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
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
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