Next morning they went early to the Globen Arena. Dmitri wanted to see his cousin before the game, and Travis, Lars, and Nish went along with him.

They were already flooding the ice for the Screech Owls–Russia game, but no one was in the stands. Derek’s father, Mr. Dillinger, was sharpening the Owls’ skates, and he waved at them from the far end of the corridor. Good ol’ Mr. Dillinger.

The Russian team, CSKA, was already there, but the dressing-room door was shut tight. A man in a blue suit stood to the side, watching them. He had the sort of glasses that get darker in bright light, and they gave him a shadowed, sinister look. He had a red-and-gold CSKA pin on his jacket, so they knew he was with the team.

He answered in Russian when Dmitri addressed him. He even smiled when he realized Dmitri spoke his language, and he listened carefully, nodding and shaking his head.

Finally the man knocked on the door–two sharp quick knocks, a pause, then a third, more softly–and was admitted.

“What’s the big fuss?” Nish wanted to know.

“I’m not sure,” Dmitri said. “They don’t seem to want anybody talking to the team. I told him I’m Slava’s cousin.”

“Maybe they’re afraid he’ll defect,” Nish said, proud to use such a word.

Dmitri laughed. “Get with the times, Nish. Russians don’t run away from home any more.”

“Fedorov did. Mogilny did.”

“You’re talking Soviet Union, Nish. There is no more Soviet Union–or don’t you pay attention in history class, either?”

“Well, why are they so nervous, then?”

A few minutes passed and the boys were getting restless. Finally the door opened and the man in the blue suit came out. Then another man, who seemed even more furtive. Then a kid. A skinny kid with slightly buck teeth and unruly blond hair.

“Slava!” Dmitri shouted when he saw who was coming out.

“Hey!” the other shouted, smiling.

The two boys hugged each other. Then Dmitri kissed his cousin’s cheek, and Slava kissed Dmitri’s cheek. Travis was standing close enough to Nish to hear him mumble, “I’m gonna hurl.” The cousins hugged again and then separated.

“Slava,” Dmitri said. “These are my teammates. Travis, Lars, Nish, I want you to meet Viacheslav Shadrin. ‘Slava,’ we call him.”

“I don’t kiss,” Nish said.

Even Slava laughed. His big front teeth gave him a wonderful smile when he used it, but he didn’t use it often. His English wasn’t great, and Dmitri had to do a lot of translating, but the boys were able to talk about the tournament and everything they’d seen and done, including Nish’s now-famous Winter Skinny Dip.

Slava nodded a lot and even laughed a couple of times, but he hadn’t any stories to tell in return. Lars asked him what he’d seen and Dmitri translated, but the answer didn’t amount to much apart from practice and team meetings. He hadn’t shopped. He hadn’t been to any of the museums.

“Ask Slava if he can come out with us in Malmö,” Travis told Dmitri.

Dmitri did, but Slava only shook his head and looked forlorn. He spoke quickly to Dmitri, and he kept checking the two men from CSKA, who were talking off to the side.

“Okay,” Dmitri said. “See you later, then, Slava.”

Slava quickly shook their hands and turned back towards the dressing room. The man in the blue suit already had the door open. In a moment, all three had vanished inside.

“What was that all about?” Travis asked Dmitri.

“In a minute,” Dmitri whispered. He waited until they had almost reached the Owls’ dressing room. Then he gathered the others close.

“The man in the blue suit?” Dmitri began.

“Yeah?” Lars said.

“He’s undercover. You know, KGB, Secret Service? He travels with Slava everywhere he goes.”

“Even to the bathroom?” Nish had to know.

“Practically–they’re worried about the Russian mob.”

“Somebody wants to kill your cousin?” Travis asked. He couldn’t believe it.

“Not kill him, stupid–kidnap him!”

“Kidnap him?” the other three said at once.

“Yeah, hold him for ransom. You know.”

“He’s that rich?” Nish asked. He was incredulous.

Dmitri shook his head. “Not rich. He’s that good.”

“Explain,” Nish demanded.

“The mob has already blackmailed lots of NHL players. They threaten to harm family members back in Russia and the player pays up. It’s simple.”

“That’s crazy!” Lars said.

“Russia’s crazy right now,” said Dmitri. “They know what everyone is saying about Slava. They say he’s the best ever, as good as Larionov, as good as Fedorov, Bure, Yashin.”

“But he has no money,” pointed out Travis. “He can’t even be drafted until he’s eighteen.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Dmitri. “He means everything to Russian hockey right now. He’s the proof that there are still great players coming up through the system. The Russian Ice Hockey Federation only exists because of the money they’re getting from NHL teams right now. They’d pay whatever ransom was necessary.”

“So they send him over here with bodyguards?” Lars said.

“That’s it.”

“Ridiculous,” Lars said, shaking his head.

Travis had to agree. A thirteen-year-old peewee hockey player? How good could he be?