chapter 2

THE MAN WHO called himself Pyotyr saw with intense clarity, all of his senses operating at their fullest, taking in everything around him. Canyon Road was lined with mostly single-story buildings, many of which boasted pueblo-revival architecture, their flat roofs, rounded edges, and earth-colored stucco so distinctive that visitors marveled. The majority of the buildings— some of them dating back to the eighteenth century—had been converted into art galleries, hundreds of them, making this street one of the most popular art scenes in the United States. Tonight, their outlines were emphasized by countless flickering candles—what the locals called farolitos—that were set in sand poured into paper bags and placed next to walkways. Some of the candles had been knocked over accidentally, the paper bags burning, but most remained intact, their shimmer not yet affected by the settling snow. Bonfires lit each side of the road, their occasional loud crackles causing him to flinch as if from gunshots. The wood 10  they burned had been cut from pine trees known as pi.ons, and the fragrant smoke reminded him of incense. Your mind’s drifting, he warned himself, trying to ignore the pain in his arm. Forget the damned smoke. Pay attention. Find a way out of here. His real name was Paul Kagan, but over the years, in other places, he had used many other names. Tonight, he’d decided to become himself. The left pocket of his parka was torn open, the result of someone grabbing for him when he’d escaped. He recalled the shock he’d felt when he’d reached for his cell phone and discovered that it had fallen out. Something had seemed to fall inside him as well. Without a way to contact his controller, he was powerless to summon help. Kagan wore a flesh-colored earbud, so small that it was almost impossible to notice in the shadows. A miniature microphone was hidden on his parka, but all communication had stopped fifteen minutes earlier. He took for granted that his hunters had switched to a new frequency to prevent him from eavesdropping while they searched for him. Doing his best to blend with the crowd, he strained to be aware of everything around him: the carolers, the twinkling lights on the galleries and the trees, the art dealers offering steaming cocoa to passersby. He searched for an escape route but knew that if the men chasing him managed to follow him to a quiet area, he wouldn’t have a chance. Nor would the object he held under his parka. He felt it squirm. Fearful that it might be smothered, he pulled the zipper down far enough to provide air. It might be The Spy Who Came for Christmas 11 making sounds, but the carols and conversations around him prevented him from knowing for sure. Those same distractions prevented the crowd from hearing what he hid under his coat. “We three kings of Orient are . . . ” Yeah, they came from the East all right, Kagan thought. In his weakened condition, the incense-like smell of the bonfires reminded him of the gifts the three Magi had brought to the baby Jesus: frankincense for a priest, gold for a king, and myrrh, an embalming perfume for one who is to die. But not what’s under my parka, Kagan thought. By God, I’ll do anything to make sure it doesn’t die.