Chapter 14 #2
“Miles?” said Elki, who had the look of a strapping blond, rawhide-necklaced, cargo-shorted hiker in a Mentos commercial, along with something more tended to, by which I mean rich.
Rich kids, I’d noted, even with their shirttails out and their Nikes untied, are unmistakably confident that the car is waiting.
Elki said something into the phone, in Danish, ending the call.
“My father,” he told us, as he embraced Miles. Elki’s English was flawless. So many people in the Village were multilingual; only Americans neglected studying an array of languages. “So good to see you!”
“This is Sky, my alternate,” said Miles, and I gloried in my new name.
“Hey,” I said, because I was playing the role of a guy.
“Here we go,” said Elki. “It’s my last Games.”
“You’re gonna do great,” said Miles. “There’s video of you in the trials, killing it.”
“We’ll see. My father says I’m getting sloppy.”
“My dad says I need a haircut,” I mentioned, because my dad does always say this.
“You look fine,” said Elki, puzzled.
“Will we catch you tonight, after the opening?” asked Miles. “Isn’t there a bonfire?”
“I’ll try,” said Elki. “But my father says I need eight hours and thirty minutes of uninterrupted REM sleep every night or I’ll fall apart.”
I immediately worried, What if he has to pee? I decided maybe elite athletes are like astronauts, who wear special diapers. Thoughts like this are why I’m neither an elite athlete nor an astronaut.
“Got it!” said Miles, after one more hug. “Tonight.”
“Willkommen,” I said, realizing a split-second later that this was a German word and that I wasn’t talking to the decadent crowd at the Kit Kat Club.
“Was that okay?” I asked Miles, as we returned to our own dorm.
“All good,” said Miles. “Marcus?”
“Done,” said Marcus, from our headbands. “You got close enough so I could copy Elki’s phone, and his dad’s.”
Later that afternoon, our group took part in the opening ceremony at the main stadium.
The team of entrants from each country wore matching, distinctive outfits and carried small flags as everyone paraded around the track.
Close to five hundred US participants were present; Brock, Timothy, and I hung back, as many thousands of people, packing the stands, cheered vociferously for their countrymen and -women, as well as the full contingent of athletes.
As I waved, I was overcome with both patriotism and a love for humanity, since the Olympics, while competitive, was an occasion for so many nations to gather without warfare or hatred.
I didn’t quite belong, but I was swept up in the fervor.
“This is so cool!” said Timothy, merrily semaphoring with both arms. Timothy’s OnlyFans fame wouldn’t be a problem: other athletes had joined the app, because archery and lacrosse don’t pay the bills.
“This is major,” said Brock, and we both had tears in our eyes.
We were representing America and the Tuxes.
As soaringly triumphant Star Wars?meets?Oppenheimer music was piped in, composed for this day and heavy on the stirring brass and timpani, someone jostled me from behind, but as I turned, the next squadron was far off.
Once we were back in our rooms, I checked the pocket of my Team USA nylon jacket, with its oversized red, white, and blue diagonal stripes, and removed a note scrawled with “Danish locker room—midnight” and Elki’s initials.
Was this sincere, or a misdirection? Who’d slipped me this folded paper, with the embossed Village logo?
The person’s stealth suggested either an adroit athlete or a spy.
Marcus had recorded calls and texts from Elki’s father to his son, but the content was the expected advice and admonitions.
“I’ll go with you,” said Reggie. “But something’s off.”
There was a mix-and-mingle bonfire at the center of the Village, with blazing firepits casting dramatic shadows as athletes danced, chatted, or ambled around holding bottles of nonalcoholic beverages.
Reggie and I put in an appearance—we didn’t bring Miles, to avoid messing with his training rituals.
The Danish dorm had emptied out, and Marcus unlocked the front door remotely.
Since the dorms were similar, we quickly scouted out the darkened locker room, which had shut down at 10 p.m. We kept the lights off to avoid undue attention.
Locker rooms, even a facility as recently installed as this one, retain aromas of chlorine, body wash, and sweat, because there’s limited airflow.
If there were a dedicated candle, it would be called Manly Odors Swamp Cloud.
Reggie and I entered the empty tiled shower room, where a showerhead suddenly gushed water, followed by all the other showerheads, and we barely escaped being drenched.
Someone was toying with us, and when a hand touched my lower back, I stifled a less-than-heroic response and turned to see Elki.
“I’m sorry about the showers,” he said. “There’s a control panel, and I wanted to make sure no one can overhear us.”
“Elki?” said Reggie.
“Arne,” said Elki’s mirror image, including his shaggy hairstyle and warm-up suit. “I’m Elki’s twin. I’m not competing, but the facial recognition software let me in.”
I’ll admit it: twins freak me out. Even specimens as gorgeous as the Jenstromms. They always seem like CGI, or that Diane Arbus photo of the eerie little girls mimicked in The Shining.
I’d read about twins who’d invent private languages and insist on identical outfits.
In an English experiment, a maniacally alike pair was handed two differently frosted cupcakes, and wept uncontrollably until the cupcakes were sliced in half so both girls could have matching treats.
Being unnerved by twins is, of course, a dolt’s prejudice, an offensive suspicion of difference or, in the case of twins, sameness. But how could Reggie and I be sure that this was, in fact, Arne, and not Elki imitating him?
“I’m the straight one,” said Arne. “So I’m not attracted to either of you.”
I believed him, as he continued, in an insistent, hushed voice, “Elki’s having a meltdown, from being bullied by our father, who keeps warning him not to end up like me.
I’ve tried talking to Elki about how toxic our father is, but he won’t get into it, which I understand—diving is still everything to him.
But I’ve heard about what you’re looking for—the ruby. ”
“We saw your father in the stadium,” said Reggie. “Is he carrying it?”
“He doesn’t have it yet—he’s buying it from a Swiss jeweler named Karl Stangler.
Supposedly, the guy paid next to nothing for it at the estate sale of a Bavarian countess, who’d won three gold medals in the 1957 Olympics for speed skating and competed nationally well into her eighties—her vitality was inhuman.
Stangler had suspected the ruby was from the Diadem, but he acted disinterested until just before the sale ended, then he scooped it up.
My father’s convinced that the Lachesis was the source of the countess’s longevity, so he wants Elki to hold it just before his final dive.
My father’s more than a little crazy, but he’ll do anything to make Elki win.
He’ll be electronically depositing $50 million into Stangler’s account, once he’s examined the gem. ”
“How do you know all this?” Reggie asked.
“I’ve seen the awful things my father’s done, in financing the most corrupt regimes, through shell corporations and falsified accounts.
Our family’s banking operations have become a front for political parties and candidates who believe in a radical new world order.
I’ve passed as Elki before, to infiltrate my father’s offices and get a look at what he’s up to.
I’m working with an international human rights organization to stop people like him, to atone for my family’s sins.
Maybe after the Games I can get Elki to accept the truth. ”
“So where’s the transaction happening?” asked Reggie.
“Just outside the Diving Pavilion, in two days. My father has an all-access pass because he’s registered as Elki’s coach.
The plan is for him to test the ruby, verify that it’s real, complete the financial aspect, and hand Elki the stone, so he’ll absorb its mumbo jumbo.
It’s pure fantasy, but my father keeps talking about that countess, whose world records still stand. Can you help?”
“We’ll be there,” said Reggie.
“Thank you so much,” I said, stunned by everything Arne had related.
Arne and Reggie shook hands as fellow members of the resistance, and Arne left silently. Reggie held me back to keep the three of us from being seen together and potentially alerting any informants Henrik might’ve paid off.
The next day, as the events got underway, I shadowed Miles and the rest of the team while straining not to be annoying, as in telling anyone, “Lookin’ good out there!
” or “Way to dive!” I was reminded of visiting actor friends backstage after a performance when, even if I’d loved their work, everything I blurted came across as phony: “You were incredible!” “I’m such a fan! ” “You were the best one!”
The diving competition was held over two days.
Each athlete did six dives in the first round, then the finalists were winnowed based on the judges’ scores.
Elki and Miles were the clear front-runners, tying with the highest numbers.
I was stationed at the base of the diving platform to hand Miles a towel between dives.
On TV, I’d been especially taken by the divers showering on camera, but the water was intended to keep their muscles warm and limber.
Henrik hovered nonstop, kneading Elki’s shoulders and whispering vehemently in his ear.
I’ve been around stage parents who suffocate their children by alternating praise and berating, and Elki had the obedience of those terrorized kids, who’ve trained themselves to please.