Free All-Star Pride by Sigmund Brouwer

Nazi war criminals.
    And Moscow’s greatest museum, the Tretyakov Gallery, had just opened after ten years of renovation. Back in public view were 100,000 pieces of art that covered nine centuries of Russian history.
    During the entire time he spoke, Clint Bowes kept his eyes glued to mine. I wondered if he was admiring the stitch pattern made by the Russian doctor across my cheekbone, or if he was searching for any sign that I knew any of this or understood where his conversation would lead.
    â€œWhat it means, boy,” he told me, “is there have been plenty of chances for the occasional piece of art to disappear. Take St. Petersburg. Sure, they’ve unveiled all this long-lost art. But was there a list of it in the first place? No sirree. Pretty easy to help yourself without a checklist to keep you honest.”
    He shook his head at how easy it would be to steal the art. “And look at the Tretyakov Gallery. Workmen in and out for ten years. Shoot, for two of those years, what with themoney shortages and political mess here in Russia, nobody did anything on it. It just sat there, empty of people. Plenty of opportunities to juggle lists and sneak out canvas paintings, wouldn’t you say? Who’s going to notice a few missing out of a hundred thousand?”
    â€œI don’t understand what this has to do with me,” I said. And I didn’t. All I’d seen around Chandler was the packet he slipped into the white Mercedes at the black market in Moscow. He hadn’t taken anything in return.
    â€œI’ll give you the ABCs, boy, and I hope it sinks in. See, this art is worthless until you get a buyer outside of Russia. The States. Europe. Japan. And boy, no one pays for art they don’t get placed into their grubby hands.”
    He watched my face some more. “Don’t you get it? Someone has to smuggle money into Russia to pay for the art. And it can’t be money in checks. It’s got to be cold, untraceable cash. American dollars. Not worthless rubles. And in case you didn’t know it, boy, it’s a federal offense to carrymore than ten thousand dollars in U.S. currency.”
    He took a breath. “Not only that. Someone has to smuggle the art out to the buyers once it’s paid for. That’s where your friends come in.”
    â€œCan’t be,” I said. “This is a legitimate hockey tour. It will be a television special and—”
    â€œBoy, you got potatoes growing between your ears. We know you went for a little midnight walk with your friend Chandler Harris. We saw Harris give a small package to a known Moscow art dealer. We’re figuring the package held thousand-dollar bills, boy. Hundreds of them.”
    â€œHundreds of thousands?” Chandler Harris had been carrying hundreds of thousands of dollars? No wonder he’d been able to spare me the meager thousand. “But how could you know?”
    â€œNadia. She’s our inside spy.”
    This was all too much for me. I wanted to be somewhere simple and safe. Like on the ice with guys trying to give me enoughstitches to make my face look like it had been run over by a sewing machine.
    â€œI’m trying to lay it out plain for you, boy. Nadia’s been the interpreter for this all-star team each year since it started coming over. It wasn’t until recently that we realized she’s been part of this pipeline of smuggled art. We began to have her followed. Which led us to you and your friend in Moscow’s black-market area. It don’t take a rocket scientist to figure some of the art is leaving the country with your hockey team. Our question is how. Which is why Nadia is helping us nab the head honcho. We made her the same offer we’re going to make you, and I’ll get to that shortly. She’s working for them—but as what you might call a double agent. She’s really reporting back to us.”
    That explained her strange actions toward