The Spy Who Came for Christmas Page 3

  * * * * *

  THE BOY STOOD at the living room window, watching the snow fall. Behind him, the music changed to “Jingle Bells,” but the normally cheerful song only reinforced how empty he felt. As he took off his glasses and wiped his eyes, he heard footsteps behind him, his mother leaving the master bedroom and coming along the hallway to the living room. When he turned, he saw that her right hand continued to press the ice pack against her cheek.

  She wore a red dress now. Its cloth was shiny and smooth-looking. The bottom part was long and spread out. Its red emphasized her blond hair and made him think of an angel ornament that hung on the Christmas tree.

  “It looks very nice,” he said.

  “You’re always a gentleman.”

  Limping, he followed her into the kitchen. For the cocoa, they heated rice milk instead of cow’s milk because he couldn’t digest the latter. There was just enough to fill two mugs. His mother put marshmallows on the steaming liquid.

  “See, we can still have a party.”

  “I won’t let him hurt you again,” Cole vowed.

  “Don’t worry—he won’t.” She squeezed his hand. “I won’t allow him a second chance to do it. We’ll pack tonight and leave.” She gave him a searching look. “Are you okay with that, with leaving your father?”

  “I never want to see him again.”

  “Not the best Christmas, huh?”

  “Who cares about Christmas?”

  “I’m sorry.” She peered down at the table and didn’t speak for several seconds. “He has the car keys. We’ll need to walk.”

  “I can do it.”

  “We could leave right now, but with Canyon Road blocked and so many people crowding the street, we won’t be able to get a taxi.” She looked at the smashed phone on the counter. “And we can’t call for one, either. Canyon Road isn’t open to traffic until after ten. That’s when we’ll set out. We’ll find a pay phone somewhere. But even then, if the snow keeps falling, a lot of other people will want taxis. We might need to wait a long time. And since it’s Christmas Eve, the hotels will be full. I don’t know where we’ll stay.” She tried not to look at his short right leg. “Cole, are you sure you can manage a long walk?”

  “I won’t slow us down. I promise.”

  “I know you won’t. You’re the strongest son a mother could ever want.”

  * * * * *

  IT ALL MAKES sense now, Andrei thought, advancing through the crowd, only eight people away from his target. The disguised containers of Soviet-era rocket launchers that customs officials managed to discover being smuggled through the Newark docks. The Middle Eastern visitors who were intercepted by the Coast Guard before they could be brought ashore one moonless night on Long Island.

  Most assignments had gone as planned. There hadn’t been any pattern to the failures. And Pyotyr had been so fierce on every job, doing whatever he was told—no matter how brutal—that no one had suspected him.

  Certainly, I didn’t, Andrei thought.

  Although his waffle-soled boots were insulated, he felt cold seeping into them. But the discomfort was nothing compared to the frigid pain caused by the inferior snow boots he’d worn while on winter marches in the Russian army. Our unit was Spetsnaz! he thought with pride and bitterness. Elite. We deserved better treatment.

  The snow fell harder.

  Carolers sang, “Away in a manger . . .”

  Focus, Andrei told himself. Objectify. This isn’t Pyotyr. This isn’t the man who betrayed my friendship, the man I can’t wait to punish. This is simply a target who needs to be eliminated.

  Moving nearer, he prepared to draw his sound-suppressed .22 pistol from beneath his ski jacket, to hold it low against his side, where the crowd wasn’t likely to notice it. When he was close enough, he would raise his arm and place the suppressor’s barrel near the soft spot behind Pyotyr’s right ear. The small-caliber gun’s report would be so muted, like a snapping sound from one of the bonfires at the side of the road, that even people nearby wouldn’t react to it. The mushroom-type bullet would expand within Pyotyr’s skull, bursting into fragments.

  As Pyotyr fell, Andrei would seem to try to help him but would actually be grabbing the infant from beneath his parka. His two teammates would block anyone who tried to interfere. In a rush, he would call for transport and use one of the few side streets to reach an area where traffic was allowed. Responding to his directions, a van would make its way through the snow to take him and the package out of the area.

  Reflexes primed, Andrei followed the target through a four-way intersection. The next branching street was far ahead. Now the funnel truly began.

  Despite his narrowly focused vision, even Andrei was aware that the most spectacular display on Canyon Road had come into view on the left. Dozens of tall trees bore lights and lanterns, the falling snow making them glisten. Past an open gate, evergreen shrubs twinkled with strings of bulbs that formed the outlines of giant candy canes, candles, and Nutcracker soldiers.

  “It looks like a holiday card,” a woman in the crowd marveled.

  “Used to belong to Glenna Goodacre,” another woman explained. “She designed the Vietnam Women’s Memorial in Washington and the dollar coin that shows the Indian woman who helped Lewis and Clark.”

  “Her daughter modeled for Victoria’s Secret, didn’t she?” the first woman replied. “Married Harry Connick Jr.”

  Only five people separated Andrei from his objective.

  Now, he thought, while the crowd’s distracted.

  Suddenly, a bearded man approached with two German shepherds. A boy reached out to pet one. The dog snapped at him. The boy’s mother screamed. His father shouted.

  People stopped to see what was happening. Others surged against Andrei, attracted by the commotion. Abruptly, the crowd became a wall.

  Cursing, Andrei shoved through and encountered smoke from a bonfire. Shadowy figures moved beyond it.

  Pyotyr! Where the hell are you?

  * * * * *

  KAGAN DIDN’T plan it.

  Under his parka, he felt the baby kick. Adrenaline shot through him. At the same time, he heard a disturbance behind him, a dog growling, a woman screaming, a man shouting.

  Again, the baby kicked. Harder. Sensing death on his heels, Kagan responded to an overwhelming impulse and charged ahead through the crowd.

  “Buddy, watch where you’re going!” a man yelled.

  Smoke from a bonfire formed a thick haze that Kagan ran through, shoving people aside. He darted toward an opening on the right, trying to hide by hurrying along a walkway that led between galleries.

  Ahead, a laughing woman stepped from a side door, a drink in her hand. Her eyes widened at the sight of Kagan charging toward her, about to slam into her. With a gasp, she spilled her cocktail glass and lurched back inside the gallery.

  He sped into a courtyard, startling a man and woman who held gloved hands and admired a display of Santa’s reindeer. The display was outlined by flickering lights. Surprised by Kagan’s sudden arrival, the woman jerked back and almost fell onto Santa’s sled.

  “Hey!” the man shouted. “Watch it!”

  Kagan spotted a lane that led straight from the rear of the gallery. As he raced down it, the snow fell colder and faster. Now that he was away from Canyon Road, he realized how noisy it had been—the countless overlapping conversations, the singing, the laughter, the crackle of the fires. In this less-traveled area, a hush enveloped him. Behind him, the lights of the galleries and the decorations became a faint glow.

  All the while, he held the baby securely under his parka. On his right, a murky lamp over a garage provided enough light to show that other people had gone in this direction and trampled the snow. Good, he thought. One set of footprints would attract attention, especially if they’re widely spaced from someone running.

  He saw a shed and was tempted to hide behind it with the hope of ambushing his hunters. But there was too great a risk that he wouldn’t see them in time t
o react. Hitting a target in the chaos of a gunfight was difficult enough during the day, let alone at night amid the falling snow. Plus, under the circumstances, how well could he shoot? Using his injured arm to try to hold the baby under his coat, he would need to fire one-handed. The cold might make him tremble, throwing off his aim. In addition, there were bound to be several targets. Could he hope to surprise all of them?

  Yes, I’ve got plenty of reasons to keep going, he decided.

  On his left, he saw a walkway that extended between low buildings. Feeling the baby kick again, he veered in that direction. But at once, he reached a wooden wall.

  Frantic, he pawed along it and found a gap that was wide enough for him to squirm through. As he crawled, his knees felt the hard edge of a board under the snow. The moment he was safely on the other side, he raised the board and covered the hole.

  Finding himself in a courtyard that was eerily lit by the city’s ambient light, he studied the low adobe walls that surrounded him. A few snow-veiled lamps glowed in partially glimpsed houses. Hazy shrubs were strung with Christmas lights. The falling snow made the night seem blue, reflecting just enough illumination to reveal a few footprints that came from some of the houses.

  Kagan kept moving. He reached a lane where he encountered yet another choice of which way to go. He had the impression of being in a maze.

  The baby must have sensed his agitation. When he looked to the right, he felt it kick again, and he headed in that direction.

  On each side of the lane, faintly glimpsed decorations glowed beyond fences made from upright wooden tree limbs wired to horizontal poles. From the Santa Fe newspaper, Kagan had learned that the locals called them coyote fences. In the old days, their purpose had been literally to keep out coyotes, and even today, coyotes were a common sight on the outskirts of town.

  Kagan thought of predators. Hunters.

  But it would take more than a fence to keep these particular hunters out.

  * * * * *

  “PAUL, WHAT DO you know about Brighton Beach?”

  “It’s next to Coney Island, in Brooklyn, sir. It’s also the U.S. home of the Russian Mafia.”

  “That’s correct. In 1917, a lot of Russians immigrated there to escape the Revolution. In the 1990s, so many more Russians went there after the Soviet Union collapsed that they started to call it Little Odessa. Quite a few were gangsters who used to belong to the KGB or the Soviet military, where they learned skills that make them especially dangerous.

  “It’s possible to romanticize Italian mobsters to the point that we think of them as Marlon Brando and Al Pacino in The Godfather. But Russian gangsters are in a class of their own. ‘Sociopathic’ doesn’t begin to describe them. They have no scruples, no shame, no code of honor. They’ll do anything for money. There’s no line they won’t cross and no limit to their brutality.

  “An Italian gangster might suddenly feel patriotic and refuse if, say, Middle Eastern terrorists offered to pay to get a bunch of rocket launchers or a dirty bomb into the United States. But Russian mobsters’ll take the money, do the job, and just get out of the way when the explosions start.”

  * * * * *

  “COLE, WATCH the window,” the boy’s mother said. “Warn me if you see your father coming back.”

  Obeying, the boy stared into the semidarkness. Christmas lights outside the front door reflected off the snow and revealed that the lane was empty. He heard his mother pulling suitcases from under the bed in the master bedroom. He listened as she opened drawers and removed clothes.

  Cole pushed his glasses closer to his eyes, working to keep his vision focused. Tension nauseated him. Even if he did see his father returning home, what good would that do? he wondered. He could shout to warn his mother. So what? The doors were locked, but his father had a key. In the end, they wouldn’t be able to stop him from getting inside. How would his father react when he saw the suitcases filled with clothes?

  I won’t let him hit her again! Cole thought.

  He limped to the rear of the living room and turned right to go down the hallway. At the end of the hall, he peered to the left, into the master bedroom, where his mother leaned over the bed. She was too busy packing to notice him. He turned to the right and entered his own bedroom, where he reached behind the door and gripped the baseball bat that his father had given him for his birthday in September. Not that the gift mattered. Lately, his father seldom found time to play with him.

  Quiet, he returned to the living room, opened a closet next to the front door, and took out his coat. Its zipper made a clacking noise against the side of the closet.

  “Cole?”

  His fingers cramped on the coat.

  “What is it, Mom?”

  “The suitcases are packed. I’m a little more tired than I thought. We won’t be able to leave for an hour or so, until cars are allowed on Canyon Road. I’m going to lie down.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I just need to rest. Let me know when it’s ten o’clock. Or if you see him coming back.”

  Cole tightened his grip on the baseball bat.

  “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m here.”

  * * * * *

  RAGING, ANDREI charged through the smoke of the snow-smothered fire. People gaped toward the commotion behind him. The second German shepherd was growling now, the boy crying, the parents and the dog owner arguing loudly.

  The bystanders formed a wall that Andrei rammed through. He made no pretense of using his cell phone. If people thought he was talking to himself, it no longer mattered that he attracted attention.

  “The target’s gone!” he shouted into the microphone hidden under his ski jacket’s zipper.

  “Gone?” The accented voice bellowed through Andrei’s earbud.

  “The crowd shielded him! He ducked away!” Andrei stared furiously ahead, but he didn’t see any disturbance in the crowd, no sign of anyone shoving people aside or rushing forward.

  Pyotyr, where did you go? he thought urgently.

  “The package!” the voice yelled. “Everything depends on getting it back! This is your fault! You vouched for him! You assured me I could trust him! You hooyesos, bring back what he stole!”

  Andrei bristled. No one insulted him. From his earliest years on the streets of Grozny, he’d learned that disrespect could never be tolerated. If anybody other than the Pakhan had called him that . . .

  Breathing quickly, he scanned the buildings on the left side of Canyon Road. They formed a wall. But to his right, several galleries had walkways between them. That was the only escape route.

  His two teammates ran up behind him.

  “Over there!” Andrei yelled, too hurried to recall the code names they’d been given. “Mikhail, take the first walkway!

  Yakov, take the second! I’ll take the third!”

  They rushed forward, ignoring the alarmed looks people gave them.

  As the snow kept falling, Andrei raced along the third walkway. Christmas lights blinked in a gallery window. He passed a side door that was open, hearing a woman complain, “...almost knocked me over! What’s the matter with people? This is the one night we ought to slow down. It’s Christmas Eve, for God’s sake.”

  Andrei ran into a back courtyard, where a man and woman stood in front of a flickering display of Santa’s reindeer and sled. They looked angry about his intrusion, as if this wasn’t the first time they’d been startled tonight.

  “I’m with the police! Did a man run through here?”

  “That way!” The woman pointed toward a lane. “Scared the hell out of us.”

  Andrei hurried into the lane. Behind him, muffled footsteps raced between the galleries, Mikhail and Yakov joining him.

  “Those other routes are dead ends,” Mikhail reported.

  They assessed the lane. There wasn’t much activity since most people preferred the attractions on Canyon Road.

  Responding to their military background, they spread out. Andrei took the middle position and repla
ced his .22 Beretta with the powerful 10-millimeter Glock. He moved slowly, carefully, straining his eyes to study everything through the haze of the falling snow.

  Yakov spoke in a low voice. “Too many footprints. We can’t tell which are his.”

  “At least not yet,” Andrei murmured, searching for blood.

  “He might try to ambush us,” Mikhail said.

  “In that case, we’ve got him,” Andrei replied. “The way we’re spread out, he can’t take all of us before we return fire. But I’m not worried about an ambush. He won’t risk putting the child in danger, not while he still has strength to try to get it out of here.”

  Andrei was reminded of something a soldier, one of his mother’s numerous boyfriends, had taught him when they’d gone on a hunting trip. The soldier had hoped the expedition would impress Andrei’s mother. The soldier’s unit was one of the first to be sent to Afghanistan in 1979, and Andrei had never seen him again. But because he and his mother had lived near a Soviet military base, there’d been many other soldiers to replace the man who’d left, and they were the only fathers Andrei had known.

  Andrei had never forgotten that particular hunting trip. The soldier had taught him something that had turned out to be a life lesson. A wounded animal keeps running until weakness forces it to go to ground. Only when it’s cornered will it fight.

  * * * * *

  IN WHAT SEEMED increasingly to be a labyrinth, Kagan plodded through the snowfall. Its muted whisper made him feel as if something were wrong with his hearing, as if he were trapped in a snow globe. Because he still couldn’t risk raising his hood and impairing his peripheral vision, he allowed the snow to accumulate on his head. Periodically, he brushed it off. Nonetheless, his scalp felt frozen.