The Tourist (16 page)

"What about her?"

Einner started to speak, then looked around the room. From his jacket pocket he produced an oil-stained receipt and a pen. Leaning against the bedside table, he wrote one word and held it out for Milo to read: Dead

Milo's legs tingled and threatened to give out. He moved to the bed, settled down, and rubbed his face. "What're you talking about?" Again, Einner hesitated, lifted his pen, but decided he could tell this without giving much away. "You left last night. You gave me the thumbsup, so I powered it all up again."

"Okay. And?"

"She was just climbing into bed. Out like a light."

"Sleeping pills," said Milo. "She took them when I was still there."

"Right. So there she goes. Off to sleep. After an hour, I left to get some food. Bill took over. I got back an hour after that. That's when I noticed--

she hadn't moved. Not at all. She--" He paused, looking at the paper and pen, considering, but again changed his mind. He leaned to whisper in Milo's ear. "For something like an hour, she hadn't moved an inch. She didn't even snore. Another hour passed--same damned thing."

"Verified?" Milo whispered back.

"Forty minutes ago. I went in and checked her pulse. Nothing. I made sure to take the flash drive."

"But. . ." Milo began. "But
how?"

"Bill thinks it was something in her pizza, but he's like that. I'm for those sleeping pills you mentioned."

Milo's stomach cramped. He had been right there, watching her commit unintended suicide. He regulated his breaths. "Did you tell the police?"

"Really, Weaver. You must be convinced I'm an idiot." Milo didn't feel like disputing that. He didn't feel anything beyond an acute hollowness. He knew it was the shock before the storm. He took the remote from Einner and muted the television, where Palestinian children were jumping in a street, celebrating something. "I'm taking a shower." Einner took the remote to the bed, flipped to MTV Europe, and raised the volume. The room filled with French rap.

Milo crossed to the window and lowered the blinds, feeling numb all over except for the phenomenally loud pulse in his head.

"What's that for?"

Milo didn't know. He'd closed the blinds on instinct.

"Paranoia," said Einner. "You've got a touch of paranoia. I saw that before, but I didn't know why--not until last night. I checked on it. You--

" He returned to his whisper: "You used to be a Tourist."

"It was a long time ago."

"What was your legend?"

"I've forgotten."

"Come on."

"Last one was Charles Alexander."

The room went silent--Einner had muted the television. "You're jerking my chain."

"Why would I?"

"Because," Einner began, sitting up on the bed. He had a moment of thought, then raised the volume again. "They still talk about Charles Alexander."

"Do they?"

"Really." Einner nodded vigorously, and Milo was unnerved by this sudden flush of respect. "You left a few friends and a
lot
of enemies scattered across the continent. Berlin, Rome, Vienna, even Belgrade. They all remember you well."

"You keep delivering such good news, James." Milo's phone rang--it was Tina. He took it to the bathroom to escape the thumping music. "Hi, hon."

"Milo? Are you at a club?"

"It's the TV," he said, pushing the bathroom door shut. "What's up?"

"When're you getting home?" She didn't sound scared, just. . . "Are you drunk?" She laughed--yes, she was. "Pat brought over a bottle of bubbly."

"What a prince." Milo wasn't jealous of Patrick; her ex was just a mildly annoying fact of life. "What's the problem?" She hesitated. "Nothing, nothing. Pat's gone, Stef's in bed. Just wanted to hear your voice."

"Listen, I've got to run. There's been some bad news here."

"Angela?"

"Yeah."

"She isn't. . . I mean . . ." Tina trailed off. "She in any trouble?"

"It's worse than that."

He listened to her silence, as she tried to figure out what was worse than being caught for treason. Then, somehow, she got it. "Oh Christ." She began to hiccup, as she often did when drunk, or nervous. An Italian man Milo once knew liked to say, "There's something banal about grief. All that kitsch just turns my stomach." The Italian was an assassin, so his philosophy served to protect him from the emotional impact of his jobs. As he showered, though, Milo found himself feeling the same way about Angela. It turned his stomach the way he kept evoking her features and her tone of voice, her bright, pretty face and the way she had taken to Parisian fashions. He remembered her funnily seductive
Grrowl.
Unlike the emptiness of shock, he now felt as if he were full to overflowing with the kitsch of death.

When he came out of the bathroom, the towel around his waist, Einner was drinking room-service coffee from a tray, staring at the television, where two hundred or more Arab protesters shouted, fists raised, pressing forward against a high steel fence.

"Where?" said Milo.

"Baghdad. Looks like Iran, 1979, doesn't it?" Milo slipped into a striped shirt. Einner again raised the volume--a move that had by now grown into an omen of important subjects--but he just watched Milo dress; he seemed to be thinking. As Milo pulled on his slacks, Einner said in his stage whisper, "You ever come across the Black Book? Or is that just one of those Tourism myths?" In the young man's face, Milo saw a moment of naive expectation. For various reasons--in particular because he wanted Einner to quit secondguessing him--he decided to lie. The Tiger, strangely enough, had provoked honesty from him. "It's real enough," he said. "I tracked down a copy in the late nineties."

Einner leaned closer, blinking. "Now you're really jerking my chain."

"No, James. I'm not."

"Where, then? I've looked, but never got close."

"Then maybe you're not meant to find it."

"Give me a break."

Milo gave him the line he'd heard so many times when he was younger. It was the line that gave the Black Book of Tourism, whether or not it existed, more of an aura than it probably deserved. "The book finds you, James. If you're worthy, you'll find a way to put yourself in its path. The book doesn't waste time with amateurs."

Einner's cheeks flushed and his breathing became shallow. Then, perhaps remembering who he was, he smiled and lowered the television's volume to a bearable level. "Know what?"

"What?"

"You're a Class-A bullshitter, Milo Weaver."

"You've got me figured out."

Einner started to laugh, then changed his mind. He had no idea what to believe.

18

On Milo's suggestion, they left the hotel by the rear stairwell and slipped out through the service entrance. Einner insisted on driving, and as they sped along the Al toward Charles de Gaulle, Milo filled him in on what Angela had told him the previous night.

"You were supposed to call me, Weaver. Wasn't that our deal?"

"I thought you'd at least leave the microphones on." Einner shook his head, frustrated. "We made a deal. I stick to my deals."

"You cleared it with Tom, didn't you?"

A pause. "At first he said no, but he called back and told me to do as you asked. But still, Weaver. You should've called."

"Sorry, James." He continued with Angela's tale of the young Sudanese radical convinced his mullah had been killed by the West.

"So he saw a European face," said Einner. "What's that mean?"

"It means the Tiger wasn't lying. He
did
kill Salih Ahmad. And probably not for the president. If I believe Angela's story-- and I do--then I don't think she was ever in contact with Herbert Williams. I think Williams was spying on her. Maybe he worried she was looking into his identity--who knows? If she was tracking Rolf Vinterberg in Zurich, and if Vinterberg is connected to Williams . . ." Anything, really, was possible. "All I know is that Angela started collecting evidence, then she ended up dead."

"What about Colonel Yi Lien?" Einner asked. "You can weave whatever complicated story you want, but the fact remains that he got hold of information that she had access to. This Williams character was photographed with Lien. You're not seeing this straight, Weaver."

"But it makes no sense," Milo insisted. "If Angela was leaking information, then why would her controller kill her? That only draws more attention."

"So she couldn't give up his identity," Einner said, as if this were obvious.

"No," Milo began, but he didn't have anything to follow it up with.

"Whatever the reason," said Einner, "killing Angela served
some
purpose. We just don't know what it is yet."

Einner was right, and he knew it. He noticed how the young Tourist's hands trembled on the wheel. Was that how he could be so bright-eyed this early in the morning? "Are you doing uppers?" Einner gave him a sidelong glare as he took the airport exit. "What?"

"Amphetamines, coke, whatever."

"You think I'm high?"

"I mean in general, James. For the job. To keep going." A bouquet of road signs listed airlines. "Now and then, sure. When I need to."

"Watch out. They ruined me in the end. I was a real mess."

"I'll remember."

"I'm serious, James. You're a good Tourist. We don't want to lose you." Einner shook his head to shake off the confusion. "Fine. Okay." Together, they bought a ticket from a pretty Delta clerk who'd shaved her head bald, then settled in a cafeteria to wait for the plane. Since there was no hard liquor available, Einner took a small, leather-covered flask of bourbon from his jacket. He set it on the table and told Milo to drink. As it burned Milo's throat, the bourbon shook loose a thought. "Dead drop."

"What?"

"Something about this never felt right. If Angela was passing secrets to Herbert Williams, then why did she meet him in the flesh? That's not how you do it. You meet once, set up a dead drop, and never see each other again. That's Spying 101."

Einner considered this. "Some do meet face-to-face."

"Sure," said Milo. "If they're lovers, or associates, or friends. But Angela wasn't this man's lover. And she was too smart to risk exposure like that."

They both stared across the field of faces around them, running through this. Some faces stared back--children, old women, and: there. Milo straightened. The dirty-blond woman with the swollen eyes. She was some distance away, beside one of the curved bubble-windows, smiling distractedly, but not precisely, at him. The handsome man beside her wasn't smiling.

Milo wondered, stupidly, why they always showed up at restaurants.

"Wait here," he said and walked toward the couple. The woman's smile dissipated. She said something to her partner, who put a hand under the lapel of his jacket, as if he were packing heat. Perhaps he was. Milo stopped several feet short so the man wouldn't feel the need to take his hand out of his jacket. To the woman, he said, "Did you assemble a good report? Want my flight plan?"

This close, he could see a light sprinkling of freckles on her cheeks. She spoke English well, but with a heavy accent, so he had to pay attention to each word. "We have plenty of information now, Mr. Weaver. Thank you. But perhaps you can tell me--who is your friend?"

All three of them turned to look at the cafeteria table, but Einner had already disappeared. "What friend?" Milo asked. The woman cocked her head and blinked at him. She reached into her pocket and took out a leather identification booklet. A yellow card inside identified the woman as an SGDN officer attached to the DGSE, or the Direction Generale de la Securite Exterieure-- external security. As he got to her name--Diane Morel--she snapped the ID shut. "Mr. Weaver, the next time you come to France, I hope you'll get in touch with us." He started to say something, but she was already turning and, with a nod at her partner to follow, heading down the corridor. Milo walked back toward the table, worrying over this, then spotted Einner behind a family of Orthodox Jews. They met among the seats in between.

Einner stared at him, round-eyed. Milo held up a hand. "Yeah, I know. I'm losing it."

"But how do you know her?"

"She and her buddy were the ones following me."

"Why?"

"Just keeping an eye out for trouble."

Einner stared down the corridor at their dwindling forms. He turned to Milo. "Wait a minute. You don't know who that was, do you?"

"She's a DGSE agent. Diane Morel. The ID looked fine."

"DGSE?"

Milo finally placed a hand on Einner's shoulder and forced him into a plastic chair. "What's the big puzzle, James?" Einner opened his mouth, closed it, then said, "But that's Renee Bernier."

"Colonel Yi Lien's girlfriend? The novelist?"

"Yeah. I've seen all the pictures."

Instinctively, Milo stood, but it was too late. The French agents were gone.

19

The eight-hour flight was without turbulence, and he was able to catch about three hours' sleep before landing at JFK a little after noon on Saturday. Once he'd endured the long line at passport control, he rolled his carry-on through tired crowds and out the front doors, then stopped. Leaning against a black Mercedes with tinted windows was Grainger, arms crossed over his chest, staring at him. "Need a lift?"

"I've got a car," Milo said, not moving.

"We'll take you to it."

"We?"

Grainger made a face. "Come on, Milo. Just get in the car." The other half of "we" turned out to be Terence Fitzhugh from Langley, which explained Grainger's mood. The assistant director of clandestine operations was settled uncomfortably behind the driver's seat, his long legs just fitting in. After Milo had put his bag in the trunk, he was invited to join Fitzhugh. Grainger had been relegated to chauffeur, and Milo wondered if Fitzhugh was sitting behind him as protection against potential snipers.

"Tom tells me there was a problem in Paris," Fitzhugh said once they were under way.

"Not
a
problem. Many problems."

"More than Angela Yates getting killed?"

"Turns out your Chinese colonel, the one who had the memo, was being worked by the French." He peered up at Grainger, who was watching them in the rearview. "Lien's girlfriend, Bernier. She's DGSE. Real name, Diane Morel. Whatever she was doing with the colonel, French intelligence was getting its share of his hard drive."