PROLOGUE
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.
