“I should be up if you are. And I’m glad I was. I was waiting for you in your office and took a call that came in on your direct line. I said to the caller that I’d find you. You have to come back to take the call. He’ll be calling back.”

“What now? Another problem?”

“Yes, I’m afraid it must be. It was Klaastens, the trainer from the cycling team. He said it’s very urgent and involved one of the Chinese cyclists.”

“Shit!” Berman mumbled. “I hope to hell it isn’t another cardiac arrest. Did he say what it was?”

“No, he didn’t, and I didn’t press him. He was insistent about talking directly with you. He said he’d tried your home number, but there was no answer.”

“How the hell did he get the direct-line office number?” Berman had a private phone in his office that was restricted to a very few trusted cohorts and certain high-ranking Chinese dignitaries, but Victor Klaastens was not part of either group. “I’d given him the home number but not the private office number.”

“I don’t know, you can ask him that yourself.” Whitney started to guide Berman out of the room. “He’s calling back in fifteen minutes from now, so you have to move it.”

Berman could hardly put one foot in front of the other, but he knew he had to go back to his office if he wanted to speak with Klaastens. The direct line bypassed the Nano switchboard, so he couldn’t take it in the aerobics lab. On top of that, all cell phone and data transmissions were blocked in this part of Nano, thanks to one of Nano’s own products, a wall paint that blocked radio frequencies.

As soon as Berman dragged himself into his office, the direct-line phone rang. Berman let it ring three times to allow himself to take a deep breath before he picked up.

“Yes?” he said.

“Mr. Berman, it’s Victor Klaastens—”

“How did you get this number?” Berman’s irritation at what he considered a security problem had woken him up. He wanted to be absolutely certain that the direct line was never bugged.

“Mr. Berman, please, I may not have your resources, but I’m not a stupid man. You should listen to what I want to tell you, because it’s more important than a restricted phone number. And don’t worry, no one can trace this phone or where I’m calling from.”

“Okay, so tell me.”

“It’s one of your riders, Han. He’s injured.”

“Injured? How? His heart . . . ?” Berman stopped himself from saying more.

“His heart? That’s curious you should say that. No, not his heart, it’s his Achilles tendon. A complete rupture, I’m afraid.”