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

  Josh’s lips tightened. He nodded. “Good point.”

  “Your op, buddy. I’m just saying.”

  Josh nodded again, without looking at Gabe. He straightened his lapels, looked left, then right, as if crossing a damn street, then walked out from behind the car, over toward Kazimir.

  “Frank needs to get that boy back behind a desk,” Edith said. “Soon.”

  “I thought you were on board with him leading the op.”

  “I’m behind him surviving it. Which meant encouraging him. But I like to be realistic about this sort of thing.”

  “He can handle himself.”

  “He can.” She nodded. “But I’ve read his reports, remember. He’s a better analyst than he’ll ever be a field agent. Back at the desk, he’ll save lives. Keep him out here, and he’ll get himself killed—or someone else.”

  “Whaddaya know.” Gabe sat on the car hood beside her, and set his feet on the bumper. “You do care.”

  Josh approached Kazimir, walking fast. They talked briefly. Kazimir didn’t nod, since nodding would have required possession of a neck. But he gave the impression of nodding, and moved among the men, while Josh scuttled back to the car. Gabe didn’t know what the big man whispered, but the Czechs relaxed.

  “See? Gabe raised his fingers at Josh as the kid came back. “He’s fine.” He wished he had a cigarette. Skinny started on his second pack, and Gabe let himself indulge in a little recreational hatred. He took up his post, and so did Josh, and neither spoke.

  An engine roared, and a truck rolled into view. The Czechs tensed again. If Josh hadn’t said anything, maybe someone would have been jumpy on the trigger finger, maybe there would have been gunfire. Then again, maybe not. You never knew in this business. All you could do was your best, and then the other guy did his best, and chaos fucked you both.

  Depressing? Maybe. But Gabe liked knowing where he stood in life.

  The sentry who’d let them in jogged up the ramp, unlocked the gate, and dragged it open. A large grave-gray truck backed down the ramp, brake lights glaring red. The driver stuck her head out the window. Gabe blinked. She was at once the most nondescript woman he could imagine—a face that was a face, indeterminate cheekbones, a mouth roughly mouth-sized and shaped, dishwater-brown hair that might have been blonde in the right light, a person whose features were such that a forensic sketch artist would have frowned in her chair and said, “What else do you remember?”—and, without a doubt, precisely, Nadia Ostrokhina.

  The truck stopped. The side door opened. A man in a hat, who both was and was not Alestair, rounded the truck and approached Kazimir. Gabe glanced left, to Josh, who didn’t seem to notice anything. Must be seeing through this whatever-it-was because of his elemental hitchhiker. Illusions—huh. Nice trick. He’d have to ask Alestair to teach him, later.

  Not-Alestair and Kazimir exchanged code phrases. At Kazimir’s signal, dockhands jogged to the truck and opened the back.

  Nadia marched to the rear of the truck, directing workers—No, no, in Czech. Even her voice was disguised by the magic—that was some good stuff, not to mention powerful. How many Hosts had they tapped for that? How had they done it without being noticed? Not like that, he heard her say.

  Five crates. They didn’t look too much like coffins, Gabe hoped. Two trips, and the Hosts would be safely in the barge. Half an hour on the outside, and this deeply uncomfortable situation would be over and he could have a drink or three, and sleep.

  He glanced at his watch, and didn’t see the fishing boat turn.

  • • •

  Tanya could not account for how she ended up inside Zerena Pulnoc’s house. Tanya had planned to knock on the door, place the folder in Zerena’s hand, and leave the moment the paper hit her palm, but when she knocked the door opened, and there was a smiling Zerena in slippers and a patterned housecoat over silk pajamas, and she said, “Darling, such a pleasure to see you,” and kissed her on both cheeks, and said, “Do come in,” so here Tanya was. Tanya would suspect magic if she didn’t know better. This had been too smooth, too easy, for magic. “I just poured a pot of tea.”

  “It’s late,” Tanya said. Color filled Zerena’s living room: the walls a soft Parisian café pink with a tasteful print of white vines, the runners glistening varnished wood, the ceiling molded peach plaster, her couch cushions cream and tangerine and gold-tasseled. There were flowers, of course there were, and red vines twined around the fine porcelain teapot. Zerena had dimmed the overheads; candles shed most of the room’s light.

  Zerena sat on the couch, folded one leg over the other, and leaned forward to pour the tea. Glossy golden hair spilled over her shoulder. “I know,” she confided as the teacup filled, “but I rarely sleep before two, anyway. If I’m to stay up late, I might as well be alert enough to read.” She looked up through the gold of her hair.

  “Here.” Tanya thrust the folder forward. That was how it happened, she realized: Zerena saw the offering, did not take it, and ushered Tanya inside. Tanya’s options were to walk away, bearing a folder she could be shot for possessing, or to follow the acolyte of Flame into her parlor.

  Zerena raised her eyebrows, as if Tanya had entered a ballroom with lipstick on her teeth.

  Tanya sat, faster than she liked, and set the folder on the table between them. She didn’t reach for a cup. Zerena did, and sipped, slowly, savoring. Tanya smelled it, even from here: a rich, dense, smoky scent. “What is this?”

  “Oolong.” Zerena trailed her fingers over the folder’s cover, slid her polished nails beneath its lip, and laid it open on the table, like a sacrifice for a haruspex to read. “This is … invaluable.”

  “What is it?”

  “Opposition research.” She spiced the phrase with a twitch of the lips, not quite ironic. “On my friends in the Flame. I’m so happy we have been able to work together. It’s a true pleasure to find someone who understands the world.”

  She’s recruiting you.

  The candle flames were too sharp, their reflections in Zerena’s eyes pinpoints, and the room’s plush warm colors hardened to a shell. “I’m sure we can be of further use to one another. But I really should be going.”

  “Afraid someone will wonder at our company? Don’t fret, my dear. My husband is not at home. And you are, after all, a cultural attaché, and there are many reasons you might wish to meet with the ambassador’s wife. I am a cultural animal.”

  “I was hoping”—to leave, and she should have done so before, but to leave now, under threat, would be to concede the field, to crumble beneath the weight of Zerena’s invitation, to admit there was nothing Tanya could gain here and she had been played all along—“I was hoping we could talk about Komyetski.”

  “Yes.” Zerena set down the teacup with a click. “Indeed. Well, our dear distracting Sasha feels far too comfortable with the current balance of power. It breaks to his advantage, but advantages turn—quickly.” She smiled. “Without clear rivals from within the embassy, he’s begun to use your office’s resources to plan private operations.” She flipped past the cover sheet to photos, maps. Perspectives on a riverbank. Tanya almost reached out and tore the pages from Zerena’s hand. She pressed her hands flat against the lap of her skirt—so obvious, she might as well have sat on them. Did Zerena glance up? Did the angle of those red lips change? Did she bear a millimeter more of gleaming tooth? “It appears some sort of smuggling ring wishes to make a move tonight, and Sasha and his friends plan to disrupt their business. So little subtlety—poor boy, he does what he can. But these pictures raise an interesting question for the eventual investigation: Why did Sasha Komyetski surveil this particular dockyard just before a criminal firefight took place?” Zerena closed the folder, and drew back with her cup of tea. In the process, she had shifted the folder slightly—just slightly—toward Tanya’s side of the table.

  Not smugglers. Ice operatives. Alestair. God. Nadia. Had this—could this have all been a ploy to pull her out of position? Tanya needed to ge
t out of here. But to rush out would damage her relationship with the asset. Whose asset, a voice inside her asked. And who is the asset here, and who the officer? Tanya forced herself to look into the green mirrors of Zerena’s eyes. Which might, itself, have been a mistake. “You aren’t worried about compromising your own position within the Flame?”

  Zerena looked differently startled—not lipstick on Tanya’s teeth, perhaps, but a touch too heavy on the blush, darling. “I have no idea what you mean. But, let us say, friends of Sasha’s are not necessarily friends of mine, and friends of mine are not necessarily friends of his.”

  Which was an answer, or an opening. Was Zerena asking for more help? Was she offering? Help? Or something else?

  Tanya realized she had crossed her legs, too—echoing Zerena, without noticing. Was she leaning forward?

  Zerena set her hand on Tanya’s. Tanya had not realized her hand remained on the table, beside the open folder, beside the diagrams of Prague. “You have worked for my ends, and I have helped you—I am helping you, really, doubly, as I’ve shared some details of my own plans, and those of my colleagues. And you know, as well as I do, that I have every interest in using this information to destroy Sasha Komyetski, and getting you out from under his fat little thumb. Business is business, and we have helped one another, and now we are free of all that, and can be two women, sitting at a table, drinking tea. Or,” she raised one eyebrow, and her teacup, “not, as you prefer.”

  Tanya’s mouth felt dry. Whatever this woman was, she wanted it—that composition, that power. She wanted to wear Zerena, to use her. She’d had little enough luck so far. “How is Andula?”

  “Angry.” Zerena shrugged, hands raised, what was to be done. “She has trust issues, poor girl. One more downside to working for others, rather than with others for yourself, my dear—your masters make you burn your bridges to save theirs. Our Andula’s fury tells me something of your skill. Only those with profound trust can feel so betrayed. That poor girl would have eaten from your hand, if you asked her.”

  And there it was. Tanya’s flush wasn’t entirely faked, but she could stand, at least, let some of the horror rise to her face. Let Zerena think she had overplayed her hand, or if not that, at least touched a nerve. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”

  “A rain check on the tea, then, my dear. Don’t worry.” Zerena gestured expansively to her bookcase, playfully resigned, as if she took no notice of Tanya’s distress. “I have plenty of friends to keep me company.”

  If she waved, Tanya didn’t see it. She was already through the door, and—not running, Zerena could see her from the window—walking fast, car keys in her hand.

  • • •

  Nadia paced the road, watching shadows, preparing for attack. The night clung dark and cold, even for spring, even for Prague, and while she’d cultivated Kazimir and his minions, she didn’t exactly trust them. Kazimir had given her a lighter—light this, and the guards will know you’ve seen something.

  She had considered possible avenues for ambush—if Nadia were in charge of the Flame, and had time to prepare, she would place a sniper or two on those rooftops opposite, perhaps find a way to flank them, even organize an attack from the water. Fortunately, the only boat out there she could see was too small to bear a meaningful force. A pity the Ice and their allies lacked the time or personnel to secure the area—but then, that was a familiar refrain in both the Ice and the KGB: If only we had more resources, we could have done more with them.

  She had not expected the attack to start with someone running straight toward the dock, alone.

  Nadia heard the footsteps first. She took shelter by the gate, in the guardhouse’s shadow, and lowered her hand to her gun.

  Then the woman rounded the corner.

  Nadia swore under her breath.

  Tanya crossed the street without looking, and ran toward the freight yard. Her eyes were wide, her breath fast; sweat gleamed in the streetlights.

  Nadia raised one hand, and hoped the Czech snipers knew how to read a caution signal. Then she reached out from the shadows and grabbed Tanya’s arm as she ran past.

  Tanya spun; her eyes narrowed, and before Nadia could respond she found herself doubled over into Tanya’s rising knee. She jerked away on reflex, grabbed the back of the other woman’s jacket, and pulled it down across her arms. Cursing—Of course, she doesn’t recognize me, she can’t recognize me, I’m still wearing the amulet. She hesitated one instant at the thought of what Kazimir’s crew would say or do if she suddenly changed features—but if she didn’t, Tanya would keep fighting, and those triggers would only stay un-pulled for so long.

  She reached for the amulet; Tanya tore free of her grip, and swung with a left hook—

  That Nadia blocked with the hand that held the charm.

  Tanya’s jaw slacked. “Nadia?

  Nadia waited for one of the crooks to get jumpy, waited for the bullet in her side, but it didn’t come. “What are you doing here?”

  “The Flame,” she panted, gulped air, continued. “Komyetski’s had this place under surveillance. They know, Nadia. They know.”

  There were too many questions—how did she learn this information, what had she given up to get it, was this really the only way to warn them—but there was no time to ask now. “Get behind me,” she said, and pushed Tanya against the gate, hoping the guards would get the point. Then she drew the lighter, and flicked it aflame.

  Behind, in the shipyard, she heard weapons raised, whispers of alert passed up and down the line. The dockyard tightened like a fist ready for a punch.

  Maybe it made a difference. She hoped it made a difference. She’d tell herself it must have.

  Either way, that was when the snipers opened fire.

  4.

  Josh saw the sentry flame, then the muzzle flash. Bullets winged off the pavement, scattering slivers of concrete. Mobsters took cover, fired back. Gunfire pierced the night. There had been a world of waves and silence, footsteps and breath, and all that drowned beneath the voices of the guns.

  He scrambled behind the car, took aim at the roofline, fired. Edith, beside him, shook her head. Her lips moved. He didn’t hear what she was saying.

  Kazimir’s snipers, in the cranes, traded fire with the gunmen on the rooftops across the way. But Gabe, Josh realized, wasn’t aiming for the rooftop. He was aiming for the gate.

  And under the noise of gunfire, Josh heard the roar of an approaching engine.

  The van hit the gate like a brick hitting a handkerchief—tore the chain link off its hinges and skidded, trailing sparks, into the freight yard. Side and back doors burst open, and men in balaclavas poured out, shouldering rifles. Bullets pitted the van’s side, but didn’t puncture—was the van armored? It didn’t seem heavy enough, the way it sat on its axles was wrong. But the sides stopped bullets all the same, and the balaclavas crouched behind them to return fire.

  Kazimir shouted to his men, waved his hands; a bullet almost took him, and he ducked behind a crate before a second could manage. The man from the truck, with the hat, seemed less worried than anyone: He produced a vicious handgun from his jacket, took shelter behind the truck, took aim, and dropped one of the balaclavas, neat as math.

  Motion from the corner of his eye: Gabe, waving to him. Saying something. “Flank.” Pointing at his own chest, pointing left, up the line, out of cover. Pointing to Josh, pointing right, past the van, to the ranks of crates where Kazimir was hiding. Edith said something, but Gabe shook his head. She took aim across the hood of the car instead, and snapped off four quick shots toward the van, with little effect.

  Josh ran.

  A bullet zinged past his ankle, and he felt the breeze of another in the vicinity of his back. God. He wasn’t breathing. He started breathing. The night tasted of smoke. Everything looked too bright, too bare. The crane sniper took out one of the guns on the rooftop. Good, good.

  The man with the hat goggled at Josh as Josh dashed toward Kazimir—Josh ignored him
. Too much to worry about, in this firefight. He stumbled near the crates, but Kazimir caught him, dragged him to safety.

  “Gabe—” Josh shouted. “Gabe thinks we should flank them!”

  Kazimir nodded. He fired the rest of his clip over the crate without looking, reloaded, then proceeded, crouched, up the line of cover, Josh doubled over behind him.

  Any second now, Josh expected, someone would throw a grenade, or the snipers up top would pick them off. He waited for the bullet he wouldn’t even feel. But he kept his feet, kept moving, until Kazimir sank to his knees and pulled Josh down, too, with one big hand.

  They’d reached the end of the row of crates, with an angle of fire on the balaclavas. Edith kept up her fire from behind the car. Where was Gabe?

  Josh caught a glint of sandy hair across the way: Gabe spread-eagled atop a pile of crates, beside the van. He’d snuck into position. Gun in hand. Gabe nodded.

  Josh tugged Kazimir’s arm, pointed. The big man grinned. “Is good! Now!”

  This time, Josh looked before he fired, and this time he winged one of the balaclavas. The guy stumbled forward—and Josh shot him in the side.

  It happened too fast for thought, and too easily for his conscience. He pointed the gun, and the man fell. He was dead, or he would die, and his death only cost Josh a few pounds’ pressure on a trigger. If they hadn’t been trying to kill him, he would have felt worse about the whole thing. As it was, he felt nothing. He would feel later.

  Weapons swung in their direction; bullets ricocheted off their cover. Gabe opened up on the balaclavas. A rooftop sniper swung toward Gabe—only to fall to a bullet from Kazimir’s sharpshooter in the crane.

  Josh stole another glance out of cover. The balaclavas, outflanked, tried to press forward, but Edith and the rest of the Czech mob had them pinned down. It was over. They’d mop up these assholes, whoever they were, get the cargo on the barge, and get the fuck out of town before the local cops could make the scene.

  Then an old man stepped out of the van.

  He wore a black turtleneck and a long black coat and a white silk scarf, and moved in that pitiless curved way cats moved.