The Tourist (18 page)

Unfazed, he wrapped the towel around himself.

Tina watched him squeeze toothpaste onto his toothbrush. With a hand, he wiped a clear spot into the mirror's condensation. She wondered why he needed to see himself to brush his teeth. She said, "Tell me about Angela."

The toothbrush halted in Milo's mouth. He pulled it out. "You don't want to know."

"She's dead?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"You know I can't tell you that. But I'm looking into it." He went back to his teeth, as if that settled the issue, and though she hardly knew why, this time his decisiveness pissed her off. "I feel like I don't know who you are, Milo."

Milo spat again and shut off the water. He turned to her. "What's this about?"

She exhaled. "It's all the
secrecy.
Over the last year, you've been coming back from more and more trips with bruises, or sulking, and I'm not trusted to know what's been damaging my husband."

"It's not about trust--"

"I
know,"
she said, irritated. "You're protecting us. But that's a lot of legal hairsplitting. It doesn't help me. It doesn't help Stef."

"Some wives and husbands don't know anything. You know that, right?

Some think they're married to insurance salesmen or war correspondents or financial consultants. You know more than they know."

"But they know about the lives before the Company." With what felt like coldness, he said, "I've told you my entire life story. I'm sorry if it's not interesting enough."

"Forget it," she said and stood. "You want to tell me stuff, fine. But don't make me poke around searching. It's humiliating." Milo caught her by the shoulders and looked into her face. "You want to know what happened in Paris? I'll tell you. Angela Yates was poisoned. I don't know who did it, but that's how she died."

Tina was suddenly able to draw a clear picture of the lovely, lavendereyed woman who'd eaten steak with them and kept them laughing for a whole evening. "I see." She swallowed.

"You don't," he said. "Because I think she died because the Company was dealing in bad information. Which means that / was dealing in bad information when I was investigating her. Which makes
me
responsible for her death."

Tina couldn't manage another "I see," so she just stared back. Milo let go of her shoulders and gave her one of his famous half-smiles that was more sadness than anything else.

He said, "When I flew to Dallas, I was following the Tiger."

"The Tiger?" she said. "You mean that famous . . ."

"Assassin, yes. I ended up in a little town in Tennessee, where I watched him die in front of me. Suicide. It was horrible. I think his death is connected to Angela's."

"But...
how?"

He didn't answer that; he only muddied the waters more: "I'm stupid, Tina. I don't know half of what I should know, and it's upsetting. It's also getting me in trouble. The hounds from Langley are barking at me, and there's a woman from Homeland Security who believes I killed the Tiger--

she found my fingerprints on his face. My prints were on him because I attacked him. I attacked him because he brought up your name--yours and Stef's. I attacked him because I was afraid for you." Tina opened her mouth to speak, but she couldn't get any air. There was too much moisture; it was like breathing water. Milo took her by the shoulders again and half-carried her through the hall to the bedroom. He sat her on the bed and squatted in front of her. His towel had fallen off somewhere; he was naked again.

Finally, she managed: "Well, you've got to do something, right? Prove you didn't kill that guy."

"I'll figure it out," he said, and for a moment she believed him. "Okay?" She nodded, because she'd gotten some of the truth she'd asked for, but couldn't take it. She should've known this before, that there was a good reason Milo kept things from her. She was just a goddamned librarian, after all. There was a good reason he left her and all the other simple, law-abiding people in the dark.

She lay on the bed, Milo helping get her feet up, and stared at the ceiling. She whispered, "Poor Angela."

"Who?" said a high voice.

She raised her head to see, beyond Milo's penis, Stephanie standing in the doorway, gaping at her naked father. She was holding the towel he'd dropped.

"Shouldn't you
shut
the door?" said Stephanie. Milo laughed--an unbelievably natural laugh--and said, "Give me my towel, will you?"

She did, but didn't leave.

"And
scram,
kid! Let me get dressed, and we'll figure out what all to do at Disney World."

That convinced her, and she left them alone. Tina said, "You sure we should still go?"

He latched the towel around himself. "I'm taking my family on vacation, and no one's going to stop me. No one will get that pleasure." It was the kind of answer she would have wanted to hear only an hour ago. But now, knowing what she knew and hearing his hard, almost brutal tone, she didn't know what she should want.

22

Sunday morning was like most Sunday mornings family men grow accustomed to, and then start to depend on. The smell of coffee, eggs, and toast, sometimes bacon, the rustle of newspaper and discarded advertising supplements, and everyone moving slowly in loose-fitting robes. Milo read a
New York Times
editorial on the administration's failure to leave Afghanistan with a stable government, six years after its post-9/11 invasion. It was depressing stuff. Then, on the facing page, he noticed a letter to the editor from Dr. Marwan L. Khambule, Columbia University, concerning the U.S.-supported embargo on Sudan. Were it not for Angela, he probably would have skipped it.

Though its aims--specifically, to force a peaceful settlement in Darfur--are commendable, the practical results are abysmal. Buoyed by Chinese oil investments, President al-Bashir has no need of Western funds. His present situation supplies him not only with the money, but also the arms, to continue his fight in Darfur and defend his rule against extremists in Khartoum.

By contrast, the trade embargo cuts off the sole potential income for the beleaguered citizens of the Darfur region, who receive no benefits from Chinese holdings in the country.

Dr. Khambule went on to explain that a more appropriate means of bringing al-Bashir to the peace table would be to offer U.S. help quelling the jihad ravaging the capital. "The carrot, so to speak, instead of the stick." A little after ten, Tom Grainger appeared. He stood in the doorway facing Tina, carrying a plastic bag weighed down with a thick newspaper.

"Hope I'm not interrupting."

Stephanie called her godfather "Uncle Tom," which was something they hadn't been able to unlearn her. She shouted it and threw herself at him. He caught her smoothly, bag rustling, and raised her with surprising strength to his hip.

"How's the prettiest girl in the United States?"

"I don't know. Sarah Lawton lives on the other side of town."

"I'm talking about you, young lady."

"Bring something?"

From his jacket pocket, Grainger produced a Hershey bar. Stephanie grappled at it, but he passed it over to Tina. "Your mom decides when you get that."

"Thanks anyway," Stephanie said.

Grainger sat across from Milo at the kitchen table. Tina delivered a cup of coffee, and he gave her a sad smile of thanks as she went to join Stephanie in the living room, closing the door behind herself. "Something wrong with her?"

Milo frowned. "Don't think so."

"Want to step out?"

"Have you bugged my place?"

"Anything's possible, Milo."

Toting his newspaper bag, Grainger gave his farewells, and Milo promised to pick up milk on his way home. Stephanie explained to Grainger that she preferred hazelnuts in her chocolate, and the old man promised to make a note of this. They took the steps down to Garfield in silence, then walked up Seventh Avenue, which was full of baby carriages and families of many shades.

They ended up at a Starbucks clone that called itself a patisserie, serving fresh French pastries and coffee. They took their cups to the sidewalk tables, the sun warming them gently, and watched families stroll by.

"Talk to me," said Milo.

Grainger seemed apprehensive. He lifted his bag and placed the thick
Times
on the table. That's when Milo noticed it was only the thin front section. Inside were papers in a manila folder. "It's a photocopy," he said.

"Tiger?"

The old man nodded. "Benjamin Harris. In 1989, he left BU with a graduate degree in journalism. By 1990, he was on the CIA payroll, sent to Beijing, and stayed there until 1993, when he died in a car accident."

"Died, huh?"

"Obviously not."

"How long?"

"Three years. November '96--that's when he disappeared." Grainger paused, glancing with approval at a pair of women in short skirts, then looked back. "Among others, Lacey, Decker, and another Tourist named Bramble went after him. Catch or kill. Lacey and Decker came up empty. Bramble was found dead in Lisbon. I thought about sending you, but you had that thing in Vienna, the old commie spy."

"I did that job with Frank Dawdle's help," Milo said.

"Dawdle," Grainger repeated. "What a surprise he turned out to be. A friend. That's how I thought of him. Naive, I guess." He looked at his hands, which were pressed together between his knees. "I figured it out eventually, you know. Why he suddenly broke. I'd let too much slip. We were preparing to retire the guy, and I told him that this--meaning the Portoroz hand-off--would be a nice finale to his career." He paused again.

"If I'd just played it a little closer to the chest, he might be alive today." Milo wasn't interested in Grainger's conscience. He pulled the heavy newspaper into his lap. "Harris disappears in '96 and goes solo. He has a fine career in liquidation until one of his clients knocks him out with HIV. All that time, you pretend you have no idea who he is. And you
know
I'm running around with my head cut off, looking for him."

"Read the file," Grainger said wearily. "You'll get it."

"Why were you protecting him?"

Grainger didn't like to be pestered. He could take it from superiors, but not from subordinates. He leaned over the table, closer to Milo, and said,

"Look on page three of the file. His original case officer, the one who brought him into the Company, vetted him, and pulled him into Tourism."

"You?"

"Pah!" said Grainger, waving a hand. "I'm a little more perceptive than that."

Milo finally understood. "Fitzhugh."

"Exactly." He saw Milo's expression. "It's not just about protecting that old bastard's career, of course. With the climate the way it is, how do you think CNN would spin this?"

"We trained the mujahideen," said Milo. "This isn't anything new."

"Tourists aren't shocked by anything."

They sat in silence, watching families under the hot sun. Grainger was drenched in sweat, his blue short-sleeve blackened around the armpits.

"What about this?" said Milo, lifting the newspaper-covered file.

"What about it?"

"Why'd you break security and copy it? I was going to come into the office."

Grainger wiped off his forehead. "You think I want a record of you looking at that file? You think
you
want a record of it?"

"Fitzhugh would check the library lists?"

"You can bet he would."

A frantic golden retriever puppy sniffed at Grainger's foot, pulling at a long lead held by one half of a mixed gay couple. The black man scolded,

"Ginger! Get off him!"

"Sorry," said his Asian partner, smiling. "I keep saying he needs training."

"He needs nothing of the sort," the first snapped. "It's all right," Grainger said, looking very much like an old, confused man.

Milo suddenly wished they were having this conversation in the office, not here among all these families.

"Listen," said Grainger, watching the couple disappear. "About your vacation."

"Don't start."

"This is about the worst time for you to run off to Florida." Milo shook his head. "Like Fitzhugh says, it's a cold case. Vinterberg's not coming back to the Union Bank of Switzerland, because there's no Tiger left to pay. Angela won't be passing any secrets to the Chinese, because she's dead, and the French can investigate her killer on their own. They can tell us what's going on. I'll look into it again when I get back."

"What about Janet Simmons?" said Grainger.

"What about her? If she thinks I killed the Tiger, tell her to bring on the evidence."

Grainger shifted his feet on the concrete, staring at his loafers. "She's scheduled a meeting with Fitzhugh for tomorrow. She says it's about you."

"Listen, Tom. Simmons has nothing. She's just angry she didn't get to run an interrogation. She'll get over it."

Grainger shrugged, as if everything Milo said were, by definition, up for debate. "Just keep that file safe."

23

That evening, after Stephanie had gone to bed, Milo took the newspapercovered file from his sock drawer, where he'd slipped it as soon as he got home. Tina, taking the milk from him, had said, "How many papers do you need?" Now, as she undressed, she said, "You're not staying up, are you?"

"Just some reading."

"Not too late. We'll have to be in the car by six. You know how long it takes to get through security."

"Sure."

"Don't 'sure' me, mister," she said, crawling leisurely onto the bed, naked.

"Give me a kiss." He did so. "Now come to bed." A half hour later, as she drifted to sleep, he put on his underwear and took the file into the living room, yawning. He poured a vodka, tried to stop thinking of cigarettes, and began to read the file on Benjamin Harris, ex-Company, ex-Tourist, ex-Tiger. Ex-human being.

Benjamin Michael Harris was born on February 6, 1965, to Adele and David Harris of Somerville, Massachusetts. While his parents were noted as members of the Church of Christ, Scientist, Benjamin's religion was marked as "none." This was no surprise. If