“SWAT team?” Brody moaned. “Why did I let this happen? What have I done? I should never have left my family.”
“Calm down, Mr. Brody. I’ll rehearse the phone conversation with you. We need to assume that the fugitive will be listening when your wife talks on the phone. I’ll teach you to ask questions in a way that won’t alarm him. We’ve got to know where he is in the—”
“Wait a second.” Brody stared past Andrei.
“What’s wrong?”
“Those men over there. Who are they?” Brody pointed toward the fir tree.
“The other officers on the team. Detectives Hardy and Grant.”
Mikhail and Yakov each held up an arm in greeting, doing their best to look like they belonged there.
“About the call you’re going to make, it’s very important that you seem natural, that you don’t let your voice indicate how worried you are,” Andrei explained. “The best thing to do is—”
“Don’t bother. It’s useless.”
“Pardon me?”
“There’s no point in calling.”
“No point in—? But why?”
“The phones aren’t working,” Brody said.
Andrei felt his muscles tense. Did he notice the telephone wire I shot down? He prompted Brody for more information. “They’re not working? What do you mean?”
“They’re broken.”
“You mean the snow broke the telephone lines?”
“No, I mean the phones.” Brody seemed annoyed that Andrei couldn’t grasp some obvious concept.
“Every phone in the house? How could they all be broken?”
Brody wiped snow off his mustache but didn’t answer, avoiding the question.
“Sir, we can’t afford a delay,” Andrei said. “The safety of your wife and son depends on you. How did the phones get broken?”
“I did it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I smashed the phones with a hammer.” Brody sounded exasperated.
Andrei couldn’t help expressing surprise. Just when he thought he’d heard everything, someone came up with something he could never have imagined. “Why on earth would you smash the phones?”
“So my wife couldn’t call you.”
“Call me?” Andrei shook his head in bafflement.
“You. The police.” Brody stared down at his boots. “I lost my temper.” The last word was tinged with despair. “My wife and I had an argument. I can’t remember what it was about, probably my drinking. I . . .”
“But why were you afraid she’d call the police?”
“Because I hit her.” Brody kept his gaze down. His shame made him whisper.
“Ah,” Andrei said. So this wasn’t something unimaginable, after all.
“It’s the first time that ever happened. After I realized what I’d done, I spent the last couple of hours waiting to get sober enough to come back and beg her to forgive me.” Brody suddenly looked up. “This is all my fault. If I hadn’t left the house, I’d have been there when the guy broke in. I’d have been able to—”
“But don’t you see? That gives you a natural excuse to call her.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can tell her you’re sorry and find out what’s happening. It’s so obvious an excuse, the fugitive won’t be suspicious. Are you sure you smashed all the phones? Doesn’t your wife have a cell phone?”
“I took it. Her phone’s in my pocket.”
“Does your son have a phone?”
“No.”
Andrei tried not to show his elation. There wasn’t any need to worry that Pyotyr might have been able to summon the police before the telephone line had been shot down. With no way to make a call, Pyotyr was completely isolated.
“Draw the diagram of the house.”
* * * * *
“PYOTYR, HASSAN’S rivals tried to kill him several times. The last thing they want is peace. There’s too much money to be made setting off car bombs in markets and sniping at Israeli soldiers on patrol.
“Paper bags of cash are distributed weekly from donations made around the world, millions collected from sympathizers who think this is about land or religion when it’s also about men who have a very specific occupation—to cause violence and death. For decades, it’s been the only profession they’ve known. If there were peace, where would their paper bags of cash come from? Even with Hassan’s amazing effect on his followers, it’s far from certain that he can achieve peace. Nonetheless, his rivals fear the astonishing growth of his influence and want to guarantee his failure.
“When he learned that his wife was pregnant, Hassan became so afraid for her safety that he sent her to the United States. Since July, she’s lived secretly in Santa Fe, which has a small Muslim population loyal to Hassan’s cause. In November, he made a secret trip here to monitor the last stages of her pregnancy and to deliver the baby. But he regretted sending his wife into hiding. He realized that he couldn’t ask his followers to make sacrifices if he and his family weren’t prepared to make them as well.
“As soon as the baby is strong enough to travel, Hassan plans to return to the Gaza Strip. He plans to stand in front of his followers and hold up his child as a symbol of hope. He plans to call it the child of peace and to say that every parent has a child of peace. His rivals want their weekly payments of cash so much that they’ll do anything to stop him from gaining more sympathizers.”
* * * * *
IN THE DARKNESS, Kagan searched a cupboard under the stove and found another pot. He filled it with water, put it on the stove, and turned on the gas burner.
“Why are you boiling water?” Meredith wanted to know.
“There’s still enough mixture for the baby.”
“Sometimes, boiling water comes in handy.”
“For what? Does your wound need cleaning again?”
“Do you have any tin foil?” he asked.
“Why would you need—” Looking baffled, Meredith gave up and pointed toward the left side of the stove. “The middle drawer.”
Kagan opened the drawer, pulled out a box, tore off two pieces of tin foil, and crumpled them slightly.
“What about quick-drying glue?” he asked.
Despite her confusion, this time she didn’t question him but merely said, “One drawer down.”
“Thanks.” Kagan pulled out the drawer and was pleased to find a large plastic tube of glue, almost full.
He went over to the microwave, which sat on the counter to the right of the stove. That counter was next to the kitchen’s side door. He opened the microwave, put in the two crumpled pieces of tin foil, set the tube of glue between them, and adjusted the timer for two minutes.
“Wait,” Meredith warned. “It isn’t safe to start the microwave with those things inside.”
“Just leave it like that. With the timer set.” Kagan pivoted the microwave so that it faced the side door.
His parka lay on the counter. He took his gun from the right-hand pocket, the inside of which he’d partially sliced open to accommodate the sound suppressor on the end of his weapon.
Even in the shadows, it was obvious that Meredith stared. Kagan imagined how the gun appeared to her, the cylinder attached to the barrel making the weapon look grotesque.
“You had that with you all the time?” she asked.
“There didn’t seem a right moment to tell you.”
“You could have killed us whenever you wanted.”
“The fact that I didn’t threaten you with it ought to tell you there’s a big difference between me and the men outside.”
“If they’re even out there any longer,” Meredith said.
Kagan let her take refuge in that thought.
“I don’t like guns,” she told him.
“I’m not crazy about them, either, but on occasion, they can be helpful. In fact, we could use another one. Does your husband have a hunting rifle or a shotgun?”
“Ted’s not a hunter.”
“Some people keep a gun in the house in case of a break-in.”
“Not us. No guns. Especially with Cole in the house.” Meredith started to say something else. “And not with . . .”
Kagan imagined what she had almost said—not with Ted’s drinking problem.
He reflexively reached toward the left pocket of his parka, but all he touched was torn fabric. He’d started the night with two spare ammunition magazines in there, but along with his cell phone, they’d fallen out when the pocket had been ripped open during his escape.
All I have is the ammunition in the pistol, he thought. Fifteen rounds in the magazine, plus one in the chamber.
Not much.
“Where are your aerosol cans?” he asked. “Window cleaner, furniture polish, anything like that.”
Again, Meredith didn’t ask questions. “The cupboard above the refrigerator.”
Kagan opened the cupboard and took down four pressurized cans. He set two of them next to the kitchen door.
The baby whimpered.
Holding the two remaining cans, Kagan went over to the laundry hamper and peered down, tensely hoping the baby wouldn’t start to cry.
“He’s just dreaming,” Meredith said.
“Babies dream?”
“Didn’t the World Health Organization tell you about that?”
Kagan looked at her.
“Sorry,” she said, averting her gaze.
“Humor’s always welcome. It’s good for morale.” Again, Kagan peered down at the baby. “Weird how the mind plays tricks.”
“Tricks?”
“On Canyon Road, when I was running from the men outside, the baby kicked me from time to time. I was light-headed enough that I almost had the sense he was guiding me, telling me which way to go, like he wanted me to come here.”
“As you said, you were light-headed.”
In the background, Rosemary Clooney sang, “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”
Kagan drew a breath.
“Guess I’d better get to work.” He shoved his gun under his belt, stooped, and crept into the living room.
The fireplace was on the left, its Southwestern design similar to one in the lobby of Kagan’s hotel. The hearth was a foot off the floor. The firebox had an oval opening and curved sides. The flames in it had dwindled to embers, making it less likely that he’d be seen. His gun digging into his right side, he glanced to the right. In the middle of the shadowy room, a large leather chair faced the window.
“How are you managing, Cole?”
“It’s hard staring at something this long.” The boy’s voice came from the other side of the chair’s back. “I still can’t get anything on the radio.”
“You’re doing a great job. I’ll take your place soon.”
The Christmas tree stood against the far wall. Staying low, Kagan went over and unplugged the lights.
It’s late enough, he decided. Turning off the tree won’t seem unusual.
The front door was to the right of the window. He crept over and made sure it was locked. Then he set the other two aerosol cans next to it.
He turned toward the rear of the living room. The Rosemary Clooney song came from an open door to the right of the fireplace. Inside an office, he found three computer monitors and keyboards on a table in front of him. Matching computer towers were under it. Despite the darkness, he had the impression of many shelves filled with electronics.
“Meredith, why is there so much equipment?”
“Ted designs websites for corporations. Sometimes he has three different layouts showing simultaneously.”
Kagan felt a spark of hope.
“Then we can access the Internet. We can send e-mails to get help.”
“No. Ted put an electronic lock on the Internet access. I don’t have the password.”
Kagan’s excitement turned cold. “Ted thinks of everything.”
He saw an iPod connected to a docking station and a set of speakers. That was the source of the music. Now Rosemary Clooney was singing that she might only be able to dream about going home for Christmas. When he turned off the speakers, the house became silent, except for the crackle of embers in the fireplace and the faint noise of the television in Cole’s bedroom down the hallway.
At the back of the office, Kagan confirmed that the outside door was locked. The curtains were shut, concealing him as he shoved a table against the window. The table extended partway against the door and provided a barricade. His wounded arm aching, he picked up a chair and set it next to the monitors on the table. Intruders could break the window and get past the obstacles, but not quickly, not without making noise, and not without the risk of injuring themselves.
As Kagan worked, he couldn’t keep from worrying that if Meredith still distrusted him, she might use this opportunity to take Cole and run from the house. At this moment, she and the boy might be opening the side door. He leaned from the office and glanced to the right, toward the kitchen, but Meredith’s silhouette remained in view. She was looking down at the baby in the hamper.
Maybe she’ll do it in a little while, he thought. If I’m out of sight long enough, she might find the nerve to take the boy and run. And the baby—she’ll probably take the baby.
He could only pray that she wouldn’t surrender to her fears and get all of them killed.
* * * * *
I COULD do it now, Meredith thought.
In the darkness of the kitchen, the only light came from the flame on the stove and the clock on the microwave oven. She thought of how the stranger had angled the microwave toward the side door, how he’d put two pieces of crumpled tinfoil in there along with the tube of quick-drying glue. She still had a vivid mental image of the grotesque, long-barreled gun he’d shoved under his belt.
It made her shiver.
Table legs scraped in Ted’s office. For some reason, the stranger was moving the furniture. Blocking the window? She wondered. While he’s busy, I can do this. I can get Cole. I can grab the baby. We can run. I don’t know anything about this man. Maybe he stole the baby from its parents. Maybe the men looking for him are the police. Maybe whoever shot him was a policeman.
I can do it, she repeated to herself. I can do it now.
Peering down at the baby, she imagined how she could go into the living room and put her finger over her lips to warn Cole to be quiet. She could motion for Cole to follow her. In a rush, she could pick up the baby, open the door, and run with Cole into the night.
There wouldn’t be a chance to get coats. In the falling snow, she could hold the baby against her, using the blanket to shield him. She wouldn’t be able to risk stopping to ask a neighbor for help. That might give the stranger time to catch them. She and Cole would need to run all the way to the crowd on Canyon Road.
We’d be safe there, she thought. Can Cole run that far? Maybe we won’t be able to move quickly enough.
She wondered if the stranger would shoot. The thought made her flinch as she imagined the agony of a bullet slamming into her back. Or maybe she wouldn’t feel anything. Maybe the bullet would kill her.
No, she decided. The one thing she knew for certain was that the baby was important to this man. The way he talked about it. The way he looked at it. He wouldn’t do anything to put it in danger.
Did it seem logical, then, to think he was a kidnapper?
She heard him making other noises in Ted’s office, cutting at something. But what? As the cutting sounds persisted, she thought, Now’s my chance. She took a step toward the living room, preparing to cross to where Cole watched the window, but then she remembered the way the man had looked at her and said, “I promise Ted won’t hit you again.” There’d been something about the steadiness of his eyes, the reassuring tone of his voice, the firmness of his expression—they’d convinced Meredith that he meant what he said.
“Don’t you like surprise presents?” the man had asked. “Help the baby, and I promise Ted won’t hit you again.”
He
hadn’t said, “Help me.” He’d said, “Help the baby.” No, the man would never do anything to injure the baby, Meredith decided. We can run without fearing he’ll shoot.
In Ted’s office, the cutting sounds were now almost sawing sounds.
This is our chance! Meredith thought.
But what if he’s telling the truth? What if there really are men outside who’ll do anything to get the baby? If Cole and I leave the house, we might run into them. I can’t risk it. I can’t put Cole’s life in danger.
“I promise Ted won’t hit you again.”
As much as she was certain that the stranger meant to keep that promise, she was certain about something else. Because of Cole’s short right leg, adults sometimes treated her son as if he wasn’t smart or as if he wasn’t even in the room with them. But the stranger had looked Cole directly in the eyes and had spoken to him as if he were much older than twelve. He’d trusted Cole to watch the window. He’d trusted him to listen for voices on the two-way radio. The respectful way he treated Cole left Meredith with no doubt that he would do everything in his power to make sure no one hurt her son.
* * * * *
KAGAN’S PISTOL wasn’t the only weapon he carried.
On the outside of his right pants pocket, a black metal clip was hardly noticeable against the black fabric. The clip was attached to an Emerson folding knife concealed inside his pocket, an arrangement that made it easy for him to grip the knife without fumbling. When he pulled it out, a hook on the back of the blade was designed to catch on the edge of the pocket and swing the knife open. As he’d learned too well, there were numerous occasions when the ability to open a knife with only one hand could save his life.
He went over to a lamp on the office table, unplugged it, and pressed the blade against the electrical cord. He had no trouble slicing the rubber sheath, but the copper wires resisted, and he needed to press down hard, sawing more than cutting. He ignored the pain in his wounded arm from the effort of holding the wire against the table.
The Spy Who Came for Christmas Page 9