Chill water lapping at the toes of her boots, Tanya unlimbered the tripod slung over her shoulder. Its legs locked into place with a quiet snick, and then, with a heave, she pressed the points into mud made squelchy by an early spring thaw. Nadia stood watch while Tanya readied the magical theodolite; both women wore jackets identifying them as city workers, and kept their hair tucked under their helmets. To any casual passersby, they might have been surveyors assessing the old wooden quay at the abandoned wool warehouse.
From the apex of the tripod Tanya hung an elaborate swirl of green glass. Obtaining the sixty-year-old wine had been an expensive and cumbersome chore; immediately dumping the contents down the sink as if it were worthless plonk had been an oenophile’s nightmare. But the mineral content of the glass and the contours of its punt made for a unique confluence of magical potentials. Girded in copper wire and hung from a thread of—Forgive me, you poor girl—Andula Zlata’s hair, it became a combination compass and telescope.
It swung freely, aimlessly. When Tanya peered through the glass it offered a murky view of the opposing shoreline and nothing else.
The sorcerers each laid a hand atop the tripod. The charm quivered as if anticipating the chant taking shape in their minds. A shared nod, a sharp intake of breath, and then as one they spat complementary chains of ancient syllables at the glass. Tanya’s half-filled her mouth with the taste of rancid butter. The glass slammed to a stop at the nadir of its swing and began to swivel like a lighthouse lens.
Tanya crouched. Now, when viewed through the bottom of the wine bottle, the ground at their feet evidenced a faint shimmer, as though somebody had sprinkled a razor-thin trail of luminescent dust down the alley straight to the river. The line stopped abruptly at the water. This was the Host’s trail as sensed by the construct. No wonder it had lost the scent. Nadia uncoiled the copper wire wrapped around one tripod leg. Tanya kept watching through the glass, directing her—“Left. Right. A little more. A few millimeters toward me. There.”—until the frayed end of the wire went into the stinking mud astraddle the luminous trail. The theodolite emitted a faint hum; Tanya’s fillings tasted like ozone.
She glanced at the almost-invisible thread of Host hair; weeks ago it had powered Nadia’s brief impersonation of Andula Zlata and now, without it, their magical theodolite would have been impossible. It was entirely due to Tanya and Nadia’s efforts that the local Flame acolytes lacked access to such a resource and, thus, subtler magics than the brute force of a construct. But where was Andula now? What of the barge and its comatose passengers? What ends had Tanya’s hard-earned success advanced?
The magicked punt swept back and forth like a compass needle. Each oscillation covered a narrower arc until the charm locked on the trail. Tanya crouched again to peer through the murky glass. She’d expected the charm to zero in on a landing spot somewhere on the opposing bank; Pritchard knew enough to be aware that moving a Host across the river would dampen its trail. Instead, the thumb-shaped swell of glass pointed upriver, to a building barely visible in the far distance: the West German embassy.
The river beneath the balconies, innocuous to the naked eye, shimmered faintly when viewed through the punt. Sure enough, the Host had fallen—deliberately or accidentally—into the river there . . . and disembarked on dry land here. Almost undoubtedly straight into the welcoming arms of a CIA extraction team. Right here, on this spot.
This wasn’t the end of the Host’s trail through the city. It was the beginning. And as long as it didn’t breach the river again, they could track it easily.
Nice try, Gabriel Pritchard.
Nadia kept stealing sidelong glances at her while they reoriented the charm to begin the laborious process of backtracking through the city. The third time, Tanya called her on it.
“What?”
“I will go in your place, when it comes time to retrieve the defector.”
Tanya shook her head. “You will not. Our mutual superior ordered me to lead the team. And as the senior officer among the two of us, I forbid you from participating in the operation.”
“In this matter, I am your superior.” Nadia pricked her thumb with a frayed strand of copper, sacrificing a drop of blood to reenergize the charm. “The Host takes precedence over the defector. Once the Westerners remove Sokolov from Prague, we can’t protect him.” In response to the flash of irritation that Tanya failed to hide, Nadia quickly added, “Try to put the barge aside for a moment. I’m right and you know it.”
Tanya sighed. “Yes, I want to keep Sokolov out of Flame’s reach. But our only avenue for doing that is as intelligence officers. In order to save the Host, we must capture the defector. That makes our priority the intelligence work.”
“And what will you do once we’ve found where the Westerners have hidden Sokolov? With no time to plan and mount a proper operation, will you stroll up to the front door like a good little KaGeBeznik? Or will you arm yourself with charms and wards?”
“Of course I will. I’m not a fool.”
“Then you will be acting as an Ice sorcerer when you retrieve Sokolov . . .”
And so they went, around and around and around, twirling like a broken compass.
• • •
“He’s here.”
Tanya pressed a thumbtack into the map pinned on Sasha’s office wall, marking a spot on the edge of an industrial district. Her voice was scratchy; she and Nadia had bickered themselves hoarse, trying to unravel the jurisdictional Gordian knot while criss-crossing the city to triangulate the Host’s location.
Her KGB superior frowned at his fingernails, then tucked them under his chin. He squinted at the map. Frowned again.
“We believe it’s a CIA safe house,” she added.
He didn’t blink. “You know this how?”
“We don’t,” she admitted. “It’s our best, most educated guess.” She explained her hunch that the embassy brawl had been a diversion enabling one man to “fall” unnoticed from a balcony, and that the body found in the river was a rough match for the missing Sokolov. She’d concocted a trail of invented witnesses in lieu of magical triangulation, and then finished with a summary of the surveillance she and Nadia had conducted to confirm the likely presence of a foreign intelligence service at the site.
In reality, no fortuitous sequence of witnesses, no matter how observant, could have led them to the spot. This was magical tradecraft, through and through. But what did Komyetski make of it?
He kept his silence long enough for exhaustion to reclaim her. She leaned against a filing cabinet, easing the weight from her knees until they no longer threatened to collapse like house of cards.
Finally, he spoke. “You’re a very fine officer, Tatiana Morozova.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“The next forty-eight hours will determine our futures. Yours and mine.”
She could practically hear the ratcheting as he reeled in the line. She stiffened, waiting for the yank and the sting of a barbed hook.
“Moscow Center is monitoring us closely through this crisis. You have shown exceptional judgment and initiative in the face of this unprovoked incursion from the West. In light of that, our superiors trust that you will apply those same qualities toward the immediate recovery of our wayward countryman from the Americans.”
Immediate left no room for subtlety. No room for preparations, no room for clandestine operations, no room for patience. Those took time. Immediate meant frontal assault.
If she dodged an urgent order from Moscow, she’d be a traitor. If she went, she’d walk straight into the Americans’ security precautions.
Nadia was right. This was indeed a trap. One that Tanya wasn’t meant to survive.
Episode 12: She’ll Lie Down in the Snow
by Cassandra Rose Clarke
Prague, Czechoslovak Socialist Republic
March 1, 1970
1.
The waitress dropped off a coffee, but Dom left it untouched, just let it steam in the cool air o
f the cafe. He kept his eye on the door. He didn’t know this place. His contact had suggested it, told him it was out of the way. And charming, like he’d care about that sort of thing. He pulled a cigar out of his coat pocket and ran it under his nose, then stuck it in his mouth without lighting it. His contact wouldn’t want the scent of cigar smoke seeping into her clothes.
A clock on the far wall started to chime the hour, and as if she’d been waiting outside for the sound, his contact breezed through the door. She threw off sunlight like a diamond. She barely seemed to look at him as she glided across the room, slipping her sunglasses off with one hand. He leaned back in his chair, braced the cigar between his teeth.
“Hello, Zerena,” he said.
“Dominic.” She sank into her chair and gestured at the waitress, who darted over, notepad in hand. Zerena ordered a coffee—black, the same as his.
“How are you enjoying our lovely city?” she said. “Have you visited the Charles Bridge yet?”
“Haven’t exactly had the time.” He grinned at her around his cigar. She shook her head in fake disgust.
“I don’t know how you can stand those things.”
“Hey, at least I didn’t light it.”
“I’m sure everyone here thanks you for it.” Zerena stirred her coffee once and took a sip. She gazed at him over the lip, her eyes gleaming. Dom still hadn’t touched his own cup. He wasn’t planning on staying long. Although he had to admit, he was enjoying the small talk.
Zerena set her cup down. “Really, though, it would be such a shame if you were to miss the Charles Bridge. How many Westerners are able to see such a thing, these days?”
“I’m not here as a tourist.” Dom set his cigar on one of the table’s napkins. “As you well know.”
“That I do.” Her demeanor changed; she hardened, and Dom saw it happen, the glossy facade falling away. Here was the Zerena who had sent word to him through the usual channels: I must speak with you immediately. He’d never seen her before that party during his first days in Prague, and yet she was already proving herself a useful ally.
“I spoke to our mutual acquaintance last night,” Zerena said. “And I learned something I think you’ll want to hear.”
He leaned forward, shoving the coffee out of the way.
“Which acquaintance?”
Zerena’s mouth curled into a sly smile. “I think you know.”
Dom didn’t say anything. He did know. Sasha Komyetski. Not a true acquaintance, of course, but rather someone he—and the CIA—was interested in keeping tabs on. And Zerena was the perfect bridge between Dominic Alvarez and the KGB Chief of Station. A contact with whom he could be seen speaking without raising too many questions.
“I’d heard whispers,” Zerena said, “and confirmed it with him as soon as I could. His office knows you have the scientist.”
Dom’s heart jolted.
“And not only that, but his office knows where that scientist is staying, where your people have him tucked away in safety.”
Dom picked up his cigar again. He fought the urge to light it up anyway, Zerena be damned.
“He’s sending one of his officers to this location tonight. I thought you should be made aware.”
“What time tonight?” Dom stared across the table at Zerena. “You’re gonna have to give me more than that to go on.”
She frowned. It turned the sharp angles of her face dangerous and cruel. “I don’t know, Dominic. He didn’t tell me. But you can still prepare.”
“This is a pretty flashy move, even for the KGB,” Dom said. “Sending an officer right to our front door.”
Zerena shrugged, her slim shoulders brushing the ends of her hair. “It’s what our mutual acquaintance wants. I simply thought I should warn you.”
“I thank you for it.” Dom bit down hard on the cigar. The pungent flavor of tobacco flooded over his tongue. He stood up. Zerena just watched him.
“I haven’t finished my coffee,” she said sweetly.
“You know I shouldn’t stick around.”
Her eyes glittered; she only smiled at him and then took a sip.
“I appreciate your help,” he said.
“Oh, I know.” She smoothed a hand down one side of her sleek, pale hair.
Dom nodded, satisfied. Then he turned and strode out of the cafe, into the bright morning.
• • •
Nadia banged on the apartment door, pounding out her frustrations with her fists. She knew it was risky, being here, risky and stupid and in its own way hypocritical. She hated having to come to this apartment—to seek out this man—for help. But she was desperate.
She knocked again, so hard that the cuts on her knuckles split open again and left little dots of blood on the apartment door. “Open up!” she shouted.
As if someone had been waiting for the cue, the door sprang open. Alestair peered down at her, looking as unruffled as always. Her anger flared at the sight of him, but she pressed it down—there were more important forces in the world than this modern divide between capitalism and socialism.
“What are you doing?” Alestair sounded pleasant enough, but Nadia heard the chill beneath his words. “Do you want the whole floor to know you’re here?”
Nadia squeezed past him into the apartment. She wasn’t going to be intimidated by Alestair Winthrop. “Close the door,” she snapped. “We need to talk.”
Alestair raised an eyebrow, but did as she asked. He slid the lock into place, too, and crossed his arms over his chest, studying her. He almost seemed to be smiling, like this was all some delightful prank. Nadia took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. Don’t let him see your panic, she thought, and then she realized how absurd that was—panic was exactly what she needed for him to understand the gravity of the situation.
“I’m here on Ice business,” she said.
“Oh, well, in that case, shall I make you some tea?”
Nadia glared at him. “No. No tea. This is important, Mr. Winthrop. Life-and-death kind of important.” She drew herself up, clenched her hands into fists. “That mozgoyob Sasha Komyetski is trying to kill Tanya. Our Tanya.”
Alestair did not let his face betray his emotions, but he said, “My dear, I think tea is almost certainly in order. Have a seat.”
Nadia wanted to scream. She had crossed lines of loyalty for Alestair’s help, and he was nattering on about tea? But he had already whisked out of the room, and she could hear him in the kitchen, running water and opening cupboards. She stalked toward the sounds.
“Did you hear me?” she asked from the kitchen doorway. “The Ice is in danger of losing one of its best sorcerers.”
“I heard you, yes.” Alestair did not turn away from the kitchen counter. “And it’s terribly troubling. Hence: tea.” He set a kettle on the stove and then, finally, looked over at her.
“I don’t want to be here,” she said. “But I’m—” She closed her eyes. Her heart was pounding; her chest was tight. And she kept seeing Tanya’s face, so impassive in her insistence that she must do what was necessary to serve her country, that if she had to die, then she had to die, and that was the end of it.
“You don’t need to say it,” Alestair murmured.
Nadia looked at him, and for the first time she was grateful to have come here.
“Is Tanya in immediate danger?”
Nadia hesitated, then shook her head. “Tonight. She’s going to her death tonight.”
“Then we have time.”
“No, we don’t! Not if we’re going to craft a protection spell that could actually help her.”
Alestair scooped tea into a wire mesh tea ball. “A protection spell of that caliber would take more than the two of us, and more than the few hours we have.”
Nadia scowled. “Someone as high-ranking in the Ice as you should have access to that kind of magic. Why do you think I’m here?”
“I think you’re here because you’re afraid for Tanya. Go sit on the sofa. I’ll bring the tea in a
moment, and we can talk this through.” Alestair paused, watching her. “Ice to Ice.”
Nadia relented, feeling drained. She knew Alestair was right about the protection charms; for a good one, they would have had to have cast the spell weeks ago. But there was still a chance that Alestair had a prepared charm tucked away somewhere.
Nadia trudged back into the living room and sank into the couch. She studied a blank spot on the wall across from her. Alestair emerged from kitchen, carrying two teacups that released wisps of steam into the air. He set them down on the coffee table and then sat beside Nadia on the sofa. For a moment they stared at each other. Ice and Ice, Russian and English. Then Alestair plucked up his tea and took a sip.
“Tell me what you know.” That light mocking lilt had gone out of his voice; he was serious now. They were colleagues.
Nadia told him. She told him about her conversation with Tanya, that Sasha—“You’re certain it was Sasha?” Alestair asked, and Nadia glowered, which he took for affirmation—had ordered Tanya to raid the safe house where the defector was being kept by the Americans, even though it would violate a thousand treaties and she would be exposed, and vulnerable, and better off dead—
Alestair held up one hand. “I see, yes. This is a delicate situation.”
“Delicate is not the word I would use,” Nadia said.
“Drink your tea, dear. It will help calm you.”
Nadia grabbed her cup and drank just so he would stop talking about the damned tea. The warmth spread through her—was she actually calming down? She hoped not. She needed Alestair’s help, but she didn’t want to prove him right.
“Now,” Alestair said. “About those protection charms.”
“Do you have one prepared?” Nadia asked. “I heard you old-timers always have one or two tucked away for safekeeping.”
“You heard incorrectly, I’m afraid.” Alestair watched her with his glacial-blue eyes. “As we already established, the kind of charm you want is extremely difficult to produce—”
The Witch Who Came in From the Cold - Season One Volume Two Page 15
