Rush for the Gold: Mystery at the Olympics

by John Feinstein

  The security outside the Wyndham Grand looked a lot like the security had looked at the Olympic Stadium the previous night. For a second, Stevie wondered if the queen might be coming to have breakfast. When the doorman opened the cab door for Stevie, his first comment wasn’t “good morning” or “welcome,” the way it always was at the Gloucester, but “hotel guest?”

  Stevie paid the cabdriver and flashed the family pin at the doorman, who said, “Of course, sir. You can go right inside. Just show the pin to the gentleman inside the door.”

  Stevie actually had to show the pin twice more before he was safely in the lobby, where Chip was waiting for him.

  “Little tired this morning?” Chip said, seeing the look on Stevie’s face.

  “I’m okay,” Stevie said. “It’s just like walking the gauntlet getting in here.”

  Chip laughed. “You’re in the inner sanctum now, man. Come on, let’s go to the restaurant in back.”

  The restaurant had a spectacular view of Chelsea Harbor and beyond to the Thames River. It was early enough that the restaurant wasn’t crowded yet, so they were given a table near a window. There seemed to be about four waiters for every table, so they ordered quickly.

  Stevie asked Chip if he was surprised he had made the team given that just about everyone else on the roster had been an All-Star forever and in some cases—Bryant, James, Durant, Dwyane Wade, Dwight Howard—were probably lock Hall of Famers.

  “Yes and no,” Chip said. “Clearly I’m not in the same class with some of those guys—most of those guys, maybe all of those guys. But I knew Krzyzewski wanted someone on the team who would distribute the ball on offense and didn’t mind being an attack dog on defense. I don’t have to score a point to make him happy. I just have to keep all the other scorers happy.”

  “Not so easy, I’d think,” Stevie said.

  “Not as hard as you might think either,” Chip said. “These guys know that being unselfish worked in ’08, and they want to win. Sharing the ball is the best way to win.”

  He poured coffee from the pot they had ordered. “So, tell me what’s going on and how I can help.”

  Stevie added milk and sugar to his coffee, took a long sip, and told Chip the whole story, dating back to Charlotte. When he finished, Chip shook his head in disbelief.

  “Wow,” he said. “I feel for Susan Carol. It’s one thing if an agent is pushing you around, or a shoe guy or officials. But her father? That hurts.”

  “Well, I think the whole aborted coach-swap thing opened his eyes a little. But Susan Carol still seems like things aren’t totally fine.…”

  Chip frowned. “My guess is he’s just overwhelmed by what this could mean financially. Now, the agent and Bobby Mo—”

  “What do you know about Bobby Mo?”

  “Enough to know he’s not to be trusted.”

  “But you’re with Brickley.”

  Chip shrugged. “I have to be with someone, and Bobby Mo always seemed like a relatively small fish. Plus, it isn’t like the other companies are run by Mother Teresa’s protégés. They’re all pretty much the same. You’re talking about people who pay middle school kids, or at least pay their parents, to get them to play on AAU teams they sponsor.”

  Stevie sat back as the waiter delivered his eggs, toast, and bacon. Chip had asked for French toast. When he saw his eggs and Chip’s French toast, he knew he’d ordered the wrong thing.

  “That looks good,” he said.

  “Go ahead and order some,” Chip said.

  “But they’ll charge us. This is fine.”

  Chip laughed. “Stevie, my salary for next season is eight and a half million dollars. I can swing an extra breakfast.”

  Stevie wasn’t going to argue. He called the waiter back and asked for French toast.

  “Something wrong?” the waiter asked.

  “No, it’s just that the French toast looks really good.”

  The waiter gave him a look that screamed “spoiled American teenager!” but took his plate away.

  Stevie was about to ask Chip more about Bobby Mo when he heard footsteps behind him. He looked up to see an extremely tall man with blond hair and an easy smile approaching with a boy who looked to be about twelve.

  “Chip, you certainly seem relaxed,” the man said as he reached the table.

  Graber laughed and said, “Mark, you played long enough to know a game-face can be hidden.”

  “Especially when you’re playing Angola, right?” the man said.

  Chip nodded. “Steve Thomas, this is Mark Alarie and his son, Christian.”

  Stevie stood up to shake hands and immediately wanted to sit down again. Mark Alarie was at least six-foot-eight.

  “Mark was on Coach K’s first great team at Duke back in ’86. First round draft pick that year. Of course the real talent in the family is Christian. Right, Christian?”

  Christian Alarie wasn’t interested in talking about his own game.

  “How many do you think you’ll score today, Chip?” he asked.

  “Not as many as Kobe or LeBron,” Chip laughed.

  “Yeah, but they’re nothing without you,” Christian said. “You set up the offense.”

  “Mark, your son is obviously a basketball genius,” Chip said.

  “He’s got a point guard’s mentality in a power forward’s body,” Mark Alarie said. “Just like his dad.”

  “As I recall, his dad shot it pretty well,” Chip said.

  “I’m a good shooter too,” Christian Alarie said. “But Coach K told me I better learn to pass.”

  “Good advice,” Chip said. “You’ll never go wrong if you listen to Coach K.”

  Stevie groaned. “Now you sound like Susan Carol.”

  Chip was laughing. “You’ll have to excuse Stevie—unlike his friend Susan Carol, he’s not such a Duke fan.”

  Mark Alarie looked shocked. “Say it ain’t so, Steve! It’s never a good idea to bet against K. Did you know that David Falk is out in the lobby right now telling everyone he’s going to put together some kind of joint deal for Coach K and Susan Carol since she’s such a big fan?”

  Now Stevie and Chip both groaned. “Oh God. Will these agents stop at nothing?” asked Chip.

  “Obvioulsy not,” Alarie said. “Come on, Christian. Let’s get some breakfast.”

  But Christian was still eyeing Stevie suspiciously. “You’re not a Duke fan?”

  “It’s okay,” Mark Alarie said. “We’re happy to meet him anyway. Chip, we’ll see you at shoot around. Coach K invited Christian.”

  They all said their goodbyes, but as the Alaries walked away, Stevie heard Christian whispering to his dad again, “What do you mean he’s not a Duke fan?”

  “He really was a great player,” Chip said. “Would have played fifteen years in the NBA if he hadn’t gotten hurt.”

  Stevie’s French toast arrived then and after the two of them had dug in, Chip said, “But back to Bobby Mo. Lately he seems to have grown into a much bigger fish. Their competitors have cashed in big-time overseas. Brickley hasn’t yet, and they’ve put Maurice in charge of getting their name out over here.”

  “And Svetlana Krylova is who he’s betting on?”

  Chip shrugged. “I don’t know what his plan is. But she’s certainly got the looks. You said she speaks good English, so they can market her here and in the States. But no matter how good-looking she is or smart or articulate, she’s not going to move product with a silver or bronze medal dangling from her neck.”

  “Yeah, well, if Bobby Mo is recruiting athletes for something called the Gold Line, I guess a silver medal won’t do it,” Stevie said.

  “Exactly,” Chip said. “You have to figure he’s scoping out the gymnasts and the runners too. The tennis players are all locked up. But he really only needs two or three athletes as long as they’re the right ones.”

  “Krylova’s hardly a lock to win,” Stevie said. “I mean in the 100, you’ve got Susan Carol and this girl Elizabeth Wentworth, not
to mention Sarah Sjöström, who may be better than all of them. And in the 200 you’ve got Susan Carol and Elizabeth and the Chinese woman, Liu.”

  “The fact that you know this much about swimming scares me a little bit,” Chip said.

  “I know a lot about Susan Carol’s events,” he said.

  “In that case, it’s okay.” Chip laughed. “So if you’re right and Krylova’s no lock to win, then Bobby Mo must have something more up his sleeve. Maybe the reason he wants to keep his talks with Krylova secret is that he’s selling the same dream to other swimmers too. Whoever comes out of here as the biggest star gets the biggest Brickley contract.”

  “He hasn’t talked to Susan Carol.”

  “Are you sure?” Chip said. “He may have talked to the agents or to her father. Or both.”

  Stevie hadn’t thought of that. “But how would Susan Carol get him into Europe?” he asked.

  “Yeah, it’s a stretch,” Graber said. “But in case you hadn’t noticed, your girlfriend’s a knockout too. You’re right, though—Krylova is the ideal winner for Bobby Mo.”

  “So what can I do?” Stevie asked.

  “First, eat your French toast. Second, keep an eye on the agents and Reverend Anderson. They might do something that tells you what’s going on. And I’ll poke around with Bobby Mo. Keeping secrets isn’t his best thing. So if I find anything out, I’ll let you know.”

  Stevie decided to take Chip’s advice. He devoured his French toast.

  * * *

  Susan Carol was amazed how calm she felt before her first race as an Olympian.

  It had been after midnight by the time she got back to the athletes’ village, but she’d slept more soundly than any night since she’d been in London. She and Elizabeth Wentworth met Ed Brennan for breakfast, and then he had driven them to the swimming venue in one of the official vans the coaches had been given by USA Swimming.

  Even after swimming in the practice pools for several days, Susan Carol was still awed by the sheer size of the building. It held two fifty-meter pools—one for warm-ups and one for competition—along with a twenty-five-meter diving pool and seating for 17,500 spectators. The building had an enormous swaybacked roof, and there was actually a bridge over part of the building that people used to walk into the Olympic Park, so it was like the gateway to the Games. Everywhere she looked, there were people in action.

  “We’re a long way from Goldsboro High School,” she said to Ed as they approached the entrance. They had left extra time to go through security, but there was almost no one ahead of them, so they breezed right through.

  “How do you feel?” Ed asked.

  “Actually, I feel great,” she said. “Maybe I’ll get nervous on the blocks or something, but right now, I’m just excited.”

  He nodded. “Good. You look more relaxed. I’m not sure why, but I’m not complaining.”

  Ed saw both swimmers safely to the locker rooms and then went out on deck to wait.

  As Susan Carol changed in the crowded locker room—there were three events going on for women with about eighty swimmers entered in each—she felt much the same as she had the night before: proud to be there. This wasn’t a locker room full of age-group swimmers back in North Carolina. These were Olympians, and she was one of them.

  The only bad moment of the morning came when she walked onto the deck headed for the warm-up pool and saw J. P. Scott walking in her direction. Not now, she said to herself. Scott was waving as if they were meeting for a friendly lunch.

  “How do you feel?” he said, giving her an awkward hug.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “What are you doing on deck?”

  “Oh, I have friends in the right places,” he said. His credential said USA SWIMMING on it. “I’m working on getting one for your dad too.”

  “Please don’t,” she said. “Just let my dad sit in the stands like he always does. I need some space.”

  “Come on, Susan Carol, lighten up,” he said. “Try remembering we’re all on the same team.”

  She had a lot of answers for that but—fortunately—Ed showed up, waving a hand at her. “You need to get in the water, no time for small talk,” he said.

  She left J.P. without another word, wondering who from USA Swimming had given him a credential to get on the deck and whether she could get it revoked without causing a major scene. The swimmers had been told on a daily basis how tight space on the deck was going to be, especially during the heats.

  Fortunately, J.P. went straight out of her mind as soon as she slipped into the water. She knew she had hit her taper perfectly: She was rested and strong and completely ready to swim. Ed wanted her to swim 1,500 meters to get loose. By the time she flipped after her first easy 100, she was ready to get on the blocks and go.

  She went through her entire warm-up routine, pausing on the wall a couple of times to chat with Elizabeth, who also seemed to be enjoying the experience. As she was finishing, she noticed Svetlana Krylova one lane over, relaxing on the wall.

  “Good luck,” she said with a wave.

  “To you too,” Krylova said. “Today we can hope each other swims fast. It is tomorrow when it gets serious.”

  “It’s the Olympics,” Susan Carol said. “It’s all serious—but fun too.”

  Krylova shook her head. “There is nothing fun when millions of dollars are at stake.”

  Susan Carol just smiled and pushed off with another quick wave, ducking her head under the water. But she thought about what Svetlana had said. Clearly someone—or perhaps several someones—had made it clear that there were huge contracts riding on her performances over the next few days. Susan Carol willed herself back to the atmosphere of the opening ceremony. The Olympics hadn’t felt like a giant money grab then. Those were the Games she wanted to play in.

  All she wanted to do now was swim the best races of her life. If she could do that, she’d walk away happy.

  Stevie was a lot more nervous at that moment than Susan Carol. He was sitting with Kelleher and Mearns, filling them in on his breakfast with Chip.

  “Sounds like Chip thinks Maurice isn’t exactly an upstanding guy,” Kelleher said.

  “No doubt,” Stevie said. “But what can he do, really? This isn’t like the Final Four, where you can blackmail someone to throw a game.”

  “Why go all the way to blackmail?” Tamara said. “How about a simple bribe?”

  “Could you really bribe an Olympian … to lose?” Stevie couldn’t quite imagine it.

  The last heat of the men’s 400 IM was in the water. The place had gotten loud because Ryan Lochte was blowing away the other seven swimmers and wasn’t that far off Phelps’s world record as he started the freestyle leg.

  “And where does Lightning Fast fit in?” Stevie asked. “Are they working with Maurice?”

  “Or against Maurice,” Kelleher put in.

  They sat in silence while Lochte finished his race, coming up less than a second shy of the world record.

  “Too bad Phelps decided not to swim this,” Tamara said. “That would have been a great race to see.”

  The announcer was saying something about a short break before the heats began for the women’s 100 butterfly. There would be eleven heats, and Susan Carol was in the eighth.

  “Okay,” said Kelleher said once the PA had quieted. “Just speculating wildly … If I’m Bobby Maurice, the one swimmer I might be able to control is Wentworth. Her family’s not well off at all. And even if she wins both butterfly events, she isn’t going to make much money out of the water.”

  “She didn’t strike me as someone who could be bribed when I met her,” Stevie said.

  “Did Susan Carol’s father strike you as the type who could be snowed by an agent?” Kelleher said.

  “Good point,” Stevie said.

  Once they started, the 100-butterfly heats moved along quickly—it was such a fast race. Stevie heard heat seven being called to the blocks and suddenly felt nervous. He knew the heats shouldn’t be a pr
oblem for Susan Carol. All she had to do was be one of the sixteen fastest swimmers to make the semifinals. But this was it now—the real thing. In a race that was only about a minute long, one mistake or bad break—a poor start or turn, swallowing water, your goggles leaking—could knock you out.

  “I’m nervous,” Stevie said as the swimmers in heat seven approached the wall. He could see Susan Carol standing behind the lane-four block, shaking her arms to get loose.

  “She’ll be fine,” Kelleher said. “She’s always done her best swimming under pressure. I’ll bet that right now the water is where she feels most comfortable.”

  Then the seventh-heat swimmers were out of the water, and Stevie heard the whistle ordering the swimmers for heat eight onto the blocks. He looked around for a second. The massive building was full—even for the heats. There was media seating for about 500. The media section was less than half full. At night, when finals were being contested, he knew it would be packed.

  “Take your mark,” he heard the starter say, and then, almost instantly, he heard the beep for the start.

  Susan Carol arched her back gracefully leaving the block and seemed to slide into the water without making a splash. As always, she stayed underwater for several kicks. By the time she took her first stroke, she was in the lead. From there, she made it look easy. Stevie could tell she was on cruise control because her pullout from the turn was longer than usual, meaning she knew she had a comfortable lead.

  She splashed into the wall in 59.06, making her the first swimmer in the competition to break a minute. The smile on her face as she climbed out of the pool told Stevie she was satisfied and—like him—glad to have the first race out of the way.

  “She does the same thing tonight, she’ll be in perfect position for the final,” Tamara said.

  Stevie was texting Susan Carol during the final three heats. The biggest cheers were for Sarah Sjöström in heat nine, although Krylova got some serious whistles and hoots when she stepped onto the block, stretching her arms above her head in a way guaranteed to make sure everyone in the place noticed her. Sjöström, with nothing to prove, won her heat in 59:77. Elizabeth Wentworth also won her heat, going just a tad slower than Susan Carol: 59.22. The only one who posted a faster time than Susan Carol was Krylova, who charged home in 58.55, meaning she would be in lane four for the second heat that night with Wentworth next to her. Susan Carol would be in lane four of the first heat with Sjöström next to her. There seemed little doubt that the three medalists on Monday night would come from these four swimmers.