The Tourist (14 page)

"Go on."

"Well, every other weekend, this colonel takes the ferry from Portsmouth to Caen. A little cottage north of Laval. One of those remodeled farmhouses."

"What about this girlfriend?"

"Renee Bernier. French."

"A budding novelist, I hear."

Einner scratched his cheek. "I've read a little of her opus. It's not bad." When Angela got up, he typed something, and the monitor switched to the bathroom as she entered, unbuttoning her skirt lazily.

"You're going to switch that off, aren't you?" He gave Milo a sour look. "I don't get off on this, Weaver."

"What about Renee Bernier? Could she have accessed the memo?" Einner shook his head at Milo's simplicity. "You really think we just sit on our hands here, don't you? We're all over her. She's a devoted communist, for sure. Her novel's one big anticapitalist rant."

"I thought you said it was good."

"We're not the unwashed masses. I can tell a good writer when I read her. Even if her politics are juvenile."

"That's very open-minded of you."

"Isn't it?" he growled, then changed cameras again as Angela flushed the toilet and returned to the couch, now wrapped in a plush white robe.

"Anyway, you know the story. Colonel Lien boards the ferry from Caen after another of his lost weekends. Halfway across the Channel, he collapses. The two MI6 men resuscitate him, and take the opportunity to copy his hard drive."

"Why Angela?"

Einner blinked at him. "What?"

"Why is everyone convinced that she's the source? All this is so circumstantial."

"You don't know?"

Milo shook his head, and that provoked a blistery smile.

"That's
why you're being so hard-headed about this." He tapped on the second laptop. A file marked
SWALLOW
popped up. Bird names, Milo noticed. Straight out of
The Ipcress File.
Michael Caine, 1965. Einner began to go through his case.

What followed was hard to keep track of. He showed Milo surveillance photographs, copies of documents, audio files, and video clips taken over the previous two months, the result of a sustained surveillance effort run by the proud Tourist sitting next to him. Some reports placed Angela at Chinese embassy parties, but even Einner admitted that that in itself wasn't damning. He even noted that Angela was using sleeping pills most nights, as if that were a sign of a guilty conscience. Then he got to the important part.

"See this man?" he said, pointing at a red-bearded thirty-something in a fitted suit. He was standing at a street crossing by the Arc de Triomphe, just behind Angela, both waiting for the light to change. Milo's cheeks warmed--he knew this man. Einner said, "That was May 9. Here." He tapped the trackpad, and the same man was sitting behind the wheel of a taxi, no longer in a suit, while Angela was in the back. "That's May 14. This is the sixteenth." A tap, and there they both were again, in the bistro where Milo had entrapped her, sitting at separate, but nearby, tables. In this shot, however, she wasn't alone at her table. Sitting across from her was a young, earnest-looking black man, hands open, speaking insistent words at her.

"June 20," Einner said, and showed Milo another street-crossing shot, again with the red-bearded man. "All we have on this man is--"

"Who's the kid?"

"What?" Einner said, annoyed at the interruption.

"Go back," Milo said, and when Einner had returned to the bistro shot he touched the screen. "This guy."

"Rahman Something . . ." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Garang. That's it. Rahman Garang. Suspected terrorist."

"Oh?"

"She reported it," Einner told him. "She was trying to get information from him."

"In a public place?"

"His idea, apparently. Not very professional, but she didn't argue."

"Did she get anything?"

Einner shook his head. "We think he fucked off back to the Sudan."

"Sudan," Milo breathed, trying to sound uninterested. "And before you ask," Einner said, "no--we don't think she's helping out terrorists. She's not subhuman."

"I'm glad you know that."

Einner went back to the last photo, of Angela crossing the street with the red-bearded man. "Anyway, this man here---"

"Herbert Williams," said Milo.

"Shit, Weaver! Would you stop interrupting?"

"That's who it is, isn't it?"

"Well, yes," Einner muttered. "That's the name he used to register with the Police Nationale. How the hell did you know?"

"What else do you have on him?"

Einner wanted an answer first, but he could see from Milo's face that he wouldn't get one. "Well, he gave the police a Third Arrondissement address. We checked it out--a homeless shelter. So far as they know, he's never even knocked on the door. He claims to be from Kansas City. We had the Feds check on it, and Herbert Williams's records go back to 1991, when he applied for a passport."

"He had to use a social security number, right?"

"Classic scam. The number does belong to a Herbert Williams, a black male who died at the age of three in 1971."

"We've got nothing else?"

"The guy's slippery. We put some people on him after two of the June meetings, but he got away each time. He's a real pro. But look at this." Once again, he tapped the trackpad, and a countryside shot appeared. Milo's first reaction was aesthetic--it was a beautiful shot. Wide-open space, big sky, and a small cottage off to the left. Then he noticed a car near the center. Einner's cursor became a magnifying glass, and he zoomed in. Grainy, but clear enough--two men stood beside the car, talking. One was Herbert Williams, a.k.a. Jan Klausner. The other was a fat Chinese man, Colonel Yi Lien.

"Where did you get this?"

"It's old Company material, from last year. Tom tracked it down when he learned about the colonel."

Milo rubbed his lips; they were as dry as Einner's. He was starting to hate Tom Grainger's idea of security. "You've been following her for two months. Why did you start?"

"The French station's been full of holes for years. Langley wanted to look into it, but outside the usual channels, and we decided to start with Angela Yates."

"We?"

"Me and Tom."

It was a basic part of his job that Milo wasn't privy to all the operations his office ran, and he tried to remember if there had been any clues that Angela was under investigation. The best he could come up with was when, a month before, he had asked to use Einner, who was a surveillance expert, to bug a meeting between the Sicilian Mafia and suspected Islamic militants in Rome. Grainger had only said that Einner was indisposed, and gave him Lacey instead. "So," he said, "you think all this is enough to hang her?"

"Of course I don't, Weaver. That's why I'm sitting here with you, rather than arresting her and going home to my girlfriend." Einner cleared his throat. "Now you. Tell me how you know Mr. Williams."

"Motorcycle," said Bill, stiffening behind the wheel. They leaned toward the window. The sun was mostly gone, and they could just make out the silhouette of a leather-clad cyclist heading toward them. Einner shifted, removing a small Beretta from his shoulder holster--

a Beretta, of course. "Don't get all
Gunsmoke,
now," said Milo. The motorcycle cut between two cars and leapt to the sidewalk. A red box on the rear said
PIZZA HUT.

Once the deliveryman had roared past and up to Angela's door, Einner holstered the Beretta. "Come on. Out with it." Milo told him about Klausner/Williams and the Tiger. The news seemed to throw Einner off his game. From the speakers, they heard the soft melody of Angela's doorbell. Einner's hands floundered in his lap. "I--

well, the Tiger." Then: "This changes everything, doesn't it?"

"I don't think so."

Einner regained his focus. "If Angela's connected to someone who controls--or controlled--the movements of the Tiger, then we're not just talking about her selling some secrets to the Chinese. She's being run by someone with serious contacts. She could be freelance now. Open market."

"The plan's still the same," said Milo. "Identify her contact, then bring him in. Don't touch Angela until we have him."

"Yes," Einner admitted with a touch of distracted melancholy, "you're right."

Milo opened the back door and climbed down into the street. "I'm getting some dinner. Call if you change position, okay?"

"Sure," Einner said, then pulled the door shut. The Parisian air smelled of ham and warm pineapple.

15

Milo found a small, neon Turkish place on a side street near Place Leon Blum and ordered a gyro, eating it against a stand-up table. None of this felt right. Either Angela was innocent, which was what he wanted to believe, or she was guilty of selling secrets--but to the Chinese? It would be more in her line to sell them to a country she sympathized with. The Poles, for instance. She was a third-generation Polish American who had grown up hearing that hard language all around her. Her fluency was one reason the Company had originally brought her on. So was her idealism. Money, in itself, wasn't enough to make Angela betray anyone.

Einner, whether or not he was giving her a fair shake, had invested a lot of budget hours into his two-month surveillance operation, and backing off Angela would look like a waste of government resources--a risky move in the midst of cutbacks.

Besides, the evidence was there. Angela was connected to the Tiger's client, Herbert Williams, and that man was connected to the Chinese colonel. Did she know this man was connected to the Tiger, whom she was so desperate to catch?

Another question: Why was the Sudan coming up so much? Angela had been shocked to learn of the Tiger's job there, and had hidden something--

probably Rahman Garang, the young Sudanese terrorist.

But why?

As he stuffed flakes of moist roasted lamb into his mouth, he began to feel like he had when he'd smoked in the airport. He was being watched. In the window's reflection, he saw the whole of the narrow place: the low counter with a cash register and a bored girl in a peaked yellow cap, the young couple just behind him, leaning close and whispering nonsensical love-talk, and the two Arab men at a table by the wall, drinking Fanta and saying nothing. He gave the men a longer examination, but no--no one seemed interested in him. Then he returned to the lovers. Yes. A tall, handsome man and a butch woman with heavy, swollen eyes, who looked as if she'd been beaten. From the cafe where he'd met Angela.

He lengthened his focus back to the street. It was nearly nine thirty, and the neighborhood was quiet. He swallowed a few more bites of lamb, then, without cleaning anything up, left the restaurant.

He headed to the next intersection--a right would put him on the busy street leading back to Angela's. As he rounded the corner, he glanced back and saw, at the door, the couple exiting the restaurant, holding hands and walking casually in his direction.

Once out of sight, he broke into a run, flying past cars and couples of all ages out for a stroll. A coincidence was always possible, but Milo's carefully tended paranoia didn't buy it. Probably French intelligence-- the Secretariat General de la Defense Nationale, or SGDN. They had a file on Milo, and certainly took notice of his arrival, sans family, and his visit with Angela. They would want to know what he was doing in their country. He, on the other hand, wanted to keep Angela's shaky situation as far from them as possible.

Instead of continuing straight at the next intersection, Milo took another right and waited behind the corner. He peered out in time to see the couple again. They emerged onto the street, kissed, and split up. The man walked to the left, away from Milo, and the woman walked straight, also away from him. He waited until they were gone, then phoned Einner.

"I'm being followed."

Einner hummed. "Well, the French are kind of nuts about their sovereignty."

"We can't let them know she's under investigation. They won't trust her."

"Then maybe you should go home, old man."

"Anything happen?"

"Just preparing for bed."

"She knows she's being watched."

"Clearly," Einner said. "And she knows it's best to wait for the surveillance men to tire. It's our job to not get tired." Milo wanted to argue this, but there was nothing to debate. "I'll be at my hotel. Call me before you move in."

"If I must."

"You must."

He had made it halfway to the metro station when his phone rang. He frowned at the unknown French number, then stepped into a quiet alley and answered. "Hello?"

"Still in town?" It was Angela.

Milo hesitated, then: "My plane's in the morning. Nine o'clock."

"How about a drink at your hotel? I've got insomnia, and there's more you might be interested in."

"About what?"

"
Grrowl."

He laughed, trying to sound natural. "Don't tell me you were holding out on me."

"I would never tell you that."

"Why don't I come to you? I'll bring a bottle. Besides, I think the French've been watching me. No need for them to see us together in a public place."

"Like they could follow a man of your considerable skills."

"Ha," he said. "Just give me your address, will you?"
16

He picked up more Davidoffs and a bottle of Smirnoff from an all-night convenience store, then called Einner. Einner, of course, had already heard everything. "She tried to get to sleep. No luck. She was fooling with her sleeping pills, but I guess even a conversation with you was more appealing than those."

"Do me a favor and knock off the surveillance, will you? We're good friends, and the talk will get personal."

"If you want to fuck her, go ahead. Don't ask my permission."

"I will punch you, James. Don't think I won't."

"Can't wait, old man."

"We'll talk about things no one needs to know about. If she starts to bring up anything relevant, then I'll call you."

"What's the code?" said Einner, pleased to be back in his own territory of ciphers and pass-phrases.

"Hell, I don't know. You'll hear my voice."