Connor was there, too, traveling with some coaches and other trainers from the U.S. Team. Wearing jeans, a flannel, and worn loafers, he looked good. The green of his shirt pulled a foresty color from his eyes. We kept glancing at each other across the waiting area, and I had to fight the urge to break out in a stupid grin every time.
Veena slept most of the twelve-hour flight to Zurich. I stayed up. I was on duty for half the time and too wired to sleep anyway. I passed Connor in his seat after switching with Kovitch so he could take over next to Veena. Connor had a cup of coffee in front of him. He was a little pale, and his hair stuck out in all directions, but I doubted I looked too fresh, either. He slid his fingers against my hand, just for a moment, as I went by.
“See you in Laax,” he murmured.
Zurich’s airport was as flashy and modern as Denver’s: steel, glass, and stone with soaring ceilings and wide walkways. Most signs were in German, but many were in English, too. And there were helpful ones with black silhouette people saying what was and wasn’t allowed, like forming a line or walking up the down escalator.
The SSA team and I walked Veena through a less crowded part of the main terminal. Bart, who spoke German, had gone ahead to make sure the vehicles were ready. But now he hustled toward us looking seriously annoyed. I stepped in front of Veena and the others moved in close. A few seconds later, we saw why Bart was pissed.
Video crews with cameras and microphones milled by the outer doors. A reporter with long, coal black hair and stiletto heels spotted Veena. She hurried our way, followed by the others. Bart held out his arms to slow them down, but they pushed past him like bargain-hunters on Black Friday. Veena stiffened.
“Keep walking,” Cooley said as the tide of reporters broke over us.
The stiletto-wearing woman stuck a microphone in Veena’s face. She spoke perfect English with a French accent. “VV, is it true you were almost abducted and that you are still being threatened?”
“Is your life in danger?” a man asked.
“Who threatened you?” This woman sounded German or maybe Swiss. I wasn’t sure how to tell the difference.
Veena didn’t respond. She kept her eyes on Bart, who was waving us forward to the doors. I kept to the side and close behind her, keeping a sharp eye on the reporters. Concealing a weapon in that tangle of bodies and camera equipment wouldn’t be hard.
“Will you still compete in the Olympics despite the threats?” the first woman said.
At that, Veena stopped short and faced the cameras. She smiled, but I could see the resolve burning in her eyes.
“You bet I am. I worked too hard not to compete. I won’t stop riding or stop living. I’m going to compete and hopefully take home a medal.”
“Ah. Then you can confirm you were threatened?” the second woman asked.
Veena took a shaky breath and pushed her chunks of newly streaked red, platinum, and blue hair behind her ears. “Thanks for your questions, but I just got off a long flight, and I’m tired, so . . . I’m leaving now.” She walked on, me on her heels. The reporters followed, but Cooley and Kovitch made sure they stayed back.
“Well done,” I said.
“Thanks.” She hung her head and lifted up a bleached lock of hair. “Maybe I should have gone back to natural. I stand out too much with this.”
“V, you’re a world-class snowboarder with killer style. You’ll stand out wherever you go. Might as well be yourself.”
She shot me a smile but fished oversized sunglasses out of her bag. We rushed her out to the car for the two-hour ride into the heart of the Swiss Alps.
I finally slept in the car and woke up to the gingerbread house world of Laax. Frosted mountains and icing-ruffled lakes were the backdrop for cookie houses and mint trees. I wouldn’t be surprised if little gummy people cruised the streets. The crystalized beauty of the place blew me away.
In my prep work, I’d learned that the resort, supported by the nearby towns of Laax, Flims, and Falera, had positioned itself as the place for free skiing and riding in the run up to their bid to host the Winter Games. The resort boasted over one hundred miles of terrain, parks for every level of skiers and riders, and of course, the Beast.
The Olympic Village was constructed near the base. When the Olympics were held in cities, like Rio or Beijing, the athletes stayed in high-rise apartments. To preserve the view of the mountains, the Swiss had built a number of three-story buildings and assigned athletes to them by continent—European athletes with South American athletes, North Americans with Asians, Africans with Australians—to add to the camaraderie of the Games. Swiss security personnel with rifles stood guard around the Village, keeping an eye on things.
While adjusting to jetlag the first few days, Veena took it easier than she had in Vail. She always spent at least an hour on the hill, if only riding for fun. Otherwise, she did some light cardio or weight-training workouts and showed up for interviews according to the correct schedule Newman emailed. I couldn’t believe how many international news outlets she talked to, and she was always amazing: approachable, funny, humble. Everyone asked about the threats and the rumored kidnapping, but she deflected those questions and focused on riding and the Games.
She met up with Anders in the Village a few days after we arrived. She shrieked when she saw him,
