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
