The Spy Who Came for Christmas Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: David Morrell
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. 'Socio- pathic' 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
"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. 'Socio- pathic' 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