Not now. He was caught up in it with the rest of them. He had conspired to issue a false statement to the police and — potentially more damaging — he had hoodwinked the press. The alternative had been the inevitable collapse of the project. Nothing would have saved it if newsmen had talked to Goldine or Serafin on Saturday.
Then, why hadn’t he washed his hands of it as he had always intended if things went wrong? He could have walked out of Caradock Lodge, taken the first plane to New York and started calling his business contacts in Los Angeles to tell them the deal was off. Instead, he had organised this salvage operation. Why?
It was because he cared deeply now what happened to Goldine. He couldn’t abandon her.
There had been a moment in that grim showdown with Serafin in Caradock Lodge when Goldine had believed the diabetes had put an end to her brief career as a track star. Ended everything her upbringing had prepared her for. As her world collapsed, he had offered to take her to New York and asked her to trust him and she had answered with her eyes. Nothing of significance had been said. There had just been this spark of understanding that passed between them, but it meant more than anything they had said to each other before, in the Sierras, on La Jolla Beach or in Eugene.
Then Serafin had let slip the shattering possibility that Goldine might, after all, compete, and the moment had gone. She was going for gold. The impulse was too powerful to resist. She had found the strength to reject Serafin, but she couldn’t reject the idea he had nurtured in her. She had convinced herself she was free to decide her own future, but she had no choice at all. It was settled.
‘Thinking about her, huh?’ said Melody.
He nodded.
‘I guessed it,’ said Melody. ‘Do you figure she’ll win in Moscow?’
‘She has to get there first.’
Melody smiled. ‘Listen, I know Goldengirl, lover boy, and I know what three gold gongs mean to her. She’ll be on that plane for Moscow, take it from me.’
‘Even if she decides to go, she’ll have to get medical backing,’ said Dryden. ‘Can you see the Olympic Committee letting her compete so soon after the onset of diabetes?’
‘They don’t have to know,’ said Melody casually. ‘She could tell them she’s had it for years.’
He looked out the window.
Next morning in the office he listened to phone messages the machine had logged over the weekend. Before running out of tape, it had taken calls from Adidas, Puma, Pepsi-Cola, Chrysler, TWA and a dozen others anxious to know if the kidnaping meant the end of Goldine’s Olympic ambitions. He put Melody on to answering them with a standard message that Mr. Dryden was unable to add anything yet to the statement issued by Dr. Serafin on the weekend, but was energetically pursuing the matter.
There had also been calls from Valenti and Sternberg. He rang them personally. Valenti was convinced the whole thing was a publicity stunt — ‘Got to hand it to you — great idea — wish I’d thought of it myself.’ Sternberg wanted to know who had put up the ransom, because if they expected a cut of the profits, they could go stuff themselves.
Around midmorning, a call came in from Serafin. He had been contacted by the secretary of the U.S. Olympic Committee, demanding to know whether Goldine still planned to compete. They had reserves standing by, but the girls were entitled to more than a day’s notice to get through the formalities for the flight on Wednesday.
‘What did you tell him?’ asked Dryden.
Serafin answered in the same flat tone he had used to make the press statement. ‘I admitted I was not certain where Goldine was, but I would see that the message reached her. He told me they are fixing a medical for nine o’clock Tuesday morning. If Goldine doesn’t report, she is off the team.’
‘I’ll tell her. It’s her decision alone.’
‘She’ll be there,’ said Serafin positively. ‘By the way, I’m flying back to Los Angeles with Lee this afternoon. Goldine left me in no doubt that my presence is no longer congenial, and I think the same would go for Lee. She appears to find you a more sympathetic mentor.’
‘That’s not my function, Dr. Serafin.’
‘Is it unwelcome?’ said Serafin. ‘Mr. Dryden, I believe in facing facts. Goldine has no further use for me. For all practical purposes, you are now in charge of the project. Does that alarm you? Really, it is nothing. A sinecure. The important decisions have been taken. She will compete, and she will win. I doubt whether I shall go to Moscow at all. I can see it all on television in my own home. I have so much work to do, updating my case study.’
When Dryden put down the phone he was bothered. It was unlike Serafin to bow out now, when everything was building to a climax. True, he had taken a tongue-lashing from Goldine, but he wasn’t the type to let that influence him. He had been at the center of this scheme from the start, dominating it with an obsessiveness bordering on monomania. Just to retire from the scene at this stage didn’t make sense. Either he knew something, or he was up to no good.
That was not all Dryden had to worry about. A few minutes after he had put down the phone, a young man walked into his office. They had phoned from downstairs to say he was from NBC-TV. People in Dryden’s business didn’t turn away callers from the media.
His name was Esselstyn. He was probably not thirty, short, tanned, with the cool of a croupier behind a wide smile. A sharp dresser, with fawn trousers, brown velvet jacket, pale-yellow shirt and green silk scarf fixed with a gold ring.
‘Great to meet you,’ he told Dryden. ‘I’m in sports, on the production side. You remember The Superstars? Met several of your clients. Jim Hansenburg. Dick Armitage — or could that have been in The American Sportsman? Anyway, they told me you’re a fabulous guy. When I heard our research people had turned up your name I homed in. Volunteered to come up here myself and meet you.’
‘Research people?’ repeated Dryden. ‘What exactly is this about, Mr. Esselstyn?’
‘Right to the point, huh? I heard you were a tough cookie, Jack. I’m Wayne, incidentally. Well, I’ll come clean. We’re putting together a TV special on this kid who made the headlines yesterday. The Cleveland kidnap girl. Goldine Serafin. You with me?’
Dryden gave him a nod that committed him to nothing.
‘One hell of a newsmaker, that chick,’ Esselstyn went on. ‘Unknown blonde beats top-class track stars in San Diego, goes to the U.S. Olympic Tryout and rewrites the record book. Then this kidnaping. If I was a PR guy, I couldn’t script it better. Next thing, Moscow — yeah, I know it’s shaping up as a cliffhanger, but she’ll get there. And whatever she does out there, it’s news. It can’t miss. So NBC Sports aims to put out a major feature on the kid when she makes it big in Moscow. It’s come my way.’
‘Nice for you,’ said Dryden, ‘but I don’t see—’
Esselstyn cut him short with a wagging finger. ‘Oh no, don’t let’s prevaricate, Jack. We were going to come clean, remember? I happen to know that you can put us wise to plenty in the Goldine Serafin story. Don’t panic, I’m not asking you to go on film. We’ll keep it off the record. I want you to know that this is planned as a tribute to Goldine. We want to touch the emotions. It’s a great story. I just want to get it right, you follow me? Now, my people have been digging, as I told you. We happen to know half the stuff the press have printed on Goldine is hogwash. Crap. Take the superjogger bit. You know, the story that she first discovered she could run when her pop sent her jogging around the block. Palpably untrue. We’ve spoken to a guy in Bakersfield who saw her working out on the college track two years ago. No mistake. He identified her old man. Goldine Serafin may be an overnight sensation, but she’s no novice to track.’