David Morrell - The Spy Who Came for Christmas

“ Before 9/11, they could move freely among us. We welcomed visitors. We were innocent. Now Middle Eastern terrorists know they’ll be profiled if they do anything that’s even the slightest bit unusual, so they need somebody else who can do the blood work for them, someone who blends.

“ Finding Westerners to cooperate with them used to be nearly impossible. After all, even the most callous criminal still has an instinct not to foul his nest. I’m not talking about love of country, Paul. That concept’s too noble for the element we’re talking about. But nearly everyone, no matter how corrupt, will refuse to do something that endangers his own tiny corner of the world-his neighborhood, his street, his house or apartment. It’s basic self-preservation.

“ Except for the Odessa Mafia, Paul. They’re so detached from their adopted country that they don’t even care about their homes. If they get paid enough to plant a dirty bomb in Manhattan, a bomb that’s guaranteed to spread radioactive fallout to where they live in nearby Brighton Beach, they’ll just pack up and move before they detonate the bomb. Pay them enough, and they’ll do anything.

“ And it’s not only Al-Qaeda they’ll work for. They’re also taking money from Hamas.”

“ There’s a man outside the house,” Cole said.

Kagan froze in the middle of buttoning his shirt. In the faint glow from the night-light, he doubted that he could be seen through the curtains that covered the kitchen window. Even so, he moved deeper into the room.

His normal pulse rate was sixty-five beats per minute. He now estimated that it was one hundred and ten and getting faster. Chest tight, he picked up his parka from the kitchen table and felt the reassuring weight of the gun in the right pocket.

He stopped at the archway that led into the living room.

“ What do you see?”

“ A man.” Cole’s voice was faint.

Only one? Kagan thought. No, there’d be more. Then the idea occurred to him that his hunters might have split up to cover more area.

Or maybe this is a false alarm.

“ Cole, remember, don’t seem to pay any attention to him. Just keep showing interest in the snowfall.”

“ I’m not at the window. He doesn’t know I’m watching him.”

“ What do you mean?”

“ I’m sitting in a chair that’s away from the fireplace and the lights on the tree. It’s dark here. He can’t see me.”

“ You’re sure?”

“ Hey, I’m only a little kid. Nobody pays attention to a little kid, scrunched down in a chair. But I don’t know how he could see me.”

“ What’s he doing?”

“ Just walking past. It’s like he was looking at the Christmas lights and the snow. Now he’s gone.”

“ Maybe he is just enjoying the lights and the snow. Could be he lives around here.”

“ We moved here at the start of the summer. I don’t know all the neighbors, but I haven’t seen him before.”

“ Maybe he’s visiting someone. Describe him.”

“ I couldn’t see him clearly. He’s tall-I saw that much. Big shoulders. He has a cap pulled down over his ears. It’s shaped like his head.”

“ It’s called a watchman’s cap.” Kagan felt the shadow of death passing by. “What color is his coat?”

“ It has snow on it, but I think it’s dark.”

“ What about his cap? Is that dark, too?”

“ It’s got too much snow on it. I can’t tell.”

Don’t let the boy sense what you’re feeling, Kagan thought.

“ That’s the right thing to say, Cole. Always admit if you don’t have an answer. A spy once wanted to keep his job so much that he told his bosses what they wanted to hear instead of the truth. It caused the world a lot of trouble. Which direction did the man come from?”

“ The right.”

From Canyon Road, Kagan thought.

Cole spoke again. “A dark-what did you call it-watchman’s cap? Does one of the guys looking for you wear one? Wait a second. Here he comes again. From the left now. He’s going back the way he came.”

Kagan wanted desperately to step into the living room, to crouch and try to get a look through the window. But he didn’t dare risk showing himself.

“ He seems in a hurry this time,” Cole said.

Kagan understood. Whoever was out there-almost certainly Andrei, given Cole’s description-had followed all those footprints until the final set led him to this house. But Kagan’s trick had worked, and Andrei had decided that the same person had made both sets, coming and going.

Now he’s angry that he wasted time.

“ He’s gone again,” Cole said.

“ That’s good. But keep watching.”

In the background, Judy Garland sang, “ Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” The only other sounds were the crackle of a log in the fireplace and the whimper of the baby.

Need to keep him from crying.

Careful to hide his tension, Kagan turned from the archway and faced the kitchen, where Meredith held the child.

“ How’s that mixture coming?” he asked.

Meredith stood a careful distance from a pot on the stove, holding the baby away from the flame.

“ I’m heating it. But how do I feed him? I don’t have a bottle with a nipple on it.”

“ Do you have a shot glass?”

“ Somehow, I think I can find one.” Her voice had an edge to it.

Kagan noticed that she frowned toward a whiskey bottle on the counter. The bottle was almost empty. A shot glass sat next to it.

“ I see what you mean.”

“ I hope you’re not going to start drinking,” she said.

“ Not to worry.” Kagan took the glass and stayed to the side of the sink, away from the window, while he used hot water to rinse the alcohol from the glass. “A baby can sip from something small like this.”

“ No. When Cole was born, his pediatrician told me not to offer him a cup until he was four months old.”

“ Actually, a baby can sip from a tiny container soon after birth.”

“ You’ve got to be making this stuff up,” Meredith said. “Do you really expect me to believe this is something else you learned from the World Health Organization?”

“ It works. The trick is how you do it.” Kagan went to her and pretended to put a hand behind the baby, demonstrating the technique. “Tilt him slightly back like this. Keep a hand behind his head to protect his neck. Hold the shot glass against his upper lip. Don’t pour. That’ll make him gag. If you let him control how much he sips, he’ll do fine.”

After a wary glance toward the window, Kagan went over to the stove and stirred the mixture, dissolving the sugar and salt. The spoon scraped against the pot.

“ Cole, any sign of movement out there?” Despite Kagan’s outward calm, he estimated that his pulse rate was now one hundred and twenty. His arteries felt the pressure that expanded them.

“ No,” the boy said.

“ You’re doing a good job. Keep watching.”

The baby squirmed as if it might start crying.

Kagan quickly used the spoon to dribble some of the mixture on the inside of his wrist. “Slightly warm. It’s ready.” He turned off the stove and spooned the mixture into the shot glass. “I filled it to the one-ounce mark. We can measure how much the baby’s drinking.”

Meredith held the baby the way Kagan had shown her, protecting his neck from tilting too far back.

“ Here we go, little fellow.” She took the glass from Kagan. “Does he have a name?”

Kagan didn’t reply.

“ Sorry,” she said. “I guess it’s not something I should know.”

“ Actually, I was never told his name.” Although Kagan’s instinct was to avoid revealing information, in a way it no longer mattered. If the men outside got their hands on Meredith, the outcome would be brutally the same whether she knew anything about the baby or not.