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"It is good to see you again, Dimitri," the old man says with a total lack of enthusiasm. Without looking up from his work, he gestures vaguely in the direction of a stiff-backed wooden chair that stands alone on a threadbare rug on the other side of his desk. "Thank you, Commissioner." Dimitri Boronov settles into the hard chair and tries to get comfortable, only to realize that comfort is not the purpose of the chair. Clearing his throat, he plunges into his prepared speech. "I want you to know how much I appreciate that you have taken the time to see me on such short notice..." The old man raises a gnarled hand. "One moment." He scowls and shakes his head as he leafs through a stack of worn and dog-eared papers. "The Commission, in its wisdom, has decided that I no longer need an assistant." He speaks in a raspy voice as he peers over his reading glasses at Dimitri. "There was a time when anyone who was foolish enough to challenge me would find himself on the next train to Siberia. But now we are a democracy," he says with distaste, "which is a Greek word that means, 'everybody talks about everything all the time, but nobody ever does a damned thing.'" "A sorry state of affairs," Dimitri agrees, trying to adopt a tone somewhere between pleasant and obsequious. The old man shrugs philosophically. "But we must accept things as they are, yes? Dwelling on the glorious past will not bring it back." He removes his glasses and places them on the desk. "So tell me," he says, with little apparent curiosity, "what brings you all the way to Moscow?" "I have heard," Dimitri says, "that the Commission is going to close the Institute in Kiroly. I would like to know if this is true." "Where did you hear such a thing?" "Please, Commissioner. We have known each other for too long, let us not play games. Are you going to close the Institute? I must know." The old man steeples his fingers and stares up at the ceiling. "If decisions are made that affect your facility, Dimitri, you will learn of them through official channels. But certainly you are aware that we are all tightening our belts. You can hardly expect anyone to be enthusiastic about continuing to devote extravagant sums of money to athletics when people are eating out of garbage bins on the streets of Moscow." "But I have trained many respected athletes, Commissioner. Surely that counts for something." "History no longer seems to be of any importance." The old man sighs and shakes his head sadly. "You have, what, only four students left at the Institute?" "Three students. Three extraordinary students." "Quality is subjective. Scarce resources must be allocated to those activities that are most productive. You read the newspapers. Factories are closing every day." "The Boronov Institute is hardly a factory," Dimitri sniffs. "I do not assemble automobiles. I do not build farm equipment. I train athletes. I shape young minds and bodies. I have developed my own methods – and, as you know, I have been extremely successful." "And you have offended many people in the process, Dimitri. Many important people." "You used to be able to protect me," Dimitri says, surprised at the hint of bitterness that has crept into his voice. "What are you saying, you no longer have any power? Are you not still the Commissioner?" "I am the Director of the Russian Athletic Commission. Things were much different when I was the Director of the Soviet Athletic Commission. But those days are long gone, Dimitri. We must adjust to new times and new realities. All of us. Even my wife's favorite nephew." Dimitri is nonplussed. "But... I am her only nephew." "Exactly." The corners of the old man's lips curl up in what might be taken for a smile. "But I am very busy, Dimitri..." "There is also a rumor," Dimitri blurts, "that the French have developed a foolproof test for blood doping." He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I have also heard that the Americans can now detect even microscopic traces of Alphanil, and that they will soon be able to test for Thorovane and Doloxamine as well." The old man arches an eyebrow. "You hear as many rumors as a fishwife, Dimitri. Who tells you such things?" "If there is any truth to these rumors," Dimitri says, plodding ahead, "the Russian athletic program is in serious trouble. You need my help, Commissioner. No one in the world knows as much about natural athletics as I do. No one. I have successfully detoxified many Russian athletes. You know that I can do it. I have proven it." The old man spreads his hands. "The Russian athletic program has never endorsed the use of performance-enhancing substances, Dimitri. You know this." "I am aware of the official position. We both know the truth." The hard chair has become remarkably uncomfortable in a surprisingly short period of time, and it is only with concentrated effort that Dimitri is able to keep from squirming. "You need my help," he adds softly. "Please, Commissioner. Let me help you." "This is very public-spirited of you, Dimitri," the old man says, dryly. "But you have never shown any interest in helping us before. In fact, you have always avoided the athletic establishment as if we had some kind of disease. A skeptic might be led to question your motives." Dimitri shrugs. "You know that it is not in my nature to be devious, Commissioner. I merely suggest a trade." He leans forward in his chair and speaks with what he hopes will come across as quiet confidence. "I will help you prepare the Russian Olympic team to compete without the benefit of these... these 'performance-enhancing substances,' as you call them. In return, you will allow me to continue my work at the Institute." The old man pulls a fat cigar from an ornate wooden box, holds it up to the light, and inspects it carefully. Reaching across his desk, he grabs a paperweight, a small statue of Lenin in a classic pose, arm outstretched, exhorting the masses. The old man presses on Lenin's head; a flame shoots from the Great Leader's fingertips. After a few quick puffs, the tip of the cigar glows resolutely. "In the unlikely event that the Commission were interested in your proposal," the old man finally says, as wisps of gray smoke begin to swirl around the room, "how quickly could this be done?" "A year, year and a half." Dimitri tries to control his excitement, but he knows that the old man would not have asked the question if he were not interested. "Two years at the outside." "But not in time for the Olympics?" "The Olympics? You mean the next Olympics? In Qen Phon? Certainly not. That is only... what, four months from now? But for the Olympics after that, absolutely, no problem." "Dimitri, listen to me." The old man leans forward, as if he is sharing a confidence. "The Commission is not going to accept your offer simply because I tell them to. We need evidence that your methods work." "Karl Malenko has run a marathon in two hours and four minutes," Dimitri says, proudly. "I timed him myself, in Kiroly. This betters the world record by nearly a full minute. Is this the kind of evidence you seek?" The old man pounds a fist on the desk with surprising strength. "I cannot go to the Commission with the news that you timed him yourself," he roars. "I must have proof! I must have results! I must have medals!" "I am certain that they could win medals in a variety of events," Dimitri says evenly, as if he has not noticed the old man's outburst. "The marathon is the most obvious option..." "The marathon is not an option at all," the old man growls, waving away the suggestion with a trail of cigar smoke. "It is an extremely prestigious event. At this late date, it would be extraordinarily difficult for me to replace those who have already qualified. But I might be able to shift the participants in some of the shorter races, perhaps the ten-thousand meters..." "Impossible." Dimitri shakes his head, pleased that they are negotiating rather than arguing. "My students are endurance athletes. Ten-thousand meters barely gives them time to warm up." "How unfortunate." The old man frowns. "Are they just runners? Do they have other talents?" "They are powerful swimmers, Commissioner. The lake in Kiroly is nearly two-thousand meters long. I have known them to swim to the far shore and back before breakfast, just for fun." "But the longest Olympic swimming event is fifteen-hundred meters. Which, as I suspect you will tell me, barely gives them time to warm up." The old man puffs on his cigar, sending an ominous cloud of dark smoke hurtling toward Dimitri. "Give the matter some thought," he says, brusquely. "Have the receptionist schedule another appointment for you. Next week." He retrieves his glasses and reaches for a stack of papers from across the desk. "Yes, Commissioner," Dimitri says, not realizing that he has already been dismissed. "And I want you to know how much I appreciate..." The old man does not look up. "Next week," he says, waving Dimitri away. This has gone far better than I possibly could have hoped, Dimitri thinks as he walks to the door. Even as difficult as he can be, it is much better to have the Commissioner as an ally than a foe. His power is not nearly so absolute as it was in the old days, but he still knows how to get what he wants. So why, Dimitri wonders, as he closes the office door behind him and steps into the long, gray corridor that leads to the ancient and eerily creaky elevator, why do I have the uneasy feeling that what he wants may not be the same as what I want?
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