Trouble in Mind: The Collected Stories, Volume 3

THE COMPETITORS

Olympic stadiums are unlike any other structures on earth.

From the 1936 sports complex in Berlin to the 1976 Montreal games’ soaring edifice, taller than the Washington Monument…all such stadiums exude true magnificence, each a testament to a pivotal moment in human history.

The power, though, derives less from architecture than from the spirit of competitions past and competitions to come, an energy filling the massive spaces like the cries of spectators. An Olympic stadium is where you test yourself against your fellow man. For that defines human nature.

This philosophical thought was going through the mind of Yuri Umarov as he gazed at the world’s most recent Olympic stadium, brilliantly conceived to resemble a bird’s nest, its image rippling in the heat.

Yuri, sitting, coated in sweat, beside the cinder track of a Beijing high school, where, along with dozens of other people — local and international — he’d been working out all morning.

Competition. Winning. Bringing glory to your countrymen.

He felt this spirit now, this energy.

Though he also felt exhausted. And the glory he sought seemed extremely elusive. His legs and side hurt from pounding along the track the hundredth time since 5 a.m. His lungs hurt from inhaling the thick air. The government here had supposedly been working to cleanse the atmosphere but to Yuri, a country boy from the mountains, it was like training in a roomful of smokers.

He looked up and saw his mentor approach.

Gregor Dallayev, white haired, twice his age, walked briskly. Still athletic himself, the man, who sported a massive mustache, was wearing white slacks and a dark shirt with a collar. Sweat stains blossomed under his arms, but he appeared otherwise unmoved by the fierce summer heat.

He was also unmoved by Yuri’s performance.

“You are sitting down,” Gregor said impatiently in Russian.

Yuri stood immediately. He took the water the man held and drank half down, then poured the rest on his head and shoulders. He was breathing harder than he needed to, trying to convince the older man that he was truly exhausted. Gregor’s sharp eye studied the athlete with a look that said, “Don’t try to fool me. I’ve seen that before.”

“That last run was not acceptable.” He held up a stopwatch. “Look at that time.”

Sweat clouded Yuri’s eyes and he could hardly see the watch itself, much less the digital numbers.

“I was…” Yuri was going to come up with an excuse, a cramp, a slippery patch of cinders. But Gregor would not accept excuses from anyone. And in fact they tasted bad in Yuri’s mouth, too. Such was his upbringing and training, during his nineteen years of life. “I’m sorry.”

Gregor, though, relented, smiling. “Beastly sun. Not like home.”

“No, sir. It’s not like home at all.”

Then, as they walked back to the starting line, Gregor was once again the taskmaster. “Do you know what your problem is?”

There were undoubtedly many of them. Yuri found it easier to say, “No, sir.”

His mentor said softly, “You are not seeing the second ribbon.”

“The second ribbon?”

Gregor nodded. “In there,” he said, nodding at the stadium sitting in the hazy sun, “in there, the best runners will not be running to break the tape with their chests at the finish line.”

“They won’t?”

“No!” the mentor scoffed. “They will not even see the tape. They won’t even see the finish line. They will be concentrating on the second ribbon.”

“Where is the second ribbon, sir?”

“It is beyond the finish line. Maybe ten feet, maybe twenty. Maybe one.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen it.”

“You don’t see it, not with your eyes. You see it in here.” He touched his chest. “In your heart.”

Yuri waited for him to finish, as he knew the older man would.

“That is the ribbon you must reach. It’s the goal beyond the goal. See, inferior runners will slow as they approach the end of the race. But you won’t. You will continue on faster and faster, even though you can go no faster. You must pass through the finish line as if it’s not there and fly straight to the second ribbon.”

“I think I understand, sir.”

Gregor looked at him closely. “Yes, I think you do. Tomorrow, any time over thirty seconds is failure. Your whole journey here will have been wasted. You don’t wish to disgrace yourself and your country, do you?”

“Of course not, sir.”

“Good. Let’s try it again. Your last run was thirty-one point two seconds. That’s not enough. Now, take your mark. And this time, run for the second ribbon.”

Billy Savitch was the youngest on the American team.

In his thin nylon running suit, emblazoned with the tricolor U.S. flag, he was wandering around the American compound, nodding hello to the athletes he knew, pausing to chat with the staff. And ignoring the flirts from the girls. Billy had no interest in them but you could understand why they’d smile his way. He was rugged and handsome and charming. With his crew cut and sharp eyes and chiseled face he looked like a cowboy — which they still had a fair amount of in his home state of Texas.

This was the second time he’d been out of the country and the first time to the Olympics, though, of course, he watched the games every four years — in the past on the big screen TV at his parents’ house and, the last one, on his very small screen TV, in the house that he shared with his wife and baby daughter.

And, my God, just think about it. Here he was in China, part of the most famous sporting event of the world. It was the best thing that had happened to him ever, short of being a husband and father.

Though there was a bit of a taint on the experience.

His junior status. He was just a green kid. And, as an all-star running back on his team at home, it was hard for him to be relegated to the bottom of the barrel. Not that his colleagues didn’t treat him politely. It’s just that they rarely even noticed him.

Tomorrow was the start of the games and he knew he’d be virtually ignored.

He shouldn’t complain. But he was ambitious and had a restless streak about him — that’s what had driven him here in the first place. Doing what he believed he was meant to do.

He lifted the bottle of water to his lips and drank a huge amount. He looked at his watch. In a half hour he could get into the gym and work out. He was looking forward to it. He’d worked out for two hours yesterday and he’d work out for two hours again today. His arms were solid as steel, his legs, too.

“Savitch!”

He turned immediately, hearing the voice of the man who was responsible for his being here.

Muscular and with a narrow, etched face, Frederick Alston strode quickly over the grass. That was one thing about him. He never made you come to him. He had that kind of confidence. He could walk right up to you and you’d still feel you’d been summoned. Despite the heat, he wore a suit and tie — which he always did. Whatever the weather, whatever the occasion.

Alston stopped and looked him over. The young man didn’t expect a long conversation; that wasn’t Alston’s way. While some directors here would micromanage and look over the shoulder of their teams, Alston didn’t. If you couldn’t pull your share, you were out. Just like that.

And in fact this encounter was brief.

What did surprise — no, shock — Billy, though, was the content of the short exchange.

“I think you’re ready to go on the field. Are you?”

“Ready to what?”

“Are you ready to go on the field?” Alston repeated, seemingly irritated that he had to.

“Yessir.”

“Good. Tomorrow. Nine a.m.”

“Opening day?” Billy blurted.

Alston’s mouth tightened. “When is opening day?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Then I guess that’s what I mean.” He started away. Then stopped. “One thing, Savitch?”

“Yessir?”

“Don’t screw up.”

“No, sir.”

And with that his only advice, Alston turned, walking away briskly, leaving the young man standing beside a practice track, sweating in sunlight as strong and hot as anything Texas had ever produced.

Ch’ao Yuan was in his forties, a solid man with lotioned hair, cut short. He was wearing a dark suit and white shirt. He was a government bureaucrat, former Communist Party official, and presently the head of security at the stadium. He was one of a half-dozen such security officers — as with all Olympics, there were dozens of venues around the city — but he knew that his was the most prestigious of the assignments. And the most stressful. The big bird nest would be the target for enemies, of which his country had more than a few.

Not to mention the Israelis and Americans and Iranians.

And the Iraqis…Oh, please.

Now, late afternoon before the first day of games, he was sitting in a modest room in one of the many temporary office buildings constructed for the Olympics. (The games, Ch’ao had learned, were partly athletic, but mostly business, which meant paperwork.)

He was sitting forward, looking over his computer on which was a decrypted email, which had been sent to him from an internal intelligence contact. He’d read it once. And now he was reading it again.

Trying to figure out where this fell on the scale of dangers.

Security for the event was, of course, intense.

There were a number of systems in place. A security fence perimeter around the stadium. Passes with computer chips embedded in them. Fingerprint detectors, iris scanners. Metal detectors, of course, as well as bomb sniffers — dogs and machines at entryways. Alarms on all the service doors. Automatic backup generators that took only thirty seconds to kick in and could support the entire power requirements of the stadium. And there were backups on those.

Ch’ao had five hundred security officers at his disposal.

He was confident of the protective measures that had been taken.

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 his 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 metal 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.

The Americans were next to a large group of Russians. Most of the team, it seemed. They were waiting to have their picture taken by a Chinese photographer. There was also a video crew here and an interpreter; they were doing interviews with certain athletes.

Billy stayed close to the Americans, many of whom were walking over to their Russian competitors and shaking hands. Wishing them good luck.

Yet never shucking that certain ruthlessness of eye.

He wondered if he, too, looked ruthless.

He heard the announcer repeat that the power failure had been due to a technical problem. The evasive language of all governments. They apologized for the inconvenience.

A Russian nodded to him and said to a lean U.S. athlete nearby, “What’s your event, my friend?”

“I’m a sprinter,” the American said. “Hundred meters is my main event.”

“A sprinter?” The Russian looked at him with a gaze of wistfulness. “I envy that. You are a hawk. Me, a plodding ostrich! I run long distances. When do you compete?”

“In an hour.”

“You must be impatient.”

“Yeah, some. But this isn’t about me. It’s about the team.”

The Russian laughed. “Spoken like a good Communist.”

The two men laughed.

Billy joined them as he viewed another Russian athlete, slim with slicked-back dark hair, walking toward them from the stands, his bag over his shoulder. He had a pleasant smile on his face as he surveyed the field around him. He headed straight for the Russians at the photography station.

“Where are you from?” the first Russian asked Billy. “Your voice.”

“Texas.”

“Ah. The stars at night.” The man clapped his hands four times.

Drawing another laugh from Billy.

One of the Russian coaches announced something — presumably it was time for the pictures because the men and women began clustering around the photographer. The long-distance runner said, “Come with me, my cowboy friend. You and your colleague. I want you both in the picture, too.”

“Us?” Billy asked.

The man’s eyes sparkled. “Yes, so you’ll have something to remember our victory over you.”

Yuri was twenty feet away from the dignitary box, which was draped in red in honor of the host country and blue and white in honor of the birthplace of the games. He noted that the photographer was set up. The video camera, too. And a number of Americans were mingling with the Russians. Young men and women, happy to be here, thrilled.

If they only knew what the next few minutes would bring. A shattering explosion, ball bearings and nails tearing skin, piercing their highly tuned bodies.

He looked around. There were guards in the stands and some near the doors, but none here.

He was, as the Americans said, home free.

When he was ten feet away he’d detonate the device, he decided. That would be plenty close enough.

He swung the bag under his arm and began to unzip to pull out the detonator.

As he was doing this he glanced at someone nearby, looking at him, someone with the American team, wearing a running suit. He was a young man, blond. He was rubbing his crew-cut head.

But not only rubbing his head, Yuri realized to his shock. He was speaking into a microphone at his wrist.

His eyes met the blond American’s.

Yuri froze. Then frantically began to reach into his bag for the detonator button.

Which was when the young American drew a pistol from his windbreaker, aimed it at Yuri’s head. People screamed and dove for the ground.

Yuri went for the button.

He saw a flash, but not from the explosive. It was from the hand of the young American.

And then he saw nothing.

Frederick Alston and Billy Savitch were standing in the office of Security Chief Ch’ao.

Billy thought he looked a little like Jackie Chan, but he didn’t think it would be a good idea to say that. You had to be careful about accidental insults over here, he’d learned.

“I’m so very grateful to you both,” Ch’ao said, rising and clasping their hands in both of his.

Billy nodded, looking like the bashful Southern boy that he was. Secretly he, too, was grateful. As the junior member of the U.S. State Department Security Team, which Alston headed, he’d never expected to be on the front line of an operation here. He expected he’d continue to do what he’d been doing since he’d arrived: checking IDs, standing on rooftops with a machine gun, checking cars, sweeping bedrooms.

But Alston had had enough confidence in Billy to put him to work in the stadium.

I think you’re ready to go on the field…

“How did you know that the man was a terrorist?” Ch’ao asked him.

“I didn’t know, not at first. But I’d studied all the entrances and exits of the stadium and players were never in the part of the stands where he was coming from. You can’t get to that place from the competitors’ entrance. Why would he come from that direction? And he was carrying his sports bag. None of the other players on the field had bags; they were all in the locker rooms.” Billy shrugged. “Then I looked into his eyes. And I knew.”

“Who was he?” Alston asked.

“Yuri Umarov. Lived outside of Grozny. He came into Beijing with Gregor Dallayev last week. They’ve been training ever since, making the bomb, surveying the grounds and security.”

“Dallayev, sure.” Alston nodded. “The separatist guerrilla. We think he was involved in the Moscow subway attack last year.”

“We’ll be able to find out for certain,” the Chinese man said with a smile. “He’s in custody.”

Billy asked, “What was their plan exactly?”

Ch’ao explained, “They made connections with a cell of Uyghur terrorists and promised them thirty kilos of plastic explosive to use as they wished, as long as it disrupted the games. A Uyghur picked up the explosives at a drop site near Chaoyang Park this morning. It was that green Chevy I told you about. He drove to a meeting place not far from the stadium. We think that he believed he was meeting an intermediary to pick up detonators. But the explosive was already rigged to blow remotely. We had that tip early about explosives in a green Chevy—”

“Which Gregor called in?” Alston asked.

“Yes, I’m sure. So as soon as the Uyghur parked near the electrical relay station Gregor then made another anonymous call and reported the green car. When the police arrived, Gregor blew the car up with a remote control…And that took out the power station next to it.”

“So that was the point of meeting there,” Alston said. “A cover to take out the electricity.”

“That’s right. It shut down the alarm system temporarily and gave Yuri a chance to get inside.”

Alston added, “We heard from Washington that your government wanted to end it right there — with the Uyghur’s death. But you called us to say there was more of a threat. How’d you know that?”

“Just like you”—a nod at Billy Savitch—“I didn’t know. But I suspected. I play go. Do you know it?”

“Never heard of it,” Billy said. Alston, too, shook his head.

“It’s our version of chess. Only better, of course.” He didn’t seem to be making a joke. “I look forward when I play the game. You must always look forward to beat your opponent at go. You must see beyond the board. Well, I looked forward today. Yes, the explosion could have been an accident. But looking forward, I believed it could be an excellent diversion.”

His phone buzzed. There was a rattle of Chinese. Ch’ao grimaced. Said something back. Hung up.

Man, they talked fast in this country, Billy thought.

“Something wrong?” Alston asked.

“I would like to ask a favor.”

“Sure.”

“There will be a man here in a few minutes. His name is Mr. Liu. He…well, shall I say, he is not a forward thinker. I promised him that I would not alert the security forces that there might be another threat…”

“Politics, huh?” Alston asked.

“Precisely.”

“Fine with us.” He looked at Billy. “Savitch here acted on his own initiative.”

“Yessir.”

“Thank you.”

Then in the distance a huge round of cheering and applause rose from the bird nest.

Ch’ao looked at his watch and then consulted a schedule. “Ah, the first events are over. They’re awarding the medals. Let me find out the results.” He made a call and spoke in that explosive way of his. He nodded, then hung up.

“Who won the gold?” Billy asked.

Ch’ao only smiled.