The Mystery of the Russian Ransom (6 page)

The Owls returned to the Astoria Hotel triumphant. They had beaten one of the tournament favorites 5–3 – Sam had scored in the final seconds
into an empty net – and they must now be considered a favorite. And they had done it without Sarah Cuthbertson, their best player, and
almost
without Wayne Nishikawa, their top defenseman.

The parents also came along to the Astoria. Dmitri’s father had said that there would be a meeting about Sarah. The police would be there. As would Mr. Petrov.

They gathered in the hotel lounge. Mr. Yakushev spoke, at times translating what he said into Russian for the benefit of the police.

“Sarah is safe and well,” he announced, taking off his glasses as if, finally, he could relax his guard.

Travis felt such relief he thought he was going to burst into tears. Sam was already bawling.

“Sarah is safe, and we know for sure she is well and healthy. The police have received photographs of her and a video message. She says in the video that she is fine and is being treated well. It is exactly as the police suspected.”

“But she’s not here?”

“Not yet. The message also included a ransom request. I will ask Mr. Petrov to speak about that.”

Mr. Petrov moved to the front. He was breathing hard, likely feeling the same flood of relief the Owls all felt. He smiled before he spoke. He only spoke a little English, and Mr. Yakushev helped him along.

“I consider this my responsibility,” he told the players and parents, with Mr. Yakushev’s assistance. “I am the one who brought you all, and Sarah, here to Ufa. And there can be no doubt the ransom is directed at me, not you. I am working with the police to negotiate a safe return for your teammate and your daughter. I can promise you, she will be returned safe and sound.”

The parents spontaneously broke out in applause and cheers. Mr. Petrov smiled and seemed grateful to shake the hands offered by the parents.

“How much are they asking?” Fahd asked when he got close to Mr. Petrov. Leave it to Fahd to ask the awkward, as well as the obvious, question. Travis was glad he had.

Mr. Petrov swallowed, considering what to say. “They are looking for ten million rubles,” he said quietly.

Mr. D whistled. The other parents seemed in shock. If he was willing to pay that much for her safe return, he was a very generous man. No way could Sarah’s parents afford that, or even all the team’s parents put together.

“How much is that?” Fahd asked later, when the Owls had returned to their rooms.

Data was already on his tablet, doing conversions.

“In American dollars,” he announced, “it would be approximately $333,370, depending on the daily rate of exchange.”

Sam sniffed. “Sarah’s worth a lot more than that,” she said.

Travis could not even imagine $333,000 – he had about $20 in his own bank account – but he had to agree.

Sarah was priceless to the Owls.

I
was back on the ice this morning. It was very different.

Pavel and Sacha were there again, and so was the tall man in the hat – always standing far back, as if he didn’t want to be seen up close.

What was different was me. Before I dressed to go out onto the ice, Olga took me into this room where there were people waiting around. They seemed to have more to do with science than hockey. They had me lie on a bed, and they taped
tiny sensors all over my head. What were they looking for? Brainwaves? Escape plans?

They also taped sensors to my legs and arms. And finally they gave me a new hockey helmet. It was very different from the one I had been wearing. When I first tried it on, I thought it was too big – something a large man might wear – but then I saw it in the mirror and understood.

The helmet had a built-in camera.

Once all the sensors had been attached and double-checked to see if they were being picked up on the various computers around the room, they let me finish dressing to play hockey. Olga helped, because it wasn’t easy pulling on socks, for example, over the sensors and wires that had been taped all over me.

I didn’t feel right at first, but after a few laps around the rink, I sort of forgot that I was completely wired and began fooling around with the pucks. Pavel managed to do the scoop perfectly and we all laughed.

That felt very odd. Here we were, playing. I didn’t know who they were. I wasn’t there voluntarily.
I was their prisoner – well, if not their prisoner, then surely the prisoner of the tall man who was watching. They should have been my sworn enemies, and yet here we were, playing on the ice and laughing at each other trying my little scoop trick with the puck.

On the ice, they felt more like friends – especially Pavel. I wondered how they felt about me. They had to know that I was there against my wishes.

After we had warmed up and tried a few simple drills – I even taught them one of Muck’s – the doors opened at the Zamboni end and a bunch of new players came out. As far as I could tell, all of them were girls. They said nothing to me.

Pavel said we were to play a scrimmage and that they wanted me to try my best, because it would be the three of us and a goaltender against a full team on the other side, two full lines of five apiece.

We wouldn’t stand a chance.

I guess they knew me better than I know myself, though. My mother always says I’m hopelessly stubborn. According to her, I can never resist a challenge.

This was going to be an incredible challenge.

But it didn’t take more than a couple of rushes by the three of us, or a few rushes by the other side, for me to see that it wasn’t as impossible as it might have looked. The other players were good, but not quite as good as Pavel and Sacha.

And the three of us clicked. It may have been because of all the drills we had been doing, but it might as easily have been luck. Muck likes to say the “hockey gods” have control of the game. He says there is no way in the world that any hockey coach can map out plays the way football coaches can. Hockey has a magic to it that humans can’t understand and should simply enjoy.

The three of us had that magic, just like Dmitri, Trav, and I have a bit of magic going for us. I always know where they’ll be. I know how Travis likes to curl away and look for the play. I know how Dmitri will always use his speed to drive to the outside, and how, nine times out of ten, he’ll try to roof the puck on the backhand, which goalies never seem to expect.

Pavel has superb speed – sort of like Dmitri. And Sacha sees the ice unbelievably. I like to think that is my gift, too – I can see where the players are without really looking hard, and I can guess where the puck is going to go in the next few seconds. My dad once made me a sign for my bedroom wall and told me it was a quote from Wayne Gretzky: “Skate to where the puck is going to be, not to where it has been.”

Anyway, we worked well together. I even looped one of those high Lars passes down ice, and Pavel sensed the play perfectly. He flew by the other side’s defense and picked up the puck just as it slapped back down on the ice. He scored easily.

It was tough, playing three skaters on five. I had to protect the puck a lot by keeping it in my skates when there was heavy traffic. I’m good at this, so we were often able to work a puck along the boards, me keeping it while Pavel slipped out into the slot, where I could feed him for a one-timer.

We played first-to-ten wins, and we won 10–7. After I put in the tenth goal, I could hardly catch my breath.

I was sweating heavily. I started laughing to myself, thinking the salty sweat might short-circuit the sensors.

Actually, I had forgotten all about them. The reason was, I have to admit, I was having fun.

“N
o word?”

Travis must have asked this same question a dozen times since they heard that Sarah was safe and a ransom had been demanded.

Sam was philosophical. “I imagine they’re bargaining about the price,” she said. “Mr. Petrov said he’d pay, but even for him ten million rubles isn’t chicken feed.”

“I bet they’re setting a trap,” Data butted in. “They’re planning one. I can practically guarantee
it. It’s how they catch blackmailers all the time. They might be marking the money up so that it colors their hands when they touch it. They might be planning a drop somewhere where they can have the area completely surrounded by hidden cops.”

“You watch too much
TV
,” said Lars.

“What do you expect me to do – snowboard?”

Travis cringed. It was unusual for Data to snap at someone like that. He had never acted sorry for himself. Data had always tried to make the best of everything – after that drunk driver had hit him, he’d stayed with the team, and Muck and Mr. D had made him an assistant coach.

Data’s making a sarcastic crack like that showed how on edge the Owls still were about Sarah. How nervous they were despite all the assurances that Sarah was just fine and would be back with the Screech Owls as soon as a ransom could be arranged.

“When’s our next game?” Nish asked.

“It’s also our last game,” added Lars.

“Tonight at seven thirty,” said Sam. “We’re up against some place I can’t even pronounce.”

“Yekaterinburg,” Data said impatiently. “It’s the fourth-largest city in Russia and has a population of one and a half million. It’s not far from here.”

“Someone said they’re better than Saint Petersburg,” said Fahd.

“So?” said Sam. “We already proved
we’re
better than Saint Petersburg. This one’s for the championship.”

Travis felt his inner captain stirring. He had to give his teammates some new focus. He had to stop the sarcasm and the fretting and the useless chatter.

Perhaps it would help if they weren’t all just sitting around in the lobby. Muck had said that if they stayed together in groups of at least four, then they were free to walk about the city in daylight.

“You know everything about Ufa, Data. What can we go see?”

Data listed some attractions off the top of his head: statues, parks, the theater, ballet. They weren’t
so interested in any of those. He told them that Ufa’s pro hockey team, Salavat Yulaev, was back in town and practicing this week.

Nish looked disgusted. “What’s Saliva Yuck – some sort of
snot
?”

Data was really peeved now. “Salavat Yulaev, idiot. The team is named after a great national hero.”

Data’s fingers danced over his tablet as he googled the team name.

“He lived about two hundred and fifty years ago,” he told them. “He was a freedom fighter – a revolutionary – and he died in prison. There’s a big statue to him here, and it has one of his poems on it.”

Data read the English translation: “I would return home, but alas, / I am in chains …”

“Sounds like Sarah,” Sam said. Nish giggled. No one else laughed.

Data continued: “The road home may be obscured by snow, / But come spring it shall melt – / I am not dead yet, my Bashkirs!”

“What’s a Bashkir?” Fahd asked.

“The people here are Bashkir,” Data explained. “Ufa is in the Republic of Bashkortostan – it used to be its own country.”

“I’m just happy to hear the snow will melt,” Nish said. He had already lost interest in Data’s history lesson.

“Where do you think the team would be practicing?” Lars said suddenly. “The peewee tournament has taken over the new rink.”

Data, still seeming a bit testy, began typing on his tablet. He hunted around on Google until he had an address for an older downtown rink.

“This will be it,” he said. “Seats about four thousand. Banners are still hanging there, apparently, from the team’s championship run.”

“We should check it out,” Travis said. It would give them something to do. Give the Owls something to think about other than Sarah.

“I’ll ask at the front desk for a map,” said Lars.

“No need,” Data said. “I downloaded an app for Russian maps onto my phone.”

Data switched from his tablet to his mobile, waited while the phone app picked up a signal, and
then held out the phone so the rest of the Owls could see the screen.

Travis could make out streets and some landmarks. He could see the large park beside the Ufa Arena, and the shopping mall. There was also a red squiggly line running from a spot on Karl Marx Street away from the arena where they were playing. It was the route to the downtown rink.

Data examined it carefully. “Looks like about ten or twelve blocks, easily walkable.”

“Let’s go check it out,” said Sam.

“Can we borrow your phone?” Fahd asked Data.

Data was reluctant to give it up, but he knew they’d never find the old rink on their own.

“Guard it with your
life
!” Data snapped as he practically tossed it at him.

Travis suddenly understood. Data was feeling left out. It was almost impossible to get around in a wheelchair in Ufa. Even with his power wheels, Data couldn’t navigate the unplowed streets. And once he got to wherever it was the Owls were going, there was no guarantee he’d be able to get in. It was fortunate for him that the new rink was
modern and had some provisions for wheelchairs and scooters.