All-Star Pride (10 page)

I shook the shaft and the roll of canvas slid toward the bottom. Enough stuck out
that I could gently pull it loose. I handed her the roll.

With great reverence, Nadia pulled it open, as if she were reading a scroll. It consisted of four small canvases, each one painted with daily scenes of Russian peasants.

“This is it,” she said. “But how could you know?”

I shrugged modestly. Why else would Chandler try to keep me from removing the blade from this old stick? It was the perfect place to hide rolled-up canvases. He couldn't have known I'd break my other stick shaft and have to use this one.

I shook the aluminum shaft again and felt movement inside. Altogether, we found a dozen unframed, well-rolled paintings.

Chandler had played me for the idiot I was. The previous night—with me stuck in the other hotel room—he'd delivered the second payment of cash and received the paintings. He'd then planted them in my equipment. I would have carried them through customs. If I'd been caught, I'd have faced time in jail no matter how loudly I said I was innocent.
If I'd made it through customs safely, he would simply have stolen my stick at the other end.

Nadia cradled the canvases—millions of dollars worth of canvas and old paint.

I steeled myself to get ready for my second gamble. The first, of course, had been the location of the canvases. The second? What she actually intended to do with the paintings.

“We'll go upstairs to the camera crew,” I said. I had thought this through as carefully as I could. If she refused, it meant she intended to double-cross me along with Boris and the government people. “They can film us as we turn the paintings in at the nearest police station.”

“Goreela?”

“The camera crew will love the chance for a great news story. And if it makes the news that these were recovered, nobody in the government will be able to make them disappear again. And nobody will be able to make us disappear.”

Was she going to pass the test? Or was
I going to have to take the canvases from her and deliver them to the camera crew myself?

Her face broke into a smile. One to fool me into trusting her? Or one because my plan was good?

I didn't get the chance to find out.

Boris—Mr. Eyepatch—kicked open the door and danced into the room, his knife held waist high. He was followed by our promoter, Matthew Martin Henley. Instead of his usual cigar, he waved an ugly black pistol in the pudgy fingers of his right hand.

Without thinking, I stepped in front of Nadia to protect her. At the same time, the thinking part of my mind struggled for something to say. Matthew Henley?

Henley smiled and shut the door behind him. “Out of your room after curfew, Burnell? You know that can get you in trouble.”

He waved his ugly black pistol to prove his point.

Boris Eyepatch grunted and moved toward me, swishing his knife from side to side.

“Nadia dear,” Henley said, “please instruct Boris to relax. I don't like the sight of blood.”

I hadn't noticed that Nadia had stepped out from behind me. She spoke quick and low to Boris. Boris frowned but stopped advancing toward me.

I felt like an idiot. Nadia didn't need protection. Not when she was working for both of them.

“This makes for an interesting problem,” Matthew Henley said to me. “Obviously you've found the payload I needed you to smuggle back for me.”

I was starting to put it together. “Chandler Harris works for you,” I said to Henley. “That's why he was able to switch roommates whenever he wanted.”

“You are smarter than you look.” He snorted. “Of course, that's not saying much.”

I felt my fists curl into giant rocks.

“Tut, tut,” Henley said. He brought the pistol up until I was staring directly into the
hole of the barrel. “Remember, bullets are faster than punches.”

I took a deep breath and forced myself to relax.

“That's better,” Henley told me. “You just settle down easy. Because we have a little difficulty to straighten out here, and it might take a couple of minutes.”

Nadia remained at my side, silent. Boris stood frozen just ahead of Henley. Boris's good eye was unblinking and staring at me— he seemed like a Doberman, straining at an invisible leash and hoping for the command to attack.

“Yes,” Henley said. “Chandler works for me. So does Nadia. And Boris. You'll have that choice too.”

Was I hearing right?

“Don't get me wrong,” Henley said. His fat face was beginning to drip with sweat in the heat of the basement. “When you hear how long it took for me to set this up, you'll understand why I won't hesitate to solve this problem by letting Boris work you over with the knife.”

At the mention of his name, Boris licked his lips. I felt like a big dumb pork chop.

“You see, when I visited Moscow to try to set up the first exhibition tour, someone from the Tretyakov Gallery approached me during an embassy dinner party.” Matthew Henley wiped his brow with the back of his left hand. The pistol in his right hand remained steady. “It was Nadia's boss, actually. This gentleman explained his predicament. He told me about a friend of his who had dozens of Russian paintings but no way to reach American buyers or deliver the paintings to them. He suggested perhaps a junior hockey team could help, if only there was someone to assist, someone who would not mind an ample gift of hundreds of thousands of dollars. Being the gentleman I am, I offered my help.”

Another wipe of his massive brow. His dark blue suit was almost black in places with growing sweat stains. If the furnace down here didn't stop blasting heat, Henley was going to melt.

“It was simple,” Henley said. “He would supply the paintings to sell on this end. I
would find the buyers on the other end. So that we weren't involved directly, he arranged for Nadia to become the team's translator, and he arranged for Boris to watch and protect the transactions. I arranged for one of my hockey players to carry the money. We both, then, had our assistants, and we both, then, would not have to dirty our hands.”

Henley frowned at me. “Until tonight. Do you realize how close you came to destroying the perfect pipeline? I'm going to run this tour year after year. After all, the networks make money from the tour, and they don't suspect a thing. Chandler is the perfect mule to deliver the cash. He and I both thought you were the perfect bodyguard. Until tonight. I'm not even going to ask how you figured this out, because it doesn't matter. What does matter is your answer to my question.”

I swallowed. The heat was getting to me too.

“Yes, a question. You have a choice, Burnell. Join my art pipeline and help, or spend the next ten years of your life in a Russian prison.”

“Me?” I finally found my voice. “I didn't do anything!”

Henley shook his head. “Maybe you aren't as smart as you look. Didn't Boris and I just catch you red-handed with these valuable paintings? Hidden in your hockey equipment?”

Henley chuckled, causing his chin to wobble drops of sweat onto the floor. “Or did I forget to tell you that Boris was very senior in the
KGB
? He still has considerable pull in the police system here. He won't mind looking like a hero as he arrests you. And if you should resist arrest? Who could blame Boris for fighting back with that very sharp knife of his?”

Henley studied my face. “I really would prefer you choose to join my team. I could use someone like you on the all-star tours next summer and the summer after. When Chandler's gone, you can throw the games if we need to keep the series interesting.”

“What!”

“Don't be a tedious fool. This tour is entertainment. Blow the Russians out of the
water and our ratings drop. Let them win to keep it interesting, we get higher ratings. Higher ratings mean higher advertising revenue. Chandler's been great, giving them goals or missing goals for us to make sure this series goes seven games.”

Henley reached into his inside suit pocket with his left hand. I expected him to pull out a handkerchief. Instead he withdrew a thick roll of bills.

“Five thousand dollars,” he said. “Consider it a signing bonus. You'll get another twenty once you clear customs back in the States. And that won't be any trouble for you.”

“No,” I said.

“No?” His voice became earnest. “In the last two years, not a single player has been searched at customs. That's the beauty of this tour. Who would think of it as a smuggling operation?”

“I mean no to your offer,” I said. The strength of my reply surprised me. But I'd learned that no matter how much I needed the money, it wasn't always worth the price I paid for it. Chandler's money had left me with
nagging shame. How much more would I hate myself if I took this money from Henley? And if I took it, till I was an old man ready to die, I'd always have to think of myself as a thief who would sell his soul for mere money.

So I repeated myself.

“No.” I remembered Nathan's reminder the night before, and I felt relief making the right choice between right and wrong.

I looked at Nadia as I continued to speak. “You can't buy me. I may look ugly and stupid, but that's better than pretty on the outside and stinking on the inside.”

She bit her lip and looked away.

“Nadia,” Henley said, “instruct Boris here to do as he wishes with his knife.”

Long moments passed. Long moments that surprised me. Nadia had probably been playing me for a fool from the beginning. It wouldn't have surprised me to find out she had intended to keep the paintings herself.

“Nadia!” Henley raised his voice. “Don't be stupid. You're in this too far to consider sainthood now. Instruct Boris here to cut up this stubborn young hockey player.”

I felt my fists become giant rocks again. I felt rage growing inside me. If they wanted a fight, they'd get one. It was going to take more than one or two tiny bullets to stop me.

I tensed and waited for the Russian instructions from Nadia to unleash Boris.

The instructions never left her mouth.

The door suddenly banged open.

“This here party has officially ended, folks.” The Texan twang belonged to Clint Bowes. So did the shotgun in his hands. “Drop the pistol, Henley, before I drop you.”

Matthew Henley lowered his bulk by squatting and wisely set the pistol on the floor. With a grunt, he straightened.

Boris dropped his knife.

“Much better,” Bowes said. His greasy smile widened. “Sure does smell in here, don't it? Hard to say if it's the hockey equipment or you folks.”

He raised his voice. “Ivan, why don't you come in and join this little get-together? These boys are harmless as babies now.”

Ivan stepped inside. Same dull brown suit. Same dull face. The only thing not dull and boring was the pistol in his hand.

That made six of us. Nadia and I were a couple of steps from Henley and Boris. Henley and Boris were a couple of steps from Bowes and Ivan. Bowes and Ivan were in the doorway.

“I suppose, as an official U.S. Customs officer, I should do something official about this,” Clint Bowes said. His tall lean body seemed relaxed, and he held the shotgun loosely, but I couldn't help thinking of him as a rattlesnake ready to strike. “Course, if I did something official, there'd be a mess of paperwork, and I hate paperwork.”

He turned his greasy smile to Nadia. “I think what I'll do is confiscate those paintings you're holding in your lovely hands. It'd be doing you all a favor, actually. See, it saves me paperwork, and it saves you all a spell in prison. Can't beat a deal like that, can you?”

“Let's talk about this,” Henley said.

Bowes shifted his attention to the fat man in the dark blue suit.

“Talk?”

“Talk.” Sweat was dropping from Henley's eyebrows. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the noise of the hot air coming from the furnace. “You might want to think of us as the goose that lays the golden eggs.”

Nadia moved so slowly I wondered if it was my imagination. I didn't dare turn my head to see if she was actually inching her way behind my body. As if I could protect her from a shotgun at close range.

Bowes grinned. “I believe I know that story.”

“There are plenty more paintings where these came from,” Henley said. “Don't kill the goose now when there are more golden eggs than both of us could spend.”

“Interesting prospect,” Bowes said. “Except I just don't see a way you can guarantee the golden eggs down the road.”

“Mutual blackmail,” Henley said. “That's the way I've got it set up with the others. Turning me in means turning themselves in. And nobody is anxious to do that, not when the money flows like water.”

I felt Nadia brush against the back of my legs. What was she doing?

“Sounds good in theory, my friend. But no thanks. These paintings are enough for a healthy retirement. I don't need to get greedy.” Clint Bowes shrugged. “And I figure the best way to keep you guys quiet is to dump your bodies in the Moskva River. Dead men don't tell tales and all that.”

Was I hearing him right?

Nadia dropped the canvases she'd been holding all this time.

“Hey!” Bowes said. “Easy on them paintings!”

I looked back and down. Nadia was already on her knees, scooping the paintings toward herself. Or so I thought.

I'd forgotten about my blowtorch. The noise of the furnace had drowned out the slight hissing of the tiny flame of the torch. On the ground behind my legs, at the side of the support pillar, it had been hidden from everyone else.

Nadia kept her back to Henley and Bowes. She used my body as an added screen, and
with a quick twist of her wrist she turned the blowtorch flame on full.

None of us understood what was happening until it was too late. She grabbed the blowtorch and tipped it, directing the flare of white-hot flame at the canvas scrolls.