The Twelve Lies of Christmas

by Kate Johnson

  “When?” she asked.

  “Soon,” I told her. “Very soon, if you help me out.”

  She chewed her lip. I let her think about it; after all, she didn’t know me from Adam, didn’t know if I was lying to her or making shit up as I went along. Didn’t know if I was going to kill her as soon as I had what I wanted. Didn’t even know what I wanted.

  “Okay,” she said eventually, and quite bravely, I thought. “What do you need?”

  “First off, who are you?”

  She picked at a nail. “I’m a con artist.”

  “…oh,” I said, and she looked up, smiling for the first time.

  She had a knockout smile, and weirdly enough, that revived me. Because a smile like that could only come from a con artist.

  “Sam,” she said, holding out her hand. “Samantha Taylor.”

  I took it. “Pleased to meet you,” I said.

  “This is the part where you tell me your name,” she prompted, and I just smiled.

  “Fine, Paddy,” she said, losing her smile.

  “And you’re conning Daz?” I said. She nodded. “Risky.”

  “Well, duh.” She stared out the window at the sandwich shop across the street. “I didn’t know…not everything. I mean, I looked into him, of course I did. I’m not stupid. I knew he had some shady deals going on. That’s why I decided on him.”

  “Er, because he was shady?”

  “Of course.” She looked at me like I was simple.

  “You don’t think conning someone…straighter…might be safer?”

  “No,” she said. “First rule, you can’t con an honest man. For one thing, it’s a shitty thing to do, and for another, they won’t let it go. Someone like Daz? Well, he’s got so many fingers in so many pies, he can’t possibly go crying to the police about me.”

  “But he could give you concrete boots and introduce you to the bottom of the Thames.”

  “Well, yes. This was the part I didn’t find out until… Well, it was too late.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I’m not giving up now. Even if…”

  She hesitated, and when nothing more seemed to be forthcoming, I prompted her. “Even if?”

  “Even if I probably won’t get much. The deal…” Again she hesitated, sighed, but this time she went on. “The deal was he’d give half the proceeds of the sale of the club to my charity.”

  “Which is, presumably, as fake as your accent.”

  She glared at me. “Yes, it’s fake. Although I am giving some of the money to charity.”

  “How sweet of you.”

  She ignored that. “But the thing is… Well, you were getting stuff from his computer, didn’t you find it out?”

  I gestured for her to remind me. It was a gesture I’d perfected, more facial than anything. In a nutshell, it meant “I could know this, but basically I’m far too busy to remember it.” Truth was, I’d spent so much time thinking about “Natalya” last night, I hadn’t really even given Daz’s files much thought. Christ, that was bad of me.

  “Anatole isn’t paying Daz in cash. He’s handing over a couple of grand in stocks and investments, legitimate stuff, so Daz can pretend to the world it’s all coming in installments.”

  “And how is it really coming?”

  She was silent a while, then she nodded miserably at Belinda.

  “Guns?”

  “Of all shapes and sizes. Weapons and armaments—stuff like body armor and boatloads of ammunition. Armour-piercing bullets. Explosives. And Daz is setting up buyers in the Middle East.”

  Yeah. We knew that. Knew Daz’s contacts went outside London. We also knew that these days, everyone was selling weapons to everyone. Daz probably wouldn’t be such a problem, but the suspicion was…

  “I think he’s selling them to terrorist groups,” Sam said in a small, frightened voice, and without really thinking about it, I went over to the bed and put my arms around her.

  She shivered, then relaxed against me, soft and warm, her cheek against my neck. I could get used to this, I thought, and then she brushed against Belinda and stiffened. Pulled back.

  “Speaking of guns,” she said, and the moment was lost.

  “I’m not a terrorist,” I said, firmly.

  …a spray of bullets, a screamed order, blood spattering the street…

  “I’m really not,” I repeated, perhaps a little more vehemently than I needed to.

  Sam nodded, warily. “Who are you?”

  “I…catch bad guys.”

  “So you are a cop.”

  “Not exactly. Look, Sam. I need to know anything else you can tell me.” When she hesitated, I said, “I can protect you. I swear it.”

  “Can,” she said, “or will?”

  “Will,” I said. “I promise.”

  There was a silence. She was still very close, and I could feel the heat coming from her skin.

  “I don’t trust you,” she said, and I thought, I don’t blame you.

  Natalya—damn, I mean Sam—took a shower, and I jammed the USB stick into my computer and downloaded it all, sending it to the office, and to Luke, too. Idly, since she was spending so much bloody time in the shower, I Googled Samantha Taylor. I didn’t find anything—or rather, I found a million somethings.

  Google was all decked out for Christmas. Today was Christmas Eve, I realized with a jolt. Damn, if I had any kind of life I’d have known that.

  Next year, I promised myself. Next year, Christmas Eve will be a happy, cheerful day filled with last-minute decorations or shopping or whatever the hell it is people do the day before Christmas. Sing carols or whatever.

  On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me…three pieces of info, two arms dealers and a con-artist in my shower.

  Yeah. The original words worked better.

  Sam emerged, wet hair brushing her shoulders, still in last night’s dress.

  “You can keep the sweater,” I told her, because she was mighty distracting in that tiny scrap of fabric.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I was going to.”

  She asked me to call for a cab, but I wasn’t falling for that. “I’ll drive you,” I said and ignored her protests. I needed to see where she lived. Needed to know.

  She directed me to Mayfair, which I was pretty sure was a lie, but then she got a key from the tiny bag she’d been carrying last night and unlocked a door in a swanky townhouse.

  I followed her in.

  “I didn’t invite you,” she said.

  “I know.”

  She glared at me, and I smiled back. I wasn’t leaving until I was sure this was her place.

  Inside was a communal hallway, where she collected her mail and sifted through it as she climbed a wide staircase, muttering, “Bill, bill, junk, bill… How do I get on these mailing lists?”

  “Forgot to tick a box,” I said.

  She stopped at a door painted red and fitted a second key to the lock. “I swear, the other day I got a ‘Save The Trees’ leaflet in the mail, and I was like, ‘How many trees were felled to print that, huh?’”

  I smiled, so distracted that I almost—almost missed the large packet in her other hand.

  It was addressed by hand, and the stamps were stuck on with tape.

  “Ooh, someone likes me,” she said as she pushed open the door, and I snatched the packet from her. “Hey!”

  I ran my hands over it. Large, padded envelope, festive stickers on it. Uneven contents. Bumpy. Soft spots. Oil stains on the wrapping.

  Postmarked three weeks ago.

  Time seemed to crystallize for a moment. Then I recovered.

  “How long has this been there?” I said.

  “Why is that any of your business? And why are you still here?”

  “Answer me, Sam,” I said, pushing the door closed behind me so the neighbors wouldn’t hear. “Was this here yesterday?”

  “I don’t know, I went to Cheshire early—”

  “Has it been here three weeks?” I demanded.

  �
�Three—? No. Look, Paddy—whatever the hell your name is—”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said, feeling under the envelope flap. Yeah. Wires…triggers… “You need to get out.”

  “What?”

  “Is this your flat?”

  “No, it belongs to a friend. What, you think I could afford a place like this?”

  “Do you have neighbors? Are there people in the other flats?”

  “Yes, I think—”

  “Get them out. Now.”

  That same gun-shy fear flashed across her face, but she held steady. “Not until you explain—”

  I waved the package at her. “This,” I said, “is a bomb. Triggered to go off when you open it.” I wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but ninety-nine was enough. “I don’t know how big the explosion will be. I don’t know how much of this building it’ll destroy. So I’d advise you to get everyone out. Now.”

  Sam had gone pale. “Or,” she said, “we could just not open it.”

  No. Whoever had sent this wanted Sam dead, and I was pretty sure I knew who that someone was. And that if he failed, he’d try again until he succeeded.

  No.

  “If this doesn’t kill you,” I said quietly, “something else will. Now go. Get everyone out of this building. Tell them… Hell, tell them anything, but it has to be something that means you’ll be back inside. It’s very important they believe you’re inside when it goes off.” I checked around for cameras, anything that might be watching us. Nothing, and my automatic scan of the hallway had revealed nothing, too. Which meant there was a person out there, watching the place.

  “Is there a back door?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Good. Now go and talk to all your neighbors.”

  “But what if they don’t answer?”

  “Break down doors if you have to.”

  “With what?”

  I hesitated. “Okay, I’ll break down the doors,” I said. “But go now.”

  She fled, and I stared at the package in my hand.

  “Daz King,” I said, “I bloody hate you.”

  Chapter Five

  In the end, it wasn’t a huge explosion. Sam, clever girl that she was, had told the only other residents of the building still in their homes—a young mother and a rather louche gentleman of means—that she had to fix the drains in her flat, which meant that the smell of sewage would be coming from all the sinks and toilets in the building. She advised them to go out, which they did, hurriedly. When I asked her if she’d checked the other flats, she said, “Yes, but don’t ask me how.”

  I figured that meant she’d used a lock pick, and kept quiet.

  The package wasn’t big, probably not enough to do a lot of damage. We probably hadn’t needed to evacuate the building, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Any animals?”

  “It’s against the lease,” she said, “but I checked anyway. There weren’t any.”

  As soon as the young mother had strapped her baby into her Range Rover and driven off, Sam and I slipped out the back door and climbed a tree in the leafy shared garden. From here I had a view of her living room, and the trigger I’d rigged up.

  The package was taped to the top of her CD player. Very carefully, I’d attached the envelope flap to the CD drawer.

  “If this turns out to be mittens from my mother, I will laugh so hard,” Sam whispered.

  “Me too,” I said and aimed the remote control at the window.

  I pressed eject.

  The bomb went off.

  It set off car alarms all down the street as bits of plaster, glass and things flew out the broken windows of Sam’s friend’s flat. Not a bad explosion, bit of redecorating and it’d be all right, but if anyone had been standing near that CD player when the bomb went off, they’d have been the ones redecorating. In little pieces, all over the room.

  As it happens, there was a bit of mess, gore and blood and things, courtesy of the meat I’d hurriedly defrosted in the microwave and put on top of the package.

  I called the fire brigade as we ran. By the time they arrived, we were on the Tube rattling west.

  “How did you know?” Sam asked as we changed lines at South Kensington.

  “Years of training,” I replied grimly.

  “I mean—did it smell funny or something?”

  “No.”

  “So how did you know it was a—”

  I grabbed her hand, tight, and said in a low voice, “Do you really want me to explain about bomb disposal on the London Underground the day before Christmas?”

  Her eyes widened a little and she shook her head, forcing a smile.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Hotel,” I said. While I rigged up the bomb, Sam had packed a bag. She’d assured me she had several fake IDs, and I’d told her to take them all, plus some real identification should she need it.

  I didn’t let go of her hand. I don’t know why.

  We emerged into the daylight and Sam disappeared into the Ladies in a small café while I bought coffee. Right now, I needed it.

  By now, the news should have reached Daz that the bomb had gone off. Whoever was watching the place—and I was sure someone had been—would have seen us going in, and then twenty minutes later, the bomb going off. The firemen would find bits of flesh and cloth all over the place, nothing big enough to identify. The police would have to wait for lab tests before they found out the only biological matter in that flat had been bought in a supermarket.

  It didn’t give us much time. I called Luke while I waited for Sam, but got voicemail.

  Then I called my boss at SO17, known just as One, and told him to read the files I’d emailed him. “Get some people in place right now to bring down Daz and Anatole,” I said. “But don’t make a move until I’m there.”

  When Sam emerged, I almost didn’t recognize her. I was beginning to see how she’d make a great con artist. She had one of those chameleon faces that could be anything from ugly to stunning, and everything in between.

  Right now, with her hair loose and straggly, her complexion dulled, spectacles perched on her nose and her shoulders hunched, she looked older, dreary, boring. Not ugly, just not…noticeable. She’d swapped the dress and heels for loafers and baggy cords, and my sweatshirt, acres too big for her. Over this, she wore a shapeless mac.

  “Nice,” I said, and she gave me a bland smile.

  “Watch,” she said.

  And I did watch. I watched in awe as she called up and made a reservation, then checked into a large chain hotel in Kensington as a Dr. Anna Miller, asked which was the quickest way to the British Museum and went up to her room without anyone giving her a second glance.

  I followed, at a distance, having eavesdropped while browsing some tourist pamphlets in the lobby. But as I waited for the elevator, my phone rang. It was Luke.

  “Damn, it’s nice to be in a country where you don’t freeze the second you walk out the door.”

  “You’re back in England?”

  “Just stepped off the plane. What’s all this about going in tonight? Can’t it wait until after Christmas?”

  “Why? Have plans, do you?”

  I knew full well that Luke had as much loving family as I did, i.e., none. He didn’t form relationships, none of us did. We couldn’t afford to. Christmas was a time for work, same as any other day of the year.

  “I could have plans,” he sulked. “Listen, can you talk?”

  “Not really,” I said, because I wasn’t safe until I was out of the public eye. The hotel lobby was too crowded. “I’ll call you later. One can fill you in.”

  I paused outside Sam’s room. What I wouldn’t give to go in there and get some damn sleep! Actually, if it was me, Sam and a bed, I could think of other things I’d rather be doing.

  But while I procrastinated, trying to dredge up my professionalism, my phone rang. It was One.

  “Nathaniel,” he greeted me cheerfully. One’s supposed to call us by our cal
l signs—numbers, like his—but he can never remember them. He’s terribly tally-ho, sounds like a dimmer version of Prince Charles, but he’s a good guy, much smarter than he sounds, and a decent boss. “What ho?”

  “Hi,” I said. “Have you read those files?”

  “Well, I’ve read enough to indict your friend Anatole. Best bring his henchman in, too.”

  “Yuri?”

  “That’s the blighter. I take it you’re not with them now?”

  “No. They’re—” I glanced at my watch. “They should still be tranq’d.” But I’d have to get a move on before they woke up.

  “Think you can handle it by yourself?”

  “Yep. Sure. What about Daz?”

  “Daz? Oh, Darren King. Yes, I haven’t got that far. But I suspect we may need to get confirmation of all the shipments from Anatole before we can make a move on Mr. King. And I’d rather have them all in first.”

  Shit. “When are they due?”

  “Should be today, I think. Christmas presents, hah.”

  “Hah,” I said, grimly.

  “Let me finish going through these files. I’ve got Luke on his way, shall I send him to take charge of the shipments?”

  Why was he asking me?

  “Yeah. Good plan. I’ll go and fetch Anatole, let you know if I need back-up.”

  “Of course, but you won’t get any from me. Maria’s tied up watching some money launderers and Luke’s not even through customs yet. Call the police, or call Five if you need them.”

  Five was MI5. I’d prefer the police—just one of those interdepartmental things. Rivalries. SO17 could handle this without Five’s backup.

  “Right. I’ll keep you posted,” I said and signed off.

  I tapped on Sam’s door, and she opened it too quickly. She’d been eavesdropping. Well, I couldn’t blame her.

  “I have to go,” I said, which was a pretty stupid thing to say seeing as she’d just opened the door.

  She nodded. “Work?”

  “Yeah. Got a mobster to bring down.”

  “Good luck.”

  I opened my mouth, wanting to say more. Wanting to tell her I’d get the bastard who’d tried to kill her, wanting to say I was sorry she’d been tangled up in this, wanting to tell her my real name and that as soon as we’d got Daz, I was out of the spy game.