, right, Evelyn?”

  “I have to win a lot of matches before I worry about playing Sharapova,” Evelyn said. “Stevie, did you know that Svetlana and Maria have become good friends?”

  This was Stevie’s cue.

  “Really? That’s interesting especially since you do, if you don’t mind my saying so, look quite a bit like her.”

  Krylova smiled, clearly not minding the comparison at all. “I am actually a little taller. We have measured. She has been very helpful to me, advising me on how to deal with so much attention so fast.”

  Stevie nodded with what he hoped didn’t come across as false enthusiasm. “That’s actually a great story.” He paused, as if thinking. “You don’t think … I mean I know this is sudden … but could I maybe talk to you for a few minutes?”

  “But what about Evelyn?”

  “We were just finishing when you walked up,” Evelyn said.

  “Well,” Krylova said, clearly not accustomed to such a sudden request. “I was going to go and eat.…”

  “Maybe I could just take a few minutes while you’re eating?” Stevie said.

  Krylova nodded, having made a decision. “Yes, it’s fine,” she said. “I need to go inside to drop my bag off. Washington, DC, the US capital. Yes, sure, I can talk to you about this. Give me five minutes.”

  She walked inside, leaving Stevie with Evelyn.

  “Well played,” Evelyn said.

  “I think she just liked the idea of being written about in a Washington paper, even if it isn’t the famous one,” Stevie said, flattered nonetheless by the compliment.

  “That and your charm,” Evelyn said.

  Stevie reddened for a moment. “Probably her pal Sharapova told her that the more publicity she can get from the American media, the better. Now if only I can figure out how to get her to tell me what’s going on with our Lightning Fast pals.”

  “Oh, Stevie, I am certain you can charm the story right out of her.”

  She had Susan Carol’s southern accent down cold.

  “I’m begging you,” he said. “One Scarlett O’Hara in my life is enough.”

  Krylova was walking back out the door. She had changed from her sweats into shorts, and Stevie was convinced she’d grown another six inches. The sooner they could sit down, the better. It was hard to be charming with a crick in your neck.

  20: RISKY BUSINESS

  Fifteen minutes later, Stevie found himself seated across from Svetlana Krylova in the now-familiar surroundings of the athletes’ dining area. She had gone the pasta route. Stevie, who had explained that he had eaten earlier with Evelyn, decided a jolt of caffeine wouldn’t be a bad idea and opted for coffee.

  “So, what is it like to live in the American capital city?” Krylova said as she dug into her pasta.

  “Oh, I don’t live there,” Stevie said. “I live in Philadelphia, which is about two hours away.”

  Krylova frowned. “I don’t understand. How does this work?”

  Stevie explained briefly how he had come to work for the Herald—leaving out all the parts involving Susan Carol: He had won the writing contest, gone to New Orleans, met Bobby Kelleher, and started freelancing for the Herald.

  Stevie could see Krylova’s eyes wandering around the room as he told his story. She was being polite, he realized, in asking the question and wasn’t all that interested. He pulled out his notebook and tape recorder.

  “Okay if I tape the interview?” he asked. “I’m more accurate that way.”

  “This is a good thing,” she said, smiling.

  Stevie started with easy, innocuous stuff, knowing it was the best way to get someone comfortable enough to then tell him something they probably shouldn’t. He lobbed softball questions at Krylova about her upbringing, how she’d gotten into swimming, when she first thought she might someday be an Olympian, how she and Sharapova came to be friends and what kind of advice she had. Her answers were lengthy; she was trying to make a good impression. As long as an NBC crew didn’t show up and steal her, Stevie sensed Krylova would talk as long as he wanted her to.

  At last she gave him the opening he was looking for when she mentioned that she hoped to travel to the US sometime after the Olympics were over. Still going slowly, Stevie said that of course she’d want to go to New York, but she should definitely come to his hometown of Philadelphia as well. It turned out she was a basketball fan. “I like Dirk Nowitzki,” she said. “Even though he is German. He’s very tall and a great shooter too.”

  Stevie enthused about how Philadelphia was a great basketball city. He told her a little about the Palestra and the Big Five and then, almost in mid-sentence, he said, “But maybe you won’t have so much time for being a tourist. You’ll probably be meeting with many American companies and agents. I hear lots of them are interested in you.”

  She beamed when he said that. “You’ve heard this?” she said. “I’m surprised. I haven’t talked to very many people yet at all.”

  “No? I’m surprised. I mean, I feel like I’m hearing about you everywhere—you’re such a favorite. And after your terrific interview with Mary Carillo on NBC, where you said you might be interested in modeling …” Stevie blushed but then stammered on. “Well, you’re so beautiful, I just figured people would be clamoring for you already.”

  She looked confused. “Clamoring?”

  “Fighting over you.”

  “Oh yes. Well, thank you. I hope this will be true, but I think I have to win. American companies like winners, not second place.”

  Now that sounded like a line that had come straight from J. P. Scott’s mouth.

  “Where did you hear that?” he asked.

  She leaned forward as if she didn’t want anyone else to hear what she was about to say. “My father and I have met with a very important American agent,” she said. “He says if I win one gold, he can make me ten million American dollars next year. Two gold and it will be much more.”

  Since he already knew who the agent was, Stevie didn’t ask for a name, though he noted they were promising a lot more money to Krylova than to Susan Carol. Instead, he nodded and said, “Wow,” intentionally using a word he usually tried to avoid.

  She nodded just as eagerly. “Yes, and I know he is telling the truth. Already one very important company has told my father if I win gold, they are willing to pay me into the millions.”

  That name Stevie really wanted to know. His first guess was Nike. Speedo already had Phelps, Susan Carol, Lochte, and Coughlin, so they seemed less likely.

  “Wow, that’s amazing,” he said again. Then, as casually as possible, added, “Which company?”

  She looked around again. “If I tell you this, you must not put it into your newspaper,” she said. “They would be very mad, I think.”

  Stevie looked around too. “I promise,” he said, since he had no interest in naming the company in print at this point.

  “It is Brickley,” she said. “They want to go international, and the man we talked to says I will be their …” She paused looking for a phrase. “Poster girl.”

  Stevie was stunned. He had read about Brickley changing its name from Brickley Shoes to just Brickley to be more like Nike and Adidas and Reebok. He knew they were trying to expand out of the basketball world, where the company had started, but he had no idea they were thinkin
g about swimming or any Olympic sport or that they wanted to recruit international athletes.

  “That’s really interesting,” Stevie said. “I thought Brickley was mostly a sneaker company.”

  “But they are expanding. Clothing, swimwear … big exposure.” Svetlana smiled.

  “Wow,” Stevie said again, thinking three wows should definitely be his limit. “So, did you meet with the Brickley people here?” he asked.

  “Yes, when we were still training north of London,” she said. “Mr. Maurice came to our practice one day and then he had lunch with us when it was over.”

  The name Maurice rang a distant bell in Stevie’s memory. Then it came to him: New Orleans, the Final Four. He had been the Brickley rep who was hovering around Chip Graber, then the star player at Minnesota State, now the point guard for the Minnesota Timberwolves. And, Stevie just remembered, a member of the US Olympic basketball team. That could be helpful. But he had to concentrate on this conversation now.

  “Bobby Maurice?” he said. “Is that who you met with?”

  She looked surprised. “He called himself Robert,” she said. “But in the US that name becomes Bobby sometimes, no? How are you knowing him?”

  Stevie said, “I’ve met him covering basketball.”

  “Oh yes, that’s right,” she said. “He said he was a basketball person until he was promoted to this new job.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know he had a new job.”

  “Yes. I don’t remember the exact title, but he is in charge of finding international athletes to promote Brickley around the world. They want to sign two or three athletes here and start something they will call the Brickley Gold Line.”

  “Ah. So they must want athletes they think will win gold—like you.”

  She smiled. “I guess so.”

  “Your agent must be pleased.…”

  She shook her head. “I don’t have an American agent yet, remember? I only spoke to one. Mr. Maurice asked us not to mention it to anyone. He doesn’t want anyone talking about it until my events are over.”

  She reached across the table and put her hand on his. “I can trust you?” she said. “You won’t tell anyone? Even Evelyn?”

  This was getting more intriguing by the minute. “Of course,” he said, feeling just a little bit guilty. “This is totally off the record.” As he didn’t want to print what she said, he wasn’t strictly lying.

  Strictly.

  He parted ways with Krylova outside the dining hall. She said she was going to walk over to the village souvenir store to see if there were people around, trading pins. Stevie knew from some of his pre-Olympics research that pin-trading was a very big deal at the Olympics—even among the athletes. Stevie thanked her, repeated his promise not to write or say anything about the Brickley deal, and headed off to find Susan Carol so he could break that promise as soon as possible.

  He texted Susan Carol, who said she would meet him outside her building. It was a warm day, the morning’s drizzle had cleared away, and Stevie took a minute to look around in wonder—he was in an Olympic village! In London! He was rounding the corner onto Susan Carol’s square when he heard someone behind him calling his name.

  “Mr. Thomas!”

  The tone, even in just two words, was clearly unfriendly. Stevie turned to see Peter Brooks, the IOC Communications guy, walking briskly in his direction, talking into a walkie-talkie. This wasn’t going to be good.

  “Mr. Thomas,” Brooks repeated as he reached Stevie. “I’m informed you were just seen in the dining area with”—he stopped to look down at a piece of paper in his hand—“Svetlana Krylova of the Russian swim team.”

  He mispronounced her name, calling her Kree-lova. Instinctively, Stevie corrected him. “It’s Krylova as in ‘cry like a baby,’ ” he said.

  Brooks’s eyes narrowed. “You can pronounce it any way you like,” he said. “According to your request for access, you were to see”—he looked down at the paper again—“S. C. Anderson and Evelyn Rubin.”

  “I saw Ms. Rubin earlier and I’m on my way to see Ms. Anderson,” Stevie said. Looking across the plaza, Stevie could see Susan Carol coming out the door. “Look, there’s Ms. Anderson right now.”

  Brooks was shaking his head so emphatically Stevie thought it might fall off.

  “No, no, you are missing the point,” he said. “You have broken two rules. One, you are walking around in here unaccompanied, which you know is forbidden. And two, you were talking to an athlete you did not make a request to interview.”

  “But I did,” Stevie said. “I asked her if I could interview her, and she said yes.”

  He was going to play this as dumb as he possibly could. If he was going to go down, he might as well get to see Brooks’s head explode too. Even so, his heart was pounding. If he lost his credential, he was in big trouble.

  Susan Carol arrived on the scene. “Is there a problem here, Mr. Brooks?” she said—somehow remembering his name. “I was just comin’ to meet Mr. Thomas for our interview and saw you talkin’ to him.”

  She was in full Scarlett O’Hara, the drawl rolling off her lips, The Smile somehow brightening the already-sunny day. But if there was a human being on earth who might not be charmed by Scarlett, this was the guy.

  And yet, when he looked at Susan Carol, smiling brightly, dressed in a USA T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, looking about as close to the ideal all-American girl as you could get, even Peter Brooks melted just a little.

  “Ms. Anderson, I’m afraid there is a bit of a problem,” he said. “Mr. Thomas has been flouting the rules—interviewing another athlete without authorization, walking around the village unaccompanied—”

  Susan Carol interrupted by shaking her head and putting her hand on Brooks’s arm. “Oh, Mr. Brooks, I do apologize,” she said. “It’s really my fault. I had to go to my room to do a couple of interviews back home that USA Swimming asked me to do? And Steve hadn’t eaten, so I asked my friend Svetlana to take him over to the dinin’ hall while I finished up. I hope you’ll forgive me. He was just doin’ what I asked him to do.”

  Brooks was clearly confused. On the one hand, he had Stevie dead to rights and was very much looking forward to taking him by the arm and escorting him to the gate and perhaps stripping him of his credential altogether. On the other hand, here was this charming girl—one of the athletes, no less—giving him this big smile and saying she was the one who had gotten it all wrong.

  “All right, then, all right,” Brooks finally said, digging deep for his inner bureaucrat even as he continued to look dazzled by Susan Carol. “Since Ms. Anderson has vouched for you, Mr. Thomas, I will let you go with a warning one time. If there is a repeat of this sort of behavior, I promise you there will be repercussions regardless of explanation.”

  “Oh, thank you for understandin’,” Susan Carol said, patting him effusively on the shoulder all the while giving Stevie a look that said, “Back me up here, pal.”

  This was actually harder for Stevie than trying to be charming. But he managed to say, “Yes, thank you. I didn’t realize it was such a big deal, but I see now that it is. It won’t happen again.”

  Brooks gave them both a curt nod and turned on his heel. Susan Carol had her hands on her hips.

  “I declare, Steven Richman Thomas, you can find trouble—”

  “I was carrying out your plan, remember?” he said.

  She waved a hand. “Yes, well. Shall we find Evelyn so you can fill us in?”

  “There’s one other person we need to find,” he said.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Chip Graber.”

  She gave him a look, said nothing, and waved at him to follow her. The village had become crowded. They needed to find a quiet place to talk.

  They met in the suite that Evelyn was “sharing” with Venus and Serena Williams. The two sisters were going to be staying at The Savoy when they got to London, so Evelyn had the entire place to herself.

  The problem was getting Stev
ie into the building. Only athletes, coaches, and family were allowed in. Evelyn explained to the guard on her door that, even though Stevie had a media badge, he was her cousin. Another lie, and so soon after they’d promised Peter Brooks to be good … Oh, well.

  Stevie filled the two girls in on what Krylova had told him about Brickley.

  “So is Chip still with Brickley?” Susan Carol asked.

  “Definitely,” Stevie said. “There was a story in the Minneapolis paper a few weeks ago that kind of went national. Apparently Brickley wanted him to pull a Michael Jordan and wrap himself in the American flag if the US wins, and he said he wouldn’t do it.”

  He was surprised that he knew something Susan Carol didn’t. Then again, her life had been a bit hectic the past few months.

  “What is pulling a Michael Jordan?” Evelyn asked.

  “Back in ’92, the first year NBA players were allowed to play in the Olympics—the year of the original Dream Team—the USOC had a contract with Reebok that said all the American players had to wear Reebok sweats during medal ceremonies. But Jordan had his own contract with Nike and didn’t want to be seen wearing a Reebok logo. So Jordan accepted his medal with an American flag draped over his shoulders to cover it up. And he got the rest of the team to go along with him.”

  “It was pretty cheesy,” Susan Carol said.

  “We weren’t even born,” Stevie answered.

  “I’ve seen tape,” she said.

  Of course she had.

  “The point is, Chip may be able to tell us more about Robert Maurice, as he now calls himself. He was the one who recruited Chip in the first place.”

  “Yeah, I guess Bobby Mo doesn’t sound quite as international,” she said.

  “So our next problem is finding Chip. I know the American basketball players aren’t staying in the village,” Stevie said.

  “Probably they’re in the most expensive hotel London’s got,” Susan Carol said.

  “That would be the Wyndham Grand,” said Evelyn, “I think it’s the only five-star hotel in London. It’s where all the top players stay during Wimbledon. It’s elegant, right on the river, and near lots of good restaurants.”