David Morrell - The Spy Who Came for Christmas

Well, those bastards accomplished their goal, Andrei thought bitterly. No one can be tougher or harder. Pyotyr, you’re about to learn what that means.

Ahead, the remaining footprints turned to the left toward the upright cedar limbs of a coyote fence. The prints reached a gate. Andrei carefully observed that the other tracks, the ones that were almost obliterated by the snow, came from that same gate.

They belong to someone who went to see the Christmas lights and then returned, Andrei concluded. The excitement of the hunt dimmed in his chest. I’ve been following someone who lives in the neighborhood. I wasted valuable time. I should have stayed with Mikhail and Yakov and continued searching the area near Canyon Road.

Wait. Don’t jump to conclusions, he warned himself.

Continuing along the lane, he concentrated harder on the two sets of tracks. The old ones came from the left side of the house. The new ones went in that direction, disappearing into an area of darkness that Andrei assumed concealed a side door. Peering intently, he managed to see a shed and a garage over to the left. Switching his gaze toward the house itself, he noted that it had the distinctive architecture-flat roof rounded corners, earth-colored stucco-that he’d seen almost everywhere in Santa Fe.

Christmas lights hung above a wreath on the front door. Immediately to the left, a pale light glowed behind a curtain over a small window in what was probably the kitchen. To the right of the door, a large window showed a living room, murky except for a dwindling fire in a hearth and lights on a Christmas tree. Farther to the right, in another room, a curtained window revealed the flickering illumination of what seemed to be a television.

Determined to be thorough, Andrei glanced toward the roof. The dim reflection of the front-door lights allowed him to see snow accumulating on a satellite dish.

He didn’t study the house in an obvious way. Instead, his trained eyes took in everything as he walked past, seeming to admire the picturesque winter scene. The hiss of the snow almost muffled the sound of his footsteps. After twenty seconds, the house was no longer in sight, which also meant that he could no longer be seen from it.

With no more footprints to follow, there wasn’t any point in continuing down the lane. Again, disappointment took hold of him. Stopping, he assessed the situation. His initial guess had probably been correct, he reluctantly decided. The tracks belonged to the same person.

But if someone had recently come back to the house, wouldn’t there be more lights inside? Was it reasonable to believe that the person who lived there had gone to bed early on Christmas Eve, a night most Americans obsessed about because of gifts they were eager to receive?

What time is it?

Andrei pushed back the sleeve of his ski jacket and exposed the face on his digital watch. Obeying a habit from the military, he was careful to shield the watch with his hand before he pressed a button that caused its red numbers to glow. Quickly, he released the button and extinguished the glow.

The numbers showed 9:41.

If whoever lived in the house was elderly, it wouldn’t be out of the question for him or her to go to bed early on Christmas Eve, Andrei decided. The flickering light from the television suggested that someone was in bed, perhaps watching one of those sugary holiday movies like It’s a Wonderful Life, the title of which always made Andrei scoff.

A wonderful life? The only true parts of that movie were the old guy losing the bank’s money and the rich guy wanting to control the bank so he could charge high interest rates and take people’s homes. If the story had been true to life, the hero-what’s his name? James Stewart-would have succeeded in killing himself when he jumped into the half-frozen river.

And why was he so damned skinny? Andrei thought. Did he starve himself? Only in America, where there’s so much food, do people starve themselves so they can be skinny. Go fight rebels in Chechnya on the half rations we were given. You’ll soon change your mind about wanting to be skinny.

Without warning, the Pakhan’s angry voice shouted through the earbud under Andrei’s watchman’s cap.

“ Did you find him?”

“ Not yet,” Andrei murmured into the microphone concealed on his jacket, keeping his voice as low as possible.

“ When the clients learn we don’t have what they paid for-”

“ We’re searching as hard as we can.”

“ If I’m forced to return the money, I swear I’ll help them track you down.”

“ So you told me earlier. I haven’t forgotten.”

I’ve never been disloyal to you, Andrei thought. I’ve always done more than you asked.

“ I just need a little extra time,” he said into the microphone, concealing his bitterness.

“ Koshkayob, you don’t seem to grasp how little time you have.”

Andrei’s stomach hardened. He resented the insult as much as he hated being threatened-but nowhere near as much as he was furious that the Pakhan had chosen to support the outsiders against him.

“ I can’t talk any longer.” Anger more than necessity made him end the transmission abruptly.

He turned and faced the snow-hazed lane along which he’d searched. As he went back the way he’d come, he knew he needed to hurry to rejoin Mikhail and Yakov, to search other places, to make up for the time he’d squandered.

But some instinct kept him from rushing.

The house appeared again, this time on his right. Again he studied it as he passed, moving closer so he’d be able to see through the gloom. The flickering light from the television. The Christmas-tree lights. The lessening flames in the fireplace. The coming and going footprints. The gate.

The gate.

There was something about it, something that nagged at him, but he couldn’t decide what it was. He kept walking until once more he was out of sight from the house. He stopped, turned, and crouched, making sure his head was below the top of the fence.

He crept toward the gate, taking pains to stay down.

In his stooped position, the back of his neck was exposed to the chill of the falling snow. Nonetheless, he barely registered the sensation, so intent was he on the gate. He shifted closer, and the upright cedar limbs became larger before him. There was something about them. Something out of place. Something he couldn’t leave without checking.

Reaching the gate, he sank to his knees in the snow. Ignoring the cold that seeped through his pants, he brought his face close to the gate and the bark on the limbs. He gazed up toward the snow that had accumulated on their sawed-off tops.

Some of the snow had fallen, dislodged by the motion of the gate. That was to be expected. Whoever had opened the gate might even have brushed against the snow on the top, causing more to fall off.

Brushed against the gate, Andrei thought.

He strained his eyes in the pale light that was reflected by the snowfall. The gate swung inward to the left. It wouldn’t be unusual for someone’s left side to brush against the gate when going through.

Concentrating, he found a dark smear near the bolt that secured the gate.

Excitement built in him. The smear was at the level of a man’s arm. He had barely noticed it and almost dismissed it when he’d walked past, attributing it to a discoloration in the wood.

Now electricity seemed to shoot along his nerves when he touched a gloved finger to the smear and found that some of it stuck on the leather. Dark-colored, it was semisolid liquid, on its way to being frozen.

In the shadows, Andrei couldn’t distinguish the color, but he had no doubt that this was blood.

“ Islamic terrorists thanked Allah when they found the Russian mob, Paul. In Middle Eastern countries, Al-Qaeda radicals don’t look any different from the people around them, who just want to be allowed to lead their lives in peace. But if they leave their native countries and try conducting operations in the West, they stand out.