World Cup

Chapter 1

Prologue 

The soccer game was about to begin.

The blonde player, having just emerged from the shower and dressed in a red and white uniform, reached into his locker to grab his cleats. He plopped down on the bench, setting his shoes in the floor near his feet as he put on his socks and adjusted his shin guards.

A dark-haired teammate approached from the other side of the locker room and sat down to his left, placing his cleats on the bench between them.

"Are you nervous, mate?" the dark-haired player asked with a smile.

"Nah," the blonde answered, as he reached and grabbed the pair of cleats sitting on the bench. "I have been waiting for this my whole life."

The blond finished tying his cleats and stood up. He wiggled his feet for a moment, pondering.  The shoes felt tight. But then, cleats were supposed to be tight. He patted his dark-haired teammate's shoulder. "See you on the field," he said breezily.

The dark-haired player finished adjusting his shin guards and reached for his cleats on the bench, where he expected them to be. Not finding them, he looked around and spotted a pair in the floor near his feet. He must have set them there instead, he mused. He slipped them on easily, not giving it a second thought. He finished tying them and stood up. As his feet bore his entire body weight, he felt a slight pin prick on his left heel. Thinking it might be an insect of some sort hiding in his shoe, he sat back down on the bench and started to remove it. Suddenly, he realized that he could no longer feel his foot. The paralysis traveled quickly up his leg, into his torso, and then back down the other leg while simultaneously moving up his body.

He managed to cry out once before falling to the floor beside the bench. The few straggling players who hadn't left the locker room yet, as well as the coach, heard his cry and rushed to his side. He was conscious, fully aware of them calling his name and asking what was wrong with him, but he could say nothing as the paralysis moved into his throat and silenced his voice. He stared at his panicked teammates, unable to move or blink, and became terrifyingly aware that he could no longer will his lungs to expand in order to take a breath.

The realization that he was going to die was the last conscious thought he ever had.

Chapter 2

Jim Phelps pulled the black SUV in front of the large gymnasium, got out, and walked inside.  It wasn't very crowded, but there were several people using the various pieces of equipment. Jim quickly scanned the crowd for the woman in the red blouse that he had been instructed to look for.  Finding her, he walked to the right rear corner of the gym, where she was spotting a little girl as she walked across the balance beam.  She couldn't have been more than four years old.

"They do start early," Jim smiled.

The lady in the red blouse nodded and smiled back, realizing this was the phrase she had been told to listen for.  "Some programs start kids as early as twenty months old."

Is it true that gymnastics started as a way of training soldiers for battle?"  Jim asked.

"That's true," the woman replied.  Sure now that this was the right man, she continued.  "If you want to learn more about the history, you'll find more information over there."

Jim followed her pointing finger to a recessed area off to the left, away from view.  He nodded to the lady and walked in that direction. Around the corner, he saw a table containing what looked like a thick book.  He opened the book, which was hollow on the inside, and pulled out the black box. Once he'd completed the thumbprint scan and entered the code, he inserted the disk and it began to play.

"Good morning, Jim," began the familiar voice.  "This year's World Cup international soccer tournament is taking place in Hamburg, Germany, and coincides with important trade negotiations between the United States and several European countries that are scheduled to begin there on Friday.

"Two days ago, a German soccer player, Bernard Fischer, collapsed and died in the team's locker room before a game."  Jim gazed at the still photograph on the screen.  The handsome, dark-haired man smiling in the red and white uniform couldn't have been more than twenty-five.  Jim felt a stab of sadness as he continued to listen. "The autopsy showed a pinprick in his left heel, and though the toxicology report showed nothing unusual, we believe he was poisoned."

Jim's mind, ever anticipatory, was already pondering why anyone would want the young man dead.  But before the unspoken question fully materialized, the voice continued. "However, we do not think he was the intended target.  We suspect the poison was meant for his teammate, Erich Schneider, whose father helped organize the trade talks."

Jim's eyes were drawn to yet another photo of a young soccer player in his mid-twenties, wearing identical colors but this time with dirty blonde hair.  "IMF intelligence has learned that Schneider's father, Klaus, received threats that his son would be murdered if he did not cancel the talks.  The trade negotiations are of vital importance to the United States and their cancellation would be detrimental to world financial markets."

Then the screen split, pushing Schneider's photo to the left and displaying a second photo on the right.  . "We believe that this man, Butch Von Trayburn, is responsible for the murder plot.  He is the coach of the German soccer team but a native of the remote European island nation of Hermosa.  Hermosa is currently facing trade sanctions which will be enforced during these proceedings.  Von Trayburn doesn't want that to happen, and as long as the negotiations are continuing, young Erich's life will be in danger."

Jim sighed in disgust at the idea that someone would turn something as innocent as a soccer game into a political scheme. "Your mission, Jim, should you decide to accept it, is to bring Bernard Fischer's killer to justice and to prevent any additional murders at the World Cup, thus preserving the Hamburg trade negotiations. As always, should you or any of your IM Force be caught or killed, the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions.  This disk will self-destruct in five seconds.  Good luck, Jim."

Jim rounded the corner and left the gym as the black box erupted in a puff of white smoke.

Chapter 3

"The World Cup," Jim stated, beginning the team briefing with some stock video footage of past tournaments.  "Soccer's own Olympic Games, with just as much international interest."

"Well, soccer is perhaps the most popular organized sport in the world," Max commented.  "No matter where you come from, there's almost always a youth soccer league.  Everyone I know grew up playing the game."

Jim smiled at Max briefly, and then sobered.  "Unfortunately, right now it seems it's being turned into a means to achieve a political agenda."

"Well, the trade talks about to begin in Hamburg are of major importance to the world's financial markets," Nicholas advised, as Jim punched a button to reveal a photograph of a distinguished gentleman in his mid-fifties.  “They were organized by this man, Klaus Schneider, a top German financial advisor with a lot of political influence.  But Schneider has received threats that his son will be murdered if the talks take place.”

Jim punched a few more buttons and brought up a picture of a younger, blonde-haired man in a soccer uniform.  “Erich Schneider plays on the German team that’s participating in the World Cup.  Their team has advanced to the semi-finals."

“The same team as Bernard Fischer,” Max ventured.

“That’s right,” affirmed Grant.  “As a matter of fact, Erich and Bernard Fischer were roommates and close friends, and IMF has learned that the cleats Erich was wearing at the time of Fischer’s death actually belonged to Fischer.  And in addition, following the incident, Klaus Schneider received an anonymous phone call that his son had been the intended victim."

“Since the coroner found what looked like a pinprick on his heel, the official explanation for Fischer’s death is that an insect…a bee, a wasp…got inside of his cleat and stung him,” said Jim.  “Fischer was violently allergic to bee venom.”

“But we don’t believe that’s what happened,” guessed Max.

Grant shook his head.  "The people who witnessed Fischer's death all report that his body went into a state of complete paralysis, which is inconsistent with the type of allergic reaction one would expect from an insect sting."

"Sounds more like a drug," Shannon agreed.

“So someone planted a needle in Erich’s cleat, presumably with a paralytic drug, and the cleats got switched, killing Fischer instead,” Max mused.

"Apparently so, Max, except there's no proof; the other set of cleats disappeared before the police showed up," replied Grant.

“And, as his coach, Von Trayburn had the perfect opportunity to get rid of them,” Shannon smiled slightly.  “So, if he is the one who’s after Erich, what’s his motivation?”

Jim pulling up the coach's photograph on the projection screen. "Von Trayburn may be a naturalized citizen of Germany, but he remains loyal to his politically powerful birth family in Hermosa."

"Hermosa wants to be a major economic player but they can't follow the rules," added Nicholas.  "One of the items on Klaus Schneider’s agenda is to hand down sanctions against nations not complying with established trade agreements, including Hermosa."

"Which is exactly what Butch Von Trayburn is hoping doesn't happen," ventured Max.

"How do we get inside?" Shannon asked.

Jim grinned, rose up from his chair, and walked toward Grant, pausing to squeeze Max's shoulder on the way. "Just how rusty are those soccer skills, Max?"  Jim questioned with a wink, as Grant reached behind his desk and handed Jim a duffel bag.

Max looked confused as Jim set the bag on his lap.  He reached inside and pulled out a red and white uniform. Shannon and Nicholas each had trouble stifling laughter as Max looked up at Jim, a look of incredulity on his face. 

"You can't be serious," he responded, trying himself to keep a straight face but failing miserably.

"Someone has got to keep a close watch on Erich," Jim answered.  "This is the best way."

"But, Jim," Max protested, "it's been fifteen years since I played."

"Come on, Max," Shannon grinned teasingly, "you're still in great shape."

"Besides, pal," Nicholas chimed in, "I've heard it's just like riding a bicycle." Max rolled his eyes at his friend.

"I'll be inside, too," advised Grant after he had stopped chuckling.  "I’ll be the team’s newly hired equipment manager, which will hopefully give me an opportunity to go digging into Von Trayburn’s office.  Oh, and Max, there's one other thing."

Grant took a small brown rectangular box out of his desk drawer and handed it to his teammate unopened.  Max opened it and looked up at Grant in surprise. 

"A hearing aid?"

"Well, it’s not your ordinary hearing aid, Max," Grant responded.  "It's a miniature receiver and transmitter, and you’ll be able to have two-way communications at all times with the IMF computer at headquarters. Should you need us, we'll be set up less than five minutes from the field house."  Seeing the look on Max's face, he continued.  "It's part of your cover, in case you're wondering.  Apparently, you're a hell of a soccer player despite the mild hearing loss."

Max grinned ruefully.  "Well, let's hope I can live up to the hype," he quipped.

“The trade negotiations begin in two days - the same day as the scheduled semi-final match between Germany and Sweden.  We’re all sure that Von Trayburn will try again to kill Erich sometime before then.  What we don't know yet is when, or how.”  Jim's ice blue eyes met those of his blonde teammate.  "Max, you'll have to keep a close eye on him constantly, and it could be quite dangerous.  Be careful.”

“Right,” replied Max.

Chapter 4

"You must be Max," greeted the gray-haired man, his voice gruff, the same unfriendly scowl on his face as he'd worn in the photograph Jim had shown them.

"Max Foster," the blond agent replied, extending his hand. 

"Coach Von Trayburn," the gruff man grunted, grabbing Max's hand in an almost-too-firm grip.  "It's good to have you aboard.  Let's go in and I'll introduce you to the team."

As they entered the locker room, Max quickly scanned the faces until his glance fell upon the man he recognized as Erich Schneider.

"Guys, this is Max Foster," Von Trayburn announced.

There was a low rumble of greeting among the players.  Erich said nothing, turning instead to study the inside of his locker.  Von Trayburn walked over toward him and pointed at the locker next to Erich's.

"Your locker is here," the coach advised Max.  Bernard Fischer's locker, Max thought sadly. Erich sniffed loudly, slammed his own locker, and walked away. "Someone will bring your equipment shortly," Von Trayburn told Max, and he left the room. 

Several of the other players went out to the field, and there were few remaining in the locker room when Grant came by, wearing a backwards ball cap and pushing a cart. "You must be the new guy," he greeted, an overly enthusiastic grin on his face for the benefit of the few players nearby.  "Here's your cleats and shin guards."

Max took the equipment from him but said nothing in response; Erich Schneider was walking toward him.

"Hello, I'm Max," he greeted, extending his hand as Erich opened his locker again.

Erich took his forgotten mouth guard from his locker, slammed the door again, and turned to glare at Max. "You may be part of this team now," he seethed in a heavy German accent, "but you are no replacement." Then he turned and disappeared out the door and onto the field as Max laced up his cleats.

By the time Erich left, only Max and Grant remained in the locker room.  They exchanged a look, and Grant raised his eyebrows. "Charming fellow," he quipped, but his attempt at humor was lost on Max.

"I feel sorry for him," Max said sadly.  "He lost his best friend, maybe even blames himself, and thinks I'm trying to take Fischer's place. I wish I could help him."

"You are helping him," Grant reminded Max, "by keeping him alive." Grant thought of making some comment about how befriending Erich wasn't a mission requirement, but thought better of it.  Of course, Max would want to help.  It wouldn't be Max otherwise. "You'd better get out there," Grant urged.  "I'm going to check out Von Trayburn's office.  Nicholas is monitoring the computer."

"Right," Max acknowledged.  He stood up and blew out his breath with a whoosh.  "Wish me luck," he said with a grin.

Grant patted his shoulder fondly and then set off with his cart toward the administrative area.

*******

Max joined the rest of his new teammates just as practice began.  He warmed up with some stretches, and then the team divided itself in half to do a scrimmage match. Max was asked to play midfielder - Bernard Fischer's position.  Erich played offense on the "opposing" side.

As the scrimmage match wore on, Max was surprised at how quickly he fell into the rhythm of the game.  He was actually starting to enjoy himself, letting himself relax somewhat while never losing sight of his assignment.

Suddenly, Max spotted Erich coming toward him, dribbling the soccer ball.  Swiftly, he moved sideways to cut Erich off, and instead felt Erich's lower leg clip him around the ankles.

Max hit the ground with a thud and the realization that he had been intentionally tripped. Max rose to a sitting position, his ankles throbbing.  For a long moment, everybody stared and no one made a move toward Max.  Finally, one of his teammates walked over, clasped his hand, and helped him to his feet.  Still, Max was left to find his own way to the bench.

As Max hobbled off the field, he saw Von Trayburn jerk Erich aside and begin yelling at him.  Max's schoolboy German helped him understand the gist of what was being said as he watched the two of them carefully.

"What in hell are you doing, Schneider?  You don't even do that to a rival, much less a teammate!"

"He is no teammate of mine," Erich retorted coolly.  "Bernard was my teammate."

Erich turned to walk back inside the locker room, and Von Trayburn started after him.  Instantly, Max felt anxious at the thought of the coach being alone with Erich; besides that, he really felt bad for his teammate and didn't want him to get in any further trouble.

Quickly, Max spoke up. "Let him go, Coach," Max begged.  "I'm sure it was an accident."

The look that passed between them said that clearly neither of them thought the trip was accidental, but the coach shrugged and went back to watching his game.

Chapter 5

With a quick glance around to make sure nobody was watching him, Grant parked his equipment cart outside Butch Von Trayburn's office and stealthily used his lockpicks to get inside. Quickly, Grant reached the coach's desk, picked up his phone, unscrewed the mouthpiece and planted the listening device.  He replaced the receiver and eased the phone back into its cradle.  Having completed his task, he took a cursory glance around the desk. He pulled out a drawer, and his heart skipped a beat when he found a small vial.  Not taking the time to study what it might be, he used his handkerchief to pick it up and shoved it into his pocket. He made his way out of the office, noiselessly latching the door behind him.  He pushed his cart to a place where he knew he'd be safely out of earshot, then he pushed a button on his communicator.

"Nicholas."

"Yeah, Grant," came the reply.

"I found something interesting in Von Trayburn's office.  I'm headed that way.  Tell Max I'm all clear."

"Will do, Grant.  Be careful."

Nicholas was monitoring Max's earpiece from the IMF computer, smiling to himself at what sounded like a soccer scrimmage in progress.  Suddenly, his smile faded as he heard a noise like a scuffle, then a thud, and then silence. 

Nicholas was instantly anxious. "Max?"  Nicholas called tentatively.

There was no response at first, then he heard Max's voice and what sounded like the word "accident."

"Max," Nicholas hissed, "can you talk?"

Max heard Nicholas' words in his right ear.  He stood up and started limping away from the others, as if testing his ankle strength. "Yeah," he whispered when he was out of earshot.

"What's going on there?"  Nicholas demanded. "I heard some strange sounds and then you said something about an accident."

"Erich tripped me," Max replied succinctly.

"On purpose?"

"Yes, on purpose," Max retorted with exasperation.

"Are you all right?"  Nicholas asked quickly.

"Fine," Max answered, "but my ankles have seen better days.  Look, I don't mean to complain, but how can I protect this guy when he doesn't even want me around him?"

Nicholas sighed, for he didn't have an answer to that question.  "Hang in there, pal," he said instead.  "Grant found something in Von Trayburn's office and he's on his way back here with it. Stay in touch."

*******

A little while later, Grant arrived back at headquarters and took the small vial out of his pocket.  He noticed the label and cursed softly.

"What is it, Grant?"  Shannon asked.

"I know what killed Fischer," Grant replied softly.  "Succinylcholine.  It's normally used in hospital settings when patients have to be intubated because it causes almost instant muscle paralysis."

"Including the muscles which control respiration," ventured Nicholas.

Grant nodded.  "But without affecting consciousness."

Shannon gasped and stifled a slight shudder. "You mean Fischer was aware of what was happening?"

Grant nodded again.  "It's a hell of a way to die."

"We can't be sure of how Von Trayburn will make his next attempt on Erich's life," Jim stayed, "but we can't rule out that he will use this again.  Which means we need to take the obvious precaution."

The team's discussion was interrupted by a clicking sound.  Grant quickly pushed a button on his computer. "He's getting a call," Grant hissed.

All four of them tensed in anticipation, but to their disappointment, it was only a call from a local pharmacy to confirm that a prescription was ready.  There was nothing unusual about it.

"Maybe the next one," Shannon said hopefully.

"Yeah, we'll continue to monitor," Jim nodded.  "If this guy has a partner somewhere, we'll figure it out."

Chapter 6

Practice was over.

The soccer team filed back into the locker room and prepared to hit the showers.  Max and Erich stood at their lockers, side by side.  Max shot a glance in Erich's direction.  He looked extremely troubled.  The two had not spoken since the incident on the field, and the silence was increasingly uncomfortable.

Finally, Max could stand it no longer. "Look," he ventured, his voice low, "I'm sorry about your friend."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Erich shoved Max hard up against the lockers.  "Don't you dare speak of him!"  he growled.

Slightly stunned, Max used his hands defensively to push Erich away.  "Hey!" he protested, a cross between surprise and anger. But Erich took his gesture as a threat and threw a punch at Max's nose.  In seconds, the two men were writhing in the floor, throwing wild punches at one another.

The fight went on for several moments, attracting the attention of several players.  Finally, one of them got the coach, who was able to separate them.  He growled at both men in German, using phrases that even Max didn't quite understand, and then ordered them to hit the showers and the crowd to dissipate.

Max heard Grant's voice in his ear, but it was several moments before he was alone and able to respond.

"I'm okay," he finally growled, touching his nose gingerly and staring at the drop of blood on his finger.  "The kid throws quite a punch."

"First tripping, now fighting," Jim observed.  "Maybe this wasn't such a good plan, after all."

"It's all right, Jim," Max insisted.  "He's just grieving.  I don't even think he means it; he's just taking it out on whoever's convenient.  I can handle things here."

Jim couldn't help but smile at Max's determination.  "Okay, if you're sure."

Suddenly, Max heard voices from the other side of the lockers.  He uttered a slight "Shhhh" and pretended to be engrossed in something, oblivious to the conversation due to his hearing loss. In reality, he was listening intently as the coach and Erich had a discussion.

"It is enough that he has Bernard's locker," Erich was saying in German. "Must he also be my roommate?"

"He has to be," the coach replied.  "The others are already paired up.  I suggest you try to behave yourself.  It's only for a couple of days.  Now I'm going to go make sure everything is ready at the hotel.  No more fighting, all right?" Then the coach went walking toward his office. 

Erich peered around the lockers and saw Max sitting there, appearing to be waiting for his turn at the showers.  Erich sniffed and then took a seat on the bench on the other side of the locker room.

"Von Trayburn is on his way to the hotel where we'll be staying tonight," Max mumbled.

Grant and Jim exchanged glances. "I don't like that," Jim said in alarm.  "Why would he need to go on ahead?"

"Perhaps to rig up an unfortunate accident," Grant replied curtly, following Jim's logic, as he got to his feet.  "Come on, Nicholas, let's tail him."

*******

From their parking space a few hundred feet away, Grant and Nicholas watched as the coach arrived and exited his car.  He reached back inside and pulled out a package, but even with Grant's night vision binoculars he could not tell what it was.

Grant cursed aloud. "He definitely has something in his hand," he said, "but there's no way to tell what he's up to."

"Is there any way we can get in there and take a look?"  Nicholas asked tensely.

"Not without blowing everyone's cover," replied Grant.  He pushed a button on his controller.  "Jim."

"Yeah, Grant."

"Von Trayburn is headed to the hotel and he is definitely up to something, but there's no way we can tell what."

"Which means that Max and Erich could be in even more danger than we thought," Jim mused. He pushed a button on the computer and Max heard Jim's voice in his ear. "Max," Jim said, and the worry in his voice was palpable, "we can't tell what the coach is planning.  It's not safe for you to be in there."

Quickly, Max excused himself and closed and locked the restroom door behind him.  He turned on the faucet to provide a white noise effect. "I have to, Jim," Max said urgently.  "Without me here, he'll kill Erich for sure."

"Surely there's another way."

"No, Jim,"  Max answered.  "We are getting ready to leave the field house now.  We don't have time to formulate another plan."

"Maybe we could just take Von Trayburn out of the play completely," Jim suggested.

"That won't work, Jim, and you know it," Max argued.  "We don't have the evidence we need."

Jim knew that his teammate was right, but he was silent as he searched his brain for another point to argue.

"Jim, I'll be careful," Max assured him.  

After a moment, Jim sighed.  "All right," he conceded, "but you have to stay in touch constantly." "

I promise," Max replied.  "Gotta go."

Chapter 7

Less than an hour later, Max was getting accustomed to the hotel room he would be sharing with Erich. It was moderately furnished and casually comfortable without being extravagant.

Max, not really used to silence, tried unsuccessfully a couple of times to make small talk with his new roommate. On the third attempt, Erich's face turned beet-red and he jumped to his feet. He drew back a fist as if ready for a rematch. Max held up his hands.

"Take it easy," he said softly. "I don't want to fight with you. Can't you see that?"

Erich started at Max for a moment, then lowered his arm slowly. "Very well," he replied in his thick German accent. "I suppose it isn't your fault you were asked to take Bernard's place on the team. But I am not interested in talking or in being your friend, so just keep to yourself." And, just like that, the conversation was over.

As the evening wore on, Max had devised his own manner of checking in regularly with the team by feigning vocal tics and other noises, since he wasn't communicating with Erich at all.  Around nine o'clock in the evening, Max felt a heaviness descend upon his shoulders and was having an incredibly difficult time keeping his eyes open. But he was convinced that an attempt would be made on Erich's life that evening, and he fought hard to stay awake.

A half hour later, he was watching television when he became aware of the onset of a dull headache and mentioned it to Jim, who was monitoring from the headquarters computer with Shannon while Grant and Nicholas remained close by, parked outside the hotel.

"How bad?" Jim asked, instantly concerned.

"Not too bad," Max replied quietly, pretending to be talking on the phone. "I probably just need some painkillers. Hold on a second."

Max got up from the bed where he'd been reclining to fetch some pain medication. Immediately the room began to spin around and Max had to grab hold of the nightstand to maintain his balance. He groaned slightly.

"Max, what's wrong?" Shannon demanded.

"Dizzy," he gasped, forgetting for a second that his roommate might be listening.

Grant, listening via his communicator which was set to open mic, was instantly on alert. He grabbed Nicholas' communicator. "Jim, tell Max to check on Erich," he urged.

Jim relayed the message, and Max stumbled over to the other bed where Erich appeared to be asleep. His head spun violently as he checked Erich's pulse.

"His heart's racing," panted Max. "I think he's unconscious."

Grant's own heart was pounding in his head. "It's carbon monoxide, Jim," he said urgently. "Tell Max to get the hell out of there. We're on our way."

As Grant and Nicholas sprinted toward Max's room, Max heeded Jim's words, slinging his roommate over his shoulder and staggering his way slowly to the hotel room door. Max's pounding, spinning head made the task much more difficult than it would have normally been. As he reached the door, his stomach began to retch and he almost dropped the young soccer player. He unfastened the deadbolt and fumbled for the doorknob, managing to unlock it before sinking to his knees. 

The world was about to fade into darkness when there came a sudden rush of light and fresh air as the door opened a few inches against Max's leg. The small burst of oxygen energized him enough that he was able to take one giant scoot backward.  Then he was dimly aware of the door opening all the way, Erich's body being lifted from his shoulders, and strong hands supporting him as he was half-carried, half-dragged to the hallway of the hotel.

Chapter 8

Slowly, Max became aware of the muffled sounds of activity taking place around him. He opened his blue eyes gingerly. As everything came back into focus, he could tell that he was propped up against a wall in the hotel hallway. He saw Nicholas' worried countenance looking at him from his right side, and an unfamiliar white figure in front of him. There was a bulky object covering his nose and mouth, and Max instinctively lifted his right hand to push it away.

"Easy, Max," Nicholas soothed, grasping Max's hand with his own and gently lowering it. "It's just an oxygen mask. Just breathe deeply."

Max took another deep breath or two, and then his body tensed as he tried to look around.

"Relax, buddy," said Grant, softly, as he came into view and knelt at Max's left side. "Erich is going to be just fine."

Upon hearing this, Max allowed his body to relax once again as Grant returned to watch over the young soccer player. The white figure - who Max now understood was a paramedic - checked his pulse and respiration rate once again. Then he smiled at the teammates.

"His vitals are near normal," he reported. "Pulse ox is up to ninety-six." He gently removed the oxygen mask from Max's face. "I think we can do without this now."

"How are you feeling?" Nicholas asked anxiously.

Max hesitated a moment, then grinned at his friend. "I'm good," he answered, as he carefully got to his feet.

"Are you sure?" Nicholas, unconvinced, gripped Max's arm tightly.

"Nicholas," Max said gently, "I'm fine now."

Nicholas released Max's arm, and Max smiled and slapped his teammate's shoulder affectionately, then he walked over to kneel beside Grant.

"You all right?" Grant asked. 

Max nodded, but the look on Grant's face troubled him. "What's up?" Max asked him.

"The bastard got away," Grant grunted.

"Von Trayburn?"

Grant nodded. "He must have sneaked out before we got here. Took the CO canister with him."

"Which means we still have no evidence," Nicholas put in.

"Then my job isn't finished," observed Max.

Grant turned to look at his teammate, his dark brown eyes brimming with concern. "No way, man," he said, shaking his head, his voice low. "We're pulling you out. This one was too close. We almost lost you."

"Grant," Max said gently, placing his hand on the Black man's shoulder, "it's our mission."

"But, Max-"

"We'll be safe as long as Von Trayburn doesn't come back," Max interrupted. In his peripheral vision, he caught sight of Erich beginning to regain consciousness. "You'd better go. He'll wonder what the equipment manager is doing here."

Grant sighed. Max was so stubborn sometimes. He knew his protests wouldn't get anywhere. "All right," he relented, "but we'll be keeping watch outside."

Max nodded, then Grant and Nicholas made a hasty exit as Erich continued to stir. The paramedic removed the oxygen mask as Erich opened his eyes and stared at Max.

"What happened?" he asked slowly.

"Gas leak in the hotel room, as far as we can gather," Max replied, not wishing to give out too much information or make any accusations at this point. "Are you all right?"

Erich winced. "My head hurts," he answered slowly, "but otherwise I'm okay." His voice was more cordial than Max had heard it since they'd met, but still not overly friendly.

Once Erich had recovered enough to get to his feet, he and Max were given another room on the other side of the hotel to sleep in for the night. If Max were expecting their experience to cause Erich to warm up to him, he was disappointed. The young soccer player was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. Once Max had checked in a final time with his team, he followed suit, secure in the knowledge that Grant and Nicholas were keeping surveillance outside the hotel.

********

"Jim." Grant spoke softly into his communicator so as not to wake Nicholas, napping in the passenger seat. "You've got to get Max out of there. He'll listen to you."

"Grant," Jim said calmly, though this was the third time tonight they'd had this discussion, "I know you're worried. We all are. But you know as well as I do that Max would never give up on a mission."

"I know," Grant conceded. Max's dogged determination was one of the things that made him the most valuable to the team. "I just wish there was another way."

"I do, too," Jim admitted, "but the truth is if Max hadn't been in position tonight, we'd have lost Erich."

"Yeah," replied Grant, "but Erich's not the one I'm afraid of losing."

Chapter 9

Grant and Nicholas took turns keeping watch on the hotel overnight, but Von Trayburn never returned and the rest of the night passed without any further incidents. The next morning, after the soccer team had left to return to the field house, the two agents went back to headquarters where Grant showered and dressed for his job as equipment manager. While he was tying his shoes, the team was discussing the events of the day.

"Today is the first day of the negotiations," stated Nicholas.

"And Germany's semi-final match with Sweden," added Shannon. "This could be Von Trayburn's last opportunity to try and get rid of Erich."

"Yes," Jim agreed, "and up till now he's had the upper hand. I think it's time we turned things around."

Hastily, Jim outlined his plan. After providing some assistance with some IMF gadgetry, Grant rushed off to the field house while Nicholas got out his makeup kit.

*******

Max and Erich hadn't exactly had a civil conversation this morning, but each had inquired about the other's well-being and Erich, at least, was no longer making a conscious effort to avoid his new teammate. When they arrived at the field house, Von Trayburn was waiting for them. As he approached them, Max felt his muscles tense.

"I heard about the unfortunate accident in the hotel last night," began Von Trayburn.

Accident, my foot, thought Max to himself, as he fought to maintain his composure.

"I trust you both are feeling all right?"

"We're okay, Coach," Erich answered.

"Good," the coach replied. "We're going to need you both today. Sweden is a tough team."

As the coach walked away, Max called after him. "Say, Coach, I don't recall seeing you at the hotel last night, during all the commotion," he commented. "Where were you?"

The coach's face flushed briefly, but he quickly recovered. "I had to rush home to take care of a situation with one of my children," he answered smoothly. "I ended up staying there last night."

Max knew there was no way that his involvement last night could be proven, and he did not wish to arouse any more suspicion. So he simply nodded and turned his attention back to his locker.

Suddenly, Max's keen hearing picked up a slight crackling noise coming from above his head. Instinctively, he looked up, and noticed that the large light fixture right above their heads had loosened and was falling toward them!

"Watch out!" Max yelled, at the same time pushing Erich aside and shielding his body with Max's own. The heavy light fixture crashed to the floor where the two men had stood only seconds earlier.

Max quickly picked himself up and looked anxiously at the soccer player. "You okay?" he asked quickly.

"I am fine, thanks to you," Erich smiled - the first smile Max had seen since meeting the young man the day before - and allowed Max to help him to his feet. "How about you?"

"I'm good," Max replied.

The other players gathered around the two men as Butch Von Trayburn rounded the corner. "I heard a noise," he began, then appeared to see the fallen light fixture for the first time. "Oh, my God," he added. "Are you two all right?"

"Somebody is trying to kill us!" Max said loudly, his blue eyes dancing, unable to control his wrath any longer.

If the coach was rattled by Max's accusation, he didn't let on. Instead, he looked up at the ceiling. "This is an old building," he stated. "Probably just some loose ceiling tiles. Glad you're okay." As the coach turned to walk away a second time,

Max had a brief thought about punching him in the face.

"Easy, Max," came Jim's calming voice in the blonde agent's ear. "We're about to bring him down."

*******

Grant entered the locker room on the pretense of replacing some equipment. He caught Max's eye and raised an eyebrow. Max nodded subtly. Satisfied that his partner was all right, Grant rushed off to find the coach.

"Coach Von Trayburn?' he began when he found him. "You have a phone call."

Butch Von Trayburn nodded his thanks. "I'll take it in my office," he replied.

That's just what we were hoping you'd do, Grant thought.

Von Trayburn entered his office and picked up the phone. "Hello?" he said. He heard only silence. "Hello?" he tried again. There was no one on the other end of the line.

"What kind of joke is this?" he asked himself angrily as he slammed down the receiver. He stood up and looked toward the office door...and then his breath caught in his throat.

There, in the hallway outside his office door, stood the glowing figure of Bernard Fischer, his face pasty white.

The coach himself turned pale at the apparition. "Fischer?" he said incredulously. "But you're dead!"

Silently, slowly, the figure lifted its arms, while its eyes stared unblinking at the coach. In one hand the figure held a pair of cleats. In the other was a small vial.

"No!" yelled the coach, getting quickly to his feet. "This isn't possible!" He quickly pulled out his desk drawer where he'd hidden the vial of succinylcholine. It was gone. The coach rushed to open the door, but it wouldn't budge.

The figure took a step backward and continued to stare at Von Trayburn, moving the hand which held the cleats up and down for effect.

Von Trayburn was white with terror. "Let me out of here!" he screamed, as he rammed his body against the door again and again.

The figure moved swiftly down the hallway and disappeared around the corner just as Von Trayburn busted through the door.

Once Shannon saw Nicholas round the corner, she dialed Von Trayburn's number from the mobile unit inside her car. Von Trayburn started to follow the figure, but then his office phone rang again. Thoroughly spooked, he went back to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Butch Von Trayburn?"

"Yes?"

"My name is Billings. I'm with BPOL. I tried to call earlier, but there was a bad connection. At any rate, I'd like for you to come down here. I have some questions I'd like you to answer."

"Questions?" he stammered.

"Yes. Someone dropped off a pair of soccer cleats and a vial of succinylcholine to our station. Said they were used to kill Bernard Fischer. Said you could answer any questions we have."

Von Trayburn's heart raced wildly in his chest. He looked at his watch nervously. "I'm coaching the World Cup semi-finals in half an hour," he said quickly. "Can I meet you afterward?"

"That'll be fine," Shannon smiled. "We'll be here."

Von Trayburn hung up without saying goodbye.

Chapter 10

Butch Von Trayburn rushed out of his office and looked around frantically for any sign of the spectre he'd seen earlier.  He found nothing. They couldn't know.  They couldn't know, he muttered to himself as he bolted out the door and into the parking lot.

*******

Shannon was just getting off the phone with Von Trayburn as Nicholas climbed into the car. "Nice job, Nicholas," she praised.  "You were positively glowing."

Nicholas grinned at her as he opened up his white robe and took out the special fluorescent light that Grant had given him earlier. "Well, hopefully this helped convince Von Trayburn," he answered, switching off the light and ripping off the mask that had turned him into the deceased soccer player.

Shannon's smile faded as she caught sight of the coach moving toward his vehicle.   "Nicholas, look," she hissed.

Quickly, he grabbed the binoculars and aimed them at the coach, who was peering into his trunk.

"See anything?"  Shannon asked impatiently.

"Yeah," Nicholas said heavily.  From their vantage point atop a hill, he could see clearly inside the trunk. "A pair of cleats and a canister that looks like it might have held some sort of gas."

Shannon keyed her communicator.  "Time to call the police, Jim," she said.

*******

Von Trayburn cursed. "I knew it!"  he said aloud.  "Somebody's trying to set me up!" He thought for a split second, and then it dawned on him. "Foster!"  he growled.  "Of course! He's stuck to Schneider like glue ever since he's been here!"

Von Trayburn resolutely grabbed a syringe and a vial from the compartment in the back of his trunk and quickly loaded it, then slammed the trunk and dashed back inside the locker room.

*******

Nicholas, still watching the coach through the field glasses, suddenly cursed.

"What?"  Shannon demanded.

"He's got a needle and he's going back inside!" Shannon quickly pushed the button on her communicator and relayed the urgent news to Grant and Jim.

"Stay put," Jim ordered.  "Grant and Max will handle this.  The police are on their way."

So, despite their worry for their teammates, they waited tensely for further news.

*******

When he received the urgent communication, Grant was several hundred yards away, monitoring the audiovisual feed he'd installed in the coach's office.  Now, he reached for his black bag and dart gun and took off running toward the locker room, knowing it would take him a few moments to get there and praying he wouldn't be too late.

*******

By the time Max and Erich finished dressing for the soccer match that would begin momentarily, their teammates were already out on the field.  As they started to follow, Max heard Jim's worried voice through the tiny receiver on his hearing aid.

"Max, Von Trayburn's headed your way, and he has a loaded syringe."

At almost the same time, the coach rounded the corner, needle gripped tightly in his fist, not breaking stride as he rushed toward Erich.  Instinctively, Max stepped between the coach and his intended victim.

"Foster!"  Von Trayburn bellowed, shoving him out of the way with his free hand.  Max's head banged against the metal lockers, and he was addled for a few seconds. Just as Von Trayburn lunged at Erich, Max regained his senses and shoved the young soccer player out of the way. 

Max felt the sharp point penetrate his shoulder.  Erich cried out in alarm as Max shoved the needle away.

Grant suddenly came sprinting around the corner, almost running into a fleeing Butch Von Trayburn.  In one fluid motion, Grant whipped the dart gun out of his pocket and fired, taking the coach down as Max also crumpled into a heap on the locker room floor.

Chapter 11

Grant rushed to his friend's side as Erich also leaned over him.  Quickly, Grant checked Max's vital signs.  His pulse was rapid and thready, and his respiration rate was slowing.  Grant cursed.

"What's wrong with him?"  Erich asked.

"Grab my black bag," Grant barked, rather than answer the question. Erich started after it without hesitation as Grant spoke softly to Max, knowing he was fully aware of what was happening. "Hang on, pal.  I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."

Erich returned with the bag.  Grant took it from him, ripped open the zipper, and whipped out the airway support kit.  Quickly, he placed the mask over Max's face and began to inflate Max's lungs with the attached bag.

"Erich, can you find the needle and bring it to me, please?  Be careful you don't touch the point."  Grant asked, never taking his eye off his friend. 

Again, Erich complied, his features narrowing in concern.

Grant gingerly took the needle with one hand while continuing to support Max's airway with the other.  He looked carefully at the markings and his lips moved slightly as he did some quick calculations in his head.  He sighed in relief.  "Thank God." His dark brown eyes looked deeply into the blue ones of his teammate, which stared at him unblinking and full of fear.  "Ten minutes, partner,"  Grant soothed.  "You got a small dose.  If you can hold on for just ten minutes, it should wear off.  I'll be right here."

"What was in there?"  Erich asked quietly, his eyes pointing to the syringe.

"Succinylcholine," Grant replied softly.  "It's a paralytic drug.  The same one that killed your friend Bernard Fischer."

Erich's eyes went wide.  "Are you saying that Coach killed Bernie?" At Grant's nod, he asked, "Why?"

"Your friend wasn't the target," Grant replied gently.  "You were."

"Me?"  Erich asked incredulously.  Then realization crossed his face as soon as the question left his lips.  "Of course.  The hotel room.  The light.  And now this.  Oh, God." Erich turned deathly pale, and for a moment Grant was afraid he was going to faint.  Then, the young player willed his stomach to settle and again looked at Grant.  "But why would coach Von Trayburn want to kill me?"

"Let's just say he comes from a very political family," Grant answered.

Erich's eyes narrowed, then widened in recognition.  "The trade talks.  He knows my father."

Grant nodded, then he heard a moan from a few feet away.  He eyed Von Trayburn carefully.  "Erich," he said tensely, "I need you to do me one more favor."

"Anything," the younger man answered, his voice shaking.

"Squeeze this bag gently once every three to five seconds," Grant explained.  "Your coach will be waking up soon, and I need to make sure he doesn't go anywhere."

Once Erich had taken over, Grant slipped off to bind Von Trayburn's hands and feet with some locker room towels that he tore into strips.  He quickly keyed his communicator and explained to Jim what had taken place. "Max should be all right in a few more minutes," Grant assured his leader.

"Good.  The police should be there any moment.  Nicholas is waiting for them now.  After the little show in Von Trayburn's office earlier, he led us right to the evidence.  There should be more than enough to arrest him.  Just take care of Max."

"Yeah, will do."

Grant rushed back to his friend's side and reached for the bag.

"That's all right, sir, I'll handle this," said Erich, waving him off.  He looked sadly at Max.  "I owe him that much."

Grant smiled at Erich and laid two fingers on Max's neck.  His pulse had stabilized and was getting stronger, and the look in Max's eyes was not as fearful. "That's it, pal, just relax," he smiled.  "We're almost there."

Grant looked at the young player, who was still staring at Max with concern.  "You'd better get out there on the field," he urged.

Erich shook his head.  "That needle was meant for me," he answered.  "This is the third time Max has saved my life.  I'm not leaving till I'm sure he'll be all right."

Grant glanced at his watch, then looked down at his friend.  "It's been ten minutes, Max.  I need you to try to take a breath, all right?  Don't be scared.  I'll be right here if it doesn't work."

Grant slowly took away the bag, and was pleased to see Max's chest rise slowly.  "That's it," he praised.

Grant continued to watch Max carefully, monitoring his every slow breath.  After a couple more minutes, Max blinked his eyes. "I think the paralysis is wearing off," Grant smiled, and Max's head moved ever so slightly. "He'll be all right now, Erich.  The game is about to start."

Erich got to his feet, pausing to pat Max's shoulder.  "Okay," he said reluctantly.  "But is it all right if I come find you later?  There are some things I need to say to him."

Grant hesitated.  Normally, once a mission ended, the team made a hasty exit.  This time, though, he was almost certain that Max would need to rest for a day or two before setting off. He flashed Erich a smile.  "I don't suppose that will be a problem," he replied, and the young man sprinted toward the soccer field.

A couple of moments later, Nicholas rounded the corner, followed by the police.  As they read Von Trayburn his rights and placed him under arrest, Nicholas knelt beside his friends, just as Max began to move his arm.

"Take it easy, partner," Grant said softly.

"I think I'm okay," Max answered slowly, as he concentrated on each word.

"Are you sure?" Nicholas asked quickly, his brow furrowed in alarm as he and Grant carefully helped Max sit up.

Max did not answer for a moment, taking silent inventory of his body to make sure everything was functional.  Then he flashed a grin at his worried friends.  "I'm all right now," he reassured them.  His smile spread to his eyes as they locked onto Grant's.  "Thank you."

"Good thing you were prepared, Grant," said Nicholas, his voice betraying his relief as they helped Max to his feet.

"Well, it's a good thing Von Trayburn was careless and left the vial in his office.  Otherwise, I'd have had no clue."  Grant stifled a small shudder as he thought of what might have happened to Max.

Nicholas keyed his communicator to update Jim and Shannon while Grant kept a steadying hand on Max's elbow until he grinned back at the brown-eyed agent, an unspoken signal that he was indeed all right.

"Let's get out of here," Grant urged.

Max looked down at his soccer uniform and tried, but failed somewhat, to look hurt.  "Aw, come on," he teased.  "It's the semis!  My team needs me!"

Grant grinned and cuffed Max playfully in the back of the head.  "Your soccer career is over, you nitwit.  Let's go!"

Chapter 12

Epilogue

Jim suggested that the team stay for an extra night, to give Max a chance to rest up from his close call before headed back home.  That afternoon, the team found out that Von Trayburn's brother, a pharmacist, had supplied him with the deadly carbon monoxide gas as well as the succinylcholine used in the murder attempts.  He was also arrested as an accessory.

The team also found out that the assistant coach had led the German team to victory in the semi-finals and they would play Croatia for the World Cup championship the following day.  Max, who hadn't yet seen Erich, begged Jim to wait a few hours before departure.

"I want to watch the game," he insisted.  "And I want to see Erich."

"But the mission is over," Jim protested, "and the next one could be waiting for us."

"Then go on if you need to," Max said softly.  "I'll be home after the game."

Jim looked into Max's eyes, and suddenly he understood.  He knew how much of himself Max had given to this mission, how close he had come to being killed.  Max needed this.  Even though Erich was no longer in danger, Max had to see it through to the end.  It would be closure for him.

Jim smiled.  "Soccer isn't my thing, Max," he said with a wink, "but we'll wait for you in the car."

"Not me, man," disagreed Grant.  "I'm going with you.  I'm the equipment manager, remember?"

Max slapped Grant's back and laughed heartily.  He couldn't tell whether Grant really did like the game or if he just didn't want Max to be alone, but it didn't really matter either way.

*******

It was a hard fought final match, but Germany defeated Croatia 4-3.  Erich Schneider kicked the game-winning goal with less than a minute to play.  As time ran out, Erich scanned the stands for Max.  When their eyes met, Max recognized the unspoken signal to stay there for a few more moments.

Five minutes later, after team captain Erich had received the trophy and dedicated the championship to his fallen comrade Bernard Fischer, he trotted off the field to find his new friend.

"Great game,"  Max praised, as he shook Erich's hand.

Erich smiled slightly, his eyes still brimming with concern.  "You are...all right?" he asked haltingly.

Max smiled warmly.  "I'm fine, Erich," he assured him.

"I am glad," Erich replied, in his thick German accent.  "There are two things I wish to tell you."

Max, anticipating what the two things were, held up his hand.  "It's not necessary."

"Please, Max," Erich interrupted gently, taking his hand and lowering Max's own.  "I must." At Max's nod, he continued.  "I wish to thank you for saving my life - not only once, but three times over - and for seeing that my friend's killer does not go free."

"You're welcome," Max replied, slightly embarrassed at the praise he was not accustomed to.

"And I wish to apologize for the way I behaved toward you," Erich added.

"It's all right, Erich.  I understand."

Erich shook his head.  "I know now that you were only trying to protect me.  But I was angry and upset over losing my friend and I took it out on you."

Max's stomach lurched in sympathy.  "I am sorry about Bernard," he said softly.

Erich nodded.  "He was a good friend, and a good man," he mused sadly, then he smiled at Max.  "I think he would have liked you very much."

Max smiled, his cheeks flushing at the realization that Erich had just paid him the highest possible compliment. "I'm glad you're safe, Erich," Max said sincerely.

"And I am glad you are safe, comrade," Erich responded, reaching again for his hand and then grabbing Max in a back-thumping embrace. "Take care, my friend," Erich smiled, and then he rushed off to celebrate with his teammates as Max and Grant walked off the field, climbed into the team's white sedan, and drove away.

The End.

(c) 2016