Instead of moving with the mass of the crowd toward the Stadium approach, they turned right at the street’s end and headed toward one of the three training tracks where athletes warmed up for their events. There was a better chance of seeing Goldine here than trying to penetrate the security at the Olympic Village, which was organised with the 1972 shootout in Munich still much in mind.
The track was a full 400-metre circuit surrounded by a double wire fence patrolled by officials. The public enclosure extended along one side of the stretch. There must have been two hundred or more spectators seated on the tiered benches simply watching athletes in warm-ups jogging around the perimeter and exercising on the grass. Almost as many again were clustered around the competitors’ entrance: autograph collecting is a popular activity in the Soviet Union, engaged in by adults as well as children.
And as Dryden and Melody arrived, something was happening there. A team bus had drawn up and officials had swung metal barriers into place to provide a passage through the converging crowd. The athletes debouched at speed, ignoring the papers and pens hopefully thrust toward them.
Dryden was looking through his field glasses at some girl athletes limbering up on the far side.
‘No chance?’ Melody asked.
‘None at all. They aren’t even Americans.’
‘Who are these people arriving?’
‘Not Yanks, for sure. We obviously picked the wrong training track.’
A small Latin-looking man at his elbow seemed agitated when Dryden started to replace the glasses in their case. He tugged at Dryden’s sleeve, jabbering unintelligibly, stabbing his finger in the direction of the crowd at the gate. It seemed ungracious to push him away; he was evidently doing this from the best motives. He didn’t want Dryden to miss the excitement at the gate.
One word came through the spate of sounds and by repetition made itself understood: ‘Krüll.’ The little man wanted them to know he had spotted Ursula Krüll.
‘Krüll. Oh, yes. Ursula Krüll,’ said Dryden, nodding energetically. He turned the glasses on the slim brunette who had just run the gauntlet of autograph hunters.
She was talking with two other girls dressed similarly in the blue tracksuit with the letters DDR displayed. Cameramen were crowding around them, but she continued the conversation with the cultivated indifference of someone who has lived in the public eye for a long time. It was a pretty face, whatever preconceptions you had about Eastern Bloc athletes, the cheekbones shaped high, the curving top lip lifted interestingly even in repose. Her blue eyes continued to look steadily at her companions, undistracted by the cameras.
‘Cool,’ said Melody.
‘Krüll, si,’ said the little man.
‘Let’s go,’ said Dryden. ‘If the East Germans are here, you may be sure the Americans aren’t coming.’
As they were moving off, they saw Krüll slip her thumbs in the waistband of the tracksuit and ease it over her hips, still talking as she lifted her lightly tanned legs from the garment. She checked the level of the famous shorts with a quick movement of her hand, turned abruptly and wagged a playful finger at a cameraman, then trotted leisurely away around the track. If she felt any tension at the prospect of the afternoon’s events, it didn’t show.
They fared no better at the next training track, except having it confirmed by some U.S. 800-metre men that Goldine wasn’t likely to appear on the public training tracks at all. ‘The only place you’ll see that chick is in the Stadium racing,’ one told him. ‘She works out on the Village track, then they rush her to the Stadium in a hired Zim, along with two musclemen and her physician. Man, you have to be somebody to rate that class of service.’
At three o’clock that afternoon, eight girls bucked from the blocks in the first Semi-Final of the 100 metres. In the tiered seating beyond the finish, Melody tightened her grip on Dryden’s hand. From their foreshortened view, it was difficult to tell who had started well. The line of runners moved without the impression of speed you got from seeing them side-on; but the energy of sprinting, the rhythm and power, were dramatised in the hammer motion of legs — knees raised, it seemed, extravagantly high, shoes pounding the track.
They had covered more than half the distance, and the symmetry was threatened by two girls in lanes 4 and 5 edging ahead — a Russian and a British girl. Goldine, in lane 2, was in the pack with the rest. The first four would qualify for the Final.
‘It looks bad,’ said Melody gratuitously.
‘It’s the angle,’ responded Dryden, hoping it was.
The roar that greeted the Russian victory was worthy of the Final. The Soviet girl was overcome, covering her eyes as officials crowded around her.
Goldine had crossed at least two metres behind, third or fourth. Mary-Lou Devine was out.
The time was flashed on the scoreboard: a new Soviet Record.
‘How do you read that?’ asked Melody.
He didn’t answer. He was training the glasses on Goldine. She was walking back to the start with the British girl. Muratova was besieged by pressmen. The others couldn’t get near to make the token touch of congratulation.
‘Playing possum?’ suggested Melody.
‘She does have a four 100-metre heat to run before the Final. The object was to qualify, and she did.’
On the track, the next set of girls were already testing their blocks.
‘This could be instructive,’ said Dryden. ‘Krüll is taking on the Cuban girl who beat Goldine in the heats yesterday.’
A small section of the crowd was chanting ‘Ur-su-la.’ Their idol ignored them, ignored the girls lining up beside her, the photographers positioned to capture the start.
The chanting stopped as the eight got into the crouch position. The gun cracked.
A fraction over ten seconds later, Krüll crossed the line emphatically clear of the rest, eased to a trot, corrected the coverage of her shorts, waved away photographers and jogged smartly back to the start. Before she reached there, the scoreboard flashed the news that for the third time she had improved the Olympic Record. The latest — 10.83 — made the Russian girl’s time look ordinary, Goldine’s pedestrian.
‘Wishing you could change your meal ticket?’ Melody asked.
It was not long till the 400-metre First Round heats. They noticed two late substitutions: Canute, J. (U.S.A.) replaced Jones (U.S.A.) in Heat One; Krüll, U. (G.D.R.) replaced Muller (G.D.R.) in Heat Six.
‘So Janie Canute gets her chance, after all,’ said Melody. ‘How did she manage that? The power of prayer?’
‘Didn’t you hear? Jones came down with glandular fever a week ago. She didn’t make the trip. What interests me is that Krüll has come in. I heard the Germans were considering this, but it’s a hell of a gamble when she hasn’t trained for three events.’
‘How do you know she hasn’t?’ asked Melody. ‘Wouldn’t it be typical of the Commies to train her in secret and then spring this at the last moment? They could figure it’s a way of psyching Goldengirl.’
‘Equally, Goldine could have psyched them by holding herself back in the heats of the one hundred. The Germans could believe Krüll has the sprints so buttoned up it won’t hurt to take in the four hundred as well.’
Melody shook her head. ‘That’s not the way Germans think. They’re methodical. They don’t gamble.’