Page 1

XVII Olympiad

Rome, Italy

Summer 1960

The crackling hum of the buzzer sounded a sixty second warning.

In the stadium arena, the Swedish rider, a slender, fine-boned man, shoulders squared, back straight, cantered his sleek gray gelding in circles, preparing to begin the jumps.

Only the competitors waiting nervously along the fence knew the tension the man was feeling.

The rider didn’t acknowledge the cheering crowds applauding his entry.

His concentration remained on the gray horse prancing beneath him and the gold medal round of show jumping he was about to begin.

As the noise in the stadium subsided, the man urged the gelding into a faster gait, heading down the path that led to the first fence, a red and white vertical, five feet high.

Behind the fence, mounted and waiting for the seconds to tick past and his own turn at the jumps, Janus Straka watched the Swede only a moment, taking in the precision of man and animal as they cleared the last fence with the soft thud of hoof against rail.

A potted white chrysanthemum shook on its perch atop the uprights but didn’t result in a fault.

The Swede was a talented rider and a tough competitor—but so was Janus Straka.

Since his arrival in Rome, Janus had ridden like the skilled rider he was.

At nineteen, black-haired and blue-eyed, a Hungarian Soviet from the southern slopes of the Carpathian Mountains, he had trained with his father since childhood, trained without pause for fifteen years—all for these next few crucial moments.

Everything he’d ever done, everything he’d ever wanted, depended on this round.

Though he was the youngest rider in the competition, he had trained with Stefan Straka, one of the finest horsemen in the world.

Settling himself against the familiar smooth surface of his saddle, Janus took the forward seat his father had taught him fifteen years ago, comfortable in the subtle indentations of the leather.

In seconds he would be entering the ring to compete in the final round of the competition.

Time and accuracy over the jumps would decide the winner of the Olympic gold medal.

Janus took a steadying breath and forced himself to relax.

As he’d done a thousand times, he adjusted the iron stirrups beneath his black knee-high boots until they rested securely against the balls of his feet.

He stood up, testing their length in proportion to his long legs.

From years of repetition, he made the same exact movements without conscious thought.

Janus glanced around the Stadio Olympico, the magnificent hundred thousand seat stadium filled to capacity for the individual equestrian show jumping competition.

He could feel the tension in the crowd, the nervous silence as all eyes focused on the rider straining for victory in the middle of the ring.

Janus blotted the perspiration from his brow with the back of a leather-gloved hand.

The Rome sun beat down without mercy on his black-billed cap, seared his shoulders beneath his dark serge coat.

Olympic programs in ten different languages waved an urgent breeze against faces glowing with perspiration and the excitement of the event.

“You must not try too hard, Janus.”

A gnarled hand patted his thigh.

The familiar, lined face of Eugeny Radchenko, the show jumping coach, lit with a grin.

“The gold is yours, my friend, I can feel it.

Filov has won our first medal, now it is your turn.”

Janus forced a smile.

Sergei Filov had taken the gold medal in the dressage event held in the Piazza del Siena inside the Villa Borghese.

It was a first for the Soviets in any Olympic equestrian event.

“Even Cossack can feel it,”

Eugeny said, running his thick-fingered hand along the sleek neck of the blood bay stallion tossing its head in nervous anticipation, ears twitching beside the dark strands of his topknot that fluttered in the breeze.

“He will soar over the jumps.

He wants the medal as much as you do.”

The Swedish rider finished the round with eight faults in forty-three point two seconds, his horse lathered with sweat and pulling at the bit with unspent energy, but the time wouldn’t win him the gold today.

The crowd applauded loudly, showing their appreciation, then settled into a restless hum.

Janus could hear their shuffling feet, the drone of distant conversation.

A vendor passed, his cart loaded with warm roasted peanuts, but Janus knew the aroma of food wasn’t the cause of his roiling stomach or the brittle, parched texture of his tongue.

He swallowed against the dryness, then the voice on the microphone, the words spoken in Italian, English, and French, echoed on the stadium walls, and the crowd fell silent.

“From the Union of Soviet Socialist Republic—the horse, Cossack.

The rider, Janus Straka.”

A burst of applause rising from the grandstand blotted the rest of the announcer’s words.

Cheers, stomping feet, and clapping hands spoke their approval and mirrored the friendly Italian welcome that had marked the games of the XVII Olympiad.

Janus carefully slotted the reins between his tightly gloved fingers and tried to ignore the dampness of his hands inside the leather.

Only one rider still waited to complete the jump-off round, Raimonde d’Inzeo of Italy, the favorite.

So far, the time to beat was forty-two point twelve seconds with four faults.

The course was difficult, the time to beat, fast.

But if he pushed hard, set the pace and encouraged Cossack to the greatness the stallion possessed, Janus believed he had a chance to win the gold.

It was a chance for honor and glory.

A chance to be remembered along with other men of greatness—the chance of a lifetime.

But Janus Straka would not claim that chance.

There was something he wanted more.

“Good luck, Comrade.”

Eugeny gave him a final nod as Janus straightened in the saddle.

He took a last long look at the aged face of the man who had been his friend, the man who had, along with his father, schooled him, prodded him, and led him to this moment, this test of greatness.

“Thank you for all you’ve done,”

Janus said.

“I will never forget you.”

Without waiting for a reply, he whirled the big bay stallion and rode toward the ring.

As he cantered through the gates, a look around the stadium bolstered his courage.

Nikolai Popov in his serviceable brown suit, white shirt, and non-descript tie, stood watching from behind the arena fence, speaking in quiet conversation with some of his KGB security men.

A few moments from now, Popov would be his chief concern, but for the present his concentration had to remain on the jumps.

Janus rode around the arena, cantering between the rear fences to give Cossack a look at the course.

The jumps were huge and lavishly decorated with flowers, shrubs, and banners.

In the first round, Cossack had snorted at the newness, then willingly accepted the challenge.

Now he seemed almost eager.

The buzzer sounded and Janus passed through the beam of the timer, beginning the round that would decide the course of his life.

With a last glance at the audience and a long steadying breath, he let instinct take over and increased the pace.

Cossack cleared the first fence with ease.

The footing was solid, the horse’s landing perfect.

Janus pressed him, knowing him capable, riding against the clock, trying to discern the fine line between completing the course without knocking over a rail and beating the time of the first-place competitor. No matter the outcome, he would compete as the champion he had trained to be.

The second fence was more difficult, a parallel jump set at an angle.

A row of box hedges along the bottom made it a little deceptive.

Another vertical lay ahead, then an in-and-out combination that taxed both horse and rider with its demand for perfect timing.

A six-foot brick wall loomed four strides farther. Janus urged Cossack forward, leaning above his neck at precisely the right moment, urging the big bay over the jump. The audience applauded wildly, then hushed.

Another vertical fence, then a parallel jump.

He could feel Cossack’s stride, the tremendous power of the animal beneath him and knew the horse’s speed was holding up.

The click of a hoof as it cleared the bar brought the crowd to its feet.

The final obstacle was a water jump painted red and white and lined with small greenish-gray cypress. The jump sat at an angle, four short strides in front of the seven-foot arena fence that closed off the back-alley entrance.

Janus pressed Cossack forward, setting him up for the water jump— and the fence leading to the streets behind the arena.

Giving up precious speed for the difficult combination ahead and the huge height of the outside fence, he slowed the animal’s pace.

Janus held his breath.

If Cossack failed him now, the result would be injury and defeat for them both.

The crowd roared as they cleared the water jump, making it look almost easy.

Then he did the unthinkable. Janus missed the final turn toward the timer, kept up the pace he had set—and urged the big stallion over the outside fence. A hoof ticked the top, and for an instant time seemed frozen.

Then Cossack’s hooves clattered against the pavement as he landed, the sound muffled by the shrieks of the astonished crowd.

Janus didn’t look back.

He could hear men shouting his name, hear their pounding feet as they tried to catch up with him, feel the rapid thudding of his heart.

He raced Cossack down the alley between the towering rows of spectator seats, dodging contestants, vendors, media people, news cameras, and the blinding strobe of flash bulbs.

Two men jumped in front of him and grabbed for the reins.

At first, he thought they were KGB and his hands tensed on the leather.

Cossack knocked them reeling, just helpful spectators, thinking the horse had bolted.

Pounding on, he finally broke free, but he didn’t stop until he’d left the stadium far behind.

Reining up some distance away, out of sight of all but a few prying eyes, he hurriedly dismounted and tied the horse behind the ruins of an ancient Roman wall.

There he stripped off his cap and perspiration-drenched wool jacket.

Cossack nickered softly.

“They will take you home,”

Janus said as if the horse could understand.

He ran a hand along the animal’s neck, now damp with sweat from his exertion.

“I shall miss you, my friend.”

With a last glance at the proud animal that had carried him so far, Janus stepped away, melding into the surging humanity leaving the Olympic grounds.

He was on his way to the American Embassy.

On his way, he prayed to a new life.

On his way to freedom.

For as far back as Janus could remember, his father had dreamed of being free, as he had been before the war.

It was a dream he had passed on to his son.

Now Janus was making that dream come true.

He didn’t know what to expect or where his journey would lead. He knew only that it was a journey he must make.

Janus hailed a cab, folded his tall frame into the backseat, and spoke to the driver in heavily accented Italian the single phrase he had practiced over and over—“ Ambasciata degli Stati Unita, Via Vittorio Veneto 119, Palazzo Margherita.”

The address of the U.S. Embassy.

The little yellow taxi pulled away from the curb and into the bustling Rome traffic.

Horns honked and people cursed but Janus barely heard them.

He kept his head down and hoped he had enough of a start to reach the consulate before Nikolai Popov and his men could intercept him.

He’d left the stadium and his teammates in chaos. Popov and his KGB security people would be looking for him everywhere.

He wondered how long the KGB man would keep up his search.

As Chief of Security for the Soviet Team, Popov wasn’t a man who easily accepted defeat.

Janus shuddered at the thought.

He knew the man would suffer a tremendous embarrassment, that the incident would be a detriment to his ambitious political career.

Janus Straka also knew, till the day he died, he would wonder if he could have won the gold.

**

CIA Headquarters

Langley, West Virginia

1960

“Sit down, Mr.

Straka, make yourself comfortable.

I’m Daniel Gage.”

Leaning over a stack of manila files that sat in rows along the front of his desk, Gage extended a wide-palmed hand, engulfing Janus’s more slender, darker one in a firm, self-assured grip.

Janus sat down in a straight-backed wooden chair and carefully positioned one arm on the armrest, trying to appear nonchalant, which was far from how he felt.

“I trust your trip from Europe was not unpleasant,”

Gage said.

With his round face, hazel eyes, and warm smile, Daniel Gage seemed a common man, a man of the people, and then again, he did not.

Barrel-chested, Gage’s slightly crooked nose looked as though it had been broken.

Janus suspected he was younger than the years his lightly freckled face betrayed. Younger and tougher.

“Your people were very competent,”

Janus said.

“They saw to everything.

I thank you.”

He shifted nervously in his chair.

The CIA headquarters building near Washington, D.C.

was much as he’d expected: long corridors, doors leading to small, confined offices occupied by dark-suited figures who all looked much the same.

At home, KGB headquarters probably appeared very similar.

But there the similarity ended.

The United States of America was nothing like Janus expected, nothing like he’d imagined even after all the hours he and his father had spent talking about it.

“There are some questions I’d like to ask you,”

Gage said.

“We might as well get started.”

“Of course.”

Janus found himself liking the American’s no-nonsense attitude, liking the candid way the man looked him straight in the eye.

“You lived in Moscow, is that correct?”

“Since I was nine.

I was born in Beregovo, Ruthenia.

I am Hungarian, not Russian.”

“I see.”

Daniel scanned the manila folder that lay open on his burn-scarred walnut desk.

Picking up the cigarette smoldering in the ashtray, he took a deep, soothing draw and watched the young Soviet rider across from him.

Straka carefully worked to hide his nervousness and was doing a damned good job.

Only an occasional sideways glance from his astonishing blue eyes hinted at how ill-at-ease the young man actually was.

Tall and spare, with angular features that made him look more man than boy, Straka rested an elbow on his armrest while one long leg stretched a little in front of the other.

Blue-black hair, so thick and shiny it reflected the fluorescent light overhead, curled just above his collar.

Daniel admired Straka’s fortitude but with Khrushchev in power, Soviet relations were strained at best.

Daniel needed to know exactly why Janus Straka had come to the United States and had already taken the steps necessary to determine exactly that.

In the weeks since Straka’s defection, Daniel’s men had put together a dossier that covered every aspect of the young man’s life.

Daniel had read the file more than once.

He glanced down at the page.

Janus Straka, only son of Stefan Straka, an international celebrity in the horse world in the nineteen twenties and thirties.

At the turn of the century, Stefan’s father, Vaclav Straka, a wealthy landowner, had accepted a political appointment in Ruthenia, then controlled by the Austria-Hungary Hapsburg Dynasty.

In 1920, Czechoslovakia took over the government, but the Strakas decided to stay.

At twenty, Stefan Straka joined the Czechoslovakian cavalry, a career that gave him the chance to work with the horses he loved.

As a lieutenant, Stefan participated in the IX Olympics in Amsterdam, winning the silver medal in the individual show jumping event.

Daniel rolled a yellow pencil between his thumb and forefinger, his thick hands the result of too many fistfights in too many unnamed Korean bars during his Army years.

He’d been recruited by the agency when it was time to re-up four years ago.

Since then, he’d traveled extensively and already become a senior case officer.

He loved the work, the excitement, and especially the danger.

“Tell me about your father,”

Daniel prodded.

For the first time, Straka smiled, softening his features and betraying his youth.

“He was one of the finest horsemen in the world,”

Straka said in his heavily accented English.

“He rode in three Olympics.

He won a silver medal at Amsterdam.”

“Your father once visited this country,”

Daniel said, encouraging Straka to continue.

“Yes.

In nineteen thirty-two.

He loved the people and the opportunity he saw all around him.

He believed that in America a man could achieve whatever he was willing to work for. All his life he wanted to come here. Listening to him made me want to come, too.”

“Enough to defect, even after his death?”

The piercing blue eyes dimmed for an instant.

“We planned for years in secret.

He came up with the idea for Rome.

By then I wanted to leave as much as he did. When he died...it was a great loss to us all.”

“What about your family? Won’t you miss them? Who will take care of them?”

“I will send whatever I can.

My mother and I were never close.

My sister, Dana, is eleven years older.

They knew I would go if I ever got the chance.”

“Why didn’t your father come to the States before the war? He was a wealthy man.

He could have afforded to make the move.”

“He had responsibilities, family to think about.

After the Soviets took over, he regretted not leaving.

He never got used to the repression, the constant mistrust.

He was Hungarian. He never accepted Soviet domination.”

Daniel glanced back at the file.

In 1950, Stefan Straka moved to Moscow to lend his skills to the Soviet Team.

Janus was nine and already a horseman.

He learned to speak Russian and improve his English, graduated from the University of Moscow and became a member of the team the following year. His record was impressive, the man even more so.

“What will you do in this country?”

“It is my dream to become an American.

I wish to go to school to perfect my English.

I want to become a citizen.”

“You’re a fine rider, Janus.

One of the best in the world.

After what happened in Rome, you’re a celebrity—“

“That is not what I want,”

Janus interrupted.

“I want to change my name, make my way on my own.

I am a private person, Mr.

Gage. I do not enjoy...how do you say? No-tor-it-y?”

“Notoriety.”

“Yes, notor-i-ety.

I want to be as you are.

I want to live my own life, my own way.”

“I won’t lie to you, Janus.

Your father may have had a somewhat romantic picture of life in the States.

If you use your celebrity, things could be a whole lot easier for you.”

“That is a decision I made years ago.

I have not changed by mind.

I am just grateful for the chance.”

“What about Popov?”

Daniel asked.

“You know him?”

“Only by reputation.

Will he give you any trouble?”

“I do not think so.

I know no military secrets.

I am just an ordinary man.”

Not so ordinary, Daniel thought, then he smiled.

“The arrangements have already been made.

I just wanted to be certain.”

Daniel shoved back his chair.

Straka stood up as Daniel rounded the desk and extended a hand, which Janus shook.

Daniel was eight years older than the tall man in front of him.

But there was something in his eyes, a look of determination and gratitude.

Daniel felt the power and believed Janus Straka would succeed in whatever he attempted.

Daniel leaned across his desk and picked up a piece of paper.

“There’s a man in Florida named Thurston Brock.

He knows who you are, but I’ve explained your desire for privacy, and he has agreed to help you.”

He handed the paper to Straka.

“He’ll give you a job while you’re going to language school here in Washington.

Then later if things work out and you want to join him at his stable in South Carolina, he’ll give you a job there, working with his horses.

Brock owns one of the finest strings of jumpers in the country.”

“I am very grateful.”

“From now on you’ll be Jake Sullivan.

Sound American enough for you?”

“Jake,”

he repeated with the hint of a smile.

“It pleases me.

You have been more than kind, Mr.

Gage. I will never forget all that you and your people have done for me.”

“I won’t be far away if you need me.”

Janus prayed the United States government would not be watching over this shoulder with secret cameras and listening devices as the Soviets had done in Moscow.

His father had said it was not so.

But Janus would live unobtrusively, watch, and wait.

Soon he would know the truth about America.

In the meantime, he had the opportunity to build the life he had dreamed.

He owed a great debt to the man with the face of a youthful Ukrainian farmer.

With his confident manner, Daniel Gage inspired trust in a man.

Instinctively, Janus felt he had made a friend.

Still, he wondered if his instincts would prove correct.

“Come on,”

Daniel offered, “it’s about time for lunch.

Why don’t we grab a bite, then I’ll take you over to the Berlitz language school.

They can help you get rid of that accent if anyone can.”

Janus nodded.

Daniel held open the heavy door and Janus moved past him into a corridor bustling with dark-suited men.

“Smoke?”

Daniel offered, pulling a pack of Camels from his inside coat pocket.

“Thank you.”

Janus lifted one from the pack, waited while Daniel took one, then they shared a match to light up.

Janus inhaled deeply, exhaling a trailing blue plume.

The smooth American tobacco tasted mild in comparison to the harsh Soviet brand he’d smoked at home.

I am home, he corrected, and felt the same exhilaration he had been feeling since he’d first arrived.

Janus exhaled the smoke and took a long deep breath.

Even the air in America smelled free.