The Spy Who Came for Christmas Page 11

  Meredith and Cole are as innocent as any of the other people I saved. They’re in danger because of me. If anything happens to them . . .

  Kagan’s thoughts were interrupted by the flush of a toilet behind the kitchen. It sounded loud in the stillness. He heard Cole limp into the living room and sit on the floor next to the now-dark Christmas tree. The baseball bat scraped against the floor when he set it down.

  “Do you like to play baseball, Cole?”

  “I can’t with this leg.”

  “Then why do you have the bat?”

  “My dad gave it to me for my birthday. He hoped I’d grow enough that I might be able to adjust to my leg and play. After a while, he stopped trying. But I like to imagine.”

  A different scrape came from the wicker basket as Meredith pulled it into the living room and sat next to it. Kagan heard her settle against a wall. The baby made another whimpering noise and became silent again.

  Good baby, Kagan thought. Please don’t cry.

  “Cole, I saw presents under the tree.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Is there anything special you’re hoping for?”

  “For my dad to stop drinking.”

  “Well, when we get out of this, I’ll talk to him.” The “when” was deliberately chosen, a projection into the future, a further way to make them optimistic.

  “He won’t listen,” the boy said.

  “You’d be surprised. I’m a very persuasive guy. When I mentioned the presents, I thought maybe there was something special that you’d like to open. This is a holiday, after all. What do you think, Meredith?”

  She didn’t respond for a moment.

  “Yes, open something, Cole,” she said quietly. “There’s no reason to wait.”

  But Cole didn’t reach for anything.

  “Cole?” Kagan prompted.

  “I guess I’m not in the mood.”

  “Sure. I understand. Well, if you change your mind . . .”

  Despite the apprehension that coursed through him, Kagan’s eyelids felt heavy. The exhaustion caused by his wound was taking its toll.

  “Meredith, maybe you could make some coffee. Caffeinated, if you have it. With sugar. I can use the sugar.”

  He heard her crawl into the kitchen.

  “Cole, did I see a crèche on a table next to the tree?”

  “A crèche?”

  “A manger scene. Little figures of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Donkeys, lambs, and other animals that would be in a stable. The shepherds.”

  “Yeah, there’s one on that table,” Cole said. “The three kings. You forgot to mention them. They’re next to the shepherds.”

  “The three kings. Yes. I mustn’t forget them. They’re hardly mentioned in the gospels, but they’re more important than most people realize.”

  In the dark, Kagan’s fatigue settled over him. At the same time, his heart pounded at an unnerving rate, hammering in his ears, draining more energy. It was all he could do to stop his lungs from heaving in a desperate need to take in air ever deeper and faster, wearing him down further.

  He used the gunfighter’s rhythm of holding his breath for three counts, inhaling slowly for three counts, holding his breath for three counts, and exhaling slowly for three counts.

  The irony was that he’d soon need the coffee he’d asked Meredith to make, that without a stimulant he’d eventually run out of adrenaline and crash.

  Can’t let Meredith and Cole know what’s happening to my body. Need to keep distracting them, he thought.

  The three kings.

  His memory took him back fourteen years to the Rocky Mountain Industrial Academy, the covert espionage training facility he’d attended in the mountains outside Fort Collins, Colorado. He was reminded of something he’d learned from one of his instructors, Robert McCaddam, a legendary spy-master who, according to rumor, had once been a Jesuit priest.

  McCaddam, who was seventy-five at the time, enjoyed finding implications of espionage in all sorts of situations. Around Christmas, he was fond of standing next to a fireplace, lighting his pipe, and teaching what he called the true story of the season.

  “Cole, I’d like to tell you a story. Will you listen? It’ll put us in the Christmas spirit.”

  “What kind of story?” Cole sounded doubtful that anything could put him in the Christmas spirit.

  “It’s about the three kings.” Kagan bit his lip to ignore the pain in his stiffening arm. “But the first thing you need to understand is, they weren’t really kings.”

  “Then what were they?”

  “You’ll be surprised.”

  Part Three

  The Magi

  HE STARED out the window, looking for movement in the falling snow.

  “Cole, did you ever read the nativity story in the Bible?”

  The boy was silent.

  “Or maybe you heard someone reading that part of Matthew’s gospel out loud in church,” Kagan suggested.

  “I’m afraid it’s been a long time since we went to church.” In the kitchen, Meredith kept her voice low as she made coffee.

  “Well, it can’t be any longer than when I went to church last,” Kagan replied.

  That wasn’t the truth—he said it only to keep bonding with them. That afternoon, he’d spent an hour in Santa Fe’s cathedral, studying a manger display, his mind in a turmoil, trying to decide what to do.

  “The reference to the so-called three kings is very small. Just a couple of dozen sentences. That’s amazing when you consider how much has been written about them ever since. To understand what the kings really were, you need to realize that Matthew’s gospel was written in either Hebrew or Greek. Over the years, it was translated into a lot of other languages. Changes crept in. In English, the word ‘kings’ didn’t show up until centuries later. When language experts try to get a sense of the original words, the most likely translation is ‘astrologers’ or ‘magi.’”

  His mouth dry from stress and dehydration, Kagan listened to Meredith pouring water into a coffee-maker in the kitchen.

  “To call them astrologers makes sense because they claimed to be following a star. But I prefer to call them Magi. Does that word sound familiar to you, Cole?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “The words ‘magic’ and ‘magician’ are related to it.”

  As Kagan heard Cole breathe with the beginning of interest, he leaned forward, concentrating on something that seemed to shift in the haze beyond the fence, but he decided it was only his imagination. Or hoped it was.

  “The gospel says they came from the east. If you look at a map and consider what was happening at that time, the country they likely came from was Persia. These days, it’s called Iran. Have you heard of Iran, Cole?”

  “Sometimes. When Mom and Dad watch the news on television.”

  “It’s a country that’s had a lot of influence on history. Today, there’s plenty of tension and violence associated with it. Two thousand years ago, the situation wasn’t much different.

  “Basically, Persia wanted to control the area around it, and that included Israel, the country where Jesus would soon be born. The reason the Persians didn’t invade Israel was that the Roman Empire claimed Israel as one of its territories. To attack Israel was the same as attacking Rome, and that was a bad idea. The Persians sometimes crossed the border and raided villages, trying to make Roman soldiers chase them—

  to lure them into an ambush. But the Persians didn’t have the resources for an all-out assault, so they tried another tactic, the oldest and most reliable, much more effective than a battle: they sent in spies.”

  “Spies?” Cole asked.

  Again, Kagan frowned toward what seemed to be a shadow moving within the snowfall, but the moment he focused on that area beyond the fence, the shadow dissolved like a mirage.

  “The Magi were priests with tremendous political influence. The modern Iranian word for Magi would probably be ‘ayatollahs.’ That’s a name you hear a lo
t in the news, although in ancient times the Magi were supposed to have secret, powerful knowledge that amounted to magic.

  “Matthew’s gospel doesn’t mention a specific number of Magi who crossed into Israel. Traditionally, there are three because in the gospel they bring three gifts to the baby Jesus. Under the circumstances, it would have been foolish for more than three to go on this journey. The smaller the number, the better. They didn’t dare attract attention.”

  Kagan smelled the coffee brewing in the kitchen. The aroma brought moisture to his mouth.

  “Apart from the manger scene, Cole, what image comes to you when you think of the Magi?”

  “Well, on TV or in drawings I’ve seen, they’re on camels, and they’re heading toward a big, bright star in the distance.”

  “Right. Some people theorize that it was actually a comet, or perhaps planets in a cluster, which happens sometimes, causing a brighter light than normal. Or perhaps it was an actual star, one that was exploding. Whatever it might have been, do you see any problem with trying to follow it?”

  Cole considered the question. “The stars move.”

  “You’re very observant.”

  “I never noticed when we lived in LA. There were so many streetlights that I couldn’t see the sky. But here the sky’s so clear, I can see all kinds of stars. My favorite constellation’s Orion, the one with stars lined up like a sword. But at different times, he’s in different places.”

  “Correct. Except for a few so-called fixed stars, one of which is the North Star, heavenly bodies shift across the horizon. In fact, the Magi probably used the North Star to guide their way across the desert. But they couldn’t depend on a comet or a cluster of planets or an exploding star to show them the way because the bright light wouldn’t have stayed in the same place all through the night. It would have drifted. At various times, it might have been overhead or even in the opposite direction from where they wanted to go. They’d have wandered in the desert until they died. Only a miracle could have kept the light in the same place and showed them the way. I’m not saying there couldn’t have been a miracle, but that’s not what this story’s about. So the question is, Cole: the Magi must have had a different reason for crossing the desert at night. What do you think it was?”

  “To avoid the heat of the day.”

  “Good answer.”

  “But in school, we’ve been studying weather patterns, ice ages and stuff like that, to learn if climate change is real or not. Our teacher says that back then, some deserts might not have been as hot as they are now.”

  “I read the same thing.” Kagan concentrated on the snow falling beyond the window. “So let’s suppose traveling across the desert in daylight wouldn’t have been as dangerous as it is now. What’s another reason the Magi would have wanted to travel at night? On camels. For at least a month. It would have been difficult to keep the camels from stumbling in the dark and breaking their legs. That definitely would have been dangerous. So what’s the advantage of the night?”

  Cole didn’t have an answer.

  “Suppose this is a war story,” Kagan suggested.

  “Maybe they were trying to keep the Roman soldiers from seeing them?”

  “Cole, you should think twice about not wanting to be a spy. You’re right. The Magi traveled in the dark because they were on a secret mission and they didn’t want the soldiers to see them.”

  * * * * *

  “THE MICROPHONE has a pin on the back,” Andrei said. “I attached it under your coat collar. It’s set so you’re broadcasting all the time. I’ll hear everything you say and most of what’s said around you. On occasion, I’ll give you instructions through this earbud.”

  Andrei placed the device in Brody’s left ear.

  “But won’t the gunman see it?” Brody’s voice was unsteady, from more than just the cold.

  “Keep your hat on and your earflaps down as long as possible. Eventually, you’ll need to take the hat off, but the earbud’s small and flesh-colored: hard to see, even in the daytime. He’s got the lights off. I guarantee he won’t turn them on.”

  “Even the Christmas tree lights and the television are off now,” Mikhail said, watching the house from the cover of the fir tree.

  “The microphone and the earbud have tiny batteries,” Andrei told Brody. “They’re boosted by this transmitter/receiver you’d normally wear on your belt. But if the suspect searches you—which I assume he will—he’s bound to find it, even in the dark, so we need to hide it on you. The best place is in one of your gloves. Take them off as you approach the house. Set them someplace as soon as you’re inside.

  “I dialed your equipment to its own channel. That way, you won’t be distracted when I talk to headquarters. Now, let’s find out if everything works. Detective Grant, walk down the lane and say something into your microphone.”

  As Yakov left them, Andrei heard a voice through his own earbud, but it didn’t belong to Yakov.

  The Pakhan’s voice was sharp. “Our clients believe I took their money without any intention of delivering the package! They insist I’m lying! They claim I’m planning to sell the baby to someone else!”

  In the background, something crashed. A man with an Arab accent shouted, “Would you like me to cut off your thumbs? Your ears?”

  “Your balls!” another accented voice threatened. “We’ll make you eat them! That’s what we do to people who cheat us!”

  Andrei looked at Brody but gave no sign of what he was hearing. “I have a call coming through. Excuse me.”

  Because Brody knew about the microphones, it wasn’t necessary to go through the charade of pretending to talk to a cell phone, as Andrei had done earlier among the crowd on Canyon Road. But now he had a different reason for pretending to use his cell phone.

  He took it from a pocket and opened it. At once, he intentionally fumbled with it and let it fall into the snow.

  “Damn.”

  Continuing the pretense, he pawed in the snow. His thin leather glove barely protected his fingers from the cold. When he found the phone, it was covered with flakes. He wiped them off, made a show of pressing a button, and frowned at the screen.

  “Something’s wrong.”

  “Your phone doesn’t work?” Brody asked.

  “Snow must have got into it. Here, lend me yours.”

  When Brody handed it over, Andrei pressed numbers and walked a short distance away, pretending to talk on the phone while he actually spoke to the microphone on his ski jacket.

  “Did you just try to call me?”

  “What was that about?” the Pakhan demanded through Andrei’s earbud. He sounded furious.

  “Something I needed to do. I’ll explain later.”

  “Did you hear what I said? Our clients claim I cheated them! But I won’t take the blame because you screwed up! I’ll make sure they know who to punish!”

  Andrei barely held his anger in check. “Tell them they’ll get the package before midnight.”

  “You guarantee that?”

  “When we deliver, demand a bonus.”

  “Answer me! Do you guarantee delivery?”

  In the cold, Andrei’s cheeks felt hot. Somehow he managed to keep his voice low and maintain control. Almost.

  “Damn it, yes. Now let me do my work.”

  With that, he pretended to shut off the phone.

  “What’s the matter?” Brody asked.

  “You’ve got family problems. So do I.”

  Down the lane, Andrei heard Yakov murmur, “Testing. One, two, three, four.”

  In response, Brody pressed a finger to the object in his left ear. “I hear him.”

  When Yakov returned, Andrei asked, “Detective Grant, is Mr. Brody’s microphone working? Did his voice come through your earbud?”

  “Clearly.”

  “Excellent.” Amid the distraction, Andrei slipped Brody’s cell phone into his pocket.

  Brody didn’t notice.

  “Okay,” Andrei said. �
�Now, let’s practice what you’re going to do.”

  * * * * *

  SNOW CLUNG to their coats as they left the stairwell, passed the elevator, and walked along a hotel corridor to the security door.

  There were five of them—Andrei, Kagan, Yakov, Mikhail, and Viktor, a lanky man Kagan had met only a half-dozen times, newly arrived from Russia. Andrei slid a credit-card-shaped hotel key into a slot. Making a slight metallic sound, the lock electronically opened.

  Andrei wore his leather shooter’s gloves so he wouldn’t leave fingerprints when he turned the doorknob. Coordinating their movements via their earbuds and hidden microphones, he and the others had gone into the hotel through separate entrances to avoid attracting attention. They’d lowered their heads when passing security cameras. They did the same now as they stepped under the last camera they needed to be concerned about.

  Closing the door, they entered a continuation of the corridor. Numbered rooms stretched along the wall to the left. In this exclusive part of the hotel, an attractive, well-dressed female receptionist smiled at them from a desk and pointed toward the melting flakes on their coats. “I see it hasn’t stopped snowing.”

  “A picturesque night for a walk,” Andrei replied.

  “Have you been to Canyon Road?” the red-haired woman asked.

  “Very impressive.”

  “It’s the big attraction on Christmas Eve. All year-round, in fact. I’m glad you didn’t miss it. Is there anything I can get you?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “You must have checked into the hotel when I wasn’t on duty. I don’t recall seeing you before.”

  “I don’t recall seeing you, either. We only came back to our rooms to pick up some presents we’re taking to a party.”

  “Have a good time.”

  “We intend to.”

  As expected on Christmas Eve, no sounds came from any of the rooms, the guests having gone out to dinner, to enjoy the sights, or perhaps to attend mass in the nearby cathedral. But even though there was virtually no risk of being interrupted, speed was essential.