Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 50, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2005

“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 glasses 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 frustration. 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 passed 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 trenchcoat to peek out at her.

“Yez?” the man said.

“Hello,” Mrs. Claus replied pleasantly. “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. The man poked his head out the door and saw the sleigh for the first time. A hand poked 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 sunglasses. 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 halfway 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 directly 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, finally beginning to grasp the situation. “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 cocked 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 after 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 nervously.

“We took it back where it came from.”

“Took it back? 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 assure 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.”