The Witch Who Came In From The Cold: The Complete Season 2: The Complete Season 2 (The Witch Who Came In From The Cold Season 2)

by Lindsay Smith

  “Tell me about it.” Frank winced and swallowed down some more coffee. “All year, there’s been something in the air. You’ve read Pritchard’s files, right?”

  Edith nodded. He’d figured as much. He wasn’t sure if it comforted him that Gabe was still part of her investigation or not.

  “I tried to go easy on him at first. His troubles last assignment—well, they made for an easy explanation when he kept screwing up, you know. But there’s a story there, and I can’t seem to catch hold of it.”

  “A story beyond what’s in the report?” Edith stirred her coffee thoughtfully.

  “Yeah. And I don’t think he left whatever happened in Cairo behind him.”

  Glancing out the window, he caught sight of a light-colored head approaching the bar. But it wasn’t Gabe—it was one of the girls they’d pegged as a KGB agent six months back. It wasn’t like she did much to hide it, anyway. She paused in front of the Vodnář’s entrance and glanced around. Up. Up toward the window where he and Edith sat. Instinctively, Frank pulled his head back from the glass, though he knew she couldn’t see him. She shouldn’t be able to see him.

  “Well,” Edith said, “I suppose I’ll find out soon enough. I’m supposed to shadow your Hardy Boys next week.”

  Frank had no doubt which two miscreants in Prague Station she meant. “Good luck with that.”

  She swallowed down her coffee and stood. “Well, I’ll leave you to your lurking. But do me a favor, Drummond.”

  Frank stifled a groan.

  “Next time you want to interfere with my work,” she said, “at least give me the courtesy of a warning.” She picked up her tray. “It’s hard to build trust around here when even those who aren’t on my list won’t keep me in the loop.”

  “Glad to know I’m not on your list,” Frank said.

  Edith smiled thinly. “I hope you’ll keep it that way.”

  • • •

  “Kazimir.” Josh tugged the middle card loose from his hand and placed it facedown in the discard. “You, my friend, are done for.”

  Kazimir cursed as he slammed his pair of jacks faceup onto the rickety board that served as their table. “Bah! I think you will find you are mistaken.” With an overzealous grin, he lifted the pendant dangling from his neck and kissed it.

  Josh suppressed the instinctive frown that sprang to his face. The pendant didn’t look like a saint’s medallion or any of the other religious jewelry he’d seen Kazimir’s associates wear. Josh looked back at his hand and the triple queens it held. Tapped his finger against their front.

  “Fine, you caught my bluff.” He pulled the other two cards—a red four and black five—and tossed them toward Kazimir. “Next time, though …”

  Kazimir scooped the chips toward him with a grin. “Maybe next time,” he said, “we play for something more.”

  Hell, as long as Kazimir wanted a next time, Josh couldn’t very well complain. He stretched his legs out, then gathered up the cards to shuffle before Kazimir could glimpse what else had been in his hand. “Your necklace,” he said calmly—small talk while he shuffled. “What’s it mean?”

  Kazimir fingered the charm as his smile faded. “Old family superstition. For protection and luck, yes?”

  The cards clacked together. “Does it work?”

  “I guess we will find out.”

  This was the opening he needed. Hold it together, Josh. You can do this. “Someone in particular you need protection from?” he asked. Lightly enough that Kazimir could brush him off if he wanted, but earnestly enough that he could see it as a hand extended to help him up. He’d be whatever Kazimir needed him to be.

  “Maybe,” Kazimir said, picking up his cigarette. “Maybe not. Same people always. Breathing down our necks. But you, your friends—you’ll help with that.”

  Josh winced. He could press, but he wasn’t sure he should. “Are they really on your case?”

  “You come to the fight in a couple nights,” Kazimir continued. “You see for yourself.”

  Josh’s taut nerves slackened. “You think they’ll make trouble?”

  “You will help me if they do?” Kazimir countered.

  Point, Josh thought. “That’s what friends are for.”

  The Witch Who Came In From the Cold

  Season 2, Episode 6

  Talisman

  Fran Wilde

  Prague, Czechoslovak Socialist Republic

  April 20, 1970

  1.

  Josh Toms parked the Moskvich he’d borrowed from Gabe on one of Holešovice’s industrial alleys, just down from the warehouse that hid Kazimir’s boxing lair. He strolled past low-slung buildings that bordered the busy river port at the Vltava’s meander just north of the city.

  Should have brought a pair of boxing gloves, or a gym bag, he thought. That would have given him a good excuse for others seeing him visit the basement again during his lunch break. He didn’t try any harder than usual to look nonchalant, nor did he speed his steps. He was merely heading to a run-down warehouse, alone, and he was certainly not carrying a strange package from another foreign agent without knowing what it was.

  Wouldn’t that give Edith Lowell the pip, if she knew what Josh was doing. Frank, too. The package weighed his pocket down a little, though certainly not as much as a gun would have. The contents were harmless; Alestair had said so. A small gift for Kazimir: toys for his niece.

  The toys smelled like cedar, lavender, and something metallic. The wrapping crackled.

  Josh knew he wanted to trust Alestair. He knew that Alestair would never deliberately walk him into harm’s way. And he knew that Kazimir didn’t have a niece.

  You come to the fight in a couple nights, Kazimir had said. Sure. Then Alestair had asked him to bring Kazimir a package, and Josh had said sure to that too. He had to go back to the warehouse anyway: He needed a confirmation on the barge and, as well as things had gone the last time he saw Kazimir, he didn’t have that yet. Doing things in person—friendly, like Gabe suggested—had worked well so far. So here he was again.

  The gravel crunched beneath Josh’s shoes—new ones, still needed a little breaking in—and he smelled the river nearby before he saw it. The Vltava here flowed slowly around the land’s bulge, and the wind followed the water, carrying the scent of city metals mixed with thick, fishy river muck. The port intruded here too: tendrils of grease and the occasional gust of spices—paprika today, from the way it wrinkled Josh’s nose.

  A repetitive clank-clank-clank set Josh’s teeth on edge as another burden was lowered to a barge somewhere out of sight. Ships’ engines stuttered to action. With a whistle, the distant Smíchov lock signaled an imminent opening. The port was busy. Josh wondered again at how skillfully Kazimir had positioned himself at the crossroads of industry and export.

  A valuable thing for a man without a niece.

  Josh kept his hands casually at his sides. Didn’t reach into his coat pocket to check that the “gift” was still there. Of course it was still there.

  He turned the corner that led to the back entrance of Kazimir’s warehouse. He’d barely had time to knock when the door swung wide, and there was Kazimir himself, grinning.

  “Joshua, you honor us again. You are early though. The fights are tomo—”

  “I’ll be back for the fights,” Josh interrupted. All he wanted was to get inside. “It’s about our business arrangement,” he said, lowering his voice to a murmur, “and I have something from a friend.”

  Kazimir’s face didn’t change, but the light in his eyes seemed to harden for just a moment, then it sparkled again. He laughed. “Excellent. Come in!”

  The Czech led Josh down the stairs, through the back hall, and into the main room—a typical warehouse basement, except that this one featured a well-stocked bar and a fully outfitted boxing ring.

  This afternoon, only a few wooden chairs and tables remained from the previous night’s fight. The bar’s thick layer of bottles glittered in the light that came throu
gh the high basement windows. The ring itself was as professional-looking a setup as might be found in any arena: six meters square, thick blue and red ropes cinched tight to padded posts ringing a plump canvas mat that had seen more than a few heads hit it hard.

  At one of the tables nearby, Kazimir’s radio whistled and growled softly. The Czech bent to adjust the knobs. “There is a fight in the United States between Olivares and Castillo I wanted to hear. Can’t find the right—” Kazimir’s hand twisted the radio’s knobs again, left and right, the tiny machine like a toy in his hands. The garbled words grew clear. “Ah!” Kazimir clapped his hands together with thunderous delight.

  “And he’s down!” The radio announcer said. “That’s the fight, folks! Olivares takes the bout in fifteen rounds. A stunner!”

  “Sakra! Always the timing is bad for fights. Even rebroadcasts. You do not think you could talk to someone?” Kazimir smiled sadly at Josh.

  “I don’t think so.” Josh shrugged. “Not any more than you can change the direction of the Vltava.”

  “Up next,” the radio said, “a rebroadcast of a classic: Johansson-Patterson, 1959.” An incongruous Strauss waltz picked up in the middle of a beat and played weedily in the background.

  Kazimir’s face brightened. “This one is also an excellent fight. They play it many times because it is so good. We will listen to it together! Moment.” He jumped up, leaving Josh alone with the radio.

  Josh knew he should get back to the office once he’d discharged his duties. But he liked Kazimir. He liked their card games—always learned from them. And he was even beginning to like boxing.

  Without asking, Kazimir deposited two small glasses of borovička on the water-stained table. His chair creaked as the big man sat, then put his forearms on the table and leaned in. “Begin,” he said.

  Josh smiled. Conversations with Kazimir were easier than those with some of his colleagues these days. Kazimir wasn’t on a witch hunt of any kind, nor was he one to hide his emotions. “We’re interested in moving forward with the barge shipment very soon. We need to know how many men you can provide for loading and security, and how fast we can get away from the docks once our cargo is loaded.”

  Kazimir looked hesitant. “The cigarettes are the only cargo, yes?”

  “Yes.” Josh didn’t go into details. Truth was, he didn’t know, didn’t need to know. He was just a delivery guy.

  For two different countries. Josh swallowed.

  The waltz played on.

  “We can do this thing for you. And someday you can help Kazimir.”

  Josh nodded. “As I said.”

  “No contracts.” Kazimir lifted his glass.

  Josh did the same. They signed the agreement in glass and borovička. The radio crackled, the music fading in and out.

  At the back of the basement came the rhythmic sound of a boxer pounding the practice bags hard: thud thud thudthudthud. Whoever it was, that bag was taking serious heat, Josh thought.

  “That your heavy hitter for tomorrow night?” he asked his host.

  “Nadezhda? Maybe, maybe. Someday.” Kazimir chuckled. “We have lots of heavy hitters. Maybe you sometime also, eh, Josh?” He reached over and squeezed Josh’s biceps. “We could teach you some footwork, some uppercut.”

  Josh wondered at the name. Nadezhda. It didn’t sound Czech. It sounded Russian. He frowned. Then he echoed Kazimir: “Sometime, maybe.”

  With a smooth gesture, Josh withdrew the packet from his coat pocket while Kazimir’s arm-squeeze gave him physical cover. Not that there was anyone in the basement to see. The boxer had no line of sight, thanks to the heavy bag. Josh knew he was clear to make the pass, but knowing wasn’t what mattered. Caution mattered. Not knowing exactly what he passed also usually didn’t matter, but this time, strangely, it did. “For your niece.”

  The packet left a musty scent on Josh’s fingertips when he pressed it too hard.

  Kazimir grasped the packet under the table with his other hand, pocketed it. His eyelid twitched minutely, a microexpression Josh had trained himself to notice. The big man glanced at the warehouse’s blank wall, then released Josh’s arm and slapped his shoulder hard. “You keep many friendships, Joshua.”

  Josh felt heat creep from his neck to his cheeks and threw back the rest of the borovička to cover for himself. Kazimir’s comment hit Josh like a hard cross. He was acting like a featherweight, clandestine jobbing for another nation, while justifying it as helping out an ally. He’d just broken so many codes of conduct. But for what? So Alestair didn’t have to do the work himself? The drink tasted almost like gin, but not enough. The dissonance made Josh grimace. Someday he’d need to move like a heavyweight. Maybe it was time to start training.

  “Any reply?” he asked, knowing if there had been one, he would have had it in the pass. He was more than curious. Kazimir was his asset. Alestair had asked an unusual favor and Josh was intrigued. Risk of the profession.

  “Maybe, maybe later,” Kazimir grinned. “You are more than you appear, Joshua. And my niece will enjoy her gift.” He clinked his glass against Josh’s one last time, just as the radio shifted to the announcer, already in progress, calling the fight. “They always forget to switch over,” Kazimir grumbled. “It is like two sides trying to play the channel at once.”

  • • •

  The broadcast of the 1959 fight eventually collapsed into hisses and pops, then fell silent between rounds three and four. Kazimir’s “Do prdele,” was softer this time, and more resigned. He watched, distracted, as another boxer joined the first by the bag.

  Josh caught a glimpse of the talented boxer from the last fight he’d attended, the powerful woman with muscles wound like coils beneath her bronze skin. She approached the working bag like one would approach an enemy. Stopped just out of striking range, assessing. Then, her entire body still and calm, she reached out and stilled the bag with one taped hand.

  The punches kept coming from the other side and the woman’s arm flexed and juddered with the impact like a machine. Then, for the moment, the hits stopped. Josh heard a muffled voice, raised in anger. Van’s response—he remembered her name finally—was to pound the bag hard from her own side. “Fine.”

  Kazimir looked at Josh from beneath lowered eyebrows. “There is nothing about that ‘fine’ that is fine, I think.” The big man rose, then ambled over to the training bag.

  Before he could get there, Van spun and walked from the room, tearing the tape from her hands, her jaw set tight.

  The radio crackled again. “And here we go with round—” Crackle. “Johansson is leading Patterson around the ring like a pet dog, my friends. He’s got him on the ropes now and—” Crackle pop …

  In the meantime, the punctuation of each uppercut and fade at the punching bag gave way to a faster tattoo of hits. Whoever was working the equipment was very focused. Or very angry.

  As the boxer rounded the bag, Josh took in the dark hair and tall, muscular form, clearly defined by her boxing outfit: a sweat-damp black tank top and men’s shorts. Josh turned away. Of course. It was the KGB woman to whom he’d given away a bit too much in the hallway that tense night. Nadia was the Russian diminutive for Nadezhda. Just his luck, that she’d be here today, of all days.

  Josh could feel the tension stacking up on his shoulders. What had he walked into? He knew he’d been careful, but had he been careful enough with someone like Nadia around? She couldn’t have heard anything. Had she seen the pass? She might have. Or she could have sniffed it out from how long he’d been sitting there with Kazimir before the fight broadcast. No one was that interested in Strauss.

  Dammit, Josh knew he had better tradecraft than this. Alestair’s out-of-the-blue request that he relay the package, all the friction in the office, still, between Frank and Gabe, and now Edith, snooping everywhere, was getting to him. Josh stood, his coat catching on the splintered edge of his seat and toppling his chair with a clatter.

  The rhythmic punches stopped and Nadia t
urned to look for the source of the sound, but to Josh’s relief, Kazimir returned at just that moment to right the chair, blocking her view from the ring. After a moment, she went back to punching.

  Josh smiled. “Thanks for the drink.”

  “We will take good care of you here, Joshua,” Kazimir said. “You won’t fight until you’re ready.” He leaned closer. “Bring some friends to the boxing tomorrow night, yes?”

  Thud thud thud went the bag.

  Josh smiled again, and nodded. “And the other thing, you’ll take care of also.”

  “Of course, we drank to it,” Kazimir grinned. “All is well.”

  The repeated blows to the bag ceased. Nadia picked up a jump rope. The line whirred through the air as she whipped it over and around. Speed and sound combined to make it seem more weapon than rope.

  Josh cleared his throat. Then he shook Kazimir’s hand, and took the front stairs rather than pass her.

  Once outside, he walked along the river. The sun was setting, turning the buildings of Prague a dark purple, and glazing the river in golden hues. A chunk of ice floated in the water, like a ghost of the long winter, the dimming light painting it a deep orange, shading toward crimson.

  Josh shivered in the warm air and headed back to the office with tension gripping his shoulders. He had to file an ops report. Add a few lines for unexpected foreign contacts too. Make sure everything was done just right. Edith was tearing through the files looking for irregularities like a sharp knife, and Josh didn’t want to get nicked.

  • • •

  “Pritchard! My office.”

  Gabe looked up from the mountain of paperwork Edith had them going through and stifled a groan. From Frank’s tone, what was coming didn’t sound good.

  But once he got to Frank’s windowed office in the agency’s corner of the embassy—a space created by gaps between walls, almost literally—Gabe’s boss just said, “I went by that bar of yours; nice place.”

  Gabe looked up. Frank had been talking to Jordan?

  “Strange place, too. Owner seems partial to you.” Frank coughed. “But plenty of shady customers. Your friend was a little edgy. Before any more”—Frank gestured at the door—“investigations become necessary, I’d like you to get a sense of any new players who might be in town. So we’re not surprised.”