Spokes (23 page)

Every head in the stands turned when another sunken manhole cover claimed half the peloton, either putting them on the ground in heaps or blocking their
passage. The shot from the helicopter camera looked like confetti thrown at the road.

"The leaders have put another twenty to forty seconds between them and the group," intoned Bobke through the earbud.
"That's going to be tough to make up. Half the GC contenders are trailing the leaders just from getting caught behind crashes. Have you
ever seen so many crashes, Phil?"

"I don't think I've ever seen a Giro stage where so many riders have spent so much time off their bikes." Phil had
thirty some years of races to draw on, so Christopher wasn't imagining the carnage.

But he hadn't seen Luca fall yet, though here he and the other leaders came up the grade. They'd dropped two from the group, and the
others clustered tightly, fighting for the King of the Mountain points. And oh, Luca looked like hell. He hadn't lost any ground but his balance
looked off, and they still had two laps to go.

"Biondi may have exhausted himself in the Cobblestone Classics earlier this spring, Bob," was Christopher's worst fear. Could
Luca get through the next sixteen kilometers with the breakaway group? Or would he have to drop back? But he and Rolf were still with the leading riders,
only eight of them now on the second to last lap, even though the backwash from the helicopter might blow him off his bike. "Hang in there,
Luca!"

Luca hung, and about three kilometers from the finish line, everything about him that looked slow and unwell disappeared. The big screen filled with his
grin: Bobke and Phil sputtered their surprise, and a collective gasp went up from the journalists. Probably from all the riders he'd left behind,
too--only Rolf followed in the attack. Two turquoise flashes hit the final ascent, their competition chasing furiously but futilely. A gap opened:
one second, two, more.

From the screen to life: Luca and Rolf crested the hill unchallenged to speed down the short flat to the finish line. Luca lifted both hands in the air,
cutting though the screams and cowbells. Rolf popped a wheelie, whipping under the arch with his front wheel spinning wildly in the sun.

"Antano-Clark goes one-two, and the
maglia rosa,
the leader's pink jersey, goes to Luca Biondi!"

Oh man, if Christopher thought Luca looked fine in white, and even better in yellow, he was going to look magnificent in pink.

The other 198 cyclists, or however many of them persisted to finish, could trickle in as they could: Christopher had to see Luca. He edged out of the
stands and followed, though he didn't dare push into the equipment area near the turquoise team bus. He might get a picture or two even if he
hadn't a prayer of coming close enough to talk, not with coaches, mechanics, reporters with camera teams and microphones all shoving at Luca. And
men in suits--three hard-eyed officials--strode past Christopher.

"Signor Biondi, you will come with us, please. We are beginning the investigation into your use of banned stimulants."

"What use? There was no use!" Luca yelled. "You blacken my name without reason!"

"We'll see about the no reason. Signor, you will come with us." Suited men took Luca's arms.

"Michel Delage!" Luca yelled. "You come!" He refused to move, and the men hesitated to drag him under the glare of
a dozen cameras. The directeur sportif pushed past the cameras, only to meet the upraised hand of an official.

"No staff, no coaches. No one on the team, there could be collusion." One of the suits tried to pull Luca's arm: he yanked
away.

"Then press. I will come, but with advocate, someone to watch what you do. I will not be accused with no one to see." Furious, Luca stared into the cameras surrounding him. "Member of press, someone who can say what he sees you do to me. You take blood,
fine, okay, no problem, you do anything else, someone has to see." He craned to see who surrounded him. "Not you, not
you..." With a quick swat to the air, he parted the cameras to see beyond them. "You, hey you! I need witness!" He
pointed straight at Christopher. "You,
CycloWorld
!"

Chapter 22

A boulder grew in Christopher's throat but he stepped forward into the circle of cameras. "Yes, Mr. Biondi?" Christopher
lifted his chin and glared at the FIC officials. "I will be your witness. Ah, signor--" he turned to one of the officials.
"What's your name, please? My account has to be accurate."

"Never mind!" He started to leave, pulling Luca. Luca grabbed Christopher's wrist, and they made an odd chain, headed to the
building with the red cross and the official logo. Another official escorted Rolf, who recruited his own witness by snagging a reporter's shirt.

Once inside the building, Luca thrust his arm out at the phlebotomist. "Leave me a few drops for tomorrow when you will want the rest."

Christopher pulled his notebook out. "Six vials, two gold-topped, two aqua-topped, two red-topped...." he muttered.

"That matters why?" Luca snarled. He glanced at his blood welling into the second red-topped vial and turned his head away.

"Tells me what they're looking for." Christopher looked up. "The red top means they're looking for
ponticlidine."

"I race
pane e acqua
, I don't even know what that is." Shar-Pei wrinkles formed between Luca's brows.

Bread and water. Without performance enhancing drugs, in cycling parlance. And of course Luca did. "It's a fairly new illegal
stimulant, and they probably think you shot up with something for that last lap. You perked up an awful lot."

"Of course I did! I was acting!" Luca bent his arm over the cotton ball to stanch the bleeding. "See?" He
hadn't had time to remove his helmet before getting frog-marched into this situation: now he pushed the helmet slightly askew, shifted his weight
more over one hip, and dropped the opposing shoulder. His face slackened.

"You look drunk," one of the suits blurted.

"I look tired, I look like I can't win, I look like no threat, even if I stay with leaders for 130 kilometers." Luca
straightened abruptly, turning back into a very angry man. "That didn't come in a pill."

"A syringe," the phlebotomist said, and shrank. "It's injectable."

"Then you can see for yourselves." Luca yanked off his helmet. "I have no holes in me, except for one you put in."
He fluffed his hair madly: nothing fell out. "I conceal nothing, you want to check? Nothing! Not in arms, not in legs, not in anywhere. I did
nothing. You check all footage from all motos!"

"You were under a lot of scrutiny," one of the suits drawled. "It would have to be somewhere concealed.

"I conceal nothing!" He jerked the zipper down from his jersey, pulling a few inches out of the fabric. Turquoise dropped to the
floor--Luca lifted his arms "You look! You find nothing, because there is nothing, but you look."

One of the suits picked up the jersey and began to examine seams, turning away from the group. The other two officials stepped forward to examine
Luca's skin. Hitting them wouldn't solve a thing but--"I still need your names. You, sir,
are...?" Christopher demanded what the official had tried to obscure, and got it.

How was Luca standing it? Christopher wasn't the one under investigation, and he still wanted to crawl away into a corner. But Luca needed him to
be his advocate, so he swallowed down the fear that threatened to choke him and made his voice even and calm. He insisted on names of all the suits, and
the phlebotomist for good measure. "I will have your name, sir, because bad handling of samples has been a problem in the past."

"I don't see anything, but...." conceded one of the officials.

"Oh, you think I stick between toes like addict?" Luca had endured their inspection with only angry glares. Now he bent to pull off
shoes and socks. "Nothing, see?" He lifted his leg and spread his toes in the official's face. "Like I could have
done anything clipped into pedals, but this is your fantasy, not mine."

"It would have to be well-concealed, and the syringe would still be on him: he hasn't had time to discard anything: his last pit stop
was around the eighty kilometer mark, and he didn't show any signs for a good hour after that."

Not much of Luca was concealed now: he wore nothing but his cycling shorts. "Nothing hidden. Look."

He dragged his shorts down, turning them inside out on the way. The beige chamois liner bore stains from all the cream he'd smeared on himself
before the race, and Christopher knew exactly how much lubricant Luca liked between himself and the bike. He stifled a smile at the official's
grimace when Luca forced him to take the shorts. "Make sure I hide nothing in the chamois, okay? Don't take my word."

"We won't." The official not currently examining sweaty clothing lifted an eyebrow. "It could still be on
you."

"Where?" Dressed in nothing but his wrath, Luca raised clawed hands. "You check anywhere you think I hide stuff, okay? I
cooperate fully. CycloWorld, you tell everybody I cooperate fully, even with humiliating, slanderous demands that I prove something never happened. I give
blood, I hold still, I let officials examine, I demonstrate. And I let officials and press wreck my tactics because now pretending to be tired will fool no
one a second time. You make racing harder."

In any other circumstances, Christopher would be all over Luca's naked form, with kisses and caresses, but now he trained hard eyes on the
officials. "Gentlemen, you're keeping Signor Biondi standing there. Either finish your examination or admit that your purpose is to
humiliate him."

Luca threw Christopher a look full of many things, but "keep the pressure on" was the message he took from it.

"Oh, and let me double check the spelling on your name...."

The official flinched. "He's out of hiding places, unless it's in the folds of his genitals."

"Feel free to look," Luca snapped, and didn't drop his arms. "Or maybe in my crack. Check there too, please, or
press can report poor investigation."

"I'm not touching him." The official took one step back. The phlebotomist disappeared with his rack of vials.

"Nor I." The man holding Luca's shorts recoiled. "This was your idea, Friedrich."

"Lift... everything, please." Friedrich's
lift, lift
hand flip reminded Christopher of that long ago day with
Luca and the heart monitor.

"No. I do it, you can say I hide something in my hand, I never clear my name." Luca spread his feet for access.

"CycloWorld, what the hell is your name? You do it."

"I'm Fourth Estate, I'm the observer," Christopher snapped. No way would he touch Luca now, as accuser, not lover. "I can't do your dirty work. Now
either finish or apologize and let the man dress."

Slowly the official knelt before Luca, and reached gingerly. Luca remained stoic while the man shifted his testicles and slid a finger into the creases
where scrotum met groin. "Turn. Bend." The official gulped between the words. "Enough. Nothing concealed."

Luca snatched his shorts away from the official holding them. The man at his feet teleported to the far corner of the exam room before Luca turned the
shorts right-side out.

"So, gentlemen, is Signor Biondi's name cleared from all allegations?" Luca couldn't ask for what he needed, but
Christopher could demand it for him.

"Unless the A sample comes back positive." The official had recovered some of his aplomb. Christopher would deflate it again.

"Since it can't come back positive for a drug you yourselves admit had no entry route, I suggest you take very, very good care of those
vials. And is there some reason you didn't glove up for a physical examination?" Christopher glared over his notebook. Luca helped
glare, jerking another few inches of zipper out trying to get covered.

"I, uh, I..." Friedrich spluttered.

"You didn't think to use good procedure, but you'd still try to use the results to discredit a blameless man?"

"You know he's blameless?" Suit Number Three snarled.

"I know what I saw, which was your tech failing to refrigerate blood samples quickly. I watched you examine Signor Biondi and find no punctures,
and I know all his samples have come back negative from every race this season. That looks a lot like blameless to me." Might as well grasp the
nettle of a missing seven-time winner of the Tour de France. "I believe you're running a vendetta against an extremely successful,
clean cyclist because you got fooled so long by another rider."

"He could still be using EPO," argued Suit Two. "And who the hell are you anyway?"

Confidence would only carry him so far until he had to cough up facts. "I'm Christopher Nye, I just started covering European races for
CycloWorld
, and I'm from Boulder, Colorado, in the US. That's where Luca's team trained, and I've been there
continuously until earlier this week. You want to argue EPO? I bet my hematocrit is higher than his."

"Do you race? You might be doing EPO too."

"I don't. I let my class IV license from last year lapse." Christopher stared into the man's eyes, willing him to
blink first. "Please check. You can have some blood if you want." He held his arm out, veins up.

"Er, no. But we will. Check. You two could be in on this together. Do you know each other? You're wearing Antano-Clark
colors." Friedrich pounced, though it wouldn't recover his lost dignity. He was still scrubbing his hands together, as if
Luca's skin had transmitted cooties.

In every Biblical sense, too, but that
'
s not for you to know, you officious douche.
"And tomorrow I'll wear Garmin-Sharp colors. They're my home town teams. I know most of the Antano-Clark team to talk to,
because I worked in a cycling shop. Rolf Knecht prefers Cham-Paste, and Signor Biondi buys SPF 30 sunscreen. It's a terrible
conspiracy." Christopher shook his head sadly at the plotting. Humiliation heaped in the right direction might help.

"I still think--"

"Enough, Friedrich." Suit Two glanced toward the door. "We have riders stacked up outside the door for their testing.
You've investigated, you've found nothing. There really may be nothing to find. So enough. Wait for the labs."