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

by Lindsay Smith

  They hustled Sokolov along the dock, across a narrow riverfront path, and into the alley where Josh had parked the car between a retaining wall and the shuttered doors of a vacant wool warehouse. Josh tossed the keys to Dom, then bundled the defector into the backseat.

  Dom started the car and eased it into gear.

  “Nice work, Toms.”

  It felt good.

  • • •

  Tanya ditched the car at sunrise, several blocks from the embassy.

  Throughout the night she’d berated herself. The constant grind of dip-circuit functions had left her tired and distracted; she’d neglected to load up on charms before attending yet another. Lazy. It was bad tradecraft. She’d had an inkling that Gabe and his comrades were up to something; she ought to have been proactive, prepared for anything. Like Nadia. Instead, she’d burned all of the charms on her person before departing the Lichtenštejnský Palace.

  She’d had to do things the mundane way. When she finally caught up with the ambulance at its destination hospital, three minders and one conference attendee had received medical attention for the wounds and bruises they’d taken during the brawl. But surely more than four people had been injured? She was stippled with glass cuts herself, and she hadn’t been one of those who’d lost their minds. Yet where were the rest? So she’d done the rounds of all the other hospitals and clinics in the city. Two had received emergency cases overnight, but both had arrived hours after the ambulance pulled away from the palace. And neither of those patients could have been at the party, anyway. Tanya was confident she wasn’t pursuing a six-year-old girl, nor was she on the trail of a seventy-five-year-old emphysemic Bulgarian man.

  Clinics and hospitals, she checked them all, working straight through the wolf hours.

  Foolish. Prague was too big for one woman, too full of places to hide an ambulance. Too full of places to change vehicles. Too full of places to stash somebody. (Somebody who didn’t want to go home?)

  But she’d wanted, needed, so desperately to find the defector’s ambulance. If she’d found it, its driver, its cargo, its anything, she could have reported partial success to Sasha. But now she had to face him—the man who’d broken into her apartment, taken her grandfather’s radio, and then played her and Gabe like pawns when they’d tried to retrieve it—empty-handed. She’d have to look him in the eye and report a possible defection-in-progress, right under their noses.

  She was limping, she realized, and had been for a while. When she paused to re-collect herself, the cuts on her arms and chest made themselves known. They’d stopped bleeding, but they hadn’t stopped hurting. Her ankles throbbed from sprinting across treacherously frost-slick cobbles. More than once, she’d nearly crippled herself. Bruises mottled her knees and shoulders thanks to several tumbles on those same cobbles.

  She’d called ahead. Comrade Komyetski arrived at KGB Station barely more than fifteen minutes after Tanya did, despite the hour. He found her at her desk with one unshod foot hiked atop an open drawer, wincing each time she dabbed at the cuts with alcohol and a bloody towel. That wasn’t the reason for his double-take, she knew. She was still in her formal clothes, one of her dip-circuit outfits. There’d been no time to retrieve her coat. Her wardrobe gave her few options for formal outings, and this one was tattered and bloodstained in a dozen places. A complete loss.

  “Tatiana Mikhailovna Morozova. You’ve had a night.”

  He attempted the same light tone that she’d endured for hours on end during her failed gambit to retrieve the radio. The voice he’d used when he’d threatened, indirectly, to have her grandfather killed. But the early hour, not to mention the heaviness of lost sleep, weighted it down.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “At least you’re not soaking wet.”

  She blinked at him. What?

  “You didn’t fall in the river this time.”

  Oh. “Oh. No, I didn’t.”

  She made to stand. Exhaustion and pain made her wobbly. Sasha noticed.

  “Sit, sit. I insist. You’re injured. Do you need a physician?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve already been to a hospital tonight. All of them, in point of fact.”

  That got his attention. “Well, then. Tell me about this night of yours, and why you had to call me before even bakers and birds start their days.”

  Tanya shook her head. They were the only two in KGB Station. And yet: “We shouldn’t talk here. Better if we speak privately in your office.”

  In the vault, in other words. Had she not been looking for it she might have missed his momentary glance of pure calculation. But it was there, if only for a moment. Face a blank mask, he went straight to his office and, after a moment spent jangling his key ring, unlocked it. She followed.

  He didn’t offer her a chair, didn’t insist she take the weight from her poor abused legs. Instead, he spoke as soon as the door was locked, sealing them into the Faraday cage. “Tell me what happened.” This wasn’t the jovial uncle speaking; she’d awakened the guarded station chief. He dropped into the chair behind the desk hard enough to make the casters groan. Fingers steepled before thin colorless lips, he listened.

  First she recapped her recent reports, and the observations she’d documented regarding potentially unusual activity by certain suspected officers of the Western intelligence services. Then she described the party, the brawl, her suspicions about the ambulances, her failed attempt to follow them.

  Quiet reigned for several long beats after she fell silent. His gaze strayed to one of the chessboards on the desk. Now the steeple peeled apart; he reached forward, gingerly, to lay a fingertip atop a rook. He held that gesture of contemplation for several seconds before withdrawing, leaving the rook undisturbed.

  Careless indecision like that would have been penalized in a tournament match, she knew. But not, of course, in a correspondence game. A steadfast rule in one arena, pointless and unenforceable in another.

  “It could be nothing. A misunderstanding,” he said.

  “It isn’t.”

  Sasha nodded. That was the answer he’d expected. “They’ll move quickly.”

  Yes, they would. Now that the Westerners had their defector in hand—and they did, she felt it in her bones—they’d smuggle him or her out of Czechoslovakia and the Party’s reach as soon as possible.

  “It’s best if we work quietly. We could seal the borders, stop all trains, ground all flights, board all boats. But that would tip our hand.”

  What at first she’d thought was the weight of lost sleep, filling his voice with gravel, she now recognized as the legacy of a late night spent with a bottle of vodka. It colored his eyes ever so slightly pink and made him blink at her just a bit too frequently, as though she and the world around her were blurry. His breath didn’t betray him, not at this distance, but there were ways to disguise a scent.

  He looked her over again. Her current state didn’t instill confidence, she knew. And he already had reasons to doubt her loyalty. “Can you handle this?”

  “Of course, sir.” What else could she say? “We’ll do everything possible to stop this.”

  Again, he looked over the chess pieces. He didn’t reach for the rook, but his eyes did. “I meant you personally.”

  “Sir?”

  “If you, Tatiana Morozova, led a successful counter-operation, it would do great things for your career. I would take it as my personal mission to ensure you received the credit you deserved.” What was he on about? “I’ve heard from Center.” His gaze snapped away from the game, as if he’d chosen a move. “You impressed them when you completed your delivery despite Comrade Bykovsky’s bungling,” he lied. “Stop the defection and your star will rise. You’ll be trusted to safeguard ever-more-sensitive items.”

  Translation: Do this and maybe, just maybe, you’ll get your radio back.

  The remarkable thing about chess, she reflected, was its openness. The board hid nothing; the pieces were there for all to see. Castles harbored no defec
tors; bishops heard no secret confessions.

  So it was with this lie.

  You still have my radio. And you know I know it. But I have to pretend that I believe otherwise, that together we delivered it according to fake orders from Moscow Center, even though we both know that was a sham. I’m still bound to that fiction. That skein of lies is the only thing between me and Siberia.

  Even bleary-eyed and just a little bit tipsy, Comrade Komyetski was a grand master of manipulation. Tanya might have admired it, if it didn’t frighten her so.

  “My sole concern is my duty to the state.”

  He nodded, simultaneously pleased and grim. “Then I charge you with thwarting this defection. Use whatever or whomever you must. But act soon.”

  It wasn’t until she departed the embassy that she realized she couldn’t go home. The key to her flat was still in the pocket of her coat, and that was at the Lichtenštejnský Palace.

  • • •

  The construct fell apart at Nadia’s feet. The nemesis and prey that had kept her busy through the night was now just so much rubbish.

  Dammit.

  A quick inspection confirmed her suspicions. The remains gave her no clue as to the construct’s origin, nor its makers. She kicked the trash into the river, swearing.

  She chewed on the problem all the way back to her flat. The night-long chase should have left her exhausted. Instead, her frustration was like fire under a teakettle; if she didn’t let off the steam, she’d burst. To hell with it.

  An hour of sparring, if she could find a partner, or even a workout with a punching bag, would be infinitely more productive than trying to break down this wall with her forehead.

  She stuffed her slightly smelly workout clothes into a rucksack. Bundle slung over one shoulder, she walked the distance from her khrushchyovka to the embassy gym rather than take a tram—the more she moved her body, the more she could let her subconscious spin while her conscious mind slipped into the patterns etched into her brain by years of training. Watching for tails, scanning the street for anything out of the ordinary, keeping eyes and ears—and that indescribable sixth sense that any good spy understood but couldn’t explain—alert to the usual threats. Nadezhda Ostrokhina, Ice operative, melted into the background, and in her stead stood Nadia the KGB officer. Both ladies arrived at the gym without incident. (Not even a clumsy pass from the handful of early risers she passed on the streets. That was vaguely disappointing. She had to learn not to scowl so fiercely when deep in thought. She would have welcomed a good scrap just then.)

  She changed clothes and wrapped her fists. And then everything disappeared except the rhythm of her breathing, the sway of the bag, the crunch of sand beneath her fists, the bag’s grudging absorption of each jab, the drip of sweat along the unscratchable expanse between her shoulder blades. The charms’ behavior the other night became a dull discomfort in the back of her mind. It was like having something stuck between her molars, something no toothpick could dislodge.

  It wasn’t until she felt the hand on her shoulder that she realized somebody had been calling her name. The unexpected touch of skin startled her. She whirled, fists raised and a scorching curse on her tongue.

  Tanya retreated so quickly she tripped over a stool, meeting the floor in an undignified heap. They glared at each other for a beat. Nadia shook it off—the itch in her mind was making her cranky. This wasn’t Tanya’s fault. She offered a sweaty hand, hauled her partner back to her feet.

  “Sorry.”

  “I thought you were going to break my nose.” Tanya righted the stool and plopped down. She rubbed her hip, her elbow, her shin, moving gingerly, a Young Pioneer charting a course across a topographic map of pain. Her arms were stippled with fresh scabs.

  “You disappeared last night,” Nadia panted. Words would come more easily as her heart rate inched back down. But her mind already felt sharper; even an abbreviated workout had its therapeutic benefits. “We need to talk. Something very odd happened.”

  Tanya nodded, sighed. “I spent the entire night chasing it.” A flush of relief washed through Nadia. Tanya had sensed it, too. They were on the same page. They were still partners, still a solid team. “And then I was in the vault, telling Sasha about it.”

  The momentary comfort dissipated. “Wait, why in the world—”

  “And then I immediately went looking for you.”

  “—did you tell Sasha?”

  Tanya looked at her as if she’d gone punch-drunk. “Of course I reported it. Why didn’t you? If there really was a—” Here she stopped herself. She took a moment to scan the entire room, squinting into every dusty corner. They were alone. Still, she dropped her voice so low that Nadia had to read her lips. “—a defection, and I’m convinced there was . . .”

  Nadia reeled as if slapped. No—as if the punching bag had snuck up and walloped her in the neck.

  “What are you saying?”

  Tanya blinked. Froze. “I— Wait. You said something strange happened last night.”

  “It did.” Nadia chewed her lip. Tasting the metallic tang of blood, she concluded: “But now I have a nauseating suspicion that my strange thing is not your strange thing.”

  Tanya deflated like a burst balloon. Elbows on her knees, she raked fingers through her hair until her forehead rested on her palms. There she hunched in exhausted contemplation until Nadia thought she’d actually dozed off. Finally, her partner looked up. “You first,” she said, looking like she’d aged years in a few moments. When had she last eaten?

  Nadia shook her head. “Not here. Let’s go to my place. We’ll talk on the way and then we’ll make breakfast. We both could use it.”

  They didn’t speak again until Nadia had packed her gear and both women were bundled against the early springtime chill. Prague had yawned and stretched and come to life during Nadia’s workout. They let the rattling of trams, the thrum of automobiles, the click-clack of their boot heels on the pavement, the dinging of bells over shop doors mask their conversation. Nadia augmented the audio camouflage with a trifle of sorcery; she feared what might happen if Tanya attempted even the simplest magic in her state.

  “There’s something in the city. I’ve been sensing it, off and on, for several days. But last night my charms went crazy. I spent half the night chasing a construct. A very powerful construct. It was on the hunt, but it petered out at the river around dawn.” Nadia paused for emphasis. “I’ve been thinking about what the American, Pritchard, told us at the Vyšehrad.”

  “Last night?” Tanya frowned. And then, in a tone of unassailable certainty, she said, “The golem had nothing to do with it.”

  “I can think of only one other possibility.” They put the conversation on momentary hiatus while passing a trio of policemen milling outside a café. Tanya’s wounds received second glances. But then, in response to her partner’s frown, Nadia said, “This construct . . . the only time I’ve seen anything like it was the night we made contact with Zlata.”

  Tanya slowed to a stop. “Wait. I need you to be very explicit. Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “I’m saying I think another Host has arrived in Prague. And that someone—someone who is not us—has several powerful constructs scouring the city for it.”

  “Little wonder you were so confused when I said I reported to Sasha.”

  “Now what’s all this about . . . that thing you said at the gym?”

  Nadia’s building came into view when they turned the corner. Her stomach growled. They picked up the pace to cross ahead of a tram. Trailing clouds of steamy breath like conversational chaff, Tanya explained how she’d spent the night.

  “And the Westerners?”

  Tanya shrugged. “The British officer, Winthrop, I’m not certain about. But the Americans were definitely part of it. Pritchard started the brawl, I’m certain.”

  “Because they were extracting a defector.”

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense. I’m telling you, that
brawl was a distraction.”

  They didn’t speak again until they were safely alone and warm in Nadia’s apartment, chewing on eggs and toast and a very unwelcome conclusion. Nadia put voice to it first. Draining the dregs of her tea, she said, “I was wrong. Now I’m afraid our problems are related.”

  Tanya sighed. “The Americans are extracting a defector . . .”

  “. . . who just happens to have arrived around the same time a new Host appeared in Prague.” Nadia slammed down her cup. “Bozhe moi.”

  • • •

  Zerena knew something was wrong the moment she entered the bakery. Knew it so deeply, so automatically, that her conscious mind lagged several seconds behind her instincts. But she went through the usual motions for the benefit of the mundane customers, her body coasting through the formalities while her mind calculated.

  With a peck of the lips on each of Komyetski’s stubbly cheeks, she muttered pleasantries. As usual, he smelled ever-so-faintly of alcohol.

  “So good to see you again, Sasha.”

  His response was heartier, more sincere. “The pleasure is entirely mine.”

  And that was the moment she caught up with herself.

  His smile, she realized. Sasha’s smile was genuine.

  The bakery smelled of cinnamon and freshly risen bread. Normally that mélange would have made her stomach growl with longing. Instead, it curdled.

  But she kept her mask in place. “I hadn’t expected to see you again so soon.” Translation: We’d agreed not to contact each other. She made to sit, but he laid a hand on her shoulder—dear God, now he was being positively familiar with her—and ushered her toward the gap in the counter.

  Exchanging nods with the woman at the register, he said, “Nor I, you, honestly. But I just knew you’d want to see this.”

  Zerena let him guide her from the shop into the kitchen. “I’ve baked a few cakes in my day, you know. The process is no mystery to me.”