“All this for a soccer game?” she said when Croom ended the tour near one of the players’ locker rooms.
“Not a soccer game,” Croom said. “The soccer game. The World Cup is the most watched event on earth. These players are like gods to hundreds of millions of people.”
“And I’m here because people want to steal these gods’ sweaty jockstraps?”
Croom laughed. “You bet. People are infatuated with sports memorabilia. A Tom Brady jersey was stolen from supposedly one of the most secure sporting events in the world outside the Olympics — a Super Bowl locker room. It was taken by a tabloid journalist who’s a football nut. He used expired press credentials, walked in on the heels of a coach, picked up the jersey, stuffed it in his briefcase, and walked out. When they tracked him down, the cops discovered he had another Brady jersey, from the Super Bowl two years earlier. The guy had stolen it the same way. When the cops asked him why he took them, he said it was to feel closer to the game.”
“A sliver of the True Cross,” Finn said.
“Exactly. It’s hard to say what the stuff is worth — it rarely changes hands. I mean, you can’t exactly put Brady’s jersey on eBay. But to the right buyer — and there are a lot of them — it would have fetched seven figures, easy.” Croom laughed. “I don’t think you’d get nearly that much for his jockstrap.”
“Gee, I’m surprised.”
“It’s not for the reason you think. Jerseys, shorts, and shoes are more easily authenticated. They’re marked with serial numbers, watermarked, and chipped.”
“Tagged electronically?”
Croom nodded. “Now it’s done for all the important matches. Protection against swindlers and thieves. Some people alter jerseys worn by other players, changing the names and numbers to look like they were worn by one of the stars and then selling them. Some steal them outright, either to sell or to keep, like the tabloid journalist. Check the number and scan the chip, and it’ll tell you which player the jersey belonged to and what game he wore it in.”
Finn and Croom swiped their ID cards through a reader mounted on the wall and walked into the locker room. The carpeted, chandeliered, and wood-paneled space reminded Finn of a country-club lobby. Folding chairs were lined up facing a long banquet table. Taped-down extension cords and cables snaked across the floor.
“This is for the press conference afterwards,” Croom said. “The coaches and players come out after they’re showered and dressed.”
“What happened to those interviews where the player was just wearing a towel wrapped around his waist?”
Croom shook his head. “Not at the World Cup.”
“And they call this the world’s greatest sporting event.” Finn glanced up. Metal tracks striped the ceiling, with cameras attached every three feet like high-tech stalactites. “That’s a lot of eyes in the sky. Any blind spots?”
“There are a few suboptimal angles, but basically everything is covered. You’ll see when we check out the monitors in the viewing room. Let me show you the players’ space first.”
He led her to metal double doors on the far side of the chairs, where they swiped their ID cards again.
This room was more spartan. Concrete floor, fluorescent lighting, glass-fronted refrigerators full of energy drinks. A whiteboard covered the far wall, and in a corner a physical therapy/first-aid station had been set up, with two padded examination/massage tables and a glass-fronted cabinet full of bandages and ointments.
Finn let her gaze rove the space.
“No cameras? Or are they hidden?”
“No cameras. Players don’t want a hacker posting nude photos of them on the Internet, and coaches are worried about their game plans being eavesdropped on. Shouldn’t be a problem for you, though. Only players, coaches, and team support staff were issued key cards for here. And we’ve swept every day for devices.”
Along the far wall was a row of wooden closet cubbies. Each contained two identical uniforms hanging from a single rod, a sports duffel underneath imprinted with the team logo, and several pairs of soccer shoes. Finn looked into one of the bags. Socks, shin guards, compression shorts, a jockstrap. A strip of plastic printed with a player’s last name was tacked above each cubby. Finn didn’t see the one she was looking for.
“Where’s Jando’s locker?”
“El Rey dines — and changes — alone,” Croom said.
He led her to a wooden wall three-quarters the height of the room that had been erected in a corner. Behind it on a rectangle of carpet was a La-Z-Boy-style recliner and a closet cubby that was twice as large as the others. Three uniforms hung inside, above half a dozen pairs of cleats. Across from the chair was a big-screen TV. Beside the chair was a refrigerator with a video-game controller on top.
Croom’s phone buzzed. He checked the screen.
“I gotta take this. Be right back. The reception’s lousy under all this concrete.”
After he was gone, Finn did a quick inspection of the space, checking under the chair, behind the TV. She looked inside the shoes and ran her hands over the jerseys and shorts. The electronic chip — a small, hard rectangle — was discernible in the waistband of the shorts and the jersey’s hem. She left the socks and underwear alone.
She opened the fridge. It had been stocked with energy drinks and champagne.
“If you want a drink, all you have to do is ask,” a voice said.
Finn closed the fridge and turned. Jandro stood before her in a gray jersey and shorts. Behind him stood another man dressed in business casual and holding an iPad.
Jandro’s jersey clung damply to his torso. Grass stains marked one white sock.
Finn’s heart beat faster. She thought she’d have to stalk him on game day, but he’d come to her.
She smiled and held out a hand. “Finn Teller, SIA. I’m in charge of your dirty — locker-room security.”
In real life Jandro looked even more like Amantha. He ignored Finn’s offered hand and stripped off his shirt, displaying impressive abs.
“Mr Cruz, may we talk for a moment?” Finn said.
“I’m sorry, I have an appointment.” Jandro turned to Mr Business Casual. “Reloj?” he said.
The man fished a wrist watch out of his pants pocket. Jandro strapped it on. The dial was almost as big as Finn’s palm and studded with hundreds of black diamonds.
“It won’t take long,” Finn said.
“You can talk to Juan Pablo. He’ll give you whatever you need,” Jandro said. Mr Business Casual nodded at Finn.
“It’s about your daughter,” Finn said.
Jandro’s face darkened. “Did that puta send you? I thought you were supposed to be my security!”
“I am. But Amantha approached me and—”
“That girl is crazy. She has been stalking me.” He pointed a stubby finger at Finn. “Do your job and keep her away.”
He tossed his sweaty shirt at her Reflexively, she caught it.
“Take care of this.” Another stubby-fingered point. “And stay out of my champagne.”
He and Juan Pablo left, banging the metal door on their way out. Croom returned moments later
“I see you met El Rey,” Croom said. “How’d it go?”
“The king and I really hit it off. He thought I was stealing his champagne.” She let the sweaty jersey drop to the floor. “And he wants me to do his laundry.”
Finn spent another half-hour with Croom, going over the rest of the locker-room security arrangements. The camera coverage of the press area was as complete as he’d described. When the ticket takers arrived, Croom excused himself to brief them, leaving Finn to walk the stadium by herself.
She strode along the upper deck, her footsteps echoing. Empty seats cascaded to a rectangle of green below. It was hard to imagine that in less than twenty-four hours the place would be filled with eighty thousand people who would remind everyone the word fan was a shortened version of fanatic.