The Spy Who Came for Christmas

Part One

Carolers sang, “It came upon a midnight clear.”

But it wasn’t yet midnight, and it wasn’t clear. Snow whispered down, a cold powder that reflected colorful lights hanging on adobe buildings beyond an intersection ahead. Even the traffic lights appeared festive.

“ What a perfect Christmas Eve,” a woman marveled, proceeding with the crowd on Alameda Street. The Spanish word alameda referred to the poplars that had rimmed the street years earlier when it had been only a lane. Although cottonwoods had long since replaced those poplars, the street remained narrow, the sidewalk barely accommodating the crush of people coming from mass at St. Francis Cathedral or from the ice sculptures in Santa Fe’s four-hundred-year-old wooded square, known as the Plaza.

“ You think the lights in the Plaza are something?” the woman’s companion told her. “Wait’ll you see Canyon Road. A mile of decorations. You’ll be glad you came to visit for the holidays. People travel from all over the world to see Santa Fe at Christmas. You know what it means, don’t you? ‘Santa Fe’?”

“ At the hotel, I heard somebody call it the City Different.”

“ That’s just its nickname. Santa Fe was settled by the Spanish. The name means ‘Holy Faith.’ It’s perfect for this time of year.”

“ Peace on Earth, goodwill to men…”

Moving with the crowd, the man in the black ski jacket didn’t care about peace or goodwill. He was forty-five, but the effects of his hard life had made him look older. He had big shoulders and creased features, and he saw with the tunnel vision of a hunter so that objects on each side of him registered only as blurs. For him, sounds diminished as well. The carolers, the cathedral bells, the exclamations of delight at the holiday displays-all of these lessened as he focused solely on his quarry. There were only fifteen people between them.

The target wore a navy parka, but despite the falling snow, he had the hood shoved back, allowing a cold layer of white to accumulate on his head. The pursuer understood. A man on the run couldn’t allow the sides of a hood to obstruct his view of what lay on each side. Desperate to find an escape route, the fugitive saw differently than a hunter, not with tunnel vision but with an intense awareness of everything around him.

The killer kept his hands in the pockets of his ski jacket. Inside the pockets were slits that made it easy for him to reach the two pistols he had holstered on his belt under his jacket. Each weapon had a sound suppressor. One was a 10-millimeter Glock, chosen because of its power and because the rifling in Glock barrels blurred the striations on bullets fired from them. As a consequence, crime-scene investigators found it almost impossible to link those bullets to any particular gun.

But if everything went as planned, the force of the Glock wouldn’t be necessary. Instead, the second pistol-a. 22 Beretta-would be chosen for its subtlety. Even without a suppressor, the small-caliber gun made little noise. But with a suppressor, and with subsonic ammunition designed for Santa Fe’s 7,000 feet of altitude, the. 22 was about as quiet as a pistol could be. Equally important, its lesser power meant that the bullet it fired wasn’t likely to jeopardize the mission by going through the target and hitting the precious object hidden under his parka.

“… to hear the angels sing.”

At the intersection, the traffic light changed to red. As the snow kept falling, the crowd stopped and formed a dense barrier that prevented the hunter from moving closer to his target.

Suddenly, a man’s voice blurted from an earbud concealed beneath the black watchman’s cap that the hunter wore over his ears.

“ Melchior! Status!” the angry voice demanded.

The hunter’s name was Andrei. His employer, a former KGB interrogator, had given him the pseudonym “Melchior” to sanitize the team’s radio communications in case an enemy accessed their frequency. The seemingly nonsensical choice had puzzled Andrei until he’d learned that, according to tradition, Melchior was one of the wise men who’d followed the Christmas star to Bethlehem and discovered the baby Jesus.

A microphone was concealed under the ski-lift tickets attached to the zipper on Andrei’s coat: tickets that were commonplace in this mountain resort. To avoid attracting attention when he replied, he pulled his cell phone from a pants pocket and pretended to talk into it. His breath was white with frost. Although his origins were Russian, his American accent was convincing.

He pressed the microphone to transmit his message.

“ Hey, Uncle Harry. I just walked up Alameda Street. I’m on the corner of Paseo de Peralta.” The Spanish name meant “walkway of Peralta” and referred to Santa Fe’s founder, a governor of New Mexico in the early 1600s. “Canyon Road’s across the street. I’ll pick up the package and be at your place in twenty minutes.”

“ Do you know where the package is?” The gruff voice made no attempt to conceal its Russian accent, or its impatience.

“ Right in front of me,” Andrei pretended to say into his cell phone. “The Christmas decorations are amazing.”

“ Our clients will be here any second. Get it back!”

“ As soon as my friends catch up to me.”

“ Balthazar! Caspar! Status!” the voice demanded.

The unusual pseudonyms were the names that tradition had given to the remaining wise men in the Christmas story.

“ Almost there!” another accented voice said through Andrei’s earbud, breathing quickly. “When you grab the package, we’ll block anybody who gets in the way.”

“ Good. Tomorrow, we’ll watch football,” Andrei said into the microphone. “See you in a bit, Uncle Harry.”

He wore thin leather shooter’s gloves that provided only brief protection from the cold. As the traffic light changed to green, he returned the phone to his pants pocket, then shoved his hands back into his fleeced-lined jacket, warming his fingers.

The crowd proceeded across the street, continuing to shield the target, who was about six feet tall, slender but with surprising strength, as Andrei knew firsthand from missions they’d served on together.

And from what had occurred fifteen minutes earlier.

Dark hair of medium length. Rugged yet pleasant features that witnesses otherwise found hard to describe. In his early thirties.

Andrei now realized that these details were the extent of what he knew about the man. The thought intensified his anger. Until tonight, he’d believed that he and his quarry were on the same side-and more, that they were friends.

You’re the only person I trusted, Pyotyr. How many other lies did you tell? I vouched for you. I told the Pakhan that he could depend on you. If I don’t get back what you stole, he’ll have me killed.

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.”

“ They could have won gold medals?”

“ Almost certainly. But they defected because of me. Relationships between male and female gymnasts were strictly forbidden, but somehow they managed to find time to sneak away and be by themselves. Perhaps if the opportunity hadn’t seemed so rare, they might not have… Well, in any case, when my mother realized she was pregnant, she knew that the Soviets would insist she have an abortion, to keep her in competition. She was determined not to let that happen.”

“ Only teenagers-they grew up fast.”

“ They were so paranoid about KGB agents grabbing us in the middle of the night that they raised me to be suspicious of everyone, to study everything wherever I went, and to watch for anybody who seemed out of place. As I grew up, I thought it was a normal way to live, always keeping secrets.”

“ So it was natural for you to become a spy.”

“ Cole’s been throwing up,” the man said into the telephone, taking care not to make his words sound forced. “Some kind of stomach bug. I’m afraid we can’t come to the party… Yes, I’m sorry, too. It’s an awful way to spend Christmas Eve…I’ll tell him. Thanks.”

He pressed the dial-tone button, then picked up a hammer from the counter and smashed the phone into pieces-just as he’d done with the phone in his office and the one in the master bedroom.

Chunks of plastic flew across the kitchen.

“ There,” the man said unsteadily. He dropped the hammer, opened a woman’s purse that was lying on the counter, and took out a cell phone, shoving it into his coat pocket. “That takes care of everything.” He crossed the kitchen and yanked open the side door, the motion so violent that it sucked snow into the house. While the flakes settled over the woman lying on the floor, he raged outside and slammed the door behind him.

Pressed against a kitchen cupboard, the boy was so stunned that for a moment he couldn’t speak. Finally, he found his voice.

“ Mom?” Tears burned his eyes. “Are you okay?” He moved toward her. Although the heel on his right shoe was higher than the one on the left, it didn’t fully compensate for his short right leg, giving him a slight limp.

He knelt and touched her arm, feeling dampness where the snow that had blown in was already melting on her.

“ I’m…” His mother took a deep breath and found the strength to raise herself to a sitting position. “I’m… going to be all right.” Her right hand touched the side of her cheek, causing her to wince. “Get me… some ice cubes, would you, sweetheart? Put them in a dishcloth.”

Moving quickly despite his limp, the boy grabbed a dish towel from the counter and went to the side-by-side. He tugged the freezer door open, reaching in. The ice cubes chilled his fingers. While his mother groaned, making the effort to stand, he wrapped the ice cubes in the towel and hurried back to her.

“ You’re always a help,” she murmured. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She put the ice pack against her cheek. Blood from her lips smeared the cloth.

Music played in the background, a jolly man singing, “Here comes Santa Claus.” In the living room, logs crackled in the fireplace. Lights glowed on the Christmas tree. Colorfully wrapped presents lay under it. They only made the boy feel worse.

“ Should I call the hospital?” he asked.

“ The phones are broken.”

“ I can go down the street and try to find a pay phone, or ask a neighbor.”

“ Don’t. I want you to stay close.”

“ But your cheek…”

“ The ice is helping.”

The boy frowned toward the nearly empty whiskey bottle on the counter.

“ He promised.”

“ Yes,” the woman said. “He promised.” She took another deep breath. “Well…” She stood straighter, mustering determination. “We can’t let him ruin our Christmas Eve. I’ll…” She searched for an idea, but the look on her face told the boy she had trouble concentrating. “I’ll make us some hot cocoa.”

“ Mom, you ought to sit down.”

“ I’m fine. All I need are some aspirins.”

“ Let me make the cocoa.”

Still holding the ice pack to her cheek, she studied him.

“ Yes, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” When she smiled, the effort hurt her injured cheek, and she winced again. She peered down. “My dress…” Its green had blood on it. “I’d better put on something else. Can’t spend Christmas Eve looking like this.”

The boy watched as she wavered into the living room, along the hallway, and into the bedroom on the left.

The music changed to “Frosty, the Snowman.”

Cole limped into the living room and stared at the Christmas tree. He turned to the right toward the big picture window and peered out toward the falling snow.

Behind his eyeglasses, tears blurred what he saw. Nonetheless, he was able to distinguish the footprints in the snow where his father had crossed the front yard and opened the gate. The lane beyond the fence was deserted. The cheerless lights from the Christmas tree in the living room reflected off the inside of the window.

He promised, the boy thought. He promised!

Andrei moved closer through the crowd, only ten people away now. The snowfall persisted, dimming the candles that burned in the paper bags along the street, deepening the shadows, providing cover. Almost perfect, he thought.

Music drifted from an art gallery, carolers singing, “Oh, little town of Bethlehem.”

Again, Andrei heard the accented voice coming from the earbud under his watchman’s cap. The Pakhan’s angry tone was loud enough to hurt Andrei’s eardrums. “We need to assume Pyotyr’s a mole.”

Pyotyr, Andrei thought bitterly. Of course, given what had happened, that surely wasn’t the target’s real name.

It was a measure of the Pakhan’s anger that he’d stopped speaking in euphemisms. “The son of a bliatz probably belongs to law enforcement or American intelligence. But after everything we made him do to prove himself, I don’t understand why he waited until now to make his move. Why this assignment?”

Maybe there were other times, Andrei thought. He recalled the failed missions and suddenly wondered if Pyotyr had been responsible for them.

The voice raged, “At least you found his cell phone. If help hasn’t reached him by now, he probably doesn’t have a way to send for it.”

Yes, you’re on your own, my friend, Andrei thought. Ten more steps and I’ve got you.

“ This is your fault,” the Pakhan’s voice roared. “Make it right!”

Andrei thought back to when Pyotyr had arrived in Brighton Beach ten months earlier. Able to speak only Russian, the newcomer had kept to himself, earning money no one knew how. Always distrustful of outsiders, Andrei had followed him one night and watched as Pyotyr had used a pistol to rob a liquor store in the Bronx, beating a customer who resisted.

The next night, Andrei had seen him mug two drunks outside a bar in Queens. The night after that, he’d watched Pyotyr hold up an all-night convenience store in Brooklyn and pistol-whip a clerk so hard that blood spattered the window. Reporting this information to his Pakhan, Andrei had been ordered to warn the newcomer that he couldn’t do any job without permission and that the Pakhan wanted a percentage.

Pyotyr had been furious, demanding to meet this all-powerful man who told everyone what to do.

“ I worked away from the neighborhood. It’s none of his business.”

“ It will be if the police follow you here.”

“ I don’t make mistakes.”

“ Nice to meet someone who’s perfect.”

“ Listen to me. I got along all my life on my own. I don’t take orders from anybody.”

“ In that case, the Pakhan told me to kill you,” Andrei said matter-of-factly.

“ You can try.”

“ Very amusing.”

“ I mean it. Try. I won’t let that yebanat give me orders.”

“ That’s what I said when I first came to Brighton Beach. But I didn’t have identity papers, and you don’t, either. If I wanted to stay in the United States, I needed the Pakhan to help me, and that meant I needed to go along with whatever the Pakhan told me to do.”

“ There are other Russian communities where I can hide.”

“ And where other Pakhans enforce the same rules. You’re willing to stand up to me. That’s rare. So I’ll give you some valuable advice-it’s easier to do what he says than to force me to kill you. Save me the trouble. Take the jobs he hands out. You’ll earn more than you do holding up liquor stores.”

“ Even after I pay him his cut?”

“ Once he takes his cut and shows who’s boss, he’s generous enough to buy loyalty. Why else do you think I work for him? I don’t like him any more than you do.”

The Pakhan had tested Pyotyr on small jobs and found his ferocity to be so impressive that he’d begun pairing Andrei and Pyotyr on major assignments. For the past six months, the two had spent long hours in vehicles and alleys, had shared motel rooms, and had eaten more breakfasts together than Andrei had ever eaten with his wife. There was something about Pyotyr that impressed Andrei, perhaps because the younger man’s determination and stubbornness reminded him of what he had been like at an earlier time.

In Colombia, if not for you, Pyotyr, that drug lord would have killed me.

What the hell happened tonight? Nobody turns against us. Viktor’s dead because of you. The assignment’s at risk because of you.

Damn it, I invited you into my home. I introduced you to my family. I trusted you when I never trusted anyone.

Be careful, Andrei warned himself. Don’t make this personal.

That’s how mistakes get made. I’ll punish him. Yes, I’ll punish him.

But right now, he’s just a target. Remember that, or he won’t be the only one who’s punished. Pyotyr doesn’t matter. What’s under his coat- that’s what matters.

A teenager nestled a paper bag into a sling attached to a large balloon. A candle glowed inside the bag as the balloon was released and floated upward despite the snowfall.

Carolers sang, “Oh, star of wonder…”

Suddenly, a heavy man wearing a Santa Claus hat bumped against Kagan’s left arm. The intense pain that shot through his wound almost made him groan. For an instant, he feared he was being attacked, but the clumsy man who’d knocked against him plodded on through the crowd. Still, it wouldn’t be long before a real attacker reached him, Kagan knew. He sensed his hunters drawing closer, tightening the trap.

With a determined effort not to look frantic, he scanned the people in front of him and the gaily lit galleries on each side, his senses stretching wider. He shivered from the snow on his unprotected head and wished he could pull up the hood on his parka, but he didn’t dare restrict his vision.

Can’t risk missing a possible escape route, he thought. Need to find cover.

A lane appeared on the left, leading to a cluster of galleries, their Christmas lights haloed by the falling snow. Kagan kept moving forward. A street opened on the right, narrow like Canyon Road, almost as crowded, flanked by bonfires. Feeling the cold spread beneath the partially open zipper of his parka, he almost headed to the right.

The object under his coat squirmed.

No, Kagan decided. That’s not the street I want. We won’t be safe there. We need to find another way.

We.

The weight of the word struck him.

“ Guide us to thy perfect light.”

Wincing from the pain in his arm, he sheltered the baby under his parka and carried him through the snowfall.

“ Paul, your file says your parents became martial artists.”

“ A substitute for gymnastics. Eventually, they earned black belts in karate. Given their fear of the Soviets, it was a good skill to develop. Of course, they never competed. Again, there was too much danger of publicity.”

“ Meanwhile, the State Department bought them a small house where they wanted to live, in Miami.”

“ Yes, sir. They moved there after taking an intensive English-language course. Even years later, they never quite got rid of their Russian accents. As a consequence, they seldom spoke to outsiders. If anyone asked where they came from, they used the cover story the State Department had invented for them and claimed they were the children of Russian immigrants.

“ I can’t imagine how foreign everything must have seemed to them, how confusing and terrifying, all because my mother wouldn’t let the Soviets abort me. Think of it-they were only eighteen. Obviously, they couldn’t afford to own the house we lived in, so they claimed they were renting it. If anyone asked why they’d married so young, they told a version of the truth and said that my mother had gotten pregnant before they were married, that they’d been forced to get married. Of course, they’d really wanted to get married, but putting it that way was embarrassing enough to make people stop asking personal questions.

“ My parents had no skills, apart from gymnastics, so the State Department did the best it could and got my father a job at a landscaping company. When I was a baby, my mother stayed home with me during the day. At night, my father watched me while my mother cleaned offices.”

“ The American Dream. Paul, your file says that they took you with them to the martial-arts classes. You earned a black belt by the time you were fifteen.”

“ That’s correct. Like my parents, I didn’t compete. I didn’t want the attention.”

“ A good instinct for a spy. How were you recruited?”

“ The State Department maintained contact with my parents to make sure there weren’t any problems. Evidently, its intelligence arm saw potential in me because I was good at sticking to the cover story and playing the role I’d been given.”

“ Why didn’t your parents tell you the same lies they told everyone else? You’d never have known their real background. You wouldn’t have been forced to play a role.”

“ They said they needed an extra set of eyes and ears to guard against threats. But I think they had another reason. I think they needed someone with whom they could share their secrets. It was a lonely life for them.

“ My last year of high school, an intelligence officer came to our house and offered to pay all my expenses if I agreed to be educated at the Rocky Mountain Industrial Academy outside Fort Collins, Colorado. That was a big deal. My parents couldn’t afford to send me to college. I was promised a job after I graduated.”

“ Was the recruiter forthright that this was an espionage school and that he was asking you to become an intelligence operative?”

“ He couldn’t have been more direct. His approach was that I could help stop the sort of repression that had caused my parents to live in terror, even after they came to the United States.”

“ An excellent pitch. I’m impressed.”

“ He was a first-rate recruiter. He understood how much I felt indebted to my parents. After all, they’d risked everything for me. It was a house of fear. I grew up hating the Soviets and any other group that made people feel as afraid as we did. The recruiter was right to approach me from that angle. He asked me if I wanted to get even. He asked me if I’d like to make a better world.”

“ So you went to the Rocky Mountain Industrial Academy. I taught there twenty years ago. That brings back a lot of memories.”

“ He promised I wouldn’t be bored.”

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 to 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 replaced 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.

On the ground in front of him, the footprints were becoming less frequent, branching off to warm-looking homes behind fences and walls. Soon, his would be the only footprints remaining. He prayed that the snow would fill them before his hunters figured out which direction he’d taken.

As the baby squirmed under his parka, he shivered and thought, I risked my life for you. I could have walked away and disappeared. God knows, I was ready. I’ve been through more than anyone could imagine. I found terrorist threats no one would have dreamed of.

But to maintain my cover, I did things no one should have been forced to do.

He thought of the clerk he’d pistol-whipped while robbing an all-night convenience store in Brooklyn. His purpose had been to demonstrate his ferocity to Andrei, who-he knew-had followed him and was watching from across the street.

The clerk had spent two weeks in a hospital.

He thought of the restaurant owner whose front teeth he’d pulled out with pliers, when the Pakhan had wanted the man punished for failing to make a loan payment. Somehow, the man’s screams hadn’t prevented Kagan from hearing the clatter of the teeth when he’d dropped them to the floor.

He thought of the legs he’d broken and the homes he’d burned, the cars whose brakes he’d caused to fail and the water faucets he’d opened in the middle of the night, flooding businesses whose owners had refused to pay protection money. Again and again, he’d been compelled to prove himself to the Pakhan, to be increasingly brutal in order to gain admission to the inner circle and search for connections between Middle Eastern terrorists and the Russian mob.

He recalled how adamantly his mission controllers had refused to pull him out. There was always something bigger, something more dangerous that they needed him to pursue. They seemed determined to involve him in the mission forever, no matter how deeply he descended into hell.

Not any longer, Kagan mentally told the baby. It’s finished. I ended it because of you. Did I blow my cover because I wanted out or because you’re worth the price?

His weariness was such that, when the baby twisted against him, he almost believed it was assuring him that he’d done the right thing.

Lord help me, I hope so, he thought.

In the blue haze of the snowfall, he peered down and noticed that there was only one set of footprints ahead of him now.

Worse, they came in his direction.

And they were half full.

My tracks’ll be obvious, he thought, feeling a deeper chill.

Suddenly, his dizziness from blood loss threw him off balance. Feeling the baby kick under his parka, he held it firmly with his good arm and jerked out his injured one to balance himself. He groaned from the pain but managed not to fall.

Rapid clouds of frosted breath came from his mouth. The cold mountain air made his tongue dry. He moved forward again, parallel to the footprints, hoping to make it appear that someone had left home to look at the decorations on Canyon Road and had recently come back, that the two sets of prints belonged to the same person, leaving and returning.

Still dizzy, he reached a gate on his left. Beyond it, the faint footprints came from the side of a one-story adobe house. Its support beams projected from the flat roof in the manner of Native America pueblos. A covered porch stretched from one side of the house to the other. But they don’t call it a porch here, a hotel clerk had told him. It’s called a -

Stop losing focus! Kagan thought in dismay. His sense of being trapped in a snow globe had become so strong that it seemed as if the rest of the neighborhood no longer existed, that this house was the only place in the world. As he stared, it began to resemble a holiday postcard. A pine-bough wreath was on the front door. A row of colored lights hung above it. To the right, a window revealed a dark living room illuminated by a fire in a hearth and lights on a Christmas tree. He smelled the peppery fragrance of pinon smoke coming from the chimney.

The only house in the world? Don’t I wish, he thought.

The baby moved under his parka, and Kagan wondered if it sensed how exhausted he was, that he would soon collapse, that this house was their only chance. He stepped closer to the upright cedar limbs of a coyote fence, straining to see if there was any movement in the shadows beyond the main window.

To the left, a light glowed behind another window, this one small. Kagan saw a suggestion of cupboards and concluded that the light was in the kitchen, but he still didn’t notice any activity. The place seemed deserted.

Maybe the tracks belong to someone who lives here alone, Kagan thought. Maybe he or she went for a walk and turned the kitchen light on to make it appear that the house is occupied.

But misgivings made Kagan frown. Would someone have gone out and left a fire in the hearth? It’s not something I’d do, he decided. No, I can’t assume the house is deserted.

He directed his weary gaze farther to the left, where he saw a snow-obscured shed and a garage. I can try to hide there, he thought. Maybe it’ll appear as if the tracks belong to someone who returned to the side door of the house. He glanced behind him, worried that his hunters would suddenly appear, phantoms racing through the snowfall, guns raised, overwhelming him.

Continuing to use his good arm to secure the baby under his parka, he reached his wounded one toward the gate’s metal bolt. He bit his lip in a useless effort to distract himself from the pain. Then he tugged the bolt to the side and pushed the gate open.

“ Paul, you’ll spend a month in a Russian prison in Omsk. That’s in Siberia. The official records will indicate that you were a prisoner there for thirteen years. Russian prisons are notoriously overcrowded. The inmates seldom get a chance to mingle. It won’t be suspicious if inquiries are made and none of the prisoners remembers how long you were really there.

“ We’ll put Russian prison tattoos on your chest. Barbed wire with thirteen prongs indicates the number of years you supposedly were in prison. A cat and a spider within a web indicate that you’re a thief. A candlestick indicates that you’re dangerous, that you’re not afraid to put out someone’s light. We’ll give you a blood thinner before you’re tattooed. The increased bleeding will make the tattoos look old and faded.

“ We have a source who’ll teach you details of Omsk at the time you supposedly were taken off the streets. Your story is that you’re an orphan born there, a street kid who moved around a lot, running from the authorities until they put you in prison. Hard to disprove. A month in that prison ought to be enough for you to be able to answer questions about details only someone who served time there could know.

“ After that, we’ve arranged for you to escape and take a black market route out of Russia. You’ll make the traditional criminal pilgrimage to Brighton Beach, where you’ll go through the inevitable rites of passage to be accepted.

“ Paul, you’ve worked undercover before. The drill remains the same. The big difference is that this time you’ll be doing it longer.”

“ And that the people I’m trying to fool are more dangerous. Exactly how much longer is the assignment?”

“ We don’t know. The rumors we’re picking up indicate that something big is set to happen between the Russian mob and Al Qaeda in the next twelve months. Maybe it’s a suitcase bomb the mob took from one of those nuclear bases that were left unguarded when the Soviet Union collapsed. There’s a strong chance you’ll prevent an attack much worse than what happened on 9/11.”

Andrei’s right hand felt cold. Its thin leather glove didn’t provide enough insulation against the grip of his pistol. He pulled his left hand from his ski-jacket pocket, switched the Glock over to it, and shoved his right hand into the jacket, flexing his fingers, warming them.

In the dim illumination from snow-hazed lights, he and his companions followed prints in the snow. They came to a wall.

Andrei aimed to the right, toward a fence and the windowless side of a house. There wasn’t any indication that someone had gone in that direction. He swung to the left toward a walkway between two rows of small buildings. A half-dozen sets of footprints led toward entrances. He hurried along, seeing the prints become fewer and fewer until only one set continued past the buildings.

I’ve almost got you, Andrei thought.

Abruptly, he came to another wall.

Inexplicably, the footprints didn’t turn around. They just ended. Andrei stared at them, mystified. He stepped closer to the wall. It was made of upright boards that looked to be about ten feet high.

Pyotyr, you couldn’t have climbed them, not with one arm wounded, not holding the baby under your coat. So where the hell did you go?

Baffled, Andrei stepped even closer and touched the surface. He exhaled quickly when a board fell away, revealing a low gap that was wide enough for a man to crawl through.

Clever. Are you waiting on the other side, ready to shoot us as we squirm into sight?

The Pakhan’s voice blurted from the earbud under Andrei’s cap. “ Have you found the package? Our clients will be here any moment! Even if I give back the money, they’ll demand someone be punished for failing to deliver what they need. It won’t be me! They’ll hunt you! I’ll help them!”

Crouching, studying the gap in the wall, Andrei murmured to the microphone on his ski jacket. “We’re close,” he lied.

“ You see Pyotyr?”

“ It’s too risky to talk. He’ll hear me.”

“ You govnosos, get the package!”

Andrei felt the insult as he would a slap.

“ Don’t call me that.”

“ I’ll do whatever I want, you incompetent kachok.”

Andrei struggled to keep his fury from distracting him. Chest heaving, he stared toward the gap in the wall. He shifted to the right and left, using various angles to assess the area beyond. The footprints seemed to go straight ahead. But that didn’t prove anything, Andrei knew. Pyotyr might have veered to the side and doubled back to ambush them as they crawled through.

We’re wasting time. My friend, I won’t let you make this even worse for me!

He reached under his ski jacket and pulled the radio transmitter from his belt. It was black plastic, the size of a deck of cards. He switched the dial to the frequency the team had used earlier and listened for some indication of what Pyotyr might be doing. What he heard was deep, fast, labored breathing, the sound of someone on the move.

Then you’re not waiting on the other side, Andrei thought. You made us suspect a trap-to make us stop while you kept going!

Outraged, he squirmed through the gap.

As Mikhail and Yakov followed and spread out, Andrei examined his surroundings, keeping his gun ready. He was in a courtyard, with colorfully lit adobe houses on each side. Bending to examine the footprints, he noted that their stride wasn’t as long. A hint of blood trailed next to them.

Pyotyr, we’ve almost got you.

He spoke into the microphone. “It doesn’t need to be like this, my friend. Return the package. We’ll forgive you.”

Andrei’s earbud was silent.

Then Pyotyr surprised him, replying, “Say it again, this time with conviction.”

“ Ah,” Andrei said to the microphone, all the while following the footprints. “So you’re not too injured to be able to speak. It’s good to hear your voice.”

“ I bet,” Pyotyr said, breathing hard.

“ I meant what I told you. Return what you stole. We’ll pretend this never happened. We’ll even get you medical attention.”

“ And what about Viktor?” Pyotyr asked. “I killed him. You’re willing to forget that?”

“ He was new. I hardly spent any time with him.”

“ Your loyalty’s touching.”

“ You have the jaitsa to talk to me about loyalty?”

“ I made you look bad in front of the Pakhan. I apologize.”

“ Prove it. Return the package.”

Pyotyr didn’t answer. All Andrei heard was the sound of his forced breathing.

“ You know we’ll catch you,” Andrei said.

“ You can try.”

“ Listen to reason. You’re losing strength. There’s only one way this can end. Save yourself more pain. Surrender the child.”

“ And everything will be like it was before?”

“ I’ll let you go. You have my word.”

“ Of course.” Pyotyr’s labored breathing indicated that he kept walking.

“ Damn it, tell me why the child is so important to you?” Andrei demanded. “If you’re a spy, why would you blow your cover because of this?”

“ It’s Christmas Eve. I guess I got carried away by the holiday spirit.”

“ Is being sentimental worth your life?”

“ Is chasing me worth yours?”

“ I always liked your attitude, but given the way you sound, I doubt this’ll be much of a contest.”

Abruptly, Andrei came to a spot where the footprints joined a number of others in a lane that went to the right and left.

“ Someone’s coming,” Yakov warned.

On the right, two couples emerged from the snowfall, prompting Andrei and his companions to tuck their weapons into their coats.

“ No, you’re wrong. Chevy Chase made the funniest Christmas movie,” one of the approaching men insisted to his companions. “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.”

“ Is that the one where Chevy brings home a Christmas tree with a squirrel in it?”

“ Yeah, and his dog drinks the water in the tree’s dish. The tree gets so dry it bursts into flames.”

“ And burns the squirrel?” a woman objected. “You think that’s funny?”

“ No, it jumps on Chevy’s back,” the second man replied. “It’s really just this cheesy stuffed squirrel that a prop guy sewed to his sweater, but his family screams and runs away when they see it on him. Then Chevy screams and runs, not realizing that the squirrel’s on his back. And… ”

Voices dwindling, the couples continued down the lane. Soon, their figures were obscured again by the falling snow.

Andrei and his companions removed their pistols from their coats.

“ Pyotyr?” Andrei said into his microphone.

All he heard was forced breathing.

“ We can solve this problem,” Andrei assured him. “You just need to be reasonable.”

Pyotyr refused to answer.

“ Very well. I’ll see you soon, my friend,” Andrei said.

He switched the transmitter back to the frequency the team was now using. Then he put the unit under his ski jacket and rehooked it to his belt.

Mikhail pointed toward the ground.

“ We need to hurry. All these tracks will soon be filled with snow.”

Andrei glanced to the left, where this new lane led back toward Canyon Road.

“ He might have rejoined the crowd,” Yakov said.

“ Possibly,” Andrei agreed. “But he seems to be losing more blood. He might be afraid that someone will notice and cause a commotion that will tell us where he went. Would he risk attracting our attention instead of going to ground somewhere?”

Debating the possibilities, Andrei peered to the right, away from Canyon Road. There were fewer footprints headed in that direction.

“ Go left. Check the crowd,” he told Mikhail and Yakov. “I’ll go this way.”

Kagan stepped through the open gate and studied the area in front of the house. As the snowflakes thickened, he saw the outline of a bench and an evergreen shrub on the right. Two leafless trees stood to his left. Their white trunks were difficult to distinguish in the snowfall. He stared at the main window but still didn’t see any movement except for the flicker from logs in the fireplace.

At once, his vision wavered, almost in imitation of the dimly glimpsed flames.

It’s just the snow blurring my eyes, he thought.

His legs felt frozen, as did his chest where the zipper on his parka was halfway down, providing air for the baby.

Hurry, he thought. He turned to close the gate and secure the metal bolt, ignoring a twinge of pain in his wound. Whence redirected his attention toward the house, his vision again wavered.

Under his parka, the baby moved. Aware that he needed to find shelter soon, he took one step, then another. The flakes came faster, renewing the hope that his tracks would soon be filled.

I have a good chance of getting this trick to work, he thought. Still, he couldn’t help imagining the emotions of the man to whom he’d spoken just now, the man he’d fooled into believing they were friends, the man who-even if he failed tonight-would never stop hunting him.

Kagan moved nearer to the house, but something he saw in the snow to the left of the front door made him worry that his vision had definitely been compromised.

He was sure he saw a plant. It had a dense cluster of dark leaves. The contrast against the snow was the reason he noticed it. But it seemed impossible. How could a plant grow in this weather? Moreover, it seemed to have flowers, a half-dozen large ones, the white of which was as difficult to distinguish as the trunks of the aspen trees.

And yet he was sure he saw their blur.

Flowers in winter? I’m hallucinating, Kagan thought. Some kind of snow mirage.

Or maybe the blood loss is making me see things.

Unsteady, he followed the half-filled prints toward the side of the house. Keep going, he thought. I’m almost there. If I can get into the shed or the garage, I can rest for a while. Catch my breath. Try to stop the bleeding.

He put one boot in front of the other.

Maybe there’ll be a tarpaulin or an old blanket I can crawl under, he hoped. Try to get warm. Try to warm both of us, he silently promised the baby. He felt more responsible for the child than he’d ever felt for anyone else in the world. Maybe Could wrap you up and put you someplace safe in a corner. That would give me a chance to try to protect us.

But whatever you do, he mentally pleaded, just don’t cry. I’m sure you’re hungry. I’ll try to find you something to eat. I don’t know how, but I’ll do my best. Please don’t cry. You’ve been good so far. The greatest. There’s only one way you can be better. For God’s sake, please don’t cry.

He shivered violently, wiping snow from the top of his head. He reached the side of the house. Away from the Christmas lights that stretched above the front door and the ceiling light that shone from the kitchen, he paused in the shadows, trying to let his untrustworthy eyes adjust. In the hiss of the falling snow, everything seemed closer, as if it were condensing around him.

Sudden movement dissolved the illusion. A figure lunged toward him, and Kagan was absolutely certain the shock from his wound had made him hallucinate-because the figure was a boy, maybe twelve years old, and the boy had a baseball bat. He was about to swing with it, and the intensity of the expression on his face was startling, even if Kagan saw it only for an instant.

His vision doubled. His knees bent.

Before the boy could strike him, he dropped. Sickened, feeling his eyes roll up and his mind drift, he did his best to topple onto his side, to keep the weight of his body from crushing the baby.

Don’t cry, he silently pleaded. Whatever you do, don’t cry.

But now the baby did cry. Jolted when Kagan landed, the infant wailed beneath the parka. Its cry went on and on, rising, pausing only when the baby took frantic breaths. Then it swelled again, a cry of helplessness and fear, of pain, hunger, and despair, of all the sorrow and desperation in the world.

“ Paul, you shouldn’t have risked calling. You’re supposed to use the dead drop. Is this an emergency?”

“ I need you to bring me in. You told me it wouldn’t last this long. Tonight…”

“ I can barely hear you.”

“ Tonight, to prove I was part of the team, they forced me to.. ”

“ I still can’t hear you. You need to get off the line. You’re jeopardizing the mission.”

“ If you don’t bring me in, I’ll walk away.”

“ No. You’d make them suspicious. We’d never get another man in there. Give us time to think of a believable reason for you to disappear.”

“ Soon. Think of it soon.”

“ The quickest we can. Learn as much as possible. There are rumors about a shipment of plastic explosive being smuggled through the Jersey docks. That’s Odessa territory. If Semtex is being smuggled in, the Russians are involved.”

“ Just bring me home. For God’s sake, bring me home.”