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nous years. Remo could make Josie Littlefeather the best balance beam artist in the world, but he could not give her Sinanju, not in time for the Olympics. But he vowed to try.

As she walked toward the beam, a voice bellowed through the gymnasium, echoing off the walls and quonset-curved roof.

"Well, well," the voice said and Remo turned to the door. It was the blond runner, the one who had promised to feed Remo dust and had wound up being pulled across the finish line. He seemed to have recovered both his wind and his sneer.

"What's this, Pops?" he asked Remo. "Getting into girls' activities now? Or just trying to get into the girl?"

"I never got your name," Remo said.

"My name? Chuck Masters. The guy you screwed and the guy who's going to kick your ass back to wherever you came from."

"What good's that going to do you?" Remo asked.

"I break you up some and you have to pull out of the games. As next finisher, I move up into your spot and go to Moscow. We can do it my way or you can just volunteer to drop out. What do you say?"

He looked at Remo with his hands raised in a questioning gesture, a small nasty smile on his mouth.

"Go stick a javelin in your ear," Remo said. He turned back to Josie and Masters called, "Don't turn your back on me. And you, Littlefeather, what are you doing hanging out with him?"

"None of your business," she said.

Remo wondered how they knew each other and how well. He liked Chuck Masters even less now. He turned back in time to see Masters hoisting up to his chest a weightlifter's barbell, loaded with 150 pounds.