The Spy Who Came for Christmas

by David Morrell

  Christmas lights hung above a wreath on the front door. Immediately to the left, a pale light glowed behind a curtain over a small window in what was probably the kitchen. To the right of the door, a large window showed a living room, murky except for a dwindling fire in a hearth and lights on a Christmas tree. Farther to the right, in another room, a curtained window revealed the flickering illumination of what seemed to be a television.

  Determined to be thorough, Andrei glanced toward the roof. The dim reflection of the front-door lights allowed him to see snow accumulating on a satellite dish.

  He didn’t study the house in an obvious way. Instead, his trained eyes took in everything as he walked past, seeming to admire the picturesque winter scene. The hiss of the snow almost muffled the sound of his footsteps. After twenty seconds, the house was no longer in sight, which also meant that he could no longer be seen from it.

  With no more footprints to follow, there wasn’t any point in continuing down the lane. Again, disappointment took hold of him. Stopping, he assessed the situation. His initial guess had probably been correct, he reluctantly decided. The tracks belonged to the same person.

  But if someone had recently come back to the house, wouldn’t there be more lights inside? Was it reasonable to believe that the person who lived there had gone to bed early on Christmas Eve, a night most Americans obsessed about because of gifts they were eager to receive?

  What time is it?

  Andrei pushed back the sleeve of his ski jacket and exposed the face on his digital watch. Obeying a habit from the military, he was careful to shield the watch with his hand before he pressed a button that caused its red numbers to glow. Quickly, he released the button and extinguished the glow.

  The numbers showed 9:41.

  If whoever lived in the house was elderly, it wouldn’t be out of the question for him or her to go to bed early on Christmas Eve, Andrei decided. The flickering light from the television suggested that someone was in bed, perhaps watching one of those sugary holiday movies like It’s a Wonderful Life, the title of which always made Andrei scoff.

  A wonderful life? The only true parts of that movie were the old guy losing the bank’s money and the rich guy wanting to control the bank so he could charge high interest rates and take people’s homes. If the story had been true to life, the hero—what’s his name? James Stewart—would have succeeded in killing himself when he jumped into the half-frozen river.

  And why was he so damned skinny? Andrei thought. Did he starve himself? Only in America, where there’s so much food, do people starve themselves so they can be skinny. Go fight rebels in Chechnya on the half rations we were given. You’ll soon change your mind about wanting to be skinny.

  Without warning, the Pakhan’s angry voice shouted through the earbud under Andrei’s watchman’s cap.

  “Did you find him?”

  “Not yet,” Andrei murmured into the microphone concealed on his jacket, keeping his voice as low as possible.

  “When the clients learn we don’t have what they paid for—”

  “We’re searching as hard as we can.”

  “If I’m forced to return the money, I swear I’ll help them track you down.”

  “So you told me earlier. I haven’t forgotten.”

  I’ve never been disloyal to you, Andrei thought. I’ve always done more than you asked.

  “I just need a little extra time,” he said into the microphone, concealing his bitterness.

  “Koshkayob, you don’t seem to grasp how little time you have.”

  Andrei’s stomach hardened. He resented the insult as much as he hated being threatened—but nowhere near as much as he was furious that the Pakhan had chosen to support the outsiders against him.

  “I can’t talk any longer.” Anger more than necessity made

  him end the transmission abruptly.

  He turned and faced the snow-hazed lane along which he’d searched. As he went back the way he’d come, he knew he needed to hurry to rejoin Mikhail and Yakov, to search other places, to make up for the time he’d squandered.

  But some instinct kept him from rushing.

  The house appeared again, this time on his right. Again he studied it as he passed, moving closer so he’d be able to see through the gloom. The flickering light from the television. The Christmas-tree lights. The lessening flames in the fireplace. The coming and going footprints. The gate.

  The gate.

  There was something about it, something that nagged at him, but he couldn’t decide what it was. He kept walking until once more he was out of sight from the house. He stopped, turned, and crouched, making sure his head was below the top of the fence.

  He crept toward the gate, taking pains to stay down.

  In his stooped position, the back of his neck was exposed to the chill of the falling snow. Nonetheless, he barely registered the sensation, so intent was he on the gate. He shifted closer, and the upright cedar limbs became larger before him. There was something about them. Something out of place. Something he couldn’t leave without checking.

  Reaching the gate, he sank to his knees in the snow. Ignoring the cold that seeped through his pants, he brought his face close to the gate and the bark on the limbs. He gazed up toward the snow that had accumulated on their sawed-off tops.

  Some of the snow had fallen, dislodged by the motion of the gate. That was to be expected. Whoever had opened the gate might even have brushed against the snow on the top, causing more to fall off.

  Brushed against the gate, Andrei thought.

  He strained his eyes in the pale light that was reflected by the snowfall. The gate swung inward to the left. It wouldn’t be unusual for someone’s left side to brush against the gate when going through.

  Concentrating, he found a dark smear near the bolt that secured the gate.

  Excitement built in him. The smear was at the level of a man’s arm. He had barely noticed it and almost dismissed it when he’d walked past, attributing it to a discoloration in the wood.

  Now electricity seemed to shoot along his nerves when he touched a gloved finger to the smear and found that some of it stuck on the leather. Dark-colored, it was semisolid liquid, on its way to being frozen.

  In the shadows, Andrei couldn’t distinguish the color, but he had no doubt that this was blood.

  * * * * *

  “ISLAMIC TERRORISTS thanked Allah when they found the Russian mob, Paul. In Middle Eastern countries, Al-Qaeda radicals don’t look any different from the people around them, who just want to be allowed to lead their lives in peace. But if they leave their native countries and try conducting operations in the West, they stand out.

  “Before 9/11, they could move freely among us. We welcomed visitors. We were innocent. Now Middle Eastern terrorists know they’ll be profiled if they do anything that’s even the slightest bit unusual, so they need somebody else who can do the blood work for them, someone who blends.

  “Finding Westerners to cooperate with them used to be nearly impossible. After all, even the most callous criminal still has an instinct not to foul his nest. I’m not talking about love of country, Paul. That concept’s too noble for the element we’re talking about. But nearly everyone, no matter how corrupt, will refuse to do something that endangers his own tiny corner of the world—his neighborhood, his street, his house or apartment. It’s basic self-preservation.

  “Except for the Odessa Mafia, Paul. They’re so detached from their adopted country that they don’t even care about their homes. If they get paid enough to plant a dirty bomb in Manhattan, a bomb that’s guaranteed to spread radioactive fallout to where they live in nearby Brighton Beach, they’ll just pack up and move before they detonate the bomb. Pay them enough, and they’ll do anything.

  “And it’s not only Al-Qaeda they’ll work for. They’re also taking money from Hamas.”

  * * * * *

  “THERE’S A MAN outside the house,” Cole said.

  Kagan froze in the middle of but
toning his shirt. In the faint glow from the night-light, he doubted that he could be seen through the curtains that covered the kitchen window. Even so, he moved deeper into the room.

  His normal pulse rate was sixty-five beats per minute. He now estimated that it was one hundred and ten and getting faster. Chest tight, he picked up his parka from the kitchen table and felt the reassuring weight of the gun in the right pocket.

  He stopped at the archway that led into the living room.

  “What do you see?”

  “A man.” Cole’s voice was faint.

  Only one? Kagan thought. No, there’d be more. Then the idea occurred to him that his hunters might have split up to cover more area.

  Or maybe this is a false alarm.

  “Cole, remember, don’t seem to pay any attention to him. Just keep showing interest in the snowfall.”

  “I’m not at the window. He doesn’t know I’m watching him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m sitting in a chair that’s away from the fireplace and the lights on the tree. It’s dark here. He can’t see me.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Hey, I’m only a little kid. Nobody pays attention to a little kid, scrunched down in a chair. But I don’t know how he could see me.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Just walking past. It’s like he was looking at the Christmas lights and the snow. Now he’s gone.”

  “Maybe he is just enjoying the lights and the snow. Could be he lives around here.”

  “We moved here at the start of the summer. I don’t know all the neighbors, but I haven’t seen him before.”

  “Maybe he’s visiting someone. Describe him.”

  “I couldn’t see him clearly. He’s tall—I saw that much. Big shoulders. He has a cap pulled down over his ears. It’s shaped like his head.”

  “It’s called a watchman’s cap.” Kagan felt the shadow of death passing by. “What color is his coat?”

  “It has snow on it, but I think it’s dark.”

  “What about his cap? Is that dark, too?”

  “It’s got too much snow on it. I can’t tell.”

  Don’t let the boy sense what you’re feeling, Kagan thought.

  “That’s the right thing to say, Cole. Always admit if you don’t have an answer. A spy once wanted to keep his job so much that he told his bosses what they wanted to hear instead of the truth. It caused the world a lot of trouble. Which direction did the man come from?”

  “The right.”

  From Canyon Road, Kagan thought.

  Cole spoke again. “A dark—what did you call it—watchman’s cap? Does one of the guys looking for you wear one? Wait a second. Here he comes again. From the left now. He’s going back the way he came.”

  Kagan wanted desperately to step into the living room, to crouch and try to get a look through the window. But he didn’t dare risk showing himself.

  “He seems in a hurry this time,” Cole said.

  Kagan understood. Whoever was out there—almost certainly Andrei, given Cole’s description—had followed all those footprints until the final set led him to this house. But Kagan’s trick had worked, and Andrei had decided that the same person had made both sets, coming and going.

  Now he’s angry that he wasted time.

  “He’s gone again,” Cole said.

  “That’s good. But keep watching.”

  In the background, Judy Garland sang, “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” The only other sounds were the crackle of a log in the fireplace and the whimper of the baby.

  Need to keep him from crying.

  Careful to hide his tension, Kagan turned from the archway and faced the kitchen, where Meredith held the child.

  “How’s that mixture coming?” he asked.

  Meredith stood a careful distance from a pot on the stove, holding the baby away from the flame.

  “I’m heating it. But how do I feed him? I don’t have a bottle with a nipple on it.”

  “Do you have a shot glass?”

  “Somehow, I think I can find one.” Her voice had an edge to it.

  Kagan noticed that she frowned toward a whiskey bottle on the counter. The bottle was almost empty. A shot glass sat next to it.

  “I see what you mean.”

  “I hope you’re not going to start drinking,” she said.

  “Not to worry.” Kagan took the glass and stayed to the side of the sink, away from the window, while he used hot water to rinse the alcohol from the glass. “A baby can sip from something small like this.”

  “No. When Cole was born, his pediatrician told me not to offer him a cup until he was four months old.”

  “Actually, a baby can sip from a tiny container soon after birth.”

  “You’ve got to be making this stuff up,” Meredith said. “Do you really expect me to believe this is something else you learned from the World Health Organization?”

  “It works. The trick is how you do it.” Kagan went to her and pretended to put a hand behind the baby, demonstrating the technique. “Tilt him slightly back like this. Keep a hand behind his head to protect his neck. Hold the shot glass against his upper lip. Don’t pour. That’ll make him gag. If you let him control how much he sips, he’ll do fine.”

  After a wary glance toward the window, Kagan went over to the stove and stirred the mixture, dissolving the sugar and salt. The spoon scraped against the pot.

  “Cole, any sign of movement out there?” Despite Kagan’s outward calm, he estimated that his pulse rate was now one hundred and twenty. His arteries felt the pressure that expanded them.

  “No,” the boy said.

  “You’re doing a good job. Keep watching.”

  The baby squirmed as if it might start crying.

  Kagan quickly used the spoon to dribble some of the mixture on the inside of his wrist. “Slightly warm. It’s ready.” He turned off the stove and spooned the mixture into the shot glass. “I filled it to the one-ounce mark. We can measure how much the baby’s drinking.”

  Meredith held the baby the way Kagan had shown her, protecting his neck from tilting too far back.

  “Here we go, little fellow.” She took the glass from Kagan. “Does he have a name?”

  Kagan didn’t reply.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I guess it’s not something I should know.”

  “Actually, I was never told his name.” Although Kagan’s instinct was to avoid revealing information, in a way it no longer mattered. If the men outside got their hands on Meredith, the outcome would be brutally the same whether she knew anything about the baby or not.

  He changed the subject.

  “You’re dressed like you were going to a party.”

  “The parents of a boy Cole goes to school with invited us to their house.” Meredith sounded weighed down by thoughts of what might have been.

  “Will you be missed?” Kagan asked quickly. “Will they wonder what happened to you? If they can’t reach you on the phone, maybe they’ll become concerned enough to—”

  “Before Ted smashed the phones, he called them and claimed Cole was sick.”

  “Ah.” Kagan’s tone went flat. “Ted’s a clever man.”

  “Yes. A clever man.” Meredith took a deep breath and looked down at the baby. “I’d forgotten what it feels like to have something this helpless in my arms. That’s right, little fellow. Keep sipping. I bet you’re thirsty. Don’t worry. We’ve got plenty, and it’s all for you.”

  “Not quite,” Kagan said. Dehydrated from bleeding, he was terribly aware of his own thirst. He reached into the first aid kit, opened a container of Tylenol, and shoved four tablets into his dry mouth. Crouching to prevent his silhouette from showing at the window, he went back to the stove, tested the saucepan’s handle to make sure he wouldn’t burn himself, and poured some of the mixture into a glass he found next to the sink.

  He took two deep swallows and got the pills down. He tasted the salt and the sugar.
Instantly, his stomach cramped, aggravating the nausea produced by his wound. He waited, then took another swallow, feeling his mouth absorb the warm fluid.

  “See anything, Cole?”

  “It really looks like he went away,” the boy said from the living room.

  “Keep watching anyhow. It never hurts to be cautious. Spies can’t take anything for granted.”

  “I keep changing the channel on the radio you gave me, but I don’t hear anything. Maybe I’m not doing it right.”

  “If you play video games, I’m sure you can work that receiver.” The microphone in Kagan’s pants pocket was too far from his mouth to transmit his voice if Andrei happened to be listening on the frequency the team had first used. “Those men won’t talk unless they need to. There’s only a slight chance that you’ll turn to the frequency they’re using at the moment they happen to be talking. But we’ve got to try

  everything. You’re doing fine.”

  Kagan switched off the night-light, noting that Meredith trusted him enough now that she didn’t object. Concealed by the deeper shadows, he opened the curtains a couple of inches.

  Through the falling snow, he was able to see the upright poles of the coyote fence. He watched for movement in the shadows beyond it.

  “Meredith, describe the layout of the house.”

  * * * * *

  ANDREI CRAWLED hurriedly through the snow along the bottom of the fence. His breathing quickened as the heat of the renewed hunt dissipated the cold on his cheeks. When he was far enough down the lane that he felt safe to stand, he did so and peered up at a utility pole.

  Two wires led from it toward the house. In the faint reflection off the snow, he strained his eyes and saw that one of them was attached to an insulator on the pole—that was for electricity. The other wire was either for telephone service or for cable television. Then he remembered the satellite dish he’d seen on the roof and decided that the remaining wire must be for the phone.

  In adequate conditions, his marksmanship was exceptional. But now it took him four shots before a bullet connected with the thick wire at the pole and blew it apart. Because of the falling snow, the sound suppressor on his gun was even more muffled than usual, and the sound of hitting the wire wasn’t enough to attract attention.