David Morrell: The Spy Who Came for Christmas

The man reached the opposite side of the street and turned to the right, passing star-shaped lights strung along the windows of an art gallery. Andrei shifted a little closer-only thirteen people away now-avoiding sudden movements, doing nothing that would disrupt the flow of the crowd and cause his prey to look back. Although the man’s gait remained steady, Andrei knew that his left arm was wounded. It hung at his side. Shadows and trampling footsteps concealed the blood he left on the snow.

You’ll soon weaken, Andrei thought, surprised that he hadn’t already.

Red and blue lights flashed ahead, making Andrei tense. Despite the holiday surroundings, it was impossible to mistake those lights for Christmas displays. Reflected by the falling snow,

they were mounted on the roofs of two police cars that blocked the entrance to Canyon Road. Large red letters on the cars’ white doors announced, SANTA FE POLICE.

Andrei’s shoulders tightened. Are they searching for us? Have they found the bodies?

Two burly policemen in bulky coats stood before the cruisers, stamping their boots in the snow, trying to keep warm. Stiff from the cold, they awkwardly raised their left arms and motioned toward oncoming headlights, warning cars and pickup trucks to keep going and not enter Canyon Road.

Ahead in the crowd, a woman pointed with concern. “Why would the police be here? Something must have happened. Maybe we’d better stay away.”

“ Nothing’s wrong,” her companion assured her. “The police form a barricade every year. Christmas Eve, cars can’t driven Canyon Road. Only pedestrians are allowed there tonight.”

Andrei watched Pyotyr walk around the cruisers and enter the celebration on Canyon Road, taking care to avoid eye contact with the policemen. They paid him no attention, looking bored.

Yes, they’re only managing traffic, Andrei decided. That’ll soon change, but by then, I’ll have what I need and be out of here.

He wondered why Pyotyr hadn’t run to the police for help, but after a moment’s thought, he understood. The bastard knows we won’t allow anything to stop us from taking back what he stole. With their weapons holstered, those two cops wouldn’t have a chance if we rushed them.

Staring ahead, he noticed how the increasing narrowness of Canyon Road made the crowd even denser. Santa Fe was a small city of about 70,000 people. Before beginning his assignment, Andrei had reconnoitered the compact downtown area and knew that Canyon Road had few side streets. It reminded him of a funnel.

Things will happen swiftly now, he thought. I’ll get you, my friend.

Whoever you are.

Andrei’s vision narrowed even more, focusing almost exclusively on the back of Pyotyr’s head, where he intended to put his bullet. Pretending to marvel at the Christmas decorations, he passed the flashing lights of the police cars and entered the kill zone.

The man who called himself Pyotyr saw with intense clarity, all of his senses operating at their fullest, taking in everything around him.

Canyon Road was lined with mostly single-story buildings, many of which boasted pueblo-revival architecture, their flat roofs, rounded edges, and earth-colored stucco so distinctive that visitors marveled. The majority of the buildings-some of them dating back to the eighteenth century-had been converted into art galleries, hundreds of them, making this street one of the most popular art scenes in the United States.

Tonight, their outlines were emphasized by countless flickering candles-what the locals called farolitos — that were set in sand poured into paper bags and placed next to walkways. Some of the candles had been knocked over accidentally, the paper bags burning, but most remained intact, their shimmer not yet affected by the settling snow.

Bonfires lit each side of the road, their occasional loud crackles causing him to flinch as if from gunshots. The wood they burned had been cut from pine trees known as pinons, and the fragrant smoke reminded him of incense.

Your mind’s drifting, he warned himself, trying to ignore the pain in his arm. Forget the damned smoke. Pay attention. Find a way out of here.

His real name was Paul Kagan, but over the years, in other places, he had used many other names. Tonight, he’d decided to become himself.

The left pocket of his parka was torn open, the result of someone grabbing for him when he’d escaped. He recalled the shock he’d felt when he’d reached for his cell phone and discovered that it had fallen out. Something had seemed to fall inside him as well. Without a way to contact his controller, he was powerless to summon help.

Kagan wore a flesh-colored earbud, so small that it was almost impossible to notice in the shadows. A miniature microphone was hidden on his parka, but all communication had stopped fifteen minutes earlier. He took for granted that his hunters had switched to a new frequency to prevent him from eavesdropping while they searched for him.

Doing his best to blend with the crowd, he strained to be aware of everything around him: the carolers, the twinkling lights on the galleries and the trees, the art dealers offering steaming cocoa to passersby. He searched for an escape route but knew that if the men chasing him managed to follow him to a quiet area, he wouldn’t have a chance.

Nor would the object he held under his parka.

He felt it squirm. Fearful that it might be smothered, he pulled the zipper down far enough to provide air. It might be making sounds, but the carols and conversations around him prevented him from knowing for sure. Those same distractions prevented the crowd from hearing what he hid under his coat.

“ We three kings of Orient are…”

Yeah, they came from the East all right, Kagan thought. In his weakened condition, the incense-like smell of the bonfires reminded him of the gifts the three Magi had brought to the baby Jesus: frankincense for a priest, gold for a king, and myrrh, an embalming perfume for one who is to die.

But not what’s under my parka, Kagan thought. By God, I’ll do anything to make sure it doesn’t die.

“ Paul, we have a new assignment for you. How’s your Russian?”

“ It’s good, sir. My parents were afraid to speak it, even in secret. But after the Soviet Union collapsed, all of a sudden it was the only language they spoke around the house. The urge to use it had built up during the years they were in hiding. I needed to learn Russian so I could understand what they said.”

“ Your file says they defected to the United States in 1976.”

“ That’s right. They were part of the Soviet gymnastics team sent to the summer Olympics in Montreal. They managed to slip away from their handlers, reached the American consulate, and requested political asylum.”

“ Interesting that they chose the U.S. instead of Canada.”

“ I think they worried that Canada’s winters would be as cold as those in their former home in Leningrad.”

“ I was hoping you’d tell me they admired the American way of life.”

“ They did, sir, especially Florida, where they went to live and never felt cold again.”

“ Florida? I had an assignment there one Christmas. All that sun and sand, the mood didn’t work. They never felt cold? I assume you mean except for the Cold War.”

“ Yes, sir. The Soviets never stopped searching for defectors, especially ones who’d made international headlines. Despite the new identities the State Department gave them, my parents were always afraid they’d be tracked down.”

“ Their original names were Irina and Vladimir Kozlov?”

“ Correct.”

“ Changed to Kagan?”

“ Yes, sir. Gymnastics was their passion, but they soon realized they could never compete again. The risk of discovery was too great. They didn’t even dare go into a gymnasium and practice their moves. They knew they wouldn’t be able to resist doing their best, and if people saw how amazing they were, word would have spread. Perhaps to the wrong people. My parents were too terrified to take the chance. Suppressing their talents broke their spirit. That was the price of their freedom.”