Naughty: 9 Tales of Christmas Crime Part 20

"Thanks," Jingle squeaked. "But where are we-?"

"Look! Up ahead!"

In the distance, a pinp.r.i.c.k of light gleamed through the gentle swirl of snow. As they got closer, they could see shapes in its soft red glow.

Antlers, a rooftop, a chimney.

And an empty sleigh.

"Take it easy, everyone," Mrs. Claus told the reindeer. "Let's try to make this a very quiet landing."

The reindeer slowed to a flying trot, then a gliding amble, and Mrs. Claus's sleigh slid into place next to her husband's without a sound.

"Well done, my dears," Mrs. Claus said as she stepped carefully onto the roof. There wasn't much room to move around. It was a small house, dreary and forlorn, with no neighbors in sight other than a decaying factory half a mile up the road.

"Keep it steady there, buddy," Jingle told Rudolph, whose nose was beginning to strobe with excitement. "Where's Santa?"

Rudolph grunted and sneezed simultaneously, making a wet, snorting noise that, translated roughly, meant "I dunno." Comet and Cupid and the rest grunted and sneezed in agreement.

"Deary deary dear," said Mrs. Claus.

She was peering down into the chimney. Jingle crept over and pulled himself up to see what she was looking at.

A few feet below, metal bars gleamed in the moonlight. Mrs. Claus cleaned her gla.s.ses with her ap.r.o.n and leaned in to give them a closer look.

"They're mounted on some kind of spring mechanism," she said. "So when Santa got to the bottom of the chimney-"

"He couldn't get back out!" Jingle blurted. "You were right. It is a trap!"

Mrs. Claus shushed him. "Listen."

She turned an ear downward and bent over the chimney. Jingle imitated her.

Voices echoed up from inside the house.

"Me? Work for the KGB? Ho ho ho! Ridiculous!"

There could be no mistaking who it was. Santa was alright-for the moment.

"What could I possibly do for you?"

"Vell, you know vhat they zay," a heavily accented man replied. "'He zeez you vhen you're zleeping. He knowz vhen you're avake. He knowz if you've been bad or good, zo be good for goodnez zake.'"

"Yes?"

"Don't be denze, fat man! You are the greatezt zpy the vorld haz ever known!"

"'Zpy'?"

"Yez, zpy!"

"I don't-"

"There iz no zecret our enemiez could keep from uz vith you on our zide!"

"On your what now?"

"Our zide! Thiz cowboy the Americanz have elected-Reagan. He planz to zpend hiz vay to victory over uz. Vell, let him try! Ve vill have zomething money cannot buy. You!"

"Wait now. What's all this about a cowboy?"

"Zoon you vill be zmuggled to the Zoviet Union in one of our zubmarines. And then imagine the propaganda value vhen Zanta Clauz-the living embodiment of Veztern materializm-renounzez hiz vayz and zayz, 'At lazt, thiz red zuit of mine really ztandz for zomething!'"

"'Fez turn materialism'? My red 'zoot'? Ho ho! Goodness, lad! I can't understand a word you're saying!"

"Here iz all you need to underztand. Our operative at the Pole haz hidden a bomb-a very powerful bomb-in your vorkshop. If you do not cooperate, ve vill reduze your toymaking elvez to zo much zmoke and duzt."

Mrs. Claus and Jingle locked eyes on each other, each of them stifling a horrified gasp.

"Zmoke and duzt?" a baffled Santa mused.

"Da! Zmoke and duzt! You know. Boom!"

"Hmmmm. I'm sorry. You're just not getting through. Maybe one of you other fellows can tell me what your friend's so excited about."

A string of Russian curses bounced up out of the chimney.

"I vill blow up your caztle! It iz that zimple! Thiz iz the deztruct b.u.t.ton here in my hand!"

"Oh! Ho ho! A bomb! I thought you said a very powerful b.u.m. Now I see! Clever! Naughty, but clever! Ho ho ho! But let me tell you something, my friend. You'll never get anywhere in life with bombs and threats. Generosity and good cheer! Those are the things that really matter. Now why don't you let me out of this cage so I can be on my way? I've got toys to deliver. Ho ho!"

Santa's ho-hoing was cut off by more curses. The Russians were learning what Mrs. Claus and everyone else at the North Pole already knew.

Santa Claus was the sweetest man on the face of the Earth . . . and he was nowhere near the brightest.

At that moment, the real mastermind of the Claus clan was whispering quick instructions to Jingle. The elf gulped, nodded, hopped into Santa's sleigh and told Rudolph and the other A-list reindeer it was time to fly their furry b.u.t.ts off. They were careful to take off quietly, but once they were airborne they streaked out of sight like a red-nosed rocket.

"Get it through your thick zkull, Clauz!" the Russian spymaster was screaming as they left. "Ve are not letting you go!"

"Really? My my my. That's a bit selfish, wouldn't you say? Think of the children."

"I am thinking of the children! The children who vill grow up in a better vorld because ve have overthrown decadent capitalizm and freed them from the grinding boot heel of the bourgeoizie!"

"Well, I don't know about all that. I just know how those good little boys and girls love their toys. Ho ho! And if they don't find them under the tree tomorrow-goodness! We can't have that, can we?"

Mrs. Claus heard a strangled cry that was, no doubt, "Oh, shut up!" in Russian. Santa didn't get the message.

"If you let me go now I'll still have time to stop and eat all the treats the kids have left out for me. You wouldn't believe how disappointed the children are if I don't eat those cookies. And all those gla.s.ses of milk to drink! Speaking of which, I should probably make a quick pit-stop before I get going. Ho ho ho! So if you'll just let me out of here . . . ."

Mrs. Claus couldn't wait any longer. Another minute and the Russians might kill her husband out of sheer irritation. So she hopped in her sleigh, brought it around for a landing on the ground below, walked up to the front door and knocked. A minute pa.s.sed without an answer, so she knocked again. This time the door opened just wide enough for a tall man in a black turtleneck and black leather trench coat to peek out at her.

"Yez?" the man said.

"h.e.l.lo. I'm here about my husband. May I come in please?"

The tall man frowned. "It iz late. You should go home. There iz no-"

Pac-Man the reindeer sneezed, and the man poked his head out the door and saw the sleigh for the first time. His eyes widened. Then he poked his hand out the door, too.

There was a gun in it.

"Inzide, if you pleaze."

"Thank you," Mrs. Claus said.

In the house were four more men in black turtlenecks and black leather coats. They were all wearing berets and sungla.s.ses. And all of them had guns.

Santa was on the far side of the room, standing in a cage that surrounded the fireplace.

"Gladys!" he called out when he saw her.

"Gladyz?" one of the turtleneck men said. Mrs. Claus recognized the voice immediately. It was the spymaster.

"No, dear. Gladys," she corrected him. "With an s. But you can call me 'Mrs. Claus.'"

She moved toward him with her right hand out. There was a gun in his, and the look on his face indicated that they were not about to share a hearty handshake. Mrs. Claus stepped past the gun, threw her arms around the Russian and gave him an enthusiastic hug. The spymaster stiffened like he'd been given an electric shock.

"Unhand me, voman," he spat.

"Oh, come now. Everyone needs a hug from time to time."

"Let me go!"

Mrs. Claus stepped back, shaking her head sadly. "Alright then. But you really shouldn't be afraid of a little human warmth."

"Ho ho ho! She's right, you know! You look like a man who could use a few hugs!"

"Zilenze, zimpleton!"

There was a comfy-looking armchair near the fireplace, and Mrs. Claus walked over and took a seat. All the guns in the room pivoted to follow her as she moved.

"Don't you worry, Santa," she said, folding her hands primly in her lap. "We'll have you out of there soon."

"Wonderful! Time's a-wasting! I'm not even half-way through my route! So many toys to deliver. So many notes to read. So many cookies to-"

"Yes, darling, of course. We know."

"No one iz going anyvhere!" the spymaster barked. "A threat far away could not penetrate your thick zkull, Zanta. But now fate haz delivered uz a new hoztage-one you can zee with your own eyez." He brought up his gun and pointed it at Mrs. Claus's forehead. "Perhapz now you vill underztand that ve mean buzinezz. Vow to zerve uz, or your vife diez."

"Well, now . . . that's. . . I . . .," Santa stammered. "You wouldn't really do a mean old thing like that, would you?"

A malevolent grin slithered across the Russian's lips.

"Yez," he said. "I vould."

"I think he really would dear," Mrs. Claus said. "But he won't."

The spymaster c.o.c.ked an eyebrow at her. "Oh? And vhy vouldn't I?"

"Because we returned your bomb." Mrs. Claus pulled out the control mechanism she'd slipped from his jacket while giving him a hug. "And I have this."

One of the turtleneck men blurted out a Russian phrase so foul it would have made a reindeer blush.

Mrs. Claus looked at him and shook her head reprovingly. "Such language," she said to him in perfect Russkij. "What would your mother say?"

"Sorry, ma'am," the henchman mumbled.

"Vhat do you mean vhen you zay you returned the bomb?" the spymaster asked, eyeing the remote control in her hand.

"We took it back where it came from."

"Where it . . . ? You mean Mozcow?"

Mrs. Claus nodded. "The Kremlin."

Two of the Russians burst into tears. Another threw himself down and began kicking and pounding the floorboards. Another, the tallest and palest of all the turtleneck men, simply rolled his eyes and sighed loudly as if he'd already been through the exact same experience a hundred times before.

"Zteady, comradez," the spymaster said. "She iz bluffing."

"Oh, I a.s.sure you I'm not bluffing," she bluffed.

"Yez, you are. If you vere telling the truth, you could tell me vhere the bomb vaz hidden."

"Why, in the star at the top of our Christmas tree, of course."

There was really no of course about it. It was a guess. That little a.s.sa.s.sin Giftwrap had been up to something in the tree, hadn't he? If she were wrong, at that very moment Jingle would be dumping a perfectly good star in the Arctic Ocean while a bomb sat in the workshop, ready to blow the place to peppermint-scented smithereens if the Russians got their hands on the remote control again.

The spymaster laughed.

It took Mrs. Claus a moment to realize that it wasn't a gloating, "You old fool!" laugh. It was a bitter, "Why me?" laugh. Then she saw the slice of fruitcake he'd drawn from his black trench coat.

"Oh, come now," she chided him. "You don't have to take it that hard."

But it was too late for the spymaster. Within seconds his chin was covered in crumbs, and he was dead.

The tall, sighing spy moved quickly to the cage around the fireplace. He pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the door.

"Go," he told Santa. He turned to Mrs. Claus. "Hurry."