Read The Spy Who Came for Christmas for Free Online

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 window- less 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