It had been three days before the start of the finals.

He had glanced at his watch. It was almost two fifteen in the morning. Out in the street, he could still hear  the music of the milonga drifting down from the windows of the salon. The traffic on Rua do Catete had died down by then but there were still  people about, in groups, in couples, walking the warm Rio sidewalks, waiting for taxis, heading to the next drink, to the next dance. Heading home.

He had walked a few yards from the entrance porch of the building and fished his  cellular from the inside pocket of his dark grey tailored suit. Pushed a few buttons. Waited.

‘Federico?’ said a man’s voice, a sleepy voice, a big voice. ‘Do you know what time it is?’

‘I’m sorry, Hector,’ he had answered. ‘I had to call. I just danced with my daughter. So did Andres.’

‘You and your tango, Federico. Does he know who she is?’

‘I don’t know. No. Not from the way they were dancing.’

There had been a pause, the sound of a light switch.

‘What about you?’

‘I think she may suspect,’ he had said, then hesitated. ‘I tried to warn her not to play tonight, Hector, to stop her being picked on by those jackals.’

He had felt himself getting angry. Then he had taken a deep breath, inhaling the night, catching the melody of a tango vals drifting down from above.

‘She knows what to expect, Federico. You knew this could happen eventually. Perhaps it’s time.’

‘I’m scared, Hector. They’re both so young, so passionate.’

He had heard a chuckle and felt annoyance. Had taken another deep breath.

‘There was never going to be a good time to tell them about each other, Federico. You know that.’

Then he had been the one to chuckle. A brief smile had flickered across his lips.

‘And then I suppose there’s the small matter of their mothers,’ his brother had observed.

He had grunted. ‘Now you’re just being cruel, Hector.’

A throaty laugh this time.

‘What do you expect at this hour? Never mind. I will see you tomorrow…or later today, that is. Buenas noches, hermano mio.’

The line had gone dead. He had lowered his cellulare from his ear and turned to walk to the kerb and hail a taxi.

His son, the Colombian boy, had been standing in front of him, hands in the trouser pockets of his cream linen suit, long brown hair moving gently in the night breeze.

‘Hello, Papa,’ he had said calmly, unsmiling, fixing him with his dark eyes.

‘I think we need to talk.’

++++

It was the morning of the finals.

Renato Bulsara pushed open the door of the Café Leblon on Rua Dias Ferreira and removed his sunglasses. Today would be a busy day, a very busy day. But perhaps not so busy that he could not find the time to enjoy a morning coffee sitting at his favourite table.

He saw that it was free, as it always seemed to be when he visited his favourite café just behind the Copa Trade Tower. Senhor Ventura’s admirable establishment might not be the trendiest or even the quietest in the area, but he felt comfortable here. It was a traditional place occupying the ground floor of what had previously been a bank. A place where he could meet people without feeling conspicuous

He walked past the mahogany counter, greeting Senhor Ventura who was, as usual, involved in the unceasing process of marshalling his work-force in a state of mild concern. The elderly proprietor paused temporarily in his labours to smile and nod in return.

Sitting at his table, he ordered a cafezinho and scanned the interior of the café. Business was brisk, the high ceiling and chequered floor tiles of the former banking hall echoing with the clatter of crockery and the babble of conversation. The waiting staff criss-crossed the floor heading to and from tables, taking orders, carrying trays.

His coffee arrived, delivered by a young waitress wearing a black uniform with a starched white cap and pinafore. He smiled, thanked her and, as she walked away, lifted the cup and saucer from the table. Raising the cup to his lips, he took a deep breath, inhaling the aroma drifting up towards his nostrils.

He took a sip and began to return the cup to its saucer, savouring the taste lingering on his tongue. As he replaced the cup, he looked up and across the floor of the café.

Seated at a table at the other side of the room were a man and woman whose faces were familiar to him. The man was in his mid-30s,clean-shaven with a rugged face  framed with short fair hair. He wore an open-necked shirt under a navy linen jacket. The woman, was older, perhaps, with a diamond chin and short blonde bangs.

As he watched, the man handed what looked like a photograph to the woman. He pointed to it and began talking. The woman looked at the photograph, then at her companion. Suddenly, the man paused, placing his right hand over his mouth, leaving the other resting on the table. Without hesitation, the woman reached forward and took his left hand in hers.

Bulsara felt something leap in his chest, an excitement that he could not name. He quickly finished hiscafezinho, paid  Senhor Ventura and left the building.

At their table in the Café Leblon, Tyler Wolf and Erika Hoskin were still deep in conversation.

++++

It was the afternoon of the finals.

In the Copa favela, the man and the boy sat talking in the shade on plastic seats. They gazed out onto a cleared area, here in the heart of the shanty. An area covered in deep golden sand. Children ran around, dressed in ragged clothes, ignoring the heat of the sun.They played queimada, chasing and tagging each other, the ‘living people’ and the ‘dead ones.’

The man smiled as he watched them. Shouting, running free, running barefoot across the sand, free of rubbish, free of the waste of the favela, free of the broken glass.

He remembered the time when he was a child. Clearly.

But there was something different in the favela now. In the centre of the makeshift beach stood an open-roofed structure with four walls and a single door. From within it, he could hear the sound of a ball thumping against its walls as its occupants played a different barefoot game.

‘So, Miguel,’ he said. ‘How would you like to like to show me how your game’s coming along?’

The boy sat up in his chair, looked at him and smiled, eyes twinkling from a face the colour ofcafezinho. He stood up and grabbed the racket propped against his chair.

‘I’ll go and get them off court, Senhor Renato,’ he yelled, already halfway to the building.

Renato Bulsara smiled and watched the boy hammer on the court door with his racket handle. Some things never changed.

Now, young Miguel Paixao was showing promise, just like his three brothers, one of whom had made it to the preliminary round of the Rio Squash Festival.

‘Paixao,’ he said to himself, and laughed. ‘Passion.’

He picked up his racket and followed the boy across the beach towards the court.

++++

It was the evening of the finals.

The last two matches of the tournament had sold out months before John Allenby’s woes had begun to surface. Now, as he waited to step onto the glass court, he hoped that the intrigue and crises of the last week were not about to repeat themselves. At least not until the night’s events were successfully, and safely, concluded.

If it was possible, the samba dancers, the music and the laser show leading up to the finals  had eclipsed the spectacle of the opening night. The atmosphere was still electric as the spectators settled noisily into their expensive seats. The sun was setting behind the city, leaving behind its warmth as the start of the Women’s Final drew near.

Allenby scanned the crowd, looking for familiar faces. He found plenty of them. The President and his wife, The Mayor of Rio and his, Prince Hamza Al Omani and his entourage,Philip Sanderson, Fritz and Anne Mallinson, Hector Lopez. He started to believe that everything would be…

‘Senhors and Senhoras!’ boomed the PA, jarring him out of his reverie. ‘Please welcome the organiser of the 2014 Rio Beach Squash Classic and your host for the final competitive matches of the tournament, Senhor John Allenby!’

He picked up the microphone and began to walk towards the glass court.

++++

It was less than ten minutes to the start of the women’s final.

Florencia Perez waited behind curtains woven with the yellow, green and blue of Brazil’s national flag. Her ravenesque black hair was tied back in a ponytail. She was wearing a light blue headband to match her dress, and white sneakers. She grasped her racket and bounced up and down on the spot just vacated by her opponent and Number 1 seed, Brigitta Krause.

‘Senhors and Senhoras!’ Allenby’s voice echoed around the stands. ‘Please welcome to the main court…Florencia Perez!’

The curtains parted, the crowd applauded. She had friends here. There was even an Argentinian flag waving in the stand opposite, the Sol de Mayo gazing down at her from the light blue and white tri-band. She entered the court and shook Allenby’s hand, then her opponent’s, ready to begin the warm-up.

Allenby closed the door behind him and walked away from the glass court.

++++

It was less than two minutes to the start of the women’s final.

Florencia Perez sat in her chair outside the court and scanned the crowd, looking for familiar faces. She saw Erika, sitting a few yards away in the front row behind the back wall. She saw Tyler Wolf, wearing his familiar green and gold tracksuit, sitting beside her.

And there were others.

She sensed their gaze before she met it, before she found where they were sitting. Together, high up, behind the back wall of the glass court. Their eyes filled with pride. And more.

The boy from Bogota who had danced with her three nights ago. Sitting to his right, the man they called Mr. Fino. And, to his left, the tall man with the long nose who had sent her the elegant gold watch which now adorned her left wrist.

She smiled, picked up her racket and began to walk towards the glass court.

++++

It was less than an hour to the start of the men’s final.

Renato Bulsara was reaching the end of a busy day. A very busy day.

He picked his way slowly through the crowds milling around the arrivals hall at Galeão International Airport. At times like these he envied the natural footwork and movement of…who? Samba dancers? Squash players? He began to feel uncertain and, yes, mildly concerned. Like…like…Senhor Ventura! He chuckled to himself. A good sign.

He scanned the arrivals board. The flight he was to meet had landed. The passengers were now in baggage reclaim. Quickly, he summoned a porter and engaged his services. He glanced at his watch. It was eight forty-five.

He found a convenient spot from which to catch the eye of his employer’s guests and prepared to hold up the cardboard sign which his secretary had prepared for him. He looked again at the single surname it displayed.

Suddenly, the flight’s passengers began to emerge from the customs channel, looking for friends, relatives, hosts. He held up his sign, anxious that it should be in plain sight.

Then he saw them, both smiling broadly, both seeing his sign, both waving. He smiled back and waved, picking his way towards them, summoning the porter to follow him.

After what seemed like an age, they met.

‘Senhor Bulsara, I presume!’ said the woman, laughing. ‘I am so pleased to meet you!’ She grabbed his hand, shaking it warmly, thanking him for his welcome to Rio. He joined her laughter, looked into her eyes. Twinkling eyes, beaming from a face with high cheekbones. A face the colour of darkest ebony.

She turned, still smiling, towards her young companion.

Bulsara leaned forward and held out his hand to the child.

‘So, you must be Jeremy,’ he said.

At least, John Allenby thought it was Shelley Anderson.

The erstwhile diva of the World Tour was a shadow of her former self.

She seemed to have imploded. Her eyes were bloodshot and there were deep, dark hollows underneath them. Her breasts were no longer their pert, button-threatening, buxom selves – but sagged in flaccid defeat. And was that grey in the roots of her hair?

“My God!” Allenby exhaled in disbelief, “ What in the name of Christmas happened to you?”

Shelley looked over her left shoulder and Allenby followed her eyeline to see Agent McDiarmid hovering with a grim look on his face.

“Miss Anderson and I had a deeply meaningful conversation some days ago, in the course of which she decided that continuing her relationship with certain unpleasant characters in the Russian underworld was possibly not going to be of long term benefit to her,” Naldo McDiarmid explained. He went on, “ Miss Anderson agreed, in light of certain persuasive arguments that we were able to make, that she would make the very brave decision to wear a listening device when she met with a woman by the name of Irina Hleb. A woman who is also known to Rhodanie Maison and who – or is it whom – forgive my English,  Miss Anderson here has had a relationship with for sometime.”

As impossible as it would have seemed beforehand, Shelley appeared to slump even more disconsolately.

The special agent looked more intently at Allenby. “Let’s take a walk somewhere a little less public.” he said, gesturing to Allenby and Anderson to accompany him behind the curtains of the players area.

In the background the PA announced that Tyler Wolf had beaten Bashir in the fourth after fighting off an unexpected comeback attempt.

Allenby, Anderson and Special Agent McDiarmid paid no heed to this otherwise exciting news.

McDiarmid began again:

“Why you sporters don’t just stick to sport I don’t know. You are obviously good at what you do. But greed seems to suck you into a world and a frame of mind where you think you can get money. Then when you are out of your depth, in a league where people get killed – killed every day – mark you, we have to come and clean up your mess.”

As good looking as Naldo McDiarmid was, the ugly look on his face put the fear of God into John Allenby as the agent spoke again in a deadly undertone,

“This time we have managed, more through good fortune than by police work, to extricate  you, Shelley and hopefully that fool Wolf from a deadly situation. We were lucky. The wire that Shelley wore when she was with Irina Hleb gave us some key information as to the Russians’ plans.

But that still left us with a whole heap of trouble. Fortunately the whole thing was taken out of our hands and the problem has gone away.”

Naldo paused mysteriously, but he still wore the same frightening expression.

“Listen m-i-s-t-e-r Allenby.” he looked at Shelley, “ You too, even though I think I made this clear earlier.”

They both looked at the extraordinary lawman.

“ I am going to watch you and Tyler Wolf very carefully for at least the next ten years.” he said slowly. “ You won’t know I’m watching. But just when you think I’ve gone away you will receive some little clue that I haven’t. If you screw up, if you even think about doing anything except what you are supposed to do – tax evasion, match fixing, drugs -  if you get a fucking parking ticket – I will ruin your life.”

McDiarmid let it sink in for a moment. Then he continued,

“ I don’t mean through legal means. There won’t be lawyers and a court case.”

“I have my own methods,” he said darkly.

“If you mess up, you won’t know what happened – but your life will suddenly start a downward spiral from which you will never return. I have cleared this with Philip Sanderson who has the power to do this to you on his own if he wishes, but, “ he paused for emphasis, “ Zeus has decided that my influence might be, as you might say, a little more cautionary. Are we clear?”

Allenby had never felt comfortable with the Brazilian and now he felt scared. He felt a large bead of sweat drop from his shoulder blade to the small of his back. He nodded vigorously.

Shelley Anderson just shrugged her drooping shoulders and made a pathetic attempt at smiling her assent. It looked more like the sort of expression you might make if you had acute appendicitis.

“Now you two, “ said Naldo, brightening both his tone and his visage, “ I believe you have some important work to attend to. I am hoping to see some of the semis and finals myself. Where is Zeus? He told me he has a box seat for me.”

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Julia Brown was enthralled.

The first semi final of the women’s event was into the third game. At one-all, the match was perfectly balanced with Anh Linh from Thailand having won the first with her spectacular mix of electric speed, deft touch – probably the finest lob in the game – and her gymnastic and explosive capacity to leap in the air and volley – clear evidence of her badminton background.

But in the second, world number one, Brigitta Krause a German who had relocated and now represented the Czech republic, had ground Linh down with grimly constructed rallies – keeping the ball on the sidewalls to prevent the Thai magician from using her control.

Julia was enjoying the Squash – it was a great match – but what was really making her breathless was Brigitta Krause.

The German was incredibly fit and muscular. She also didn’t shave. Julia didn’t know what to make of that. Some people said it was disgusting. If that was the case why was she having these feelings when she saw the little tufts of hair poking out of the armpits of Brigitta’s Canary yellow dress, and at the sweat darkened  curls  when Krause’s inner thigh was exposed every time she lunged?

“See something you like?” Emily Miller’s voice startled Julia from her voyeurism.

“Yes,” hissed Julia, “ and what’s it to you anyway. Aren’t you happy merrily screwing Vargas or Lopes or whatever his name is?”

“Lopez with a Z is his name and yes thank you – very happy. But that is when I am playing for that team. I haven’t done with your side yet. Brigitta……ouch!!!!!” but Emily never got to finish the sentence.

Having been so interested in both  the match on the court and the zingers that they were trying to throw at each other, neither of them had noticed Maxwell Miller II standing just below where they were sitting at the player’s end of the bleachers, eavesdropping on their conversation.

With a firm but painful grip, Daddy Miller pulled – practically dragged – Emily Miller down off the bleachers.

“You’re coming with me, you little slut,” he growled.

Brigitta Krause continued grinding her opponent down, to win the third.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Tyler Wolf was vegging in bed, the remains of his room service breakfast littered all over the luxurious egyptian cotton sheets.

With some CNN sob story about loss of natural habitat’s in various parts of the world, droning on on the TV in the background, he was considering his situation.

Yes, it was freaking unbelievable that he was in the final of this the most prestigious tournament in the World, but it was also freaking precarious.

Now the Russian’s wanted him to win so that they could make their money with him as the underdog. Two days ago it had been exactly the opposite. What a crazy stupid world he was mixed up in. How in hell was he going to get Andres Lopez to throw the final – if he indeed got there? He seemed to have him reeling with the Emily Miller deal but fucking Maxwell Miller had screwed that up by catching Emily admitting it last night. Mouthy little bitch!

The CNN commentator exhorted listeners to pay attention, “ In this part of the country so much game has died off even the Maribou Storks can’t get enough to survive on…………..”

Tyler’s idle gaze settled on Buckler’s computer in the closet.

Suddenly he shot up in bed!

“Fuck me – Stork!” He said aloud.

He ran over to the closet and picked up the laptop. Quickly he found  Buckler’s piece about Florencia – or Florencio as Buckler claimed the real name was. There were some good photo’s of the player. Then he found Buckler’s work on all the scandals that Andres Lopez had been involved in. More photos. Quickly he maneuvered a picture of Florencia and Andres together. The similarities were clear – unmistakable.

But Tyler wasn’t done. Unhesitatingly he pulled up a browser and got onto Google. He punched in “Los Dos Federicos.”

Immediately several pages of results came up. Even though he could manage in Spanish,Tyler went to the first one he saw English.

“Knew it!” he breathed excitedly. He read the beginning of the article:

“Once again, “ it proclaimed, “ the South American scene has been dominated by Los Dos Federicos – Usandizaga and Lopez. Although Usandizaga is well known on the World Tour, having reached as high as 15 on the PSA ranking list, it is the lesser known Lopez popularly known as ‘the Stork’ after his tall and rangy features and his long classical nose, that has taken more of the Latin American victories than anyone this year.”

The article was dated February 1996.

Tyler continued his search. He looked for results and photos. The Belo Horizonte Open in 1997, a combined PSA and WISPA ( as the WSA was then called) event.

A classic photo of the PSA winner with his trophy and check. Federico Lopez, the typical ‘Stork’ pose that he was known for. Who was in the background? Ah – yes! There she was – a very young and distinctly underage Erika Hoskins! The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

“I wonder if Andres realizes that he has a sister on the Women’s tour?” Tyler thought to himself. Then he burst out laughing, “ I wonder if he knows he has a brother on the Women’s tour?”

He slammed his hand on the bed, scattering the remains of his half eaten breakfast all over the bed and collapsing back against the headboard giggling uncontrollably.

A sudden and sharp rap on the door silenced him.

“Fuck!” he thought, “ Who the hell is that?”

Quickly he jammed the laptop under the bed, stuck a pair of shorts on and went to the door.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Irina Hleb was awakened by a bucket of freezing cold water thrown over her naked, bruised and abused body.

She could feel a sharp stabbing pain in her head and gradually became conscious of voices and flashing lights.

She heard  the echo of a heavy metallic door being slammed shut.

With enormous effort she opened her eyes.

As she gradually gained focus she saw she was on a damp concrete floor in a room with no windows. Somehow there were video pictures of her in a folding chair – confronted by a man who was asking her questions.

Unbelievably she was answering each question truthfully.

The man was tall – about two metres – had wiry blonde hair and was built like a boxer. As the camera panned round she saw that he had the most piercing blue eyes.

Recognition flooded her body. Dimitri Molotov. One of the Kremlin’s most decorated and notorious fixers.

Irina shuddered.

She prayed for a work camp in Siberia.

That would be a blessing compared to some of the other choices that she had heard about.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

“ So we are all agreed?” Mr Fino said happily.

At the boardroom table in the luxurious offices of Sombrasoft at the top of the Copa Trade tower were seated some of the most influential people in the Squash world.

Mr Fino carefully searched the faces of each of the individual participants.

All were nodding in tacit agreement.

“Renato, please read through the agreement once again so that everyone can be sure.”

“ With pleasure, Senhor, “ agreed Bulsara, clearing his throat and assuming a dramatic pose to mark what was without doubt one of the most historic moments in the history of the International Squash business and in addition not an unimportant moment in the world of business itself.

Bulsara drew himself up to his full medium height and began:

“ Your Royal Highness,” inclining his head with full deference in the direction of Prince Hamza Al Omani, “Senhor and Senhora Mallinson,” Anne flashed her stunning slightly crooked smile and Fritz looked both proud and happy. Last Renato turned with enormous respect to his employer, “ Senhor Fino,” the great man nodded his head to both acknowledge and encourage his trusted assistant.

“This morning I will read the principle statements of the agreement. The logistical and contractual details will of course be fully examined in fine by your respective lawyers, before final completion of this agreement.”

All parties in the room whispered their acknowledgement of this and Bulsara commenced the main agreement.

” The following agreement refers to the sales, research and development, application and licensing of the patented technology known as Viper Technology.”

Fritz and Anne exchanged a glowing look of pride.

Renato went on:

” Item 1. Determined. Sombrasoft, a privately owned corporation located and registered in Brazil, will become the sole agent for Viper Technology worldwide. All new agreements or changes to existing agreements will be approved by Frederick and Anne Mallinson, the inventors.

Item 2. Determined. All Media coverage of sporting and/or new as yet undiscovered applications of the technology will be primarily owned by the Al Jazeera networks worldwide. No coverage will proceed without the express agreement of Frederick and Anne Mallinson or of Hector Allessandro Rojas Peron Lopez, known professionally as Senhor Fino,” at this an almost imperceptible color crept into Mr Fino’s complexion – and then was gone, ” the chief executive officer of Sombrasoft.”

As Bulsara paused to take a breath, Prince Omani delicately held his open hand to his heart and bowed regally to both the Mallinson’s and to Mr Fino,

” A wonderful day for Squash, for Al Jazeera and for my family. We have long esteemed your vision Mr and Mrs Mallinson and of course the excellence of your business empire Mr Fino – or should I say Lopez?”

All turned towards the big man.

“Let us complete the reading of the agreement – and then my friends, in the interests of both full disclosure and of an open and honest working relationship, I have arranged a meeting in my private office with Philip Sanderson and another gentleman who may or may not be known to you. Renato please finish.”

Bulsara continued:

” Item 3. Determined. Prince Hamza Al Omani, Frederick and Anne Mallinson and Hector, er,  Senhor Fino will underwrite research and development and operations for World Squash for a period of not less than five years at a rate of $15 million per annum.” Renato removed his reading glasses and looked up,

” Your Royal Highness, Mr and Mrs Mallinson, Senhor Fino, this completes the reading of the agreement. The full document will now be properly audited and sent to your respective lawyers for final inspection, signing and execution.”

“Wonderful! Congratulations Fritz and Anne and to you also your Highness.” Fino stood and encompassed Fritz and Anne’s shoulders like a father with two little children.

” And to you Senhor.” returned Al Omani,” Without your muscle it would have taken much longer and been far more complicated to pass on the benefit of Viper to the world. And underwriting Squash is a stroke of genius. Players and Spectators alike will benefit from Viper and by supporting the sport we will ensure the long term security of Squash.”

” And make a pretty penny into the bargain!” quipped Fino. He turned to his trusty aid, ” Renato, please have the champagne brought into my office….” he paused thoughtfully, ” if that is acceptable your Highness?”

The Prince bowed again, ” I shall not partake, but please do not hesitate on my behalf. Although I do thank you for your courtesy.”

“Then,” the big man said not without drama, ” let us go into my private office and to the meeting of which I have spoken.”

He moved to the almost invisible door that joined his beautifully appointed boardroom to his even more spectacular private office – and opened it.

Inside there were two  men taking in the incredible panorama. As the door opened the two men turned away from the windows to face them.

One of them was Philip Sanderson – otherwise known as Zeus. The other man was also an older man. He was tall and had a slight stoop. His face was extremely handsome.

“Even with that nose,” thought Anne immediately to herself. ” It gives him the look of some regal bird. A Crane perhaps or yes, that’s it – a Stork!”

The group moved as one toward the open door, as their host invited them to enter.

“ Peron,” remarked Prince Al Omani, “now that is truly a name to conjure with.”

“Indeed,” noted Fritz and then continued as if thinking aloud, “Peron-Lopez….I wonder.”

The chief executive of Sombrasoft politely waited until the others had entered and then, before following them in, momentarily took stock.

Hector Allessandro Rojas Peron Lopez was a very private man, but even private men sometimes have to share their secrets when the futures of people they love are at stake.

Casting aside all doubts, he drew himself up to his full, impressive stature and, closing the door behind himself, joined the others.

“My friends,” he said, “ if I may presume upon our relationship and use that word – you all of course already know the Director of World Squash, Mr Philip Sanderson. Allow me in addition to introduce you to the finest Squash player I ever known and a man for whom destiny has not woven the easiest path,”

As he said these words, with great tenderness, he put his arm around the man that had reminded Ann of a stork. He continued:

“May I present my beloved brother, Federico Carlos Rojas Peron Lopez. I will allow him to tell you his own, shall we say, difficult story.”

And for the first time in many years, one of Los Dos Federicos, the man they called the Stork, described the events that had led to the end of a wonderful career, estrangement from a powerful family and a young son, and to a clandestine life that included a secret daughter…..

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Tyler opened the door and tried to look as though he was irritated at being disturbed from his rest -which he was, but not for reasons that he wanted anyone to suspect.

However the act didn’t hold up for very long when he saw Naldo McDiarmid standing there.

“Hello Tyler.” the Special Agent said – his voice deadpan.

“ Hello Agent McDiarmid. What can I do for you?”

“ I think we had better close the door before we discuss that. May I come in?”

Tyler would like to have said ‘No’ but he knew that wasn’t going to happen, so he just said, “Sure,” and made a space for the policeman to pass through.

“What’s this about?” Tyler said.

“It’s about Buckler’s computer. You were supposed to give it to me weren’t you.” McDiarmid said with an accusatory tone.

“What computer?” said Tyler said, trying to sound genuinely ignorant.

McDiarmid eyed Tyler Wolf.

“Jesus Christus!”  he thought to himself, “these stupid people just don’t know when to help themselves.”

“You really want to try this Tyler?” Naldo asked the young man in front of him that he knew to be lying. “You really want to try and lie to an international police agent, who knows more than anyone about you and what illicit activities you have been up to – and who has just turned Ms Shelley Anderson from Russian gang accomplice to Russian gang informant and gave her three days in hell working for me after having told me everything she knows and everything that is on that laptop just to save her skin? Really?”

Tyler looked unsure. He was just weighing up how much McDiarmid actually knew when the agent reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a snapshot.

Naldo McDiarmid handed it to Wolf.

Tyler looked at the photo. Naomi’s eyes stared pleadingly at him. Naomi’s eyes in the face of a beautiful little boy. Jeremy.

Tyler’s eyes welled up.

Silently he got up, walked around the bed, reached under it, pulled out the laptop and handed it to McDiarmid.

“Thank you.” said the Special Agent. “Now sit down and listen. I have a lot to tell you and you need to really pay attention. Otherwise I am going to have to do some things that I don’t like doing but that I am very capable of doing.”

Tyler wiped his eyes. A shot of adrenalin burst through his body. This was shit-street. He didn’t want any more trouble.

“First. The Russian Mafia are gone. You won’t be getting any more phone calls. You needn’t thank me, although it was me that leveraged the opportunity through Shelley and her stupidity. No, actually I was about to execute a plan to shut down the Russian mobsters when I got a high clearance phone call from my government. I was told in no uncertain terms to work closely with a Russian Cultural attache by the name of Dimitri Molotov. Which I did. I have no idea what happened to the animals that were threatening you and Squash as a whole, but I received a clear message from Comrade Molotov that the threat had been removed – entirely and permanently – along with his thanks and a quick dosvidaniya and one further urgent request. And when I say request it wasn’t the sort of request you would ever want to deny, considering the source.”

Tyler was so invested in what the Special agent was saying that he didn’t realize he had stopped breathing. Suddenly he became aware of the tightness in his chest and gasped.

“ What request?” he rasped as he struggled for breath.

“That would be the request for Buckler’s laptop to be handed in quietly and immediately at the Russian consulate here in Rio.” said Naldo in a very clipped monotone.

“Why on earth…” spluttered Tyler.

“Why precisely I couldn’t tell you,” McDiarmid began and continued his comments with a heavy dose of irony, “ But consider this: When you were ‘arrested’ when your bag was ‘returned’ after being lost, who was it that showed up at your door with the so-called ‘policemen?”

“Buckler.” said Tyler – the light beginning to dawn.

“And when we discovered that, you, Rhodanie Maison and Shelley Anderson were involved with Russian mafia,  who do you think turned out to be Rhodanie and Shelley’s point person?

“Buckler?” Tyler ventured.

“Correct. And who spent almost all of the decade of the 1990’s living in Moscow?”

“Buckler.” said Tyler, without requiring further confirmation.

“Now I can’t tell you what the Kremlin want with that laptop, but take it from me that the woman Irina Hleb and the assassinatos bandidos that she brought with her, likely shared those details with the ‘Russian attache for Cultural affairs,’ before they finished their ‘little conversar’ with him. Probably Mother Russia’s finest geeks will pull it apart and find what they are looking for.”

“However, “ McDiarmid continued, “what will not be seeing the light of day are certain sensational stories that Buckler in his other life and favorite muck-spreading hobby was hoping to see published.”

“ Let’s you and me make sure we understand each other before I leave this room Tyler, because if you give me reason to come back and find you, it will not be an experience you enjoy – compreendido?”

Tyler nodded that he understood fully.

“Good. The here we go. Florencia Perez was born Florencio Hector Rojas Peron Lopez. When Florencio was born there was great confusion. To begin with the child was born a Hermaphrodite – you are familiar with the term?” Tyler blinked to confirm that he was, “ in addition Florencio was born out of wedlock as a result on an affair between the then stellar Argentinian Squash star and member of one of the foremost families in South America, Federico Carlos Rojas Peron Lopez and a very young American girl – one Erika Hoskins. The older members of the  Peron Lopez family rejected everything – the baby, Federico, Erika – and rallied around Federico’s jilted wife and son – a little boy named Andres Carlos Rojas Peron Lopez – better known to you as just Andres Lopez, placing them in a beautiful mansion in Bogata. Meanwhile Federico did his best to put Erika’s life on track and took the baby to Carthagena, also coincidentally in Colombia. Little Florencio grew up with every advantage that his father could give him, while keeping him as secret as possible. Concerned that Squash would bring them both into the public eye, Federico, with help from his elder brother Hector, set about raising Florencio as a tennis player. Florencio showed tremendous ability from an early age. However all was not well with the child. He loved to dance – the sensuous dances of South America – and always as the senhorita not the senhor, he preferred dolls to soldiers and dresses to pants.”

Naldo adjusted his position on the chair he was sitting on to get more comfortable.

“Of course having been born a Hermaphrodite, there was always a reason to question the boy’s gender. But let’s just say that it seemed more obvious that he was a boy at the start. However after the other issues emerged and with the vast improvements in medical science, again with his brother’s help, Federico decided to have Florencio gender tested.”

McDiarmid paused.

“When the results came back it was clear that Florencio had never been anything else than Florencia and that what had seemed to clearly make her a male was an enigma – an aberration. A small medical procedure ensued and Florencia’s life became happier. Of course by this time – even though she was only four – she had developed her barefoot and double handed tennis. But eventually Federico couldn’t resist putting his beloved daughter on the same track as he had originally started his first child – that of Squash. She was a natural and of course picked it up, but as success beckoned so did fame and so with Florencia at the age of only five-and-a-half, Federico dropped out of her life, frightened that his association with her would damn her.”

He paused again.

“ That was some fifteen years ago and since then Florencia had not seen her father. That is until two nights ago, when in a club not far from here, they danced. She still doesn’t know him it seems – although she may have sensed his familiarity,”

Tyler looked dubious. It was a fantastic story.

“ If you don’t believe it, check with the IOC gender lab. But don’t check under Florencia Perez. Check under Florencia Peron Lopez. With her father’s family in open denial – it was just simpler to combine the two names into a single  less recognizable one.”

“That was Buckler’s biggest piece apart from you and Naomi and little Jeremy. And of course there were the gay stories about Emily Miller and Julia Brown and John Allenby and his bisexual habits. But while Buckler might have got some mileage out of that for his own satisfaction, it wouldn’t really damage Squash’s image now. The IOC and World Squash aren’t in the least homophobic and trying to sell those stories would have been like – well, like killing a beast that had already died.”

Tyler saw McDiarmid’s point. No reason to scare off Lopez now.

“Last thing I want to say to you Tyler,” Naldo resumed, “ You have done some stupid things and become involved with dangerous people. Some of it was greed and some of it was sloppiness – yes?” Wolf nodded his head in resignation. McDiarmid continued, “ But somehow you have survived. You have a beautiful little son – who – judging from your tears – you clearly love and miss. You are in the final of the greatest Squash tournament of the modern era, on the edge of maybe playing in the Olympic games and beyond that with Squash in the Olympics – who knows what opportunities lie ahead for a student of Squash who has a reputation for beating his opponents not by mere skill but by clever strategy.”

“ I guess that it is all true.” said Tyler, “ but how can I go on from here – with everything that has happened?”

“ I tell you how. DON’T FUCK IT UP! That’s how. I happen to know that Philip Sanderson is involved in a meeting that is going to secure a very bright future for Squash and anyone who is not ‘persona non grata’” The Special Agent said emphatically.

“If you follow the instructions I have given you, I promise no-one will hear of your illegal behaviors from me. The Kremlin doesn’t care and frankly Squash needs you. You’re a character.”

“So do you give me your word that you will simply stick to Squash from now on? No dope. No match fixing. No blackmail?”

“ Yes.” Tyler punched out the word definitively. “ I’m done with all that.”

“Good.” said McDiarmid, “and if you take my advice you will tell the world about Naomi and Jeremy and give that little boy a Papa to look up to and love.”

“ On that note I will leave,” said McDiarmid gathering up the laptop marked Smashingballs.com.

“If you ever have to see me again professionally you will wish you had never been born – yes?”

“Compreendido, Senhor!” said Tyler – with gusto.

“Excellent. Oh you may as well have this,” McDiarmid said and handed him a small folder of photos. They were all of Jeremy. “ I won’t be needing them any more will I?”

“No.” said Tyler attempting to speak firmly, but he was betrayed by a single tear that escaped the corner of his eye.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Dimitri Molotov sat in the comfort of the small private office that was situated behind the cockpit of a giant Aeroflot transport plane as it made its way, ‘the long way home’ over the Northern Pacific.

He had almost completed his report on his Brazilian mission.

A uniformed Aeroflot officer, interrupted him:

“ We have reduced altitude to five thousand meters as you requested, Polkovnik Molotov.” the officer said, looking above Molotov’s head into the middle distance.

“Thank you.” Dimitri said grimly, getting up from the relative comfort of the passenger cabin and making his way to the hold.

There he was met by a combat dressed member of the Russian Spetznaz unit.

The man saluted with mechanical efficiency.

“Let me see them.” said Molotov.

The man pulled a large rough sewn blanket from over a nondescript mass that it was hiding.

Below were five naked bodies lying on their backs. One was a large fat man, two more were the usual Russian version of ‘wise guys,’ one was a distinctly non-Russian looking Brazilian and finally there was the slim, dark haired woman, covered in scores of tatoos, her skin no longer taut, her body no longer hard. Just a sallow grey husk.

Each body had an industrially precise incision made through the gut, so that a small amount of fluid from the body cavity had seeped externally.

Dimitri looked at them. “Good.” he thought, “ enough to attract the sharks – no chance of remains.”

He felt no remorse. No pity.

Mother Russia was trying to move forward into the 21st century and this filth just took her backwards.

He looked again at the Spetznaz soldier. “Do it.” he ordered.

Again the Spetznaz saluted explosively and then, he pushed the cart upon which the five bodies lay toward the gradually opening rear door of the cargo plane.

Finally, he pulled a lever and the five bodies were unceremoniously jettisoned toward an anonymous stretch of the Pacific some sixteen thousand feet below.

As the giant door closed behind him, Dimitri returned to the comfort of his cabin and the closure of his report.

ALL THE CHAPTERS

It was nighttime. Agent McDiarmid sat in the command center. The command center was a folding table and an uncomfortable plastic chair, but he was issuing commands, so it counted. McDiarmid was wearing a headset. He issued a command: “Go”. On command, a half dozen agents swarmed a nondescript semi-industrial building in downtown Rio.

—-

The next morning, John Allenby’s phone rang, and he answered.

“Mr. Allenby, this is Agent McDiarmid. We’ve recovered Fritz Mallinson. He’s back safe with our agents.”

“Really,” said Allenby. “That’s great news! Where did you find him?”

“He was being held in Rio”, responded McDiarmid. “The Russians had him — as we suspected.”

“Is he alright? What did they want with him?”

“He’s unharmed, aside from a few bruises,” said McDiarmid. “We’re still trying to find out everything. Apparently they mostly wanted to learn about his squash technology — the Viper technology — and how it worked.”

“How it worked?” mused Allenby, wondering what the Russians were up to.

“Mallinson says they were after technical details,” said McDiarmid.

“The Russians seem pretty interested in our squash tournament,” said Allenby.

Allenby suddenly realized: the Russians must be backing Tyler Wolf. After all, Andres Lopes was Mr. Fino’s horse. At this point, Wolf was the only other option.

“They want to hack into the Viper stuff, eh?” asked Allenby. “That’s pretty clever.”

“Apparently Mallinson told them it can’t be done. Or at least, not to his knowledge.”

“OK,” said Allenby.

“Allenby, there’s one more thing,” said McDiarmind. “It’s about Shelley. Mallinson swears he heard her voice coming from another room while he was being held.”

Allenby said, “What? You mean she’s been captured too?”

“Mallinson didn’t think so. He thinks she’s working with the Russians. He says he’s not sure, but still, you should watch your back.”

“Thanks,” said Allenby. He hung up with McDiarmid.

There wasn’t much time to dwell on everything he’d just heard. He needed to get ready for tonight’s semi-final matches. Still, he decided to make one more call.

He punched F on his phone and within a few minutes he was through to Mr. Fino.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Allenby?”

“Mr. Fino, I’ve just learned something I think you’ll want to know. Fritz Mallinson has been found. He’s alive and well.”

“Where was he found?” asked Fino.

“The Russians had him.”

“No surprises there,” responded Fino.

“Really?” wondered Allenby out loud. Fino seemed quick on the uptake.

“Oh yes,” said Fino. “They have been interfering with squash for years. It makes sense they are behind this too.”

“What do they want out of this?” asked Allenby.

“Well,” said Fino, “in the past it was always about the money for them. Some matches are fixed and you can make some good money.”

“Is it still about the money now?”

“Well, yes,” replied Fino. “But maybe there is more money this year.”

“I don’t understand how there’s more money,” said Allenby, thinking it over. “It can’t be because of the Olympics. I mean, I know that’s a big deal for squash, but it doesn’t seem like there’s THAT much more money to be made betting on squash this year. I mean, it’s going to take a while for that to develop. It doesn’t seem worth all the trouble the Russians are going to. Abductions seem a bit much don’t they?”

“Not when your survival is at stake,” said Fino.

“What do you mean?” asked Allenby. “Whose survival is at stake?”

“Let me ask you this, Mr. Allenby. With squash in the Olympics, will Russia win more Olympic medals?”

“No,” said Allenby. It had been a bewildering few days. He was happy to have Mr. Fino gently walking him through it. Allenby ventured, “Russia has a strong wrestling program, don’t they? When squash replaces wrestling in the Olympics, Russia will come away with fewer medals.”

“Exactly,” said Fino. “Many livelihoods in Russia depend on wrestling being in the Olympics. When wrestling was ousted, many people’s jobs were jeopardized. But there’s more to it than that. It’s a matter of national importance to perform well at the Olympics. So maybe even the Kremlin is taking an interest in these developments.”

“Really? The Kremlin has a hand in this?” Allenby blurted out.

Mr. Fino broke into laughter. “Maybe, my friend. Maybe they have. Maybe they haven’t. I am just trying to show you the possibilities. This year, it is bigger than a few guys placing bets. If squash has a spectacular failure, perhaps the Olympic Committee will make some changes to the lineup. After all, one wouldn’t want to tarnish the reputation of the Games.”

“You don’t seem too worried,” ventured Allenby.

“I suppose I am not. This is no reason to be discouraged. Even if the odds are against you, Mr. Allenby, it’s sometimes still worth the gamble. And if it doesn’t work out, I have many other opportunities besides squash!”

This time Allenby laughed. “That must be a comforting feeling, Mr. Fino.” It actually comforted Allenby, too. He was, after all, a new shareholder shareholder in Mr. Fino’s corporation.

“Well,” said Allenby, glancing down at his watch, “I need to prepare for this evening’s semi-final matches.

“I must be going as well,” said Mr. Fino, “but there’s one last thing I must tell you. You have a partner in all this, Miss Shelley Anderson. You must be careful around her. Her motives appear to be complicated, but they may not be aligned with ours. Good luck Mr. Allenby.”

Fino hung up.

—-

World #1 Karim Bashir of Egypt stood ready to return serve. His racket was up, and he was jiggling it in his hand. He spoke to himself in Arabic. He seemed to be trying to convince himself of the importance of this point, this game, this match.

JP, one of the Squash TV announcers, assessed the situation: “The Egyptian really has gone walkabout. He just seems completely disinterested right now.”

His fellow commentator, Yogi, nodded his head in agreement. “Bashir started this second game so strong, hitting penetrating lengths deep into the back of the court and finding his touch right away. He’s built up a big lead, got all the way to 9-5, and all of a sudden, the wheels have come off.”

Tyler Wolf stood on the right of the court, in the service box. He faced the left wall, wiggled his Prince racket a few times, tossed up the ball, away from himself and towards the left-hand wall. Wolf lunged toward the ball and and delivered a cutting backhand serve that darted toward the sidewall.

Just as the ball ricocheted off the sidewall, Bashir swung. He attempted to send the ball to the front right corner. It slammed into the tin.

“There’s another one straight into the tin,” said JP. “Bashir has just got to try something different here. He’s completely lost his touch. Tyler Wolf has now drawn level with the Egyptian at 9-all, and Bashir doesn’t seem able to do about anything right at the moment. You have to wonder what the Egyptian is thinking right now.”

“It’s true,” said Yogi. “Bashir is known for sometimes losing his concentration. He’ll be playing in top form one second, and then the next, he’ll start thinking about something else — who knows what, maybe thinking about what he ate for breakfast — and all of a sudden he’s lost 3 or 4 points. If he’s anything like you JP, he’s probably had something nice and light for breakfast, like maybe a plate of sausages and a few litres of coffee.”

“Well that does sound quite delicious actually,” said JP, “and Bashir certainly is making a hash of this game. Look, he’s now put another shot into the bottom of the tin, and suddenly Wolf has a game ball in this second game, and he’s got a chance to go up two-love in this match.”

Wolf moved to the opposite service box as quickly as he could. He was eager to close out this first game immediately, if not sooner. Bashir seemed to be doing everything he could to screw up right now.

Bashir hit himself on the head with an open palm, making contact with his forehead so forcefully that Allenby, watching from the audience, could hear the smack.

“Bashir just trying to generate a bit of electricity in the old grey cells,” said Yogi. “Meanwhile, Wolf has played well. He looks focused and relaxed here at the business end of this second game. He has to be careful with his serve here, or Bashir is liable to slam the ball into the nick.”

Wolf paused to compose himself in the service box. He bounced the ball on the floor a few times, then served right into the body of Bashir, who skipped out of the way just in time and scraped the ball off the back wall, sending it high and long, into the back court.

Wolf went to get the ball and smashed it crosscourt. Bashir, caught off guard, stuck his racket out, just trying to put his strings on the ball. He made contact, and the ball soared up to the front wall, bounced off it, and began descending towards the mid-court. Wolf took one step from the T, his racket up, preparing to smash the ball. Wolf swung, but slowed down his racket at the last possible second, sending the ball into the front left corner. Bashir sped to the corner, and managed to get the edge of his frame on the ball just before it died, but now he’d hit the ball right down the middle of the court, and Wolf crushed it, volleying the ball to the back right corner, well out of the Egyptian’s reach.

“Well,” said Yogi as the players walked off the court, “The Australian manages to take the second game 11-9 in 11 minutes, and he leads two games to love. Bashir, the number one seed, is looking quite distraught as he heads over to his corner.”

“Full credit though to Tyler Wolf,” said JP, “he’s put Bashir under pressure and kept his errors down. Great attention to detail. The Australian did well to take that second game, and I think he needs to keep pressuring Bashir deep into the back court. Meanwhile, the Egyptian just had too many unforced errors, and despite his wonderful talents, Bashir is staring at a steep two game deficit right now.”

Tyler Wolf sat in his corner, considering his plan for the this game. He felt good on the court and was playing some top-quality squash, but it would take considerable effort to keep this level of play up. Wolf had his marching orders from the Russians: win the tournament. But he didn’t have any tricks up his sleeve for this match. If he was going to get past Bashir, he would have to do it the old-fashioned way, by bringing his talents to bear. Perhaps, he thought, the reason he’d played so well in this match was that everything was so straightforward: just play squash as well as you can. No gimmicks.

John Allenby paced up and down alongside the stadium seats. A wave of nervous energy was flowing through him. For just a moment, he was lost in the squash match, imagining himself on court against either Bashir or Wolf (or both — it was all a haze), feeling the sensation of squash footwork. A song popped into his head:

Hold me closer tiny dancer
Count the headlights on the highway
Lay me down in sheets of linen
You had a busy day today

He felt a tap on his shoulder — someone standing behind him. He spun around. It was Shelley Anderson.

ALL THE CHAPTERS

Next Up Chapter 20 by Richard Millman