For a moment, Hinkle was completely dumbfounded. Some dumb-ass local shits were actually stealing their car. Stealing the car of the DoD—how unlucky could you get?

Then he and Davis began running after the car—on foot.

From the cover of the woods north of Anatoli’s place Nate, Denton, Aharon, and Hannah watched the car lurch down the road and the two men running behind it, guns drawn. The car died and restarted and lurched again just enough to keep Hinkle and his pal from giving up.

“Well, I’d say that’s the distraction,” Denton commented. He rubbed his hands together as if against the cold, but the truth was, he was far too tense to feel anything as insignificant as weather. His three companions looked a little anxious themselves.

Aharon and Hannah hadn’t been able to learn everything about the Mossad’s plan, but they had heard bits and pieces and, between the four of them, they’d worked out a basic scenario that made sense. Whether it was the scenario the Mossad had in mind was another matter.

“There they go,” Hannah whispered.

From the dark of the woods directly behind Anatoli’s house two figures in black emerged and ran for the back door. Hannah and Aharon gave Denton and Nate one last look of support and took off along the edge of the woods. Denton and Nate slipped away for a rendezvous of their own.

The man who sometimes called himself Mr. Smith and his partner, Hadar, quietly let themselves into the house. The back door was locked, but Mr. Smith had a hook that opened it in five seconds. He didn’t even have to put the corpse down. Door open, he slipped inside, Hadar behind him.

It was not ideal. The men who had arrived this morning from Czechoslovakia, the ones who were right now out playing cat and mouse with the U.S. agents, could have been in here helping him. And they could have had all the time in the world instead of being rushed—if the Americans had consumed the sleeping drug–enhanced vodka. But they hadn’t; they were too well trained.

The corpse on his shoulders had not felt heavy when he’d picked it up back at the car, but it was heavy after carrying it a quarter mile through the woods. He let Hadar brush past him and open the door to the old man’s room. The lights were out and they left the hall door open in lieu of turning on their torches.

The old man was awake and he sat up, his face, even in the shadows, a grimacing mask of fear. Hadar was fast. She stuffed the gag in his mouth before he could scream and had him up and out of bed in an instant. He didn’t even fight the restraints that pinned his arms to his side and his calves together. From the look of the old man, it would be a miracle he’d survive the ordeal.

When Mr. Nikiel was subdued, Hadar lifted him out of the way, arms around his waist, taking him into the hall. The old man was whimpering in his throat.

Alone, Mr. Smith dumped his load on the bed and stripped off the black covering. Inside was one very dead old man of approximately the same age and size as Anatoli Nikiel. The corpse was awkward and the smell and feel unpleasant, but Mr. Smith had done worse things. He tossed the blanket over the corpse. Then he removed a bottle from his pocket and squirted a harsh-smelling liquid on the blanket, the corpse’s face and hands, the floor, the bedside table. The highly flammable liquid would dissipate within minutes, so there was no time to linger. He struck a match.

The bed, table, floor, and corpse burst into flame. He went into the hall and took Nikiel from Hadar, wrapped him loosely in the black covering, and hoisted the living weight over his right shoulder. Hadar was already down the hall.

In the kitchen, she had the attaché case in hand, moving it to the table. He gave her a quick hand signal to meet at the rendezvous point—unnecessary but reassuring—and slipped with his burden out the door and toward the woods.

Hadar was alone in the house. She had very little time. She opened the case and grabbed everything inside—not much, as it turned out, just a folder of papers—and stuck it into her black backpack. Then she took a plastic bag from her pocket and deposited into the case an amount of paper ashes that approximated the size and contents of the folder.

The case was shut and put back against the wall where she’d found it. She had a bottle of liquid in her pocket similar to the one Mr. Smith had and she distributed it around the kitchen, particularly on the case and the wall behind it.

The house was already filling with smoke from the fire down the hall when she lit this one. As the flames licked the cabinets she picked up the bottle of vodka from the counter and smashed it on the floor to make sure its contents could not be retrieved and tested. It only fueled the fire. Then, with one last look at the case—it was burning nicely—she went out the back door, careful to lock it.

Aharon was crouched on the far side of the house and he watched the second figure in black dart into the trees. He looked over his shoulder at Hannah. She was at the far end of the wall watching the road. She signaled him, then ran at a crouch to join him. He heard the engine at the same instant—the U.S. agents had recovered the car and were returning.

“Let’s go!” she said as she reached him, pushing his back to get him moving. His heart was pumping so hard he had no breath to speak, but his legs obeyed her command. He was way too old for this craziness.

As they went around the back of the house, Aharon heard the crackle of fire and saw the flames leap up. He patted the papers inside his coat to reassure himself that they were still there—the papers that he had taken from the attaché case while the Mossad agents were in Anatoli’s room. Then Hannah grabbed his hand and they ran.

He felt a surge of victory as they entered the woods, despite all the huffing and puffing. Hannah’s trick with the glass had worked after all. And what would the Mossad think, he wondered, when they found that what the U.S. agents had kept in that attaché was a folder filled with old Polish folk tunes?

Mr. Smith had left his car on a deserted maintenance road through the woods that was more of a dirt rut than anything else. When he stepped out of the woods with Anatoli over his shoulder, Denton and Nate were waiting for him.

Denton’s breath was visible coming in puffs through the woolen ski mask. He felt a rush of fear and anticipation. Calder Farris’s gun was steady in his hand. Smith froze at the sight of them.

“Don’t move,” Denton said.

Nate slipped around the car and relieved Mr. Smith of his burden, cradling the black sack carefully and setting it on the ground.

“Now hands up.” Denton motioned with the gun.

Mr. Smith slowly, almost sarcastically, raised his hands. His eyes glittered pure murder.

Nate fought with the black covering for a few minutes before finding the opening and pushing it down, away from Anatoli’s face. Mr. Smith only had eyes for Denton, waiting for him to be distracted by the fumbling. Denton stared straight at him, not distracted at all.

Nate got the black shroud down to Anatoli’s feet. The old man looked wild. Denton could hear Nate murmuring to him reassuringly. He loosened the gag, trying to ease the bloated pain on the old man’s face.

“Get him into the car and then search Santa Claus here for a weapon,” Denton said, trying to disguise his voice. He wanted Nate to hurry. He could see from the tension in Mr. Smith’s body that he was going to try something. Smith’s eyes said no way was he going to let them get away with this. They said death before capitulation.

Not that Denton was all that worried, but the suspense was killing him.