He shivered violently, wiping snow from the top of his head. He reached the side of the house. Away from the Christmas lights that stretched above the front door and the ceiling light that shone from the kitchen, he paused in the shadows, trying to let his untrustworthy eyes adjust. In the hiss of the falling snow, everything seemed closer, as if it were condensing around him.
Sudden movement dissolved the illusion. A figure lunged toward him, and Kagan was absolutely certain the shock from his wound had made him hallucinate—because the figure was a boy, maybe twelve years old, and the boy had a baseball bat. He was about to swing with it, and the intensity of the expression on his face was startling, even if Kagan saw it only for an instant.
His vision doubled. His knees bent.
Before the boy could strike him, he dropped. Sickened, feeling his eyes roll up and his mind drift, he did his best to topple onto his side, to keep the weight of his body from crushing the baby.
Don’t cry, he silently pleaded. Whatever you do, don’t cry.
But now the baby did cry. Jolted when Kagan landed, the infant wailed beneath the parka. Its cry went on and on, rising, pausing only when the baby took frantic breaths. Then it swelled again, a cry of helplessness and fear, of pain, hunger, and despair, of all the sorrow and desperation in the world.
* * * * *
“PAUL, YOU shouldn’t have risked calling. You’re supposed to use the dead drop. Is this an emergency?”
“I need you to bring me in. You told me it wouldn’t last this long. Tonight ...”
“I can barely hear you.”
“Tonight, to prove I was part of the team, they forced me to . . .”
“I still can’t hear you. You need to get off the line. You’re jeopardizing the mission.”
“If you don’t bring me in, I’ll walk away.”
“No. You’d make them suspicious. We’d never get another man in there. Give us time to think of a believable reason for you to disappear.”
“Soon. Think of it soon.”
“The quickest we can. Learn as much as possible. There are rumors about a shipment of plastic explosive being smuggled through the Jersey docks. That’s Odessa territory. If Semtex is being smuggled in, the Russians are involved.”
“Just bring me home. For God’s sake, bring me home.”
Part Two
The Christmas Rose
KAGAN HEARD a faint choir singing, “Silent night, holy night...”It took him a dazed moment to realize that the soft music came from a radio or a CD player, but not in the room where he lay on his back on the floor.
A woman loomed over him, as did the boy who had nearly struck him with the baseball bat. Kagan’s eyes hurt from the glare of the overhead light. Orienting himself in a panic, he saw the gleam of stainless steel. A stove. A refrigerator.
I’m in a kitchen, he realized. He tried to raise himself, but his strength gave out, and he sank back onto what felt like a brick floor.
“You’re hurt,” the woman said. “Don’t try to move.”
“The baby,” he murmured anxiously.
Even dazed, he was alarmed by the sound of his voice. For almost a year, he’d spoken so much Russian that his English had an accent. He worried that it would be one more thing to unsettle the woman.
“Here. I have him in my arms,” she said.
The baby remained wrapped in a small blue blanket. Kagan’s vision cleared enough for him to see the woman holding the infant protectively against her chest.
From his perspective on the floor, the ceiling light shone down through her long blond hair, giving her a halo. She was in her mid-thirties. Thin, perhaps more than was healthy, Kagan noted, desperation focusing his mind. His life depended on what he could learn about this woman in the next few minutes. She wore a red flared satin dress, as if for a party, al-
though it hung askew on her shoulders, making him think she’d put it on hastily. And there was something wrong about her face, which she kept turned toward Kagan’s left.
She stared at the crimson stain on the left sleeve of his parka.
“Why are you bleeding?” she asked. Her forehead creased with concern. “Why were you carrying the baby under your coat? Were you in an accident?”
“Turn off the lights.”
“What?”
Kagan strained to minimize his accent. “The lights. Please...”
“Do they hurt your eyes?”
“Phone the police,” Kagan managed to say.
“Yes. You need an ambulance.” Holding the baby, the woman continued to tilt her face to Kagan’s left, self-conscious about something.
What’s wrong with her cheek? Kagan wondered.
“But I can’t phone for help,” she told him. “I’m sorry. The phones are broken.”
While Kagan worked to order his thoughts, melting snow dripped from his hair. He realized that the zipper on his parka had been pulled almost completely open. Sweat from his exertion soaked his clothes. Heat drifted up from the bricks, a sensation that made him think he was delirious until he remembered a bellhop telling him about the under-floor radiant heating—hot water through rubber tubes—that warmed the hotel where he was staying.
“Broken?” He drew a breath. “The snow brought down the phone lines?”
“No. Not the lines. The phones are . . .” The woman kept her face to the side and didn’t finish the sentence.
“Smashed,” the boy said. Bitterness tightened his voice. He had a slight build, almost to the point of looking frail, but that hadn’t stopped him from attacking Kagan with the baseball bat. He was around twelve years old, with glasses and tousled hair, blond like his mother’s. Talking about the smashed phones made his cheeks red.
The baseball bat, Kagan abruptly realized. Is he still holding it? With relief, he saw that the boy had leaned the bat against a cupboard. Kagan didn’t understand why the boy had attacked him, but there wasn’t time for questions.
Dizzy, he tried to sit up. He remembered the microphone he wore. The woman or the boy might say something that would tell Andrei where he was hiding. Under the pretense of rubbing a sore muscle, he reached beneath his parka and turned off the transmitter. It was the first time since he’d taken the child that his hands had been free to do so.
To his left, he saw the small window over the kitchen sink.
“Please.” He worked to neutralize the accent he’d acquired, his voice sounding more American. “You’ve got to pull the curtain over that window. Turn off the lights.”
The baby squirmed in the woman’s arms, kicking, crying again.
“Do it,” Kagan urged. “Turn off the lights.”
The woman and the boy stepped back, evidently worried that he might be delusional.
“As weak as I am, you can see I’m no threat to you.”
“Threat?” The woman’s eyes reacted to the word.
“Men are chasing me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They want the baby. You’ve got to turn off the lights so they can’t see us.”
“Some men are trying to kidnap this baby?” The woman’s face registered shock. She held the infant closer, defending it now. The blue blanket was enveloped by the arms of her red dress.
Slow down, Kagan warned himself. This is coming at her too fast. She needs time to adjust.
He inhaled slowly, held his breath, then exhaled, each time counting to three as he would before a gunfight, working to calm himself.
Making his voice gentle, he asked, “What’s your name?”
The woman looked surprised, unprepared for the change of tone. She hesitated, still keeping her face angled to the left. The baby whimpered in her arms, and its wizened face seemed to urge her to reply.
“Meredith,” she finally said.
Thank God, Kagan thought. She gave me something. He noticed a night-light next to the stove across from him.
“If you’re concerned about being in the dark with me, turn on that night-light. The glow
won’t attract attention from the street. It’s the bright lights we need to worry about. Then I promise I’ll explain why I’m injured, why I have the baby.”
Meredith didn’t respond.
“Listen to me.” Kagan mustered the strength to keep talking. “I didn’t intend to bring trouble to you. I planned to hide in the shed or the garage. Things didn’t work out. I’m sorry I involved you, but that can’t be changed now. Those men will do anything to get their hands on this baby. You’ve got to help me stop them from thinking he’s here. That’s the only way you and your son will get out of this.”
If Meredith hadn’t been holding the baby, Kagan was certain she’d have grabbed the boy and fled from the house. But the baby made all the difference, seeming to prevent her from moving.
“You can see how helpless I am,” Kagan said. “What’s the harm if you close the curtains over the sink and use the night-light? It won’t hurt you, but it might save the baby.”
Meredith kept hesitating, her strained features showing the confusion she felt.
“And it might save you and your son,” Kagan emphasized. “You’ve got a known situation in here. A baby who needs help. A man who’s injured. But you have no idea of the trouble outside.”
When the baby whimpered again, Meredith looked down at its unhappy face and debated. She stroked its dark, wispy hair, then frowned toward the window.
Reluctantly, she told the boy, “Cole, do what he wants.”
“But...”
“Do it,” she said firmly, then added gently, “Please.”
The boy looked at her, his gaze questioning, then moved toward the window.
“Thank you,” she told him.
When Cole nodded, Kagan didn’t bother trying to conceal his relief.
The boy surprised Kagan by limping slightly as he crossed the kitchen. He stretched nervously over the sink to close the curtains. Then he turned on the night-light, which had a perforated tin shield that looked like a Christmas tree and reduced the glow.
Watching Cole walk unevenly toward an archway that led into the living room, Kagan subdued a frown when he saw why the boy limped. One leg was shorter than the other. The heel on his right shoe rose two inches higher than the one on the left.
Even so, Kagan couldn’t help silently urging the boy to hurry.
Cole flicked a switch on the wall and turned off the main kitchen lights. Apart from the glow of the night-light, the only illumination came from the fireplace and the lights on the Christmas tree in the living room.
Kagan allowed himself to hope.
“Okay, you said the phones in the house aren’t working. But don’t you have a cell phone?”
“No,” Meredith answered uncomfortably. “Don’t you?”
Kagan thought of the coat pocket that had been torn open when he’d escaped.
“Lost it.”
“He took my mother’s phone,” Cole said.
“He?” Kagan crawled painfully toward a wooden chair at the kitchen table.
Neither of them answered. In another part of the house, a man’s voice sang, “Away in a manger, no crib for a bed ...”Kagan was surprised that he took the time to identify it as Bing Crosby’s.
Damn it, concentrate, he thought.
“A man took your cell phone?” Kagan felt he’d achieved a small victory when his right hand touched the chair.
“You promised to tell us why they want the baby,” Meredith demanded. “I made a mistake. I don’t know why I brought you inside.”
“You brought me inside because you heard the baby crying.” Kagan fought for energy. “Because you couldn’t leave the baby out there in the snow.” He took a deep breath. “Because you’re a decent person, and this is the one night of the year you can’t refuse to take care of someone who’s hurt.
With effort, Kagan pulled himself onto the chair. His gaze drifted toward a wall phone next to the night-light across from him.
At least, it had once been a phone. Someone had used a hammer to smash it into pieces. The hammer lay on the counter.
“Is the man who took your cell phone the same man who did that?” Kagan pointed toward the debris.
From his new position, he had a better view of the side of Meredith’s face. Even in the dim illumination provided by the night-light, it was obvious that her cheek was bruised and her eye was swelling shut. She had dried blood on the side of her mouth.
“Is he the same man who beat you?” Kagan asked.
The question filled him with bitterness. To prove himself to the Russian mob, he’d been forced to beat many people. Often, the Pakhan had ordered him to punch women in the face, to knee them in the groin and knock them to the floor, kicking their legs and sides to make husbands, fathers, sons, and brothers do what the Pakhan wanted.
His mission controllers had been delighted by how effectively such tactics had earned Kagan access to the mob’s inner circle.
But each night, Kagan had suffered nightmares—and each morning, he’d been filled with shame.
Now his shame reinforced his outrage at what had been done to Meredith. His powerful emotions started adrenaline flowing, giving him energy.
“If you don’t tell me why those men want this baby, Cole and I are going for the police,” Meredith threatened.
“No,” Kagan blurted. “You don’t dare go outside. It isn’t safe.”
The baby squirmed in Meredith’s arms. Its tiny face shriveled and prompted Kagan to fear it was about to cry again.
“We can’t let it make noise,” he said. “It’s hungry. You’ve got to feed it and change it. Can you do that? Can you help the baby? Anything to stop it from crying again.”
The baby whimpered, pushing against Meredith.
“Cole,” Kagan said urgently, “would you like to help your mother and me? Is there a bedroom that faces the front of the house? Does the bedroom have a television?”
The boy looked puzzled. “Mine.”
“Go in there and turn on the television. Close the curtains but leave just enough space so the glow from the television can be seen through the window. We want them to think everything’s normal in here.”
Cole wrinkled his brow.
“Then go into the living room and look out the window. Pretend you’re admiring the snowfall,” Kagan told him. “If you see anyone out there, don’t react. Just peer up as if you’re waiting for Santa Claus.”
“I’m too old to believe in Santa Claus.”
“Of course. I don’t know what I was thinking. Obviously, you’re too old to believe in Santa Claus. Just fool anyone who might be watching. Admire the snowfall. Pretend you’re a spy. Would you like to learn to be a spy?”
“Is that what you claim you are?” Meredith asked. Dismay crept into her voice.
“Yes.” Kagan slumped on the chair, exhaustion overwhelming him. “God help me, yes, I’m a spy.”
* * * * *
ANDREI FOLLOWED the various tracks along the lane, taking note as some of them angled toward houses behind chest-high walls, presumably evidence of someone returning home.
Or that’s what I’m supposed to think, isn’t that right, Pyotyr? Andrei decided. But maybe one of these sets of tracks belongs to you.
Solitary footprints went through a gate on the right. Andrei peered through the falling snow toward a living room window. Next to Christmas lights on a hearth, a man held up a treat while a Dalmatian looked up patiently and waited for its master to reward it.
Andrei returned the Glock to his right hand and put his left hand into a coat pocket, warming his fingers in the thin shooter’s glove. He continued along the tracks, studying them, but he no longer saw with the tunnel vision of a hunter on the verge of catching his prey. His perspective was now wide, taking into account the trees and shadows to the right and left, on guard against an ambush. Earlier, with Mikhail and Yakov flanking him, he’d been confident that Pyotyr would keep running.
But with only me for a target? he wondered. Pyotyr, will you take th
e chance of attacking me if I’m alone?
Something flashed. The air became filled with an acrid smell.
Andrei spun, almost pulling the trigger as a burning object fell with the snow. At once, he realized that it was a plastic garbage bag shaped like a hot-air balloon. Inside, attached to an x-shaped platform of balsa, were rows of burning candles. The hot air they created had given the bag its lift. But not any longer. The candles had set the bag on fire.
When it crashed, sparks flew, the flames dwindling, smoke forming in the snow.
Andrei refused to allow the surreal event to distract him. He pivoted, aiming toward the shrouded area around him. Urgent questions crowded his mind.
Did it make sense for Pyotyr to go this way? Wounded? With the baby to concern him? Out here, away from the crowd, Pyotyr was helpless. If he fainted from blood loss, he and the baby would freeze to death.
Maybe I’m wrong, Andrei thought. Maybe he believes he has a better chance among the people on Canyon Road. Or maybe that’s what he wants me to think.
Andrei reached for the radio transmitter under his coat and switched the frequency to the one the team had used at the start of the mission, the one that had enabled him to speak to Pyotyr earlier. He hoped that the sound of Pyotyr’s breathing would tell him whether or not he was still moving or whether he had stopped and set up an ambush.
But this time, there wasn’t any sound. Only dead air.
Did you shut off your transmitter to keep the sounds you make from revealing where you are? Andrei wondered. Well, it won’t do you any good. I’ll find you, my friend.
He switched the transmitter to the new frequency the team was using. All the while, he scanned the hiding places that flanked the lane.
Ready with his pistol, he followed the dwindling tracks.
* * * * *
The Spy Who Came for Christmas Page 5