SAINTS: Saints and Sinners Duet Book 1

by Henry, Sophia

  “Are you rethinking the decision?” I ask.

  “No.” A thick patch of dark blond hair flops over his right eye as he shakes his head.

  “Then what are you thinking about?” I hit his thigh with the back of my hand. “Your brain is working so hard, you have steam coming from your ears.”

  He’s silent, chewing on his bottom lip for what seems like an hour, but of course it’s only been a few seconds. It reminds me of his sister, Anastasiya, when I would find her sitting on the floor in the common hallway in our communal apartment when we were young.

  Every time her father beat her, she would flee to the hallway and wait for him to fall asleep. As if I had a sixth sense to feel her pain, I’d open the door of my family’s room and find her with her back against the wall, biting her bottom lip to keep from crying and wringing her hands.

  We’re taught that tears don’t solve anything. That tears are weakness. Seeing her forcing herself to be stoic when I knew she wanted to break down is permanently imprinted in my mind. Fuck living in a culture that allows men to beat their daughters, but won’t allow the daughters to display emotion or be able to do anything about the abuse.

  It’s one of the reasons for the hate that fuels my heart. It’s one of the reasons I chose the path I did—to live outside the laws and rules of the Soviet society. I’ll help Vanya defect because it puts him on the path to a better life. I’ll do anything in my power to push Russians toward the freedoms and life we deserve, especially if it means inciting change—by any means necessary.

  Though they are twins, I’ve never looked at Vanya and been reminded of his sister before. I see them as two completely different individuals.

  Anastasiya Mikhailovna Kravtsova was my first love.

  First love. Only love. Lost love.

  We spent our entire childhoods together. I was three years old when the Kravtsov twins were born. When you grow up in a communal apartment, your neighbors become closer than your extended family, whether you want them to be or not. There’s no way to keep people out of your business, so it’s better to give in and work as a unit—the Russian machine.

  The babushkas watched the children while the parents worked. Or—in Vanya and Anastasiya’s case—one parent worked; their father just drank. Sometimes our families combined our food and cooked meals together. My mother always shared the fresh fish and meat her brother brought her. He didn’t live with us, but he had connections no one else in our apartment had, and kept us—my mother, Babushka, Dedushka, and I—stocked with exotic foods and gifts.

  As a boy who grew up without a father, Uncle Vitya—Viktor Antonov—was my hero, my inspiration, the man I looked up to. He taught me everything, from how to ice skate to how to shoot a gun. I listened intently when he talked about his ideals and gave advice, soaking everything up. Though he was a powerful man, and maintained close friendships with people in crucial administrative positions in the country, he denounced communism in favor of capitalism.

  He was among the first people who started illegal businesses in the seventies, creating a black market that thrives today. Being able to buy goods that weren’t sold in government stores never seemed wrong or “illegal” to me. I wondered why there needed to be a black market. Why couldn’t all Russians have access to the things they sold there?

  I understand Ivan’s fear and uncertainty about defecting. It goes against the Soviet propaganda we’ve been brainwashed with our entire lives. Especially someone like Ivan, 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 made the weight of his decision heavier because the costs of leaving were higher for him.

  Most people didn’t grow up with entrepreneurs like Uncle Vitya in their families, like I did. That’s not to say everyone agreed with communism. On the contrary, Soviet society was wonderful fodder for humor.

  The propaganda starts early in schools. I still remember Stasya, who couldn’t have been more than seven years old at the time, walking home from school on a freezing, cold November day with her coat unbuttoned just to show off her badge—a shiny, red star with a gold Lenin face in the middle. She and Vanya must have had their “Little Octoberist” ceremony that day. Vanya hadn’t seemed to care about the pin, but Stasya wore it proudly, beaming and strutting down the street.

  It made me laugh at the time, but I couldn’t break her heart by telling her. As people get older, they realize on their own that the propaganda is complete bullshit.

  Ivan knows it, or he never would have set this into motion.

  He better open his fucking mouth soon, because he’ll fuck up the entire plan if he’s this nervous. One way or another, I’ll get the concerns out of him, even if I have to resort to unusual methods. I have a way of getting people to talk—and it has nothing to do with the special treats I used to offer Stasya. I don’t have softness in my heart for many people like I had for her. Not even her brother.

  “I’m worried about Stasya,” he finally says.

  My head snaps to him. I should have known. The uncanny sixth sense I have for Stasya’s well-being must’ve brought the memory of her to my mind.

  He pushes the hair out of his eyes only for it to fall right back. “Investigators will think she knew about what I was planning, Kirill. They’ll question her—harass her. We’re too close. They won’t believe that she didn’t know.”

  He’s right. The KGB will interrogate his entire family, but they will focus on Stasya because of their relationship.

  The moment he mentioned her name, my mind was made up—Anastasiya Kravtsova will never fear for her life.

  I swore years ago that I would do anything in my power to protect her, and I have a hell of a lot more power now than I did then.

  Our eyes lock. “Stasya will be fine,” I assure him. Vanya nods and his shoulders relax in relief. He turns his head to the window and stares out at the bustling streets of Stockholm.

  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. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I’m positive we’ve been followed from the hotel. The chances are much more likely than not and I don’t think being ultra-vigilant in this case is a bad thing.

  “It’s been over twenty minutes. We need to get to the back door and see if the car is here.”

  “Okay,” Ivan agrees, his hand shaking as he places a button-down, dress shirt back onto a rack. He’s still more nervous than I’ve ever seen anyone and I wonder if we’re even going to be able to pull this off.

  I punch his shoulder and he turns to me. “You can do this.”

  He nods and gives me two thumbs up.

  Very reassuring. But the kid isn’t a pussy, so I know he’ll buck up when he needs to.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see two large men in shabby, gray trench coats and sunglasses coming toward us. What kind of egomaniac idiots wear sunglasses inside? At least we know they aren’t going to blend into the crowd.

  “Follow me,” I bark out the command. “Fast!”

  Ivan and I walk out of the store quickly, winding through as many different racks as we can to try to lose the men in pursuit. It won’t be that easy, I know, but it might help.

  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’m glad I’m dealing with a world-class athlete because I don’t have to worry about Ivan lagging behind. He’s so fast that he outruns me, slamming the door open before I even reach it.

  As soon as we’re outside, he points to Brookins standing next to a navy-blue car with the engine still running. The American is as white as a ghost as the impact of the situation hits 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 thi
nk we’re being followed?” Brookins’ sidekick asks as we drive through the streets of Stockholm. I couldn’t even remember his name if someone had a gun to my head.

  “Absolutely,” I answer dryly.

  I didn’t think it was possible for his face to lose any more color, but it drains a shade lighter. There’s no reason 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 Ivan. “You can still go back if you want. This is your last chance to change your mind.”

  Before I can finish translating that he’s entering the point of no return, he interjects, “No. I go.”

  With those three words, Ivan Kravtsov became a face of freedom for Soviets.

  * * *

  When we get to the U.S. Embassy, Ivan 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. I pull the tattered, gray Boston College sweatshirt Brookins gave me to wear over my head and toss it onto the small coffee table next to me.

  I sit in an uncomfortable office chair, sipping stale coffee and listening as they organize paperwork. Some of it was already here, like Ivan’s NHL contract, which Detroit’s owner had faxed over, but the travel documents saying he signed would need to be drawn up today with both him and the Detroit representatives.

  A TV blares from the next room. I don’t know Swedish, but I can clearly make out Ivan Kravtsov’s name and USSR hockey. Vanya’s disappearance being all over the Swedish news doesn’t bode well for us.

  My knee shakes as more minutes tick by. I’ve never helped anyone defect before, 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 it is Ivan will make it to North America.

  While the Detroit representatives and the embassy agents work diligently on the documents, Ivan gets permission to call his family.

  He calls his home number and asks the operator to be connected to Stasya. He puts his hand over the mouthpiece and says, “They put me on hold.”

  I wonder if having an operator dial out is the way all calls happen at the embassy. Seems odd that he can’t just call his family directly.

  Suddenly, Ivan mouths the word “Fuck,” and slams the receiver on the base.

  “What happened?” I ask, jumping from my chair.

  “It was not the same operator. It was someone asking questions,” he says 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 I translate, Ivan nods.

  “Excuse me,” I say, to stop a woman passing the door. “What are they saying on TV?”

  “They’re searching for a player from the Russian National Team. They say he’s been kidnapped.”

  Though I’m usually fairly calm under fire, this situation has me on edge. But if I pull this off, something that took major planning and the utmost secrecy, it will prove to my uncle I’m ready to move to the next level. He never had children, so I’m the closest he has to a son. I’ve spent more than ten years hustling to prove I’m worthy of being his second-in-command.

  Though I’d been part of the criminal life just by being related to him and taking the things he would give us, the criminal life for me started when I was thirteen, when I started buying items from foreigners visiting Moscow and selling them. It was easy enough as many people were eager to trade their jeans, vinyl records, even beauty products, for hokey Russian souvenirs. Uncle Victor supplied me with Russian chocolates or tchotchkes, like matryoshkas, the nesting dolls foreigners love.

  A few years later, he took my mother and I to America. That’s when I took my business to the next level, bringing home two suitcases full of things to sell on the black market.

  We all start somewhere.

  * * *

  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 still time for something to go wrong.

  Vanya 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—mugged, kidnapped, shot…but I’ve never breathed such a huge sigh of relief as I do when the airplane leaves the ground.

  Ivan Kravtsov, a Lieutenant in the Scarlet Army, is officially a criminal—a traitor of the highest level.

  And I can proudly say I helped him defect.

  * * *

  As soon as we step inside the terminal at JFK International Airport in New York City, reporters swarm us. 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. My job is done. Vanya is on U.S. soil with all the paperwork he’ll need in Detroit for now. If anything else comes up, the Chargers will take care of it.

  This is where we part ways. Ivan and the Americans will drive to Detroit from here and I have to catch a train to Brooklyn. My uncle and I have business to discuss in Brighton Beach.

  “Thank you for all of your help and planning,” Chris Brookins tells me as we shake hands.

  I smile. “Always happy to help a comrade escape the regime.”

  After shaking hands with the other Brookins, whose name I have no interest in learning, I turn to my friend. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”

  “Thank you,” Ivan says. “For everything.”

  “It’s my pleasure to help, my friend.” When he brings me in for a hug, I slap his back. “We will meet again.”

  Before he lets me go, he whispers, “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,” I give him my word as I back away.

  3

  Stasya

  Moscow - 3 May 1989

  “Your brother is gone,” Papa says in greeting as I enter our room after work. He’s sitting at the table, pouring himself a glass of vodka.

  I tilt my head, confused. “Well, of course he is, Papa. He’s in Sweden for the World Tournament.”

  He downs his drink and slams the glass on the table, which shakes the plates and silverware Babushka set for dinner. “He is not in Stockholm, Anastasiya. He is in America. Defected.”

  “They’re calling him a deserter,” Babushka says from behind me. She edges past and places a large bowl of potatoes on the table.

  “He is a deserter,” Papa reminds her. “No matter how happy we are for him, he is still a criminal.”

  “He went to America,” I whisper. While Papa sits there, drinking to Vanya’s escape, realization of what he’s said makes me lightheaded, and I think I may faint.

  “Come, Stasya.” Babushka waves me toward her. “Help me bring the rest of the food in.”

  I follow her down the hallway to the kitchen, numb to feeling, oblivious to the bustling of multiple families cooking at the same time. I duck under the wet clothes hanging on the one of the clotheslines that runs through the kitchen, and allow Babushka to fill my hands with plates.

  Not even the enticing smell of cabbage rolls snaps me out of my funk.

  My twin brother left for America without me. How could he? After all of our promises? Just over a month ago, before he left for this trip, he stood on the metro platform, hugging me, and telling me he’d take me with him if he ever left.

  After we’ve brought all the food to our room, my grandmother and I join Papa.

  “We’re getting closer and closer to fre
edom,” he says sarcastically before scooping a heaping forkful into his mouth. “Maybe Vanya will send us money. We could become business owners. What kind of business shall we open?”

  “I’d rather have Vanya than his money,” I say, pushing boiled potatoes around my plate, wishing I were with my brother—or that he were here and everything was like old times. Not that I wish it on him, to be here instead of living his dream in America, but the sadness of losing him is draining me, mentally and emotionally.

  “Things are changing, little bird. And who knows what will happen to us now,” Babushka says uncharacteristically. She doesn’t usually say much about the changes in the country, unless she’s offering us glimpses of her youth.

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “While you were at work, the KGB was here, banging on the door, demanding answers about your brother—your twin—who left us behind for money and freedom. They think I knew. ‘How could a son not talk to his father about such an important life decision,’ they asked?” The contempt in Papa’s voice is crystal clear. He’s hurt and angry at Vanya.

  I watch him toss back two more glasses of vodka. “Everything is changing. Everything you know today will be different tomorrow.”

  “It takes longer than one day for everything to change.” I brush his comments off.

  “Did you know, Stasya?” my grandmother asks quietly, lifting her eyes from her plate.

  “Did I know what?”

  “Don’t be stupid!” Papa barks.

  Babushka shoots him a dirty look, but her voice is calm when she clarifies her question. “Did you know Vanya was leaving?”

  They’re both staring, waiting for my answer. It’s as if time has stopped.

  “I did not,” I tell them, avoiding their eyes. No matter what I say, they’ll think I’m lying. Vanya and I are far too close for them to believe I didn’t know—even if it’s the truth.