by Piper Rayne
Sweat glistens above his eyebrows. He’s nervous—understandably so. The Chargers have spent too much money and put their asses on the line for me to get caught.
I understand enough about the male ego to assume that when they agreed to do this, they probably had some romantic notion that it would be fun, like playing spies in a Hollywood movie. The reality of helping someone defect is a lot less glamorous.
These two American men must be courageous or stupid because what they are doing is against the law. They may think they’re stealthy, but this will be all over the news in every country. And they’re fucking with the Soviet government—the ultimate enemy. Maybe this is the final phase of the Cold War. Steal one of the Soviet Union’s most prized possessions and watch the country crumble.
Money trumps everything—even politics. Detroit wants their draft pick and they’ll do whatever it takes to get me, even if they have to bend international rules to steal me from another country.
Kirya jumps into action. “There is a mall at Hamngatan and Regeringsgatan called the Gallerian. When you get there, drive around to the back entrance on Jakobsgatan. We will meet you out there,” he says.
We all knew KGB would be looking for me as soon as the CSA coaches and trainers realized I wasn’t in my room. I’m relieved he’s able to think quickly under this kind of pressure because I’m not in the right mental state to figure anything out. Thankfully, he told me I didn’t have to. All I have to do is follow him and do what he tells me to do.
“Perfect. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.” The men walk away quickly, finally comprehending that time is of the essence in a situation like this. Suddenly, Chris turns around and asks, “Is he certain he wants to do this? To come with us?”
“One hundred percent,” Kirya answers without asking me. He translates and hands me a small backpack as we walk, exiting the hotel through a different door to avoid being seen leaving with the Americans.
“I brought you extra clothes and a toothbrush, toothpaste, stuff like that,” he says. “There’s enough to get you to America. Once you’re there, someone from the team will take you shopping.”
I thank him as I take the bag. Because I needed everything to seem normal, I left my room with only a few personal things and documents I could fit in my pockets.
On the street, we hail a cab, and Kirya directs the driver to the Gallerian.
My stomach is torn up like New Year’s Day after a long night celebrating with champagne and vodka. Only today, it feels like I could vomit at any moment. I know Kirya is worried about me because he keeps glancing my way. His fingers tap on his thigh, as if counting how long he’ll stay silent before confronting me. I assume it won’t be long since he’s never been one to keep his mouth shut.
“Are you rethinking the decision?” Kirya asks.
“No.” A thick patch of hair flops over my right eye as I shake my head. I’m surprised he can’t read my mind since we’ve shared the responsibility of protecting Stasya for as long as I can remember.
It’s not that my sister is weak. On the contrary, she’s one of the strongest women I know. But even the strongest people need help when they’re forced to live with our father, a raging drunk who uses his daughter as his personal punching bag ever since Mama died. When I’m home, he’s in a fairly good mood because we’re discussing my games and success. But when I’m gone, she gets the brunt of his depression.
“Then what are you thinking about?” He hits my thigh with the back of his hand. “Your brain is working so hard, you have steam coming from your ears.”
I chew on my bottom lip for a few seconds, trying to figure out how to bring up Stasya. I feel like a horrible human being for leaving her behind. But Kirya, out of all people, understands you do what you have to do for the greater good, no matter who might get hurt.
Stasya won’t understand right now, but defecting puts me on the path to a better life. After a few years, when I’m established, I’ll get her here, too. She’s strong and resilient. She’s lived life without me before, and she’ll do it again.
Though I’m confident in my decision, I’m still filled with fear and uncertainty about defecting. It goes against the Soviet propaganda we’ve been brainwashed with our entire lives. Especially someone like me, an officer in the Scarlet Army and a player on the most successful hockey team of all time. Living in that environment for so long makes the weight of my decision heavier because the costs of leaving are higher for me.
“I’m worried about Stasya,” I finally say.
Kirya’s head snaps to me. I know he’s fond of Stasya, probably more so than he is of me.
I push the hair out of my eyes only for it to fall right back. “Investigators will think she knew about what I was planning, Kirya. They’ll question her—harass her. We’re too close. They won’t believe that she didn’t know.”
The KGB will interrogate my entire family, but they’ll focus on Stasya because of our relationship. Even though she truly didn’t know, they won’t stop until they break her.
Our eyes lock. “Stasya will be fine,” he assures me.
As I nod, my shoulders relax in relief. Then I turn my head to look out the window and stare at the bustling streets of Stockholm. All those people going on with their normal lives.
The cab drops us off at the front of the mall on Hamngatan. We wander around for a little while, going in and out of a few stores, giving the perception we’re just two guys shopping as we make our way to the doors near the back. Paranoia seeps into every thought. If we were being watched at the hotel, we’re definitely being followed.
“It’s been over twenty minutes. We need to get to the back door and see if the car is here,” Kirya whispers.
“Okay,” I agree. My hand shakes as I place a button-down dress shirt back onto a rack. A hardened criminal like Kirya probably thinks I don’t have the balls to pull this off. Despite my nerves, I have more determination to do this than I ever have before.
When he punches my shoulder, I lock eyes with him. “You can do this.”
I nod and give him two thumbs up. It’s probably not very reassuring, but I’m not a pussy. I made this decision months ago and I’m not turning back or jeopardizing it now. Being nervous is a normal reaction for anyone in this situation.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see two large men in shabby, gray trench coats and sunglasses coming toward us. Kirya sees them too, and he’s one step ahead of me.
“Follow me,” he barks out the command. “Fast!”
We flee from the store quickly, winding through as many different racks as we can to try to lose the men in pursuit.
As soon as we’re out of the store, I see the large, double doors that lead to the back exit and bolt toward them. I don’t need Kirya to tell me to run as fast as I can. I just hope he can keep up. Thankfully, when I push the door open, he’s at my heels.
As soon as we’re outside, I point to Brookins standing next to a navy-blue car with the engine still running. The American is as white as a ghost as if the impact of the situation is just hitting him.
When he sees us, he wastes no time opening the back door and ushering us in before getting in himself. The driver hits the gas before he closes the door.
“Do you think we’re being followed?” Owens asks as we drive through the streets of Stockholm.
“Absolutely,” Kirya answers.
I didn’t think it was possible for either of the American’s faces to lose any more color, but they drain a shade lighter before my eyes. There’s no reason for Kirya to sugarcoat the situation. We won’t be completely safe until the plane to New York is off the ground.
Brookins turns around and addresses me. “You can still go back if you want. This is your last chance to change your mind.”
I know I’m entering the point of no return.
Before Kirya can finish translating, I interject, “No. I go.”
When we get to the U.S. Embassy, Kirya and I have to sneak inside wearing clothes
borrowed from the Americans. The less we look like ourselves, the better because embassies are always being watched.
Once we’ve made it inside, a sense of relief washes over me even though I know we’re not in the clear yet.
Kirya pulls the tattered, gray Boston College sweatshirt Brookins gave him to wear over his head and tosses it onto the small coffee table next to him.
I hover halfway between the door and the small office Brookins and Owens slipped into as soon as we arrived. We’ve made it one step further, but we’re still not in the clear. KGB or Sovietsport agents could be outside for all we know.
Kirya sits in one of the uncomfortable office chairs, sipping black coffee and listening as Brookins and Owens organize paperwork. Some of it, like my NHL contract, is already here at the Embassy because Detroit’s owner had faxed it over previously. But the travel documents saying I signed it would need to be drawn up today with both me and the Detroit representatives.
A TV blares from the next room. I don’t know Swedish, but I can clearly make out my name and “USSR hockey.” My disappearance being all over the Swedish news already doesn’t bode well for us.
My knees shake as more minutes tick by. I’ve never known or researched anyone who defected so I’m no expert; but I understand enough about Soviet Union officials and the KGB to know time is of the essence. The longer we’re in Sweden, the less likely I’ll make it to North America.
While the Detroit representatives and the embassy agents work diligently on the documents, I get permission to call my family.
I hesitate before dialing the number. This call could be a death sentence for my family. I take a deep breath and let it out audibly before dialing the number. When an operator answers, I don’t think anything of it. I assume the Embassy has someone directing all outbound calls. I ask the operator to connect me to Stasya.
Kirya stare is intense as he watches me. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly.
I put my hand over the mouthpiece and say, “They put me on hold.”
His eyebrows veer together as if he’s noticed something odd, which makes my blood run cold. Then, a different operator comes on the line and asks me who I am and why I want to get in touch with Anastasiya Kravtsova.
“Fuck,” I spit and slam the receiver on the base.
“What happened?” Kirya asks, jumping from his chair.
“It wasn’t the same operator. It was someone asking questions,” I say gravely. “I think they know where we are. They are listening to calls.”
“No more names,” Brookins snaps. “If you make a phone call, we don’t use names, got it?”
When Kirya translates, I nod.
“Excuse me,” he says to stop a passing woman. He points at the television screen. “What are they saying on TV?”
“They’re searching for a player from the Russian National Team. They say he’s been kidnapped.”
His voice is less confident when he translates. He’s been stable and secure through every step of this process. For the first time he seems rattled.
And for the first time, it crosses my mind, that I may never make it to America.
For as much drama as it was from the hotel to the Embassy, the drive from the Embassy to the airport is uneventful. Still, all four of us are on high alert because we know there’s plenty of time for something to go wrong.
Kirya and I walk around the airport in our ill-fitting, borrowed clothes until it’s time to board. We don’t want to sit in one place for too long, and we definitely don’t want to be seen with the guys from the Chargers.
Over the course of my life, I’ve been in some intense situations—broken up fights before my drunk father can hurt my sister, final seconds of a game we needed to win, getting broken down by a sadistic coach—but I’ve never breathed such a huge sigh of relief as I do when the airplane leaves the ground.
Kirya turns to me and smiles broadly. “Ivan Kravtsov, Lieutenant in the Scarlet Army, you are officially a criminal—a traitor of the highest level. Is there anything you’d like to say?”
I breathe a sigh of relief and glance at my white knuckles, realizing I’ve been squeezing the arms of the chair like a first-time flyer.
“Where’s that stewardess? I need a drink.”
As soon as we step inside the terminal at JFK International Airport in New York City, reporters swarm us. Despite knowing I’m safe right now, my heart still threatens to burst from my chest. My defection and arrival in New York are all over the news. But here, I’m untouchable.
I slip sunglasses on and pull the baseball cap over my eyes, trying to keep my identity concealed despite feeling like one of those asshole KGB agents I made fun of in Stockholm.
Kirya’s job is done. I’m officially on U.S. soil with all the paperwork I’ll need in Detroit for now. If anything else comes up, the Chargers will take care of it.
This is where we part ways. The Americans and I will drive to Detroit from here, and my friend goes on with whatever business he has to tend to here. As much as I’d love if he could stay with me and be my full-time translator, I know he can’t. The Chargers already have me set up with Viktor Berezin, a professor who teaches Russian at Michigan University and translates on the side. It’s probably better to be seen with a teacher than a high-ranking soldier in the bratva.
“Thank you,” Chris Brookins tells Kirya, still speaking as they shake hands. I don’t know what else he says, but I know enough English make out the words for spasibo. I studied how to say the absolute basics—greetings, manners, a few pleasantries, yes and no. Though, I can understand a bit more until the conversation starts going too fast. Then I’m lost again.
Kirya grins broadly. “Always happy to help a comrade escape the regime.”
After shaking hands with Owens, he turns to me. “I’ll be checking in with you soon, but if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”
“Thank you,” I say. “For everything.”
“It’s my pleasure to help, my friend.” When I bring him in for a hug, he slaps my back. “We will meet again.”
Before I let him go, I whisper, “I have a lump in my stomach, Kirya. Promise me you’ll take care of Stasya.”
“Don’t worry. I always have and I always will,” he gives me his word as he backs away.
1
Vanya
The doorbell rings for the umpteenth time. I heard it the first time, the second time, and several times after that, but I stalled, hoping the guy delivering my suit would assume I wasn’t home and leave. It would give me the perfect excuse to miss the event tonight.
He doesn’t leave, though. That persistent guy just keeps ringing the damn doorbell until I give in.
“Coming!” I yell as I bound down the staircase. I’d been lying on my bed, feeling sorry for myself and moping about life in America.
Imagine the nerve—moping about freedom—the one thing I’ve wanted since I was old enough to realize I’d been living under oppression my entire life.
“For a minute there, I almost thought you weren’t home,” the man says with a smile, holding a nylon bag from his fingertips.
“Yes?” I ask, watching him shifting from foot to foot restlessly. I can make out a few words, but overall, I have no clue what he said.
“Here’s your suit, Sir. Cleaned and pressed.” He hands me the bag. “The shop has communicated the price to you, I believe?”
“Spasibo,” I thank him, hoping it’s a good enough answer because I still don’t know what he’s saying.
I collect the suit with one hand while digging the other into the pocket of my shorts to hand him some cash. Then I shut the door without waiting for change or his reply.
“I—Sir!” I hear him call from the other side of the door.
With an agitated sigh, I open it again. “Is good, yes?”
“It’s w-way too much,” he stutters, flipping through the cash as if counting it again to be sure. He plucks out a twenty and hands it back to me.
&nb
sp; I just shrug and say, “Is good,” before shutting the door again.
I drape the suit over the back of the couch and exhale loudly as I plop down beside it. I check the oversized clock on the wall above the television. It’s just a few minutes past five p.m., and despite the fact that the party won’t start for another two hours, it feels like it’s only a few minutes away.
Though this is usually one of my favorite events of the year, I don’t feel like going tonight. I’m homesick, exhausted, and I don’t feel like pretending I can understand the conversations going around me in English.
When I got to America, my main focus was to be able to communicate with my teammates and coaches. I’m here to play hockey, after all. I can understand some small talk, but I usually just nod and hope my expression doesn’t look as blank as my head feels when I’m surrounded by English.
The team set me up with a translator, so I didn’t put a huge amount of time into learning the language. My understanding skills have gotten much better, but learning more than what’s necessary hasn’t been a priority.
I’ve taken a lot of flak in the media for it. Not that I can read it—or care—but my agent does. Kirill, Kirya to those close to him, wanted me to learn English quickly and play nice so I could be a media “darling” as he calls it. He wants half of the people in the arena at Chargers games wearing a “Kravstov” jersey. Media and fan appreciation, combined with my skills and how integral I am to the team’s success, means bigger contracts and endorsements—a win for both of us.
Kirya is a very smart, crafty man. That’s why I went to him first when the Chargers organization slipped me a message in a media program. Kirya told me the note said they’d drafted me. They took a huge chance “wasting” a draft pick on me because Russian players weren’t allowed to go to America then. Not without the Central Scarlet Army’s permission. And agreeing to let them take more than half of my contract just to go wasn’t something I’d ever agree to.
