Carolyn Keene - Deadly Doubles

They reached the campus. Nancy noticed that the parking lot was well filled. Apparently many people had come to watch Teresa play and help the refugees from her country.

The limousine pulled up by the gym. To Nancy’s relief, security police had made the place off-limits for all but the four players. In the women’s locker room Teresa’s Canadian opponent greeted her pleasantly but otherwise let her alone. Nancy changed into Teresa’s favorite tennis outfit and put on the new tennis shoes. Fortunately they fit well. She propped Teresa’s mascot, a small doll-a replica of a San Carlos Indian woman-beside her on the bench and gazed at it somberly.

Nancy was beginning to realize all too well just how easily the switch of identities could go wrong. I can’t think about it, she told herself. I’ve got to psych myself into the game-into Teresa’s game. She closed her eyes and concentrated.

All at once she heard a commotion in the hall. There were the sounds of a scuffle, and then George’s voice was raised wildly.

“You don’t understand! I’ve got to see Teresa Montenegro!”

Nancy ran to the door. George was struggling with two guards in the lobby of the gym building. She caught Nancy’s eye and signaled frantically.

It was a risk, but Nancy took it. She stepped out of the locker room and strode forward to reach out for George, her own eyes flashing imperiously as she’d once seen Teresa’s do. “Let go of her!” she commanded.

To her great relief, the guards let go of George and stepped back-but only a few feet. They would never let George follow Nancy into the locker room out of their sight.

George turned her head so that only Nancy could see her lips. They formed the words almost soundlessly. “Trouble. Bess phoned. Teresa phoned her at the restaurant. The big guy down south has ordered the execution of traitors everywhere to begin at dawn!”

She emphasized the word everywhere . Nancy’s eyes darkened. “Teresa?” she asked soundlessly.

George nodded imperceptibly.

The same thought was in both girls’ minds. If the San Carlos dictator-the big guy-had ordered killings, there was no guarantee that hit men like El Morro would obey his decree that they should be carried out at sunrise. El Morro might not feel like waiting!

And by posing as Teresa in the doubles match, Nancy was putting herself in terrible danger!

El Morro, or another hit man, could be in the grandstand crowd at that very moment! For an instant that was all Nancy could think of. Then a man wearing the uniform and badge of a tournament official opened the door.

“Two minutes to six. To the courts, please, players.”

George gave Nancy a swift, tight hug and hurried off. The young Canadian woman came out of the locker room and shook hands with Nancy, murmuring, “Good luck.”

The two male players left their locker room. Nancy’s partner was a cheerful-looking man in his early thirties, with sandy hair. “Sorry I didn’t have the time to practice with you earlier,” he apologized. “I was tied up with some last-minute coaching.”

Nancy smiled and shrugged.

Escorted by tournament officials-and by security men disguised as officials-the two couples marched across the road and out onto the court. There was a burst of applause as they entered. Nancy smiled and nodded like the others, but involuntarily her eyes searched the crowd.

I have to stop that, she told herself. The best way to protect Teresa is to make people believe I’m Teresa!

The other couple won the toss and chose to serve.

The Canadian woman’s first serve was deep and hard. Nancy’s partner returned it well, but the Canadian coach hit a great shot down the line. Nancy missed it.

“Fifteen-love,” called the referee.

Nancy knew within five minutes that the deception was going to be even more difficult than she’d feared. She was in a double bind. To play well, she would have to use her own style, and the masquerade would be exposed. But if she forced herself to play like Teresa, her reflexes were slowed, and she missed shots Teresa would have hit.

Once, after she’d netted one of Teresa’s characteristic backhand shots, Nancy caught her partner looking at her strangely. But the game was too fast for him to focus on anything other than his own playing.

The Canadian team took the first set easily.

George was at the rail when Nancy wearily went to her seat for the few minutes between sets. She was not allowed to enter the court, but her eyes spoke plainly to Nancy. Calm down. Don’t force so much! Zen . Her lips framed the last word.

Nancy frowned. Then her face cleared. George was referring to the zen of a sport, a phrase Nancy had heard her use often. It meant concentrate on the objective, on the target, not on the technique you hope will get you there.

Nancy and her partner won the next game. A faint murmur reached her from the bleachers, and Nancy resolutely put away the fear that her own tennis style might be creeping in. Concentrate on where the ball should go, as George had said. Rely on the earlier practice for the style-

A gleam of light from somewhere in the stands danced into Nancy’s eyes, and she missed a high volley, not even getting her racket on the ball.

There was a disappointed murmur from the crowd, followed by a ripple of appreciation as Nancy’s partner ran in to save the shot, catching the ball on its first bounce. He slammed it back, and the momentum of the game picked up again.

The ball came toward Nancy, and she moved forward to meet it. But as she swung, the glint of light bounced into her eyes again. The glare was just great enough to throw her off-balance. She tripped and fell, scarcely hearing the referee’s voice announcing the point for the other side above the groans of the crowd.

Pretending dizziness, Nancy knelt for a moment on one knee. But her eyes were busily sweeping the stadium.

The light had come from the far end-from the east. So it couldn’t be rays from the dying sun. None of the tournament floodlights had been lit yet. Where was it coming from, and why couldn’t she see it now?

Nancy’s partner strode toward her, concerned about her delay. Nancy nodded at him and began to rise. Then she saw the glint again.

As if he knew she needed his help, Nancy’s partner caught the next few balls with some dazzling maneuvers. There was no repeat of the flash of light, and Nancy was able to return some shots successfully. Her mind was racing.

If the glint was not from electricity or the sunset, what had caused it? Sunlight from behind her? Binoculars? A camera lens? A telescope?

Then the truth crashed down on Nancy. It was a telescope of sorts-the telescopic sight of a sniper’s rifle!

Nancy froze. A ball smashed past her, and the glint came again. Instinctively, Nancy ducked.

She made it look like a stumble, and murmurs rose from the crowd. Nancy’s partner strode toward her. Nancy shook her head. And then, with sharp clarity, she knew there was only one thing to do.

It was the Canadian woman’s turn to serve. As the ball came toward her Nancy completely abandoned her attempt to imitate Teresa’s style. She rushed forward to meet it with a wild forehand slam that sent the ball soaring over the crowd-directly toward the sniper.

There were gasps from the crowd. They must have assumed Teresa was cracking beneath the pressure. But one person knew better. George’s eyes had been on Nancy. They followed the ball. Then they swung back to meet Nancy’s for a shocked instant, and the next moment George was grabbing the nearest security guard and pointing.

From all over the stadium, officials began to dash toward the sniper.