Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 50, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2005

Red Christmas by Steve Hockensmith

Jingle the elf noticed a peculiar package under the workshop’s massive Christmas tree. There were dozens of boxes nestled around it: gifts to and from Santa, Mrs. Claus, the elves, the reindeer, and Rumpity-Tump the Icicle Man, who worked for the Clauses chasing away National Geographic photographers and cleaning out the deer stables.

But this particular present stood out from the rest for a very special reason.

“Jeez,” Jingle said. “That’s gotta be the crappiest-looking thing I’ve ever seen under Santa’s tree.”

And indeed it was. The wrapping paper was crinkled and smudged, and the bow-work was shockingly shoddy, the beautiful red ribbon mangled and smeared with inky black fingerprints.

Jingle shook his head in disgust. “Looks like the guys down in Wrapping started pounding the glogg before the Old Man even took off.”

“Dishgushting,” said Jingle’s brother Jangle, who’d had a few snorts of glogg himself. “We oughta shay shomething to the foreman. Ish there a name on the tag?”

Jingle moved closer to the package. It was big — almost as big as Jingle himself. He found the tag buried under a long loop of loosely tied ribbon.

“ ‘To Santa,’ ” he read aloud. “ ‘From R. with love.’ ”

“ ‘R.,’ huh? Maybe it’sh from Rudolph.”

“Doesn’t look like it’s been in a deer stall,” Jingle said, peering at the wrapping paper. “I mean, it’s got stains on it, but not... you know...”

“Yeah, I shee what you mean,” Jangle agreed.

(Despite Rumpity-Tump’s best efforts, the deer stables were far from pristine.)

“Well, whoever ‘R.’ is, he’s not one of the guys in Cards, Tags & Notes,” Jingle announced. “The handwriting’s terrible.”

He tried to pick up the box and give it a test shake, but it was so heavy he could only lift one corner. Something inside the box shifted with a muffled tinkle, and the edge along the floor turned dark and glistening.

“It’s leaking.”

“Oopsh,” Jangle said. “You broke it. Shanta’sh gonna be pished.”

“I didn’t break it. Whatever it is, it was already...”

Jingle’s words choked to a stop as a sour-sweet smell reached his nose. It was the scent of gingerbread and peppermint and magic, with an undertone of paint and glue and sweat.

Elf blood.

Since Jingle’s reflexes hadn’t been dulled by glogg, he was the one to start screaming first. Jangle quickly joined in, though. The two elves scrambled out from under the tree and dashed shrieking through the hallways of Santa’s castle. Santa himself had been airborne nearly an hour, so there was only one person they could turn to.

“Mrs. Claus! Mrs. Claus!” they yelled in unison (though Jangle’s cries sounded more like “Mishush Claush! Mishush Claush!”).

They found Santa’s wife in the kitchen stirring an enormous cauldron of borscht. It was the only thing her husband would eat for the next six or seven months, so gorged would he be on cookies and milk by night’s end.

“Blood!” Jingle howled.

“Blllllloooooood!” Jangle added.

“Oh my, no,” Mrs. Claus replied sweetly. “It’s just borscht. Goodness, when you elves start nipping at the glogg there’s no telling what you’ll—”

Jingle grabbed one wrist, Jangle grabbed the other, and they pulled her away from the stove, out the door, and through the halls until she was standing before the giant Christmas tree, a dripping ladle still clutched in her hand.

Jingle pointed at the mysterious package. “Blood!” he howled again.

“Blllooood,” Jangle added dutifully, though he was a bit too winded by now to give it much oomph.

“Oh. I see,” Mrs. Claus said. “Dear oh dear. Well, I suppose someone had best open it up.”

A crowd began to gather around, but no one made a move toward the box. Mrs. Claus sighed, whispered another “Dear oh dear,” handed her ladle to Jingle, and stooped down under the tree’s lowest branches. The ribbon and paper slid off the package easily. When she lifted off the lid, a chorus of gasps shook the silver bells on the tree.

Inside the box was the crumpled form of an orange-haired, cherub-faced elf.

“Deary deary dear,” muttered Mrs. Claus, employing the fiercest vulgarities in her vocabulary. “It’s Gumdrop, Sugarplum’s brother.”

Another gasp echoed up into the rafters.

“Could he... could he have been... wrapped by mistake?” Jingle stammered.

Such things had been known to happen. Two years before, a pair of elves named Glitter and Sparkle had crawled into a box for a quick nap between shifts in Wrapping. Come Christmas morning, a horrified eight year old found their lifeless bodies crushed beneath a Star Wars Death Star play set.

Mrs. Claus reached into the package and gingerly shifted little Gumdrop.

“Oh deary deary deary deary dear,” she said, which told the elves that whatever she saw, it was bad indeed.

“Wh-what?” Jingle asked.

Mrs. Claus moved away from Gumdrop, giving the crowd a clear view of his blood-soaked back. Protruding from it was the red and white curl of a large candy cane. The deadly confection was smudged with sticky black fingerprints, just like the wrapping paper and ribbon on the box.

“I’m afraid this was no accident,” Mrs. Claus announced. “Someone here has been very, very naughty.”

The gasps turned to shrieks. A reindeer handler named Holly fainted into the arms of her brother Jolly. Rumpity-Tump the Icicle Man became so frozen with fear he fell over and shattered, and his pieces had to be swept up and placed outside in the snow so he could pull himself together.

“A killer! A killer loose in the workshop!” Jingle wailed.

“And Shanta won’t be back for hoursh!” cried Jangle, who’d been trying to steady his nerves with several long swigs from a flask he’d pulled from his vest pocket.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Claus, nodding sadly. “It looks like the borscht will have to wait.” She stepped out from under the branches and cleared her throat with dainty dignity. “Could everyone hush now, please?”

Her voice never rose more than a half step above a soothing whisper, ever, yet somehow her words carried farther and penetrated deeper than if she’d screamed every word. The elves’ lamentations and gnashing of teeth died away quickly, leaving only the sound of the wind outside and a quiet jingling somewhere high in the Christmas tree.

“Thank you. Now — is there anyone here who saw Gumdrop this evening?”

An elf toward the back of the room raised his hand.

“Yes, Snowflake?”

“Gumdrop was working with us in Nice Management this year. We finished the list up a little early and went to get some... uhhh, eggnog at Carol’s place.”

Mrs. Claus picked Carol’s face out of the throng. “Carol?”

“Yeah, Gumdrop was there for a while. But he and my sister Noel... ummm... had a little too much eggnog and they went off to... make some mulled cider.”

Mrs. Claus scanned the still-growing crowd for Noel’s blushing face. “Noel?”

“Over here, Mrs. C. When we got to the bedro — I mean, the kitchen, Gumdrop realized he didn’t have a... well... a... bag of mulling spices. There was one in his wallet, but he’d left it in his jacket at work. I might have had a bit too much eggnog, but I’m not stupid — I told him no spice, no cider. So Gumdrop went back to work to get his jacket.” Noel wiped away a tear. “He never came back.”

“He went back to Nice Management?”

“Yes.”

“And no one else saw him after that?”

The room was still.

“I see.” Mrs. Claus folded her arms and shook her head. “Eggnog and cider-making and mulling spices? My oh my.”

The assembled elves hung their heads in shame.

“Well, you’ve been working so hard this year... I don’t think we need to mention any of that to Santa.”

The elves peeked back up at her sheepishly.

“But this business with poor Gumdrop...”

Something rustled high above in the tree, and a single ornament dropped from branch to branch to branch, finally shattering on the floor just a few yards from Mrs. Claus. Everyone looked up.

At the top of the tree, tinkering with the brightly glowing star perched there, was a single elf.

“Hello, up there,” Mrs. Claus said.

The elf peered down at her. “Greetingz.” Then he went back to working on the star.

“Aren’t you interested in what’s going on down here?”

“Oh, it iz a zertainty. But I am having verk to do here, yez?”

“I think that can wait. Why don’t you come down and talk to me?”

Mrs. Claus’s tone was as sweet and lilting as ever, yet it was clear this was no request. It was a command.

“No,” the elf said, not bothering to even look at her this time. “I think I finish my verk firzt, yez?”

“Oh. Well then.”

Mrs. Claus took a deep breath and twiddled her thumbs for a moment. Disobedient elves were as rare at the North Pole as murders. There were no precedents for dealing with either one.

“Jingle, Jangle, everybody — stand back please,” Mrs. Claus said when she’d decided on a course of action.

She reached into the lowest branches of the Christmas tree and began pulling off a long strand of shimmering garland. Once she had about thirty feet of it, she tied one end into a hoop and began twirling it over her head. When she let it go, the makeshift lasso sailed to the top of the tree and landed around the obstinate elf’s right foot. With one quick, hard pull, Mrs. Claus closed the loop tight and jerked the little man into the air.

“Blahhhhhhhh!” he squawked as he cartwheeled downward.

“Ooooooooooh!” the elves cooed as they watched him fall.

“I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Claus after she’d caught him by the fluffy white collar of his green tunic, snatching him out of the air before he could splatter at her feet. “But I really do think it’s awfully important that we talk.”

She loosened the garland and set her tiny prisoner down. He was chubbier than most of his kin, and a little taller too. He bent back and stared up at the top of the tree.

“Very imprezzive, Mrz. Clauz,” he said.

“Oh, why thank you,” Mrs. Claus replied with demure humility. “I’ve always been handy with decorations. Now tell me, what’s your name?”

“I em Geeftrep.”

It took a few seconds for the syllables to take shape in Mrs. Claus’s brain. “Giftwrap?” she asked.

“Yez. Bruther of Scotchtape.”

“Hmmm. I don’t believe I’ve heard you or your brother mentioned around here before, Giftwrap.”

The other elves shook their heads and squinted at Giftwrap with growing suspicion.

“Ve are new thiz year,” he said. “Before this ve are... how do you say? Ve cobble the shoez, yez?”

“I see. But this year you decided to become toy-making elves?”

“Yez. The shoemaker ve verk for, he moved hiz factory to Indonezia.”

“My, how terribly disappointing. Well, let me take this opportunity to welcome you to Santa’s workshop.”

Mrs. Claus held her hand out to Giftwrap. He hesitated just a fraction of a second, then grasped her hand and gave it a limp shake.

“Thank you, Mrz. Clauz.”

Mrs. Claus smiled, then glanced down as she let go of his hand.

“Goodness — is that ink on your sleeve?”

Giftwrap didn’t answer directly. Instead, he spat out a word no one had ever dared utter in the presence of Mrs. Claus.

“Oh, now surely that kind of language isn’t going to help matters any,” she began to say.

She didn’t get a chance to finish. The “Oh” was still on her lips when Giftwrap pulled a candy cane from his tunic and lunged at her with it. She barely managed to dodge away in time, and the razor-sharp candy sliced off a corner of her white lace apron.

“Oh, Giftwrap,” Mrs. Claus said. “My niece made that for me.”

But rather than apologize, Giftwrap lunged again.

“Mrs. C!” Jingle called out as he tossed her the ladle she’d handed him a minute before.

Mrs. Claus reached out and let the handle slap into her palm. Then she swung the ladle down just in time to parry Giftwrap’s thrust. Giftwrap tried again and again, but each time Mrs. Claus turned the sugary blade aside.

“Now really, Giftwrap — is this helpful?” Mrs. Claus asked, raising her voice just a bit to be heard above the clink-clank of their duel. “You can’t escape. Why not stop fighting and tell me what you’ve been up to? I bet you’ll feel a lot better if you do.”

“Bah!” Giftwrap snarled. With a dramatic flourish, he hurled his candy cane into the floorboards, where it stuck with a loud, vibrating spronnnng. Then he reached into his tunic and pulled out something brown and log-like.

“Look out!” Jingle yelped. “He’s got a fruitcake!”

“Yez! And I em not afraid to uze it!”

Giftwrap brought the fruitcake to his lips and took a savage bite.

“Daz vedanya, zuckerz!” he shouted, crumbs and bits of candied orange peel spraying from his furiously chewing mouth. He took a big, gulping swallow, and almost immediately his face turned blue. He collapsed, writhing and gurgling. After a few seconds, he stopped moving.

Jingle slowly approached the prone figure and gave it a cautious poke with the curled toe of his elf shoe. There was no response.

“I think he’s dead.”

“Dead? Deary deary dear,” Mrs. Claus said as she stepped over to Giftwrap’s side and stooped down to examine the body. “Oh, I thought so.”

She reached out and plucked the pointy ears right off his head.

There was more gasping and fainting from the elves gathered around.

“Don’t anyone fret now. They’re fake ears,” Mrs. Claus explained. “Giftwrap — or whatever his name truly is... is no elf.”

“A man?” Jingle asked.

Mrs. Claus nodded. “Yes. A midget.”

“Why would a midget come all the way to the North Pole just to kill Gumdrop?”

“Oh, I don’t think he would. Not just to kill poor Gumdrop, I mean.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t either, Jingle. But I do know this: We haven’t seen the last of the naughtiness tonight.”

Mrs. Claus put a pair of elves named Mistletoe and Poinsettia in charge of guarding the bodies, then hustled out of the room, Jingle at her heels. Jangle started to follow too, but the glogg had turned his legs to rubber, and the only way to stiffen them up again was to curl up under a bench and take a nap.

Nice Management was deserted when Jingle and Mrs. Claus arrived. They found Gumdrop’s jacket at his desk, lying atop a pile of statistics, graphs, and pie charts analyzing the Naughty-to-Nice ratio of little boys who own albums by Kiss.

“Maybe Gumdrop never made it back to the office,” Jingle said. “He could have been murdered anywhere between here and Carol’s place.”

“No,” Mrs. Claus said. “I think it’s much more likely he was killed right here.”

She headed for the far end of the room, where Santa kept the tilted worktable he slaved over so many long hours each year. It was where he compiled The List — the massive scroll on which he kept the names of well-behaved children who’d earned a visit come Christmas Eve.

Mrs. Claus peered down at the worktable a moment. “Oh, goodness deary goodness,” she said. “It’s just as I feared.”

She moved to the nearest garbage can, shook her head, and pulled out two twisted, broken, ink-smeared feathers.

“What a shame. Santa loved these,” she said. “Griffin feathers. So hard to come by these days. Oh well. We have more to worry about now than Santa’s favorite pens.”

“That we do,” Jingle said, nodding. “Uhhh... and what is it that we need to be worrying about, exactly?”

“Why, the name Giftwrap added to Santa’s list, of course.”

Jingle looked from Mrs. Claus to the feathers to Santa’s worktable to Gumdrop’s desk, blinking blankly. Mrs. Claus took mercy on him and explained.

“There were ink stains on the box Gumdrop was in, and on Giftwrap’s sleeves, as well. And if you’ll look at the table there...”

Jingle followed Mrs. Claus’s gaze. A black smudge marred one corner of Santa’s worktable.

“Southerners aren’t accustomed to quill pens and ink bottles anymore,” Mrs. Claus said, using the term Santa’s elves favored for describing anyone who didn’t live at the North Pole. “So Giftwrap made a bit of a mess. And I can only think of one thing he might have been trying to do with a pen at Santa’s worktable. Poor, unfortunate Gumdrop saw what he was up to when he came back for his jacket. And... well, Giftwrap couldn’t have that.”

“Oh,” Jingle said. “I see. Then Giftwrap had to make sure Gumdrop’s body wasn’t found until after Santa took off.”

“That’s right. Yet he wanted the body to be found eventually. That message on the card — it must have some special significance.”

Jingle shook his head, bewildered and disgusted. “Sending a spy into the workshop, killing an elf, all just to get some kid on the Nice list. It’s beyond naughty. It’s nuts.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps this isn’t about a child.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, maybe someone wants to make sure Santa goes down a certain chimney tonight.”

Jingle gaped at her, amazed that a woman who’d devoted her life to making children happy and hanging out with elves would have such a natural affinity for the workings of devious minds.

“You think it could be a trap?” he said.

Mrs. Claus shrugged. “You know how those toy company people feel about Santa. And the religious fundamentalists. And the Elf Liberation Front. And the Ayatollah. He still hasn’t forgiven us for all those lumps of coal he received as a child. And—”

The longer the list grew, the wider Jingle’s eyes became. “I never realized Mr. C had made so many enemies.”

Mrs. Claus’s lips pulled into a small smile, sad but proud. “The good ones always do, dear,” she said.

“Well, if it’s a trap, we’ve got to warn Santa right away!”

Mrs. Claus sighed. “I wish we could. But you know as well as I do how hard that would be.”

Santa always took the fastest reindeer, naturally, so catching him by following his delivery route would be next to impossible. On top of that, he didn’t really have a set delivery route. If children were still awake inside a house when he landed on the roof, he had to move on and come back later. As a result, the longer the evening wore on, the more he ended up criss-crossing the globe, perhaps alternating a drop-off in Kenya with a stop in Kentucky. That always increased the odds that he’d get lost somewhere in between. Santa would never, ever, under any circumstances, stop to ask for directions, and as a result he could end up hovering confused over Antarctica or looking for Evansville, Indiana, in the Amazon rainforest.

“Plus,” Jingle said after they’d both ruminated on all this for a quiet moment, “maybe he’s already been captured or...” Jingle gulped. “Or whatever. He’s been gone over an hour now.”

Mrs. Claus grew pale, and an expression came to her face Jingle had never seen there before, a frown. But it only lasted a second.

“Now don’t you worry, Jingle,” she said, the rosy glow returning to her round cheeks. “Santa’s going to be just fine. In fact, I think I know how we can help him. You run and find Ribbons and Bows. I want to meet them in their office.”

Jingle straightened up and saluted. “Yes, ma’am!” And off he went.

He found Ribbons and Bows downing glogg shots at a hastily organized wake for Gumdrop. They were gruff, gnarled old elves who ran Request Processing with two little iron fists.

“Frank! Hank!” Jingle called out to them. Only the Clauses could get away with calling them “Ribbons” and “Bows.” Anyone else who tried it got a punch in the nose. “Mrs. C needs you! Quick!”

They both threw back one more shot, then staggered off after Jingle. When they got to Request Processing, Mrs. Claus was already there sorting through the files on Frank’s desk — an offense that would have gotten any elf another sock in the schnoz. But while Frank and Hank were too devoted to the Clauses to openly show their displeasure, Frank couldn’t resist the urge to take the files out of Mrs. Claus’s hands and begin fussing with the papers on his desk, spreading them around until they were in exactly the same state of disarray he’d left them in earlier that evening.

“What does the Missus need now, hey?” he asked. “You just sit back and let us dig it out for you.”

“Thank you, Ribbons.”

Frank’s left eye twitched ever so slightly.

“We think a name was added to the Nice list at the last minute. But if someone wanted to lure Santa to a certain home—”

“They’d have to tell him what to bring, eh?” Hank finished for her.

“Exactly.”

“So you’d be lookin’ for requests that arrived today, hey?” Frank said.

“The later the better.”

“Well,” Frank said, thrusting his hand into a swaying tower of paper almost as tall as Mrs. Claus, “these are the last ones we got.” Somehow he pulled out five letters without burying himself under an avalanche of envelopes.

“Double-rush late,” Hank said. “Popped up when we thought we were all done. Barely got ’em processed in time.”

“I see. Then these are the ones we want, Bows.”

Hank’s right eye twitched.

Mrs. Claus took the letters from Frank.

“Why, this first one’s from little Martha Ortmann,” she said. “Santa and I know all about her. She’s a little angel.”

Frank nodded. “Nice to old people.”

Hank nodded too. “Kind to animals.”

Even Jingle joined in. “Picks up her room. Brushes her teeth. Wipes off her boots before coming into the house.”

Mrs. Claus shuffled the letter to the bottom. “I don’t think we need to worry about Martha. Now how about this next one? Steve Hockensmith?”

Frank shook his head this time. “Picks his nose.”

Hank shook his head too. “Fights with his brother.”

Jingle joined in. “Pouts. Cries.”

“My goodness. Coal?”

“Coal,” the elves sang in chorus.

“Ahhhh.” Mrs. Claus moved on to the next letter. “Gina McIntyre?”

“Nice,” said Frank.

“But,” said Hank.

“Read the letter,” said Jingle.

Mrs. Claus cleared her throat and took the letter out of its envelope. “ ‘Dear Santa,’ ” she read aloud. “ ‘I have been extra good all year long, but I do not want any dolls, games, or books this Christmas. You can give my toys to a poor child who needs them more than me.’ ” Mrs. Claus smiled. “How precious.”

“Keep reading,” Jingle said.

Mrs. Claus looked back down at the letter. “ ‘But there is something I would like — my very own...’ Oh.” She peeked back up at the elves, who stared back at her, frowning indignantly.

“ ‘Elf,’ ” Mrs. Claus read. “ ‘I promise to feed it and take it for walks and...’ Oh my.”

“She’s getting a puppy,” Jingle said.

“I see. Well, I think what we’re looking for wouldn’t be quite so... colorful.” Mrs. Claus pulled out the next letter. “Like this one. This little boy wants books, games, and a Farrah Fawcett Majors poster. All very normal. What do we know about this—” She squinted at the name scrawled across the bottom of the page. “Bill Reeves?”

Frank rolled his eyes. “Oh.”

Hank rolled his eyes. “That one.”

Jingle shrugged.

“Naughty?” Mrs. Claus asked.

“Eh,” said Frank.

“Could be worse,” said Hank.

“That’s not the problem,” said Frank.

“He’s thirty-seven years old,” said Hank.

“Ahhh,” said Mrs. Claus. She placed the letter on Frank’s desk. “Well, that is suspicious — if a bit transparent. I suppose it’s the best candidate we have so far.”

She flipped to the last letter, obviously hoping for something better.

“Ah-ha,” said Frank.

“Oh-ho,” said Hank.

“Umm-hmm,” said Mrs. Claus.

“I’ll get the sleigh,” said Jingle.

Minutes later, he and Mrs. Claus were in the air, headed for Sweden behind a team of young back-up reindeer.

“Now, Pac-Man! Now, Disco! Now, Yoda and Vader!” Mrs. Claus called out, giving the reins a gentle snap. “On, Ford! On, Carter! On, Alda and Nader!”

The reindeer strained in their harnesses, rocketing over Greenland and the Norwegian Sea toward Sweden. But they weren’t fast enough.

“Oh no!” Jingle cried when they reached the outskirts of Kalmar. “We’re too late!”

He stood up and pointed at the rooftops below. They were covered with sleigh tracks, hoofprints, and discolored snow — telltale signs that Santa had already come and gone.

The reindeer veered to the east then, changing course so suddenly Jingle lost his balance and nearly toppled over the side. The only thing that kept him in the sleigh was Mrs. Claus’s hand reaching out to snag a handful of his green tights.

“Thanks,” Jingle squeaked. “But where are we?”

“Look! Up ahead!”

In the distance, a pinprick of light gleamed through the gentle swirl of snow. As they got closer, they could see shapes in its soft red glow.

Antlers, a rooftop, a chimney.

And an empty sleigh.

“Take it easy, everyone,” Mrs. Claus told the reindeer. “Let’s try to make this a very quiet landing.”

The reindeer slowed to a flying trot, then a gliding amble, and Mrs. Claus’s sleigh slid into place next to her husband’s almost without a sound.

“Well done, my dears,” Mrs. Claus said as she stepped carefully onto the roof. There wasn’t much room to move around. It was a small house, dark and forlorn, with no neighbors in sight other than a decaying factory half a mile up the road.

“Keep it steady there, buddy,” Jingle told Rudolph, whose nose was beginning to strobe with excitement. “Where’s Santa?”

Rudolph grunted and sneezed simultaneously, making a wet, snorting noise that, translated roughly, meant “I dunno.” Comet and Cupid and the rest grunted and sneezed in agreement.

“Deary deary dear,” said Mrs. Claus.

She was peering down into the chimney. Jingle crept over and pulled himself up to see what she was looking at.

A few feet below, metal bars gleamed in the moonlight. Mrs. Claus cleaned her glasses with her apron and leaned in to give them a closer look.

“They’re mounted on some kind of spring mechanism,” she said. “So when Santa got to the bottom of the chimney—”

“He couldn’t get back out!” Jingle blurted. “You were right. It is a trap!”

Mrs. Claus shushed him. “Listen.”

She turned an ear downward and bent over the chimney. Jingle imitated her.

Voices echoed up from inside the house.

“Me? Work for the KGB? Ho ho ho! Ridiculous!”

There could be no mistaking who it was. Santa was all right — for the moment.

“What could I possibly do for you?”

“Vell, you know vhat they zay,” a heavily accented man replied. “ ‘He zeez you vhen you’re zleeping. He knowz vhen you’re avake. He knowz if you’ve been bad or good, zo be good for goodnez zake.’ ”

“Yes?”

“Don’t be denze, fat man! You are the greatezt zpy the vorld haz ever known!”

“ ‘Zpy’?”

“Yez, zpy!”

“I don’t—”

“There iz no zecret our enemiez could keep from uz vith you on our zide!”

“On your what now?”

“Our zide! Thiz cowboy the Americanz have elected — Reagan. He planz to zpend hiz vay to victory over uz. Vell, let him try! Ve vill have zomething money cannot buy. You!”

“Wait now. What’s all this about a cowboy?”

“Zoon you vill be zmuggled to the Zoviet Union in one of our zubmarines. And then... imagine the propaganda value vhen Zanta Clauz — the living embodiment of Veztern materializm — renounzez hiz vayz and zayz, ‘At lazt, thiz red zuit of mine really ztandz for zomething!’ ”

“Fez turn materialism? My red zoot? Ho ho! Goodness, lad! I can’t understand a word you’re saying!”

“Here iz all you need to underztand. Our operative at the Pole haz hidden a bomb — a very powerful bomb — in your vorkshop. If you do not cooperate, ve vill reduze your toymaking elvez to zo much zmoke and duzt.”

Mrs. Claus and Jingle locked eyes on each other, each of them stifling a horrified gasp.

“Zmoke and duzt?” a baffled Santa mused.

“Da! Zmoke and duzt! You know — boom!”

“Hmmm. I’m sorry. You’re just not getting through. Maybe one of you other fellows can tell me what your friend’s so excited about.”

A string of Russian curses bounced up out of the house. “I vill blow up your caztle! It iz that zimple! Thiz iz the deztruct button here in my hand!”

“Oh! Ho ho! A bomb! I thought you said a very powerful bum. Now I see! Clever! Naughty, but clever! Ho ho ho! But let me tell you something, my friend. You’ll never get anywhere in life with bombs and threats. Generosity and good cheer! Those are the things that really matter! Now why don’t you let me out of this cage so I can be on my way? I’ve got toys to deliver! Ho ho!”

Santa’s ho-hoing was cut off by more curses. The Russians were learning what Mrs. Claus and everyone else at the North Pole already knew.

Santa Claus was the sweetest man on the face of the Earth — and he was nowhere near the brightest.

At that moment, the real mastermind of the Claus clan was whispering quick instructions to Jingle. The elf gulped, nodded, hopped into Santa’s sleigh, and told Rudolph and the other A-list reindeer it was time to fly their furry butts off. They were careful to take off quietly, but once they were airborne they streaked out of sight like a red-nosed rocket.

“Get it through your thick zkull, Clauz!” the Russian spymaster was screaming as they left. “Ve are not letting you go!”

“Really? My my my. That’s a wee bit selfish, wouldn’t you say? Think of the children.”

“I am thinking of the children! The children who vill grow up in a better vorld because ve have overthrown decadent capitalizm and freed them from the grinding boot heel of the bourgeoizie!”

“Well, I don’t know about all that. I just know how those good little boys and girls love their toys! Ho ho! And if they don’t find them under the tree tomorrow — goodness! We can’t have that, can we?”

Mrs. Claus heard a strangled cry that was, no doubt, “Oh, shut up!” in Russian. Santa didn’t get the message.

“If you let me go now I’ll still have time to stop and eat all the treats the kids have left out for me. You wouldn’t believe how disappointed the children are if I don’t eat those cookies! And all those glasses of milk to drink! Speaking of which, I should probably make a quick pit stop before I get going. Ho ho ho! So if you’ll just let me out of here...”

Mrs. Claus couldn’t wait any longer. Another minute and the Russians might kill her husband out of sheer frustration. So she hopped in her sleigh, brought it around for a landing on the ground below, walked up to the front door, and knocked. A minute passed without an answer, so she knocked again. This time the door opened just wide enough for a tall man in a black turtleneck and black leather trenchcoat to peek out at her.

“Yez?” the man said.

“Hello,” Mrs. Claus replied pleasantly. “I’m here about my husband. May I come in please?”

The tall man frowned. “It iz late. You should go home. There iz no—”

Pac-Man the reindeer sneezed. The man poked his head out the door and saw the sleigh for the first time. A hand poked out the door too. There was a gun in it.

“Inzide, if you pleaze.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Claus said.

In the house were four more men in black turtlenecks and black leather coats. They were all wearing berets and sunglasses. And all of them had guns.

Santa was on the far side of the room, standing in a cage that surrounded the fireplace.

“Gladys!” he called out when he saw her.

“Gladyz?” one of the turtleneck men said. Mrs. Claus recognized the voice immediately. It was the spymaster.

“No, dear. Gladys,” she corrected him. “With an s. But you can call me ‘Mrs. Claus.’ ”

She moved toward him with her right hand out. There was a gun in his, and the look on his face indicated that they were not about to share a hearty handshake. Mrs. Claus stepped past the gun, threw her arms around the Russian, and gave him an enthusiastic hug. The spymaster stiffened like he’d been given an electric shock.

“Unhand me, voman,” he spat.

“Oh, come now. Everyone needs a hug from time to time.”

“Let me go!”

Mrs. Claus stepped back, shaking her head sadly. “Alright then. But you really shouldn’t be afraid of a little human warmth.”

“Ho ho ho! She’s right, you know! You look like a man who could use a few hugs!”

“Zilenze, zimpleton!”

There was a comfy-looking armchair near the fireplace, and Mrs. Claus walked over and took a seat. All the guns in the room pivoted to follow her as she moved.

“Don’t you worry, Santa,” she said, folding her hands primly in her lap. “We’ll have you out of there soon.”

“Wonderful! Time’s a-wasting! I’m not even halfway through my route! So many toys to deliver! So many notes to read! So many cookies to—”

“Yes, darling, of course. We know.”

“No one iz going anyvhere!” the spymaster barked. “A threat far away could not penetrate your thick zkull, Zanta. But now fate haz delivered uz a new hoztage — one you can zee with your own eyez.” He brought up his gun and pointed it directly at Mrs. Claus’s forehead. “Perhapz now you vill underztand that ve mean buzinezz. Vow to zerve uz, or your vife diez.”

“Well, now... that’s... I...” Santa stammered, finally beginning to grasp the situation. “You wouldn’t really do a mean old thing like that, would you?”

A malevolent grin slithered across the Russian’s lips. “Yez,” he said. “I vould.”

“I think he really would dear,” Mrs. Claus said. “But he won’t.”

The spymaster cocked an eyebrow at her. “Oh? And vhy vouldn’t I?”

“Because we returned your bomb.” Mrs. Claus pulled out the control mechanism she’d slipped from his jacket after giving him a hug. “And I have this.”

One of the turtleneck men blurted out a Russian phrase so foul it would have made a reindeer blush.

Mrs. Claus looked at him and shook her head reprovingly. “Such language,” she said to him in perfect Russkij. “What would your mother say?”

“Sorry, ma’am,” the henchman mumbled.

“Vhat do you mean vhen you zay you returned the bomb?” the spymaster asked, eyeing the remote control in her hand nervously.

“We took it back where it came from.”

“Took it back? You mean... Mozcow?”

Mrs. Claus nodded. “The Kremlin.”

Two of the Russians burst into tears. Another threw himself down and began kicking and pounding the floorboards. Another, the tallest and palest of all the turtleneck men, simply rolled his eyes and sighed loudly as if he’d already been through the exact same experience a hundred times before.

“Zteady, comradez,” the spymaster said. “She iz bluffing.”

“Oh, I assure you I’m not bluffing,” she bluffed.

“Yez, you are. If you vere telling the truth, you could tell me vhere the bomb vaz hidden.”

“Why, in the star at the top of our Christmas tree, of course.”

There was really no of course about it. It was a guess. That little assassin Giftwrap had been up to something in the tree, hadn’t he? If she were wrong, at that very moment Jingle would be dumping a perfectly good star in the Arctic Ocean while a bomb sat in the workshop, ready to blow the place to peppermint-scented smithereens if the Russians got their hands on the remote control again.

The spymaster laughed.

It took Mrs. Claus a moment to realize that it wasn’t a gloating, “You old fool!” laugh. It was a bitter, “Why me?” laugh. Then she saw the slice of fruitcake he’d drawn from his black trench coat.

“Oh, come now,” she chided him. “You don’t have to take it that hard.”

But it was too late for the spymaster. Within seconds his chin was covered in crumbs, and he was dead.

The tall, sighing spy moved quickly to the cage around the fireplace. He pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the door.

“Go,” he told Santa. He turned to Mrs. Claus. “Hurry.”

He followed them out to the sleigh and helped them both up into the front seat.

“I have to azk you,” he said once Santa had the reins in hand. “At the North Pole, do you have... how you zay? Political azylum?”

“A xylowhat?” Santa asked.

Mrs. Claus smiled. “Get in.” She waited for the tall Russian to get settled into the back seat, then swiveled around to face him. “So tell me, young man. What can you do?”

The secret agent shrugged. “I have been a zpy for zo many years. All I know iz thiz Cold Var.”

“You don’t have any skills?”

“Vell... I do know one hundred and thirty-zeven vays to kill a man.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Claus stroked her chin for a moment. “Well, maybe Rumpity-Tump could use some help in the stable.”

“Ho ho ho!” said Santa.

The reindeer knew what to do when they heard that. So they did it.