Praise for
The Spy Who Came for Christmas
Master storyteller David Morrell gives us an amazing holiday classic that thrills us with heart-pounding suspense while tugging at our emotions.”
—TESS GERRITSEN, New York Times bestselling author of The Keepsake
“A terrific holiday gift from David Morrell—the father of the modern action novel delivers a unique, edge-of-your seat thriller with amazing twists and riveting characters.”
—VINCE FLYNN, New York Times bestselling author of Pursuit of Honor
“Exciting, moving, and terrifically clever—once again, David Morrell proves that he is a titan among thriller writers.”
—Joseph Finder, New York Times bestselling author of Vanished
“The perfect stocking stuffer for deserving thriller readers.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Leave it to David Morrell, the man who practically invented the action-thriller, to pen one perfectly themed for the holiday . . . chock-full of all the trademark ingredients that have made Morrell a living legend, and rightfully so. . . . Simply stated, no matter the size and shape, nobody does this kind of book better. David Morrell is the greatest and most influential thriller writer of this or any generation.”
—Providence Journal
“Morrell offers yet another change of pace in this compact, fast-paced combination of Rambo adventure (what he’s known for) and plea for peace on earth.”
—Booklist
“Spy Who Came for Christmas succeeds in provoking thought, even as it quickens the pulse and updates classic suspense tropes as its compelling storyline feverishly unwinds. . . . The author handles all these elements like the seasoned pro he is, producing a story that is quintessential Morrell: interesting background information subtly conveyed, well choreographed action, sympathetic characters, myriad pop culture references throughout, and most importantly, a compelling story that never relinquishes its grip on your imagination.”
—Mystery Scene Magazine
“It’s a suspense writer at the top of his game and a holiday book unlike any other.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“This one’s got a narrative force that readers will be unable to put down. The credible and intriguing biblical/historical theories, the positive message of peace, and the redemption to be found in family and friendship, all slotted between scenes of carnage, lend a unique feel to the story—not to mention it’s fun to see [Morrell] return to the world of espionage.”
—TOM PICCIRILLI, award-winning author of The Coldest Mile
“A master of action-suspense, Morrell tells an electrifying yet simple tale of violence, conscience, and the spirit of the season. It’s a page-turning skid past a renowned tourist attraction into a murky world where life or death is the only guaranteed outcome.”
—Romantic Times
THE SPY WHO CAME FOR CHRISTMAS
The
SPY
Who Came for
Christmas
DAVID MORRELL
Copyright © 2008 by David Morrell
Published by Vanguard Press
A Member of the Perseus Books Group
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Printed in the United States of America. For information and inquiries, address Vanguard Press, 387 Park Avenue South12th Floor, New York, NY 10016, or call (800) 343-4499.
Vanguard Press books are available at special discounts for bulk purchases in the U.S. by corporations, institutions, and other organizations. For more information, please contact the Special Markets Department at Perseus Book Group, 2300 Chestnut Street, Suite 200, Philadelphia, PA 19103, or call (800) 810-4145, ext. 5000, or e-mail [email protected].
Designed by Timm Bryson
Set in 11.5 point Bell
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Morrell, David.
The spy who came for Christmas / by David Morrell.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-59315-487-5
I. Title.
PR9199.3.M65S79 2008
813’.54—dc22
2007052579
PB ISBN: 978-1-59315-563-6
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
A flower bloomed
In the middle of a cold winter’s night,
A rose that Mary gave us,
A small child,
Who dispels the darkness,
Relieves our sorrows,
And saves us from sin and death.
—paraphrase of a fifteenth-century
German hymn, “The Christmas Rose”
In the Middle Ages, councils debating confidential matters hung a rose from the ceiling and swore not to reveal what they discussed sub rosa, under the rose. This association of a rose with secrecy dates back to a Greek myth in which the god of love gave a rose to the god of silence, bribing him to stay quiet about the sins of the other gods. To this day, the rose remains an emblem of the spy profession.
—from the Cambridge Encyclopedia of Espionage
Part One
The City of Holy Faith
CAROLERS SANG, “It came upon a midnight clear.”
But it wasn’t yet midnight, and it wasn’t clear. Snow whispered down, a cold powder that reflected colorful lights hanging on adobe buildings beyond an intersection ahead. Even the traffic lights appeared festive.
“What a perfect Christmas Eve,” a woman marveled, proceeding with the crowd on Alameda Street. The Spanish word alameda referred to the poplars that had rimmed the street years earlier when it had been only a lane. Although cottonwoods had long since replaced those poplars, the street remained narrow, the sidewalk barely accommodating the crush of people coming from mass at St. Francis Cathedral or from the ice sculptures in Santa Fe’s four-hundred-year-old wooded square, known as the Plaza.
“You think the lights in the Plaza are something?” the woman’s companion told her. “Wait’ll you see Canyon Road. A mile of decorations. You’ll be glad you came to visit for the holidays. People travel from all over the world to see Santa Fe at Christmas. You know what it means, don’t you? ‘Santa Fe’?”
“At the hotel, I heard somebody call it the City Different.”
“That’s just its nickname. Santa Fe was settled by the Spanish. The name means ‘Holy Faith.’ It’s perfect for this time of year.”
“Peace on Earth, goodwill to men ...”
Moving with the crowd, the man in the black ski jacket didn’t care about peace or goodwill. He was forty-five, but the effects of his hard life had made him look older. He had big shoulders and creased features, and he saw with the tunnel vision of a hunter so that objects on each side of him registered only as blurs. For him, sounds diminished as well. The carolers, the cathedral bells, the exclamations of delight at the holiday displays—all of these lessened as he focused solely on his quarry. There were only fifteen people between them.
The target wore a navy parka, but despite the falling snow, he had the hood shoved back, allowing a cold layer of white to accumulate on his head. The pursuer understood. A man on the run couldn’t allow the sides of a hood to obstruct his view of what lay on each side. Desperate to find an escape route, the fugitive saw differently than a hunter, not with tunnel vision but with an intense awareness of everything around him.
The killer kept his hands in the pockets of his ski jacket. Inside the pockets were slits that made it easy for him to reach the two pistols he had holstered on his belt under his jacket. Each weapon had a soun
d suppressor. One was a 10-millimeter Glock, chosen because of its power and because the rifling in Glock barrels blurred the striations on bullets fired from them. As a consequence, crime-scene investigators found it almost impossible to link those bullets to any particular gun.
But if everything went as planned, the force of the Glock wouldn’t be necessary. Instead, the second pistol—a .22 Beretta—would be chosen for its subtlety. Even without a suppressor, the small-caliber gun made little noise. But with a suppressor, and with subsonic ammunition designed for Santa Fe’s 7,000 feet of altitude, the .22 was about as quiet as a pistol could be. Equally important, its lesser power meant that the bullet it fired wasn’t likely to jeopardize the mission by going through the target and hitting the precious object hidden under his parka.
“. . . to hear the angels sing.”
At the intersection, the traffic light changed to red. As the snow kept falling, the crowd stopped and formed a dense barrier that prevented the hunter from moving closer to his target.
Suddenly, a man’s voice blurted from an earbud concealed beneath the black watchman’s cap that the hunter wore over his ears.
“Melchior! Status!” the angry voice demanded.
The hunter’s name was Andrei. His employer, a former KGB interrogator, had given him the pseudonym “Melchior” to sanitize the team’s radio communications in case an enemy accessed their frequency. The seemingly nonsensical choice had puzzled Andrei until he’d learned that, according to tradition, Melchior was one of the wise men who’d followed the Christmas star to Bethlehem and discovered the baby Jesus.
A microphone was concealed under the ski-lift tickets attached to the zipper on Andrei’s coat: tickets that were commonplace in this mountain resort. To avoid attracting attention when he replied, he pulled his cell phone from a pants pocket and pretended to talk into it. His breath was white with frost. Although his origins were Russian, his American accent was convincing.
He pressed the microphone to transmit his message.
“Hey, Uncle Harry. I just walked up Alameda Street. I’m on the corner of Paseo de Peralta.” The Spanish name meant “walkway of Peralta” and referred to Santa Fe’s founder, a governor of New Mexico in the early 1600s. “Canyon Road’s across the street. I’ll pick up the package and be at your place in twenty minutes.”
“Do you know where the package is?” The gruff voice made no attempt to conceal its Russian accent, or its impatience.
“Right in front of me,” Andrei pretended to say into his cell phone. “The Christmas decorations are amazing.”
“Our clients will be here any second. Get it back!”
“As soon as my friends catch up to me.”
“Balthazar! Caspar! Status!” the voice demanded.
The unusual pseudonyms were the names that tradition had given to the remaining wise men in the Christmas story.
“Almost there!” another accented voice said through Andrei’s earbud, breathing quickly. “When you grab the package, we’ll block anybody who gets in the way.”
“Good. Tomorrow, we’ll watch football,” Andrei said into the microphone. “See you in a bit, Uncle Harry.”
He wore thin leather shooter’s gloves that provided only brief protection from the cold. As the traffic light changed to green, he returned the phone to his pants pocket, then shoved his hands back into his fleeced-lined jacket, warming his fingers.
The crowd proceeded across the street, continuing to shield the target, who was about six feet tall, slender but with surprising strength, as Andrei knew firsthand from missions they’d served on together.
And from what had occurred fifteen minutes earlier.
Dark hair of medium length. Rugged yet pleasant features that witnesses otherwise found hard to describe. In his early thirties.
Andrei now realized that these details were the extent of what he knew about the man. The thought intensified his anger. Until tonight, he’d believed that he and his quarry were on the same side—and more, that they were friends.
You’re the only person I trusted, Pyotyr. How many other lies did you tell? I vouched for you. I told the Pakhan that he could depend on you. If I don’t get back what you stole, he’ll have me killed.
The man reached the opposite side of the street and turned to the right, passing star-shaped lights strung along the windows of an art gallery. Andrei shifted a little closer—only thirteen people away now—avoiding sudden movements, doing nothing that would disrupt the flow of the crowd and cause his prey to look back. Although the man’s gait remained steady, Andrei knew that his left arm was wounded. It hung at his side. Shadows and trampling footsteps concealed the blood he left on the snow.
You’ll soon weaken, Andrei thought, surprised that he hadn’t already.
Red and blue lights flashed ahead, making Andrei tense. Despite the holiday surroundings, it was impossible to mistake those lights for Christmas displays. Reflected by the falling snow, they were mounted on the roofs of two police cars that blocked the entrance to Canyon Road. Large red letters on the cars’ white doors announced, SANTA FE POLICE.
Andrei’s shoulders tightened. Are they searching for us? Have they found the bodies?
Two burly policemen in bulky coats stood before the cruisers, stamping their boots in the snow, trying to keep warm. Stiff from the cold, they awkwardly raised their left arms and motioned toward oncoming headlights, warning cars and pickup trucks to keep going and not enter Canyon Road.
Ahead in the crowd, a woman pointed with concern. “Why would the police be here? Something must have happened. Maybe we’d better stay away.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” her companion assured her. “The police form a barricade every year. Christmas Eve, cars can’t driven Canyon Road. Only pedestrians are allowed there tonight.”
Andrei watched Pyotyr walk around the cruisers and enter the celebration on Canyon Road, taking care to avoid eye contact with the policemen. They paid him no attention, looking bored.
Yes, they’re only managing traffic, Andrei decided. That’ll soon change, but by then, I’ll have what I need and be out of here.
He wondered why Pyotyr hadn’t run to the police for help, but after a moment’s thought, he understood. The bastard knows we won’t allow anything to stop us from taking back what he stole. With their weapons holstered, those two cops wouldn’t have a chance if we rushed them.
Staring ahead, he noticed how the increasing narrowness of Canyon Road made the crowd even denser. Santa Fe was a small city of about 70,000 people. Before beginning his assignment, Andrei had reconnoitered the compact downtown area and knew that Canyon Road had few side streets. It reminded him of a funnel.
Things will happen swiftly now, he thought. I’ll get you, my friend.
Whoever you are.
Andrei’s vision narrowed even more, focusing almost exclusively on the back of Pyotyr’s head, where he intended to put his bullet. Pretending to marvel at the Christmas decorations, he passed the flashing lights of the police cars and entered the kill zone.
* * * * *
THE MAN WHO called himself Pyotyr saw with intense clarity, all of his senses operating at their fullest, taking in everything around him.
Canyon Road was lined with mostly single-story buildings, many of which boasted pueblo-revival architecture, their flat roofs, rounded edges, and earth-colored stucco so distinctive that visitors marveled. The majority of the buildings—some of them dating back to the eighteenth century—had been converted into art galleries, hundreds of them, making this street one of the most popular art scenes in the United States.
Tonight, their outlines were emphasized by countless flickering candles—what the locals called farolitos—that were set in sand poured into paper bags and placed next to walkways. Some of the candles had been knocked over accidentally, the paper bags burning, but most remained intact, their shimmer not yet affected by the settling snow.
Bonfires lit each side of the road, their occasional loud crackle
s causing him to flinch as if from gunshots. The wood they burned had been cut from pine trees known as piñons, and the fragrant smoke reminded him of incense.
Your mind’s drifting, he warned himself, trying to ignore the pain in his arm. Forget the damned smoke. Pay attention. Find a way out of here.
His real name was Paul Kagan, but over the years, in other places, he had used many other names. Tonight, he’d decided to become himself.
The left pocket of his parka was torn open, the result of someone grabbing for him when he’d escaped. He recalled the shock he’d felt when he’d reached for his cell phone and discovered that it had fallen out. Something had seemed to fall inside him as well. Without a way to contact his controller, he was powerless to summon help.
Kagan wore a flesh-colored earbud, so small that it was almost impossible to notice in the shadows. A miniature microphone was hidden on his parka, but all communication had stopped fifteen minutes earlier. He took for granted that his hunters had switched to a new frequency to prevent him from eavesdropping while they searched for him.
Doing his best to blend with the crowd, he strained to be aware of everything around him: the carolers, the twinkling lights on the galleries and the trees, the art dealers offering steaming cocoa to passersby. He searched for an escape route but knew that if the men chasing him managed to follow him to a quiet area, he wouldn’t have a chance.
Nor would the object he held under his parka.
He felt it squirm. Fearful that it might be smothered, he pulled the zipper down far enough to provide air. It might be making sounds, but the carols and conversations around him prevented him from knowing for sure. Those same distractions prevented the crowd from hearing what he hid under his coat.
“We three kings of Orient are ...”
The Spy Who Came for Christmas Page 1