The Mystery of the Russian Ransom (7 page)

“We will,” Fahd said, putting the phone in the pocket of his Screech Owls hoodie. “Promise.”

I
t was good to get out walking. There was light snow falling, which seemed to happen every day in Ufa. It must have snowed harder during the night, as the side streets were thick with snow and had yet to be plowed. They laughed at a couple of young women trying to make their way down one of the snowed-in streets in high-heeled boots.

“Maybe they get better traction,” suggested Sam. “Sort of like ski poles.”

The five Screech Owls giggled as they passed the young women, and Travis felt good hearing the familiar sounds of his best friends. There hadn’t been enough laughter on this trip. Not even Nish had been able to break the feeling of tension since Sarah had disappeared.

With Fahd calling out directions from the GPS on Data’s phone, they worked their way along Lenin Street, where front-end loaders were already dumping snow onto trucks to be hauled away. There was much activity in the streets: blue Christmas lights still burning into the daylight, bundled-up shoppers making their way along the cleared sidewalks, cars and trucks moving so fast and in such numbers along the main road that the Owls could only cross at lights – and even then they had to hurry.

But the air was cold and fresh and the store windows fascinating. They passed flower shops and high fashion stores and small grocery stores and entrances to malls that had been built inside ancient buildings. They marveled at the number of people – women as well as men – smoking cigarettes as they walked along.

“They obviously
encourage
smoking here,” said Nish. “I’m gonna buy a pack.”

“Do, and we’ll butt you off the team,” said Sam. Nish delivered one of his beloved tongue-out raspberries and the others laughed.

Travis had been right. The distraction was good for the Owls. They had somewhere to go and things to see – and for the most part they weren’t dwelling on their missing teammate and friend.

“It’s just off this street coming up,” said Sam, checking the phone.

The five Screech Owls turned as a group: Travis, Sam, Lars, Fahd, and, bringing up the rear, Nish.

“
There it is!
” Fahd shouted, pointing triumphantly.

They had come to a small park with play structures underneath the snow, and beyond that a large gray building that looked more like an abandoned factory than a hockey rink. But an abandoned factory would have its windows all broken; this building seemed to have no windows at all.

“It’s as ugly as Nish’s butt,” said Sam.

“You’re sure this is the right place?” Travis asked.

Sam checked the map again and nodded. “This is it.”

They walked around to the other side and found the entrance. There was a sign in Russian, as well as a symbol of someone skating. It was indeed a rink.

Nish walked right up to the front door and yanked on the handle – but the door wouldn’t budge. He tried again, but still it wouldn’t open. Lars tried the door beside it, and it, too, would not budge.

“
Locked!
” said Lars.

“But there’s got to be people inside,” Sam said. “Look.”

She pointed to a parking area over to one side. There were several cars there. All the windshields were cleared of snow, so the vehicles had to have been driven there that morning, after the big snowfall.

They walked down to a side entrance, but it, too, was locked. It looked as if they weren’t going to see Salavat Yulaev practice after all.

“We’re beaten,” Lars said with a disappointed sigh.

“No we’re not,” said Nish.

All eyes turned and stared at him. The last Screech Owl any of them expected to figure things out was big No. 44, Wayne Nishikawa.

“Follow me.”

W
hat was it Alice said when she found herself in Wonderland? “Curiouser and curiouser”?

That’s pretty much how all of this seems to me. Everything up is down, everything down is up. Nothing makes sense. I’m a captive, but I’m treated well. I’ve been taken from my hockey team, but I’m playing hockey.

The games are fun, but sometimes I’m so wired up with sensors that I can feel them when I go full stride. Still, it’s not bad. I’ve gotten to quite
like horsing around on the ice with Pavel and Sacha. Especially Pavel. I feel he could have been a real friend if we had met somewhere that wasn’t half rink, half prison.

I wonder what their role is in this whole thing. They sure don’t seem the kind of people who would ever want to hurt anyone. They seem nice – typical hockey players who just want to have fun.

I’m not allowed to talk to the girls who come out, but that’s hardly a problem – I don’t speak Russian, and they don’t seem to speak any English. They treat me like I’m some sort of superstar, and I sometimes see them trying my moves. I like it, I have to admit. It’s sort of flattering.

Olga said that today I’m to head for the ice and bring along my tracksuit and sneakers for some tests they want to run immediately after the on-ice workout with the team. So I’ve put on my hockey equipment already – everything except my skates – and I’ve got my tracksuit in my pack.

I hope this is over soon. Sometimes, when I’m too upset to sleep, I think they are being nice to me
just so I will cooperate. But what happens when they have no more use for me?

It’s not just curiouser and curiouser – I’m frightened.

“T
his way!” Nish hissed at the Owls following him around to the back of the old arena.

He stopped at the corner and peered around slowly, as if expecting to get blasted in the face by snowballs. Nish was in full “spy” mode – Wayne Nishikawa, Special Agent 44.

“What the heck are you doing?” Sam growled, clearly unimpressed.

“Shh!” he said, looking back, a finger pressed to his lips.

“What are we doing?” Travis asked.

Nish turned around. He was sweating. It was very cold outside, but he was still sweating.

“The Zamboni has to come out to dump after a flood,” said Nish. “We all know that from the rink back home. Once that big door goes up, we slip in.”

“We’ll get caught,” protested Fahd. He sounded scared.

“The door is likely automatic,” said Nish. “It’ll be just the one guy driving the Zamboni, and he has to concentrate on where he’s going to dump it. You can see where they put it, over there.”

Nish pointed to a large snow pile. They could see the tire marks from the Zamboni – heavy treads so it could grip on the ice – and it seemed the machine had made several trips to dump its scraped-up snow already that day. The arena ice was not as pure white as the freshly fallen snow. And it looked as if it were packed more tightly.

“We wait,” said Nish, acting as if he were fully in charge.

“And then what?” asked a skeptical Sam.

“And then we go in and watch some truly amazing pro-level Russian hockey,” said Nish, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“There!”

Too late, Travis realized he had shouted this out.

He had been staring at the falling snowflakes, big fat flakes falling so slowly it seemed they had parachutes. They were hypnotic. Travis and the others had taken turns trying to catch them on their tongues.

But now the garage-style door was opening. Automatically, just as Nish had said it would.

The door rose slowly, creaking, the sound of the chain pulling it loud in the quiet lot where the Owls were hidden, waiting.

With a roar, the Zamboni made its exit from the rink. It moved slowly as it followed the familiar trail to where it dumped its contents.

The Owls waited until the driver had begun working the gears to release the snow carried in the Zamboni’s belly, then darted for the open door.

No one said a word. They slipped in the door and quickly checked to see if there was another worker anywhere around. At the arena back home, they always worked in twos: one to drive the machine, one to move the nets aside and replace them, then shovel off the snow that the machine always dropped as it left the ice. When the second worker closed the doors through which the Zamboni had exited the ice, that was the sign it was now okay for the skaters to come back on.

Travis had sometimes wondered how much time he had lost in his life watching Zambonis circle the ice, how much time he’d spent waiting for those doors to slam shut so he could skate out onto the freshly flooded ice. If hockey players could get back their “Zamboni time” at the end of their lives, he figured it would add up to several years.

But here no one else was around. The Zamboni driver must have been working alone. They slipped
along the boards closest to them, where the stands were only three rows deep. They kept low, their heads well below the top of the boards, just in case anyone was on the ice, though they could hear no sounds of skates.

As soon as Nish came to the first break in the stands, he ducked in under. The others followed suit, each player being high-fived by Nish as they passed by him. They were safe.

They couldn’t stop giggling about their little trick on the Zamboni driver, but Travis was quick to hold a finger to his lips and call for silence. In the empty rink, any sound they made would carry. They caught their breath and waited until they could hear the Zamboni come back into the chute area and stop. Then they heard the big door to the outside close. And a few minutes after that, they could hear the first light sizzle of skates on ice. The practice was on!

Led by Nish and Sam, the Owls moved back and climbed up behind the rear of the stands. It allowed them to look down from under the seats and still be unseen.

The Screech Owls groaned quietly as one. This wasn’t the big Russian team. There were
girls
all over the ice, and two young men who seemed like coaches. The girls were all wearing the same uniform – bright red with a sharp yellow crest that looked, to Travis, like some sort of fierce bird with two heads.

“That’s the Russian team crest,” said Fahd.

“How do you know?” asked Sam.

“They have it on caps at the souvenir stand,” Fahd answered. “Didn’t you see?”

“I did,” said Lars. “I saw them.”

The ice was still slick. The two men – both wearing red tracksuits with the yellow bird crest – went to the bench and yanked two pails of pucks up from the seats and dumped them out onto the ice. Some of the pucks bounced, some rolled, some slapped flat and seemed to freeze to the ice.

Travis watched one of the girls – a player he had already thought was the best skater of the bunch – skate over to the pucks and place the back of her stick blade on top of one of the pucks; then she scooped the puck and twirled.

Travis thought he was going to have a heart attack.

“That’s –” he started to say.

“I know,” Sam said, cutting him off. “That’s
Sarah’s
move!”

T
he Owls scrambled down from the stands and huddled at the bottom. They spoke in whispers, careful not to be heard or seen.

“What’s going on here?” Sam wanted to know.

“Only Sarah does that move,” Travis said.

“I can do it,” said Nish. Sam looked hard at him, as if jamming an imaginary cork into his big mouth.

“How would
they
learn it?” Lars asked.

“They must have seen Sarah do it,” said Sam. “That means she could be here somewhere.”

Nish looked up briefly, his face now serious. He climbed up the back of the stands again, then came back down, shaking his head. “She’s not on the ice.”

“Where would she be?” asked Fahd.

“We’re going to have to look around,” said Travis. “Fahd and Lars, you stay here. Nish and Sam, go that way. I’ll go this way. Stay down, just see what we can see.”

“I don’t want to stay,” protested Fahd.

Travis tapped the phone Fahd still held in his hand. “You’ve got this. If something goes wrong, use it.”

“Call nine-one-one?” Fahd asked.

“They might not have nine-one-one here,” said Travis. “Call the hotel and ask them to put you through to Data’s room. He put the number in before we left.”

Nish and Sam were already on their way, moving silently beneath the stands. Travis doubled back toward the Zamboni chute and then turned through the first exit from the ice surface.

There was a door, with a handle, but this time when he turned it, the door opened. He was through.

Travis found himself in a long corridor. There were rubber mats laid down to protect people’s skates, so the corridor must lead to dressing rooms. He moved quickly, darting ahead when he was sure he couldn’t be seen, slipping behind support columns and garbage bins and rows of lockers when he got nervous.

He could see a row of windows ahead that looked into another room. The room was much more brightly lit than the corridor, so he crouched extra low and made his way toward it, crawling in between the wall and a support column. For one of the few times in his life, Travis was glad he was small. He fit the narrow space. No one could see him if they walked by. And if he stretched himself high, he’d be able to see in one of the windows.