I hadn't been back in Cambridge long before I decided that I didn't want to enter that year's draft, or give up my NCAA eligibility for sponsorships. I got plenty of offers, but all of them wanted to play up the Russian angle. There was even a pitch for a television movie which was supposed to begin with Stan showing up at St. Edwards.I turned them all down, but I couldn't stop t-shirt vendors from printing shirts with 'Komrade Jennings' written in fake Cyrillic over a picture of me after scoring a goal in the quarterfinals, or every stand-up comedian in the country from doing a hack Yakov Smirnoff impression – 'In Soviet hockey, puck find you,' or kids from St. Edwards giving the national news interviews about the day the FBI descended on campus. I only did one interview, at the U.S. Olympic Committee's insistence, telling Katie Couric that I hoped people would understand that I was "100 percent American." It didn't do any good.

I told Stan about my decision over Spring Break. "It makes sense to hold on and finish my degree anyway. You never know how long a career in sports will last, and it'll be good to have a degree to fall back on. Plus I have enough credits that I can graduate with a master's. I could go on for my Ph.D. in the off season."

"You'd probably be the only person in the history of the NHL with a math Ph.D."

"Maybe they'll call me Professor instead of Comrade."

"Maybe, so have you thought anymore about this Ivan kid?"

"More than I want to. What do you think the catch is?"

"Mischa probably wants a visa. Legally you or Paige could sponsor him."

"They'd let him into the United States?"

"If it was your parents they'd be inadmissible. Actually we'd let them get on the plane and arrest them when they landed, but Mischa was never involved in any espionage."

"That we know of. What if this is a ploy to get him in the country so he can report back to Moscow?"

"It'd be too obvious when they can presumably just get illegals into the country the same way they always did. We can have him tailed for the first six months just to be safe."

"You can pull the strings to make that happen?"

"I still talk to my friends in the FBI. To be honest, well, I hate to involve you in this after everything you've been through, but…"

"But what?"

"It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to maintain contact with your father. It sounded like he was disillusioned with his life in Russia, and if he wants to make a deal to get back in the States, he might just have useful information."

"I guess I owe it to my country, then."

Three months later we touched down in Moscow – me, Stan, and Paige, who'd turned over a new leaf since getting the absolution she'd apparently needed.

"So, what exactly are you doing now?" I asked dad.

"I'm a travel agent."

"Seriously?"

"All the tourists want to come here because the dollar goes so far, but there's wasn't exactly a huge supply of English speaking tour guides until they shut down Directorate S, and the family connection to the most famous hockey player in America doesn't hurt."

"I'm glad you've finally discovered the benefits of capitalism."

"We get paid in dollars, and the reputation of Directorate S precedes us, so we don't have any trouble with the mafiya. Without this, I don't know where we'd be." He handed me a business card.

"KGB Tours, huh."

"We promise every guide is a former KGB officer. The kids get a kick out of meeting a real life spy. I've got a framed copy of the Sports Illustrated with you on it back at the office."

"You realize that I've spent the last five years going out of my way to prove that I'm not associated with you, right?"

"I just wanted you to know I was proud of you."

"Why don't we go ahead and meet Mischa."

"He's coming over for dinner. I thought we'd meet your mother first."

We walked down several hallways of the labyrinthine apartment building before Dad knocked on Mom's door. She opened it and immediately hugged Paige.

"I thought I'd never see you again."

"I'm so sorry about the train." Paige started sobbing, and both my parents tried to comfort her while Stan and I stood awkwardly in the hallway until Mom finally invited us in. Her apartment was a little bit nicer than Dad's, with a corner window through which you could see the towers of the Kremlin. We sat and drank tea while Paige filled them in on everything she'd been up to. She'd finally started getting her life back together after the first phone calls to Mom and Dad, kicking out the latest loser boyfriend and getting a regular job working the reception desk at a homeless shelter. She was going to start taking community college classes in the fall, and had adopted a kitten that she named Tolstoy.

Finally, Dad looked at his watch. "We should get back. Mischa and Olga will be here any minute."

Mischa and Olga were, in fact, waiting in the hallway when we got back, along with baby Ivan.

"He's beautiful," I remarked. Mischa translated for me, and Olga beamed with pride.

We took the subway to the Hotel Metropole, a restaurant that only took foreign currency and appeared to be mainly frequented by Westerners, which made me paranoid about being recognized and coming home to find my picture in the paper. Stan and I agreed that if that happened the truth would actually be the most sympathetic story – that I had discovered I had a baby nephew and wanted to get him out of Russia – but I knew from bitter experience that whatever I said couldn't squelch the rumors once they got going.

Olga seemed a little overawed by the opulence, even though the place struck me as worn out and dated. Trying to ease her awkwardness, I made small talk through Mischa's translation.

"So, Olga, what do you do?"

"She says she works with the children, in…kindergarten."

"Daycare would be the better translation," Dad interjected, "they run it for the children of the factory workers."

"…but her salary has not been paid in three months."

"What about you, Mischa?"

"They still pay us, but it buys less and less every month. Father helps us out some, but I am worried about next winter. Last year there were problems with the heat in our building, and this year they say fuel will be more expensive."

I looked at Ivan, bouncing happily in his high chair. There was no way I could leave this kid to face a Russian winter with no heat. "Mischa, I could sponsor you for a visa to America."

"You would be willing to do that?"

"Yes."

Mischa translated for Olga, who began crying and saying the same word in Russian over and over again.

"Spasibo, Spasibo, Spasibo Henry Mikhailovich,"

"What does Spasibo mean?"

"It means thank you."