Shane Maloney - Nice Try (Murray Whelan Thrillers)

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Nice Try

[Murray Whelan 03]

By Shane Maloney

Scanned &Proofed By MadMaxAU

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'Athleticismcan occasion in

manthe most noble of passions

andalso the most vile.'

BaronPierre de Coubertin,

Founderof the Modern Olympics

'Yibbida,Yibbida!'

RexHunt,

Australiansporting philosopher

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Melbourne, 1956

They confronted him at the RoyalExhibition Building, just before the first lift of the final round. It wassafer there, away from all the prying eyes at the Athletes Village, and he didnot suspect anything until it was too late.

He was avery strong man, not as big as some of his teammates in the higher weightdivisions, but formidable enough to be a medal contender. When he bolted forthe door, it took four burly trainers to subdue him and force the gag into hismouth so his cries for help could not be heard by the Australian officials inthe warm-up area. Even then, he continued to put up a struggle and the firsthypodermic needle snapped off in the muscles of his arm.

That's whenthe deputy chef-de-mission struck him with the heavy steel lifting bar. Thebone snapped immediately. After that, for all his strength, he offered lessresistance and the doctor was able to administer the drug.

TheAustralian volunteer driver had no reason to suspect that the heavy bags ofequipment they were loading into the Bedford van contained anything other thanthe usual sporting gear. He was, however, disappointed to be told that heshould immediately drive them to Appleton Dock. It was only fifteen minutesaway through the early summer sunshine but the trip meant that he would missthefinal of the tournament. As the Bedford pulled into Nicholson Street, theDuke of Edinburgh was already arriving to present the medals, the Olympic standardfluttering on the bonnet of his black Bentley.

Theweightlifter did not regain consciousness until he was on board the ship. Bythen, further resistance was futile.

Despite thespeed and secrecy of the operation, the Australian Security IntelligenceOrganisation was soon aware that something untoward was happening. Officersmanning the observation post in the cargo shed across the turning basin becamesuspicious when they noticed that the official supervising the unloading of thevan was far too senior for such a task. The fact that Russians were seencarrying aboard heavy equipment belonging to the Polish team was alsoconsidered unusual enough to warrant a telephone call to headquarters.

By lateevening, lights were burning in the large Victorian mansion in Queens Road andthe Director himself was being briefed. A deeply conservative man, steeped inmilitary culture, Colonel Spry had a face which did not display his thoughts.His subordinates could easily imagine, however, the depths of the dilemma thatnow confronted him.

The Gamesof the XVI Olympiad of the Modern Era, the Friendly Games, were rapidlydescending into farce, a circus which threatened both Australia's reputation asa sporting nation and the future of the Olympic ideal.

A week earlier,one of the Russians had eluded her escort at the Melbourne zoo and fled throughthe animal enclosures. A brawl had erupted at the Russia-Hungary water polofinal and blood had been spilt in the water. Soviet competitors had been openlyjeered at the fencing. President Brundage of the International OlympicCommittee, an American and no friend of the communists, had already protestedto the organising committee at this lack of sportsmanship. The CIA was busy inthe background, attempting to provoke incidents. Emigre groups had invaded theAthletes Village and torn down flags.

It was aninformant from one such group who alerted ASIO to the sudden withdrawal of thePolish medal contender only moments before his final lift in the medal round ofthe weightlifting. Officially he had strained a ligament but, according to thecontact, the lifter was planning to defect from the podium during themedal-presentation ceremony.

Two yearsearlier, Colonel Spry had not hesitated in ordering his officers to assist CommonwealthPolice snatch Mrs Petrov from the hands of Soviet agents who were hustling heraboard a plane on the tarmac at Darwin airport. But this time, the interests ofthe nation were different. The Gruzia was moored under theterms of the Olympic truce. To search it would be a violation of that truce. Ifnothing was found, the communists would gain a great international propagandavictory. ASIO would be embarrassed and Australia's honour tarnished before theworld.

Only onecourse of action was possible, decided the Director. Three days later, abattery of twenty-five-pounder guns fired the final salute and the FriendlyGames concluded in triumph as the athletes danced their way through the ClosingCeremony.

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Melbourne,1990

She was giving me the eye. Nodoubt about it.

Every time Iglanced her way, I caught her looking at me. Her gaze would dart somewhereelse, but she was definitely checking me out. She was twenty-two, maybetwenty-three, with a body that looked like it was moulded from fibreglass to adesign by Benvenuto Cellini. Smooth. Firm. Flawless.

Too flawlessfor me, surely, a man teetering on the cusp of his late thirties. A man whosewaist measurement was almost as high as his IQ, Not that I automaticallyassumed it was impossible for a woman like her to be interested in someone likeme. But you get to a certain point, you know what's reasonable and what's not.Christ, she was practically a teenager.

She tossedback her blonde ponytail, parted her thighs and thrust her hips forward. 'Comeon,' she urged. 'Do it. Do it'

I couldn't. Ijust didn't have the energy. Wiping the perspiration from my eyes with the hemof my t-shirt, I lowered my vision to the electronic display panel of myexercise bike and urged my faltering muscles on. For more than half an hour I'dbeen at it. First the warm-up, then the super circuit. Three sets of legextensions. The front lateral press and the rowing simulator. Themini-trampoline, the squat rack and the Stairmaster. Thirty-seven minutes ofself-imposed agony.

Beyond thewindow of the aerobics studio, the gorgeous creature had turned away. She wason her knees on the carpet now, extending first one leg then the other, herflanks as fine as a gazelle's. She was inexhaustible, her energy boundless, herbody unravaged by time and cigarettes and a sedentary occupation. 'Keep it up,keep it up,' she cried. Her every move was immediately replicated by the twentywomen in her class, flexing their lycra-sheathed limbs to the syncopated thudof the sound system. Madonna.

God, I hatedMadonna. I tried to think of something else, to force my mind off that tautblue leotard. That pert, peachy derriere. Those surreptitious glances. To findsome thought I could use to focus my energy on the last, muscle-quivering kilometreup the computer-generated incline. Concentrating my attention on theliquid-crystal terrain-simulator on the console between the handlebars, Iscrewed up my determination, bore down and pedalled into the finalsinew-searing five minutes of my daily work-out. Every fibre of my mortal beingscreamed at me to stop.

With a sharpelectronic beep, the stationary bicycle announced that I'd arrived at mydestination. Ten kilometres at Mark 8, a total kilojoule burn of 250. Thecalorific equivalent of two cherry tomatoes and a haircut. Responding as surelyas Pavlov's dogs salivating at the sound of a bell, my legs went limp. With onelast surge of willpower, I forced them to continue for the final minutes of mywarm-down.

I was warmingdown but the gym was hotting up. At the bike beside me, a furiously pedallingendomorph looked up from his copy of the