"It is good to do something a little different," Yazov conceded with mock gravity. "The damned office will still be there tomorrow. I played this game as a boy, you know."
"No, I didn't. Were you any good?"
"I was a defenseman, and the other children complained that I checked too hard." The Defense Minister chuckled, then waved for his security people to go ahead.
"We never had a rink out where I grew up – and the truth is I was too clumsy as a child. Tanks were perfect for me – you're expected to destroy things with them." Misha laughed.
"So how good is this team?"
"I like the junior league better than the real ones," Colonel Filitov answered. "More – more exuberant. I suppose I just like to see children having a good time."
"Indeed."
There weren't many seats around the rink – and besides, what real hockey fan wanted to sit? Colonel Filitov and Marshal Yazov found a convenient place near some of the parents. Their Soviet Army greatcoats and glistening shoulder boards guaranteed them both a good view and breathing space. The four security people hovered about, trying not to look too obviously at the game. They were not terribly concerned, since the trip to the game had been a spur-of-the-moment decision on the Minister's part.
The game was an exciting one from the first moment. The center for the other team's first line moved like a weasel, handling the puck with skillful passes and adroit skating. The home team – the one with the American and Misha's grand-nephew – was pressed back into its own zone for most of the first period, but little Misha was an aggressive defenseman, and the American boy stole a pass, taking it the length of the rink only to be foiled by a dazzling save that evoked cheers of admiration from supporters of both sides. Though as contentious a people as any on earth, the Russians have always been imbued with generous sportsmanship. The first period ended zero-zero.
"Too bad," Misha observed while people hustled off to the rest rooms.
"That was a beautiful breakaway, but the save was marvelous," Yazov said. "I'll have to get them this child's name for Central Army. Misha, thanks for inviting me to this. I'd forgotten how exciting a school game could be."
"What do you suppose they're talking about?" the senior KGB officer asked. He and two other men were up in the rafters, hidden by the lights that illuminated the rink.
"Maybe they're just hockey fans," the man with the camera replied. "Shit, it sounds like quite a game we're missing. Look at those security guards – fucking idiots are watching the ice. If I wanted to kill Yazov…"
"Not a terribly bad idea, I hear," observed the third man. "The Chairman–"
"That is not our concern," the senior man snapped, ending the conversation.
"Come on, Eddieeee!" Mary Pat screamed as the second period began. Her son looked up in embarrassment. His mom always got too excited at these things, he thought.
"Who was that?" Misha asked, five meters away.
"Over there, the skinny one – we met her, remember?" Yazov said.
"Well, she's a fan," Filitov noted as he watched the action swing to the other end. Please, Comrade Minister, you do it… He got his wish.
"Let's go over and say hello." The crowd parted before them, and Yazov sidled up on her left.
"Mrs. Foley, I believe?"
He got a quick turn and a quicker smile before she turned back to the action. "Hello, General–"
"Actually, my rank is Marshal, Your son is number twelve?"
"Yes, and did you see how the goalie robbed him!"
"It was a fine save,” Yazov said.
"Then let him do it to somebody else!" she said as the other team started moving into Eddie's end.
"Are all American fans like you?" Misha asked.
She turned again, and her voice showed a little embarrassment. "It's terrible, isn't it? Parents are supposed to act–"
"Like parents?" Yazov laughed.
"I'm turning into a little-league mom," Mary Pat admitted. Then she had to explain what that was.
"It is enough that we've taught your son to be a proper hockey wingman."
"Yes, perhaps he'll be on the Olympic team in a few years," she replied with a wicked, though playful smile. Yazov laughed. That surprised her. Yazov was supposed to be a tight, serious son of a bitch.
"Who's the woman?"
"American. Her husband's the press attaché. Her son's on this team. We have a file on both of them. Nothing special."
"Pretty enough. I didn't know Yazov was a lady's man."
"Do you suppose he wants to recruit her?" the photographer suggested, snapping away.
"I wouldn't mind."
The game had unexpectedly settled down into a defense struggle that hovered around center ice. The children lacked the finesse necessary for the precise passing that marked Soviet hockey, and both teams were coached not to play an overly physical game. Even with their protective equipment, they were still children whose growing bones didn't need abuse. That was a lesson the Russians could teach Americans, Mary Pat thought. Russians had always been highly protective of their young. Life for adults was difficult enough that they always tried to shield their children from it.
Finally, in the third period, things broke loose. A shot on goal was stopped, and the puck rebounded out from the goalie. The center took it and turned, racing directly for the opposite goal, with Eddie twenty feet to his right. The center passed an instant before being poke-checked, and Eddie swept around to the corner, unable to take a shot at the goal and blocked from approaching it himself by a charging defenseman.
"Center it!" his mother screamed. He didn't hear her, but didn't need to. The center was now in place, and Eddie fired the puck to him. The youthful center stopped it with his skate, stepped back, and sent a blazing shot between the legs of the opposing goalie. The light behind the cage flashed, and sticks went soaring into the air.
"Fine centering pass," Yazov noted with genuine admiration. He continued on in a chiding tone. "You realize that your son now possesses State secrets, and we cannot allow him to leave the country."
Mary Pat's eyes widened in momentary alarm, persuading Yazov that she was indeed a typical bubbleheaded Western female, though she was probably quite a handful in bed. Too bad that I'll never find out.
"You're joking?" she asked quietly. Both the soldiers broke out into laughter.
"The Comrade Minister is most certainly joking," Misha said after a moment.
"I thought so!" she said rather unconvincingly before she turned back to the game. "Okay, let's get another one!"
Heads turned briefly, mainly in amusement. Having this American at the game was always good for a laugh. Russians find the exuberance of Americans immensely entertaining.
"Well, if she's a spy, I'll eat this camera."
"Think on what you just said, Comrade," the officer in charge whispered. The amusement in his voice died in an instant. Think on what he just said, the man told himself. Her husband, Edward Foley, is regarded by the American press as a dolt, not smart enough to be a proper reporter, certainly not good enough to be on the staff of the New York Times. The problem was, while that was the sort of cover that every real intelligence officer dreamed of, it was one naturally shared by all the government-service dolts serving every nation in the world. He himself knew that his cousin was a cretin, and he worked for the Foreign Ministry. "Are you sure you have enough film?"
Eddie got his chance with forty seconds left. A defenseman fanned on a shot from the point, and the puck skittered back to center ice. The center flipped it to the right as the flow of the game changed. The other team had been on the verge of pulling its goalie, and the youngster was out of position when Eddie took the pass and streaked in from his left, Edward Foley II turned sharply and fired behind the goalie's back. The puck clanged on the post, but fell right on the goal line and dribbled across.