The Witch Who Came in From the Cold - Season One Volume Two

by Lindsay Smith

  “Thanks so much for answering my call,” Gabe said, not bothering to conceal the American twang in his Czech. “These men are pretty banged up. Sets a piss-poor example for their motherland, don’t you think?”

  The police chief glanced over his shoulder toward Tanya before looking back to Gabe. “I am sure that will be for our Party representative to determine, after a complete investigation . . .”

  Tanya’s mouth worked, but no noise came out. He couldn’t be so bold. But no—of course he could. “You can’t take those men away. They are in the custody of the Soviet delegation!”

  “Miss, please, you are in hysterics,” the West German officer said, moving between Tanya and the quickly departing delegation. “I insist that you have a seat. Might I bring you a schnapps to calm your nerves?”

  “I don’t need your fucking schnapps!”

  “Honestly, miss, there is no need to be upset—the situation is handled—”

  Tanya reached into her clutch, hoping desperately that she’d brought her trusty flash-bang charm with her. No such luck. Only the invisibility charm she’d already depleted, and her favorite talisman for turning someone ever so slightly to her favor. But she suspected it would take more than an eyelash-bat and a limited talisman to get her way tonight.

  She grabbed a wine glass off the nearest table and threw it in his face.

  “What the fuck—” His words quickly dissolved into a snarl of multisyllabic Germanic compound swears. But Tanya didn’t stay to hear it; she was too busy chasing the paramedics and VB officers down the stairs.

  If Gabriel Pritchard thought he could sneak away with a Soviet scientist on her watch, he was about to learn he was sorely mistaken.

  4.

  Nadia stuffed her charms and sensors and talismans back into her satchel and moved toward the far end of the rooftop. Beneath her was a short alleyway, crowded with garbage bins and old crates. Nothing she particularly wanted to land on, but she could use them to cushion her fall if absolutely necessary. With luck, though, the construct had every intention of coming to her.

  The square of mica magnified energy, cheaply, while the silver wiring stored it and coiled it up long enough to sustain a decent charge. Based on what Nadia had found in the creatures she and Tanya had already dismantled, the Flame designed their constructs to home in on power amplification—the telltale “heat signature” of an awakened elemental. For a short while, at least, the construct should fix on Nadia the way it would a Host, following its instincts to pursue this new source of power and attempt to bring it to its Flame masters.

  At least, Nadia assumed that’s how it would go. She’d tried not to let it get that far in the past. But then, she’d never had a tool like Jordan had given her now.

  Part of her wondered why Jordan had been willing to give her the mica square—what conclusion she’d wanted Nadia to draw. It wasn’t like her to give knowledge away so willingly. Did she want Nadia to unmask the Flame agents behind the constructs, so the Ice could neutralize the source? Retribution, perhaps, for their threats against Bar Vodnář. Or maybe even a witch as stubborn as Jordan realized she could be neutral no longer.

  With a crunch of pebbles underfoot, the construct lumbered into the alleyway. Nadia stood stock-still on the lip of the roof, looking down at the creature. It would have seemed almost comical, if she hadn’t known its purpose: long rectangles of stone strung on wiring to give it it joints, like a stone scarecrow; white phosphorous eyes glowing in a lopsided face. Those eyes scanned upward, searching. Homing. And then it began to climb.

  Steady. Relentless. Stone crunching against stone as it continued along the straightest path toward Nadia.

  Nadia swallowed and braced herself. The construct was four meters down, now. Three. Two. Nadia gripped a handful of twigs bound in grass where it rested inside her satchel and uttered a protective word.

  The construct’s arm swung up and over the lip of the roof. Its face followed, studied her for a moment, head rotating slightly in a quizzical, almost canine expression.

  Opened its mouth.

  And every bone in Nadia’s body vibrated, struck by the same bass tone.

  • • •

  The strap on Tanya’s rhinestone-studded sandals snapped somewhere on the third flight of stairs. She kicked the broken sandal aside and hop-unbuckled the other as she ran from the Lichtenštejnský Palace, trying to catch up to the fleet of ambulances and boxy VB cars. Fortunately, the guards were working in her favor for once, more interested in keeping people out of the palace than in; no one tried to stop her as she ran barefoot onto the street, empty save for the ambulances.

  Metal on metal ricocheted through the cobblestones as a paramedic slammed the last ambulance door shut.

  “Wait.” Tanya hiked up a fistful of sequined gown and padded toward the ambulance. “Wait!”

  The ambulance’s engine turned over with a sputter, then it started down the road with a sharp wail.

  A thousand curses ran through Tanya’s mind. Charms, talismans—she had to have something. Her hairpins were embedded with bits of crystal; cheap copper wire bound the fake stones to the posts in her ears. She glanced down at the dirt wedged between the cobblestones. Well, at least she knew it was Czech soil.

  Tanya ripped an earring free with one hand while the other pulled one hairpin loose. After twisting the earring wire around the hairpin, she jammed the hairpin’s end into the gap between cobbles and uttered an ancient word.

  A column of dirt and stone shot up a few hundred meters ahead of her as the force of her spell knocked her backward. Tires screeched against stone, and something heavy thudded against the metal. Tanya scrambled to her feet, hands still tingling from the ley line energy that had passed through her. But the ambulance had withstood the dagger of earth that her spell had thrust upward. After a few precarious moments of swaying back and forth from the impact, it righted itself and sped on down the street.

  Tanya whirled back toward the Lichtenštejnský Palace, ready to claw Gabriel Pritchard’s eyes out. But he was nowhere to be found. She sought the nearest phone booth and dashed inside, hoping she had enough korunas wedged inside her clutch. The coins settled in the phone’s belly with a satisfying clunk. Her fingers shook as she spun the phone’s dial and cast through her mind for the right code phrase.

  So many code phrases. So many signals. For Ice and the KGB both. How had her grandfather managed it? How could anyone be expected to manage?

  The weak ringing sound halted as someone answered. “Slushayu.”

  “I am looking for Danilov.” Her voice wavered. Danilov indicated one of the highest levels of urgency. “He is supposed to meet me at the hospital.”

  “He should be arriving soon,” the operator answered. We will dispatch a team now.

  “I’ve already drunk four cups of coffee.” Four men. “An American man in the canteen is looking at me strangely.”

  “What kind of flowers should Danilov bring?”

  Tanya’s knuckles went white around the phone’s cord. She wedged herself into the far corner of the booth, out of the reach of the streetlamp, just as Gabriel Pritchard and his dark-haired younger friend passed along the other side of the street, strolling along, chatting as if they’d just watched a particularly experimental play.

  They were headed in the opposite direction of the hospital.

  “I—I’m very sorry.” Tanya swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I am afraid I was confused. I was not calling for Danilov.”

  She didn’t need a code book to translate the operator’s sigh: You’re really not following protocol here. “Is that so.”

  “Y-yes. I meant to call for Grikovsky.” Grikovsky—the observe only name.

  “Well, I’m sure he’ll be along soon.”

  “No flowers are necessary.” Tanya hung up the phone before the operator could respond.

  But if Gabe wasn’t trying to rush the scientists to the hospital for easy access, then what the hell had that brawl been abo
ut?

  As soon as Gabe had turned the corner, Tanya slipped out of the phone booth. In one direction, Pritchard and whatever he had planned next. In the other, the hospital, where three Soviet minders and one scientist were incapacitated and vulnerable to whatever nonsense the Westerners could concoct. She could tail Gabe, see where he led her, see what else, if anything else, he had planned for this evening. Or she could meet up with the observation team and defuse any threats at the hospital.

  Tanya shifted her bare feet on the cobbles and headed south toward the hospital.

  She had a feeling her long night had only begun.

  • • •

  Nadia scraped herself off the rooftop, blinking frantically. Gradually, the blur of dark around her settled into distinct shapes. Most important, however, was the shape that was missing.

  The construct.

  How long had she been unconscious? Where was the construct? What the hell had happened?

  Her sensors were still chiming in her bag, but fainter now. The construct was moving away. It must have seen through her ruse and activated some sort of—defensive system, maybe. Shit. The Flame were clever, she’d give them that. But she wasn’t done with their servant yet.

  Nadia wrenched the rooftop access door open and pounded down the staircase. Followed the fluctuations in the sensors west, drawing closer toward the river. Then she saw it, lumbering through the shadows. Each step dragging slower than the next. It started across the bridge that spanned the Vltava—

  But then, the moment it passed above the rushing river, it ground to a halt.

  • • •

  “Jesus, how do you stand this weather?”

  Radek ground his teeth together and refused to look at the American seated opposite him in the rowboat. He focused on the rhythmic splish and whump of the water as his oars entered it, pushed, and lifted free. He’d tolerated men like this before. He could tolerate many more. Certainly, for what they were paying him, he could listen to the usual derision. Just as he tolerated the rotting stench coming from the blanket-wrapped bulk, the size of a man, wedged between them in the rowboat.

  The American’s cigar puffed to life as he took another pull. “It’s disgusting,” he continued. “Like I’m perpetually getting sneezed on by Mother Nature. Jesus. And I thought the Washington humidity was bad.”

  Radek pretended he didn’t understand. He wondered why, when the American had gone to all the trouble to clothe himself in black, a balaclava even, he insisted on lighting that stupid cigar.

  “All right. Here we are. Pull up nice and slow.”

  “Yes, sir,” Radek muttered. They were not supposed to use names—he never did, when he was working these side jobs for the Americans—but this man had introduced himself straight away as Dominic. He feared nothing, this Dominic. Let his country see the Soviet tanks roll in and then he might learn the true meaning of fear.

  Radek brought the boat alongside the steep windowless wall of the Vltava-facing side of the Lichtenštejnský Palace. They were positioned beneath the balconies that jutted from the ballroom. In the distance, Radek heard the retreating wail of sirens, and above them, the chatter of a particularly rambunctious party. And yet the party threw no lights onto the Vltava’s surface. As if the power had been cut.

  No matter. Radek was not paid extra to understand what was happening. If anything, he was paid not to notice.

  So when something dark and heavy splashed into the water beside them from the balcony, Radek said nothing. He ignored the gasps of shock that spilled out of the ballroom. On Dominic’s count, he hoisted his end of the blanket-wrapped object up and together they dumped the contents overboard.

  The cloud of rot and decay that rose from it burned through Radek like cheap vodka, but this, too, he could ignore.

  All was silent for a few moments save the slow bubble as their package sank to the bottom of the shallow river. Then a new figure emerged, still safely hidden beneath the balcony’s cover, gasping for breath.

  Dominic held out a hand to help pull the man aboard. In his too-tight cheap suit, the newcomer slithered onto the rowboat’s floor like a fish.

  “How’d our friends do?” Dominic asked their new arrival.

  The man gasped for breath. “All three minders headed to the hospital with a police escort. Another of my colleagues, too.”

  Dominic nodded. “That’ll keep them busy for a while.”

  Radek stared at the dance of moonlight across the Vltava and did his best not to hear the conversation beside him. He needed only to wait for Dominic’s command. But for now, the American looked content to bask in the glow of a job well done. He reached into his breast pocket, and offered a fresh cigar to the man on the bottom of the boat.

  “For when we get you to the safe house,” Dominic explained. “Congratulations, Maks. You’re officially dead.”

  Episode 11: King’s Gambit Accepted

  by Ian Tregillis

  Smíchov, Prague

  February 27, 1970

  1.

  Two twenty-seven in the morning, somewhere behind the Iron Curtain: Footsteps creaking on a wooden dock. Wispy tendrils of moonlit fog dancing on the river. A trench-coated figure lurking in the shadows. The muffled echo of a two-stroke marine engine, slowly growing louder.

  Maybe I should light a cigarette, Josh thought. Just to complete the tableau.

  Binoculars. Butterflies in the stomach. Beads of sweat on the brow.

  Add a whiskey priest with a rotten tooth, and I could be in a Graham Greene novel.

  Even the Vltava had gotten in the mood, shrouding itself much like Josh in his trench coat. At least the coat served a purpose; the fog was pure affectation. Half an hour ago he’d been able to see clear across the river. Now the dock was an island in a silvery sea.

  Hell. They’d never discussed the possibility of pea soup. How would Dom find the dock? All their preparations, all their precautions to keep the Reds off-balance, and then in the end the river decided to throw them a curveball.

  It was as though the Vltava were patiently erasing everything beyond the dock, to make him forget the outside world. He imagined this was how it felt to stand upon the banks of Lethe.

  Well. Maybe it worked both ways. Maybe it would shroud them from their adversaries, too. Dom had insisted on this extraction route, after all, and he was the expert.

  Somewhere on the water, still dozens of yards out, the two-stroke cut off in mid-putter. It became the faint creak of oarlocks and the swish of oars. Dom was zeroing in, despite the fog. Josh suppressed a shiver of admiration. Guys like Dom and Alestair, guys who’d been around a while, they knew their business. It made him eager for the day when he was the experienced partner—inspiring younger officers with his confidence, impressing them with his stories. Oh, did Alestair have stories . . .

  “Antlers,” said a low voice on the water, closer than Josh had thought possible. Close enough to make him jump.

  “Goggles.” A single word. Low, controlled, confident. It pleased Josh to no end that his voice didn’t crack. He sounded like he belonged here.

  A pause for triangulation. The oarlocks changed their rhythm. The susurration of water against a wooden prow. The boat drew closer. Then, barely more than a whisper:

  “Peabody.”

  “WABAC.”

  A creak. A splash. A boat hove into view, ghostly fingers of mist grasping at the gunwales. Dom stood in the prow like Charon himself.

  The classicist in Josh wished he’d brought an obol to pay the ferryman. But, then again, how did it work when the ferryman retrieved somebody from the underworld? Ovid and Virgil were a little unclear on the matter of refunds. And anyway, Charon probably didn’t wear cable-knit turtlenecks.

  Dom gave a single nod. Terse. Josh returned the gesture, and then he caught the loop of rope that came sailing through the fog. Calm. Cool. Like you belong here. Josh looped it around the bollards while Dom maneuvered the boat against the dock with barely a scrape. Then the senior offic
er crouched between the thwarts and pulled back a tarpaulin. His passenger sat up, blinking and looking more than a little uncomfortable.

  ANCHISES: Maksim Sokolov.

  “This is our stop, doctor.”

  Dom whispered around the cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth. Maybe the cigarette wasn’t such a silly idea after all.

  He ushered the defector toward the dock, steadying him against the sway of the boat. Josh offered a hand. (Strong grip, he coached himself. Confident, steady, trustworthy.) Then he hauled Sokolov onto dry land.

  “Easy, doc. I’ve got you,” he said. And he did. Recognition dawned, softening the Russian’s expression. Good. The more relaxed he remained, the better.

  Dom said, “Vehicle?”

  Josh tipped his head toward the shore, where a replica police car waited in the shadows. “All clear.”

  Dom nodded. But rather than disembark so that Josh could release the lines and send the boat drifting downriver, he plucked the cigar from his mouth and tapped a dusting of ash along the keel and across the thwarts. For some reason it reminded Josh of a priest thumbing a cross on the forehead of an Ash Wednesday congregant.

  Sokolov frowned. “Why is he doing that?”

  Good question. It wasn’t part of the plan. “Dom?”

  “Everyone has their superstitions. Gabe has his flask. This is mine.” Tap, tap, tap. “Kinda like my trademark.”

  A board rattled underfoot. Josh caught himself fidgeting. Relax, he commanded himself. We built an hour of slack into the timeline. We can afford thirty seconds. Still . . .

  As if reading Josh’s anxiety, Dom said, “I once made the mistake of not doing this. It cost me.” More quietly, he added, “Not just me.”

  “And thus a ritual was born.”

  Dom narrowed his eyes, shot Josh an unreadable glance. But it passed as quickly as it came. “Got it in one.”

  Then he was out of the boat, cat-quick. Together they unlooped the lines from the bollards and tossed the coils aboard. Josh pressed the heel of one shoe against the prow—Don’t fall in; professionals don’t fall in—and pushed. Eddies of fog swirled about the boat as it slid into the current.