The Tourist (28 page)

"That's why he was there, to ask for it?"

"He asked for it several days before. The day you people killed him, he was coming to pick it up. I suppose you found the passport on his body. Yes?"

Milo had been too out of it back then, and no one had told him a thing.

"How did Ingrid come into it?"

Ugrimov's expression changed. "Ingrid Kohl. She was a beautiful girl--

you never met her, but. . . you saw her pictures?"

"I saw her on the terrace--the night before." The Russian swallowed loudly. "Your Frank Dawdle was a cretin. I expect that of CIA men, but not to this level. He came with a simple business transaction--yes, he was paying for the passport. But he had to sully it with a threat. He had evidence that I was more than just a guardian to my beloved Ingrid. Photographic evidence, apparently."

"She was very young, Roman."

"Thirteen," Ugrimov admitted, then chewed his lower lip a moment, gazing past Milo at the glass doors, perhaps at his own reflection.

"Pregnant, too. With my. . our . ." He closed his eyes, cleared his throat, and finally looked directly at Milo: "It would've been bad for business if that got out. No one cares about the circumstances or the nature of your love. They only see numbers."

Milo, thinking of Stephanie, wanted to point out that thirteen-year-old girls could be manipulated into believing anything, even love. He quickly cut the connection. "You killed her to show him he had no control over you anymore."

"She jumped," he whispered.

Milo wondered if, over the years, Ugrimov had convinced himself of that lie.

"Anyway, that was a tragedy. A tragedy compounded perhaps by Dawdle's death seconds later--then overshadowed by what happened soon after in New York City." A sudden smile. "And happiness! You met your wife in the midst of tragedy, didn't you?"

It disturbed Milo how much this man knew, but he didn't show it. He needed Roman Ugrimov. "Yes, and we're still together."

"I heard."

"From who?"

Another smile.

Milo said, "Do you remember Angela Yates? She was with me in Venice."

"Indeed I do. She's the pretty one who took care of the cretin Dawdle. I read that she committed suicide recently. Then I heard you were wanted in connection with her murder. Which, then, is true?"

"She was killed, but not by me."

"No?"

"No."

The Russian pursed his lips. "These questions you're asking, about my Africa company--do they have to do with her murder?"

"Yes."

"I see." He smacked his lips together. "Milo. The same day pretty Angela Yates killed that cretin, the world we knew suddenly stopped, didn't it? Now, people who couldn't even spell it before have actually read the Qu'ran. Or," he said, smiling, "they at least claim to know its message."

"And you've changed with the world?"

Ugrimov rocked his head from side to side. "You could say that. My priorities have evolved. My friends are now many shades."

"Are you supplying computers to terrorists?"

"No, no. Not that. Never that."

"How about China?" A puzzled frown; a shake of the head. Milo was getting tired of beating around the bush, which was de rigueur when talking to Russians. "Tell me."

"What'll you give me in return?"

Milo wasn't sure he had anything a man of Ugrimov's reach and influence could want. "How about information?"

"About what?"

"Anything you want, Roman. If I know it, I'll answer the question." Nikolai returned with a fresh grapefruit daiquiri and placed it beside Ugrimov. The Russian smiled. "I like your style, Milo Weaver." Silence followed, as they waited for Nikolai to leave.

37

"You want to know about two things. Some person named Rolf Vinterberg who puts money into a bank, and my relationship with the government of the Sudan. Correct?"

"Yes."

"As it so happens, these two things are not entirely unconnected. In fact, I'd call them very connected. You know, of course, that I'm a powerful man. But like many powerful men, I sit on a bubble. At any moment, it can burst. One example was your Franklin Dawdle, the cretin. In that case, it was my personal tastes that threatened to pop the bubble. These days, I'm established enough that it couldn't hurt me. But six years ago, I was still negotiating contracts in the public eye. I was just beginning to insinuate myself into the European economy." He shrugged. "I was vulnerable."

"Which is why you killed Ingrid. You didn't want to be vulnerable anymore."

Ugrimov dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "Let's not stir up old dust. What I want to talk about is after that sad day. Three months, to be precise. December 2001. I was approached, via some American friends, by a young man who had a similar proposition. Yes, he, too, was blackmailing me! I thought:
What have I done that God keeps cursing me?
Who knows? And this time it wasn't about girls--no, it was something more sinister."

"What was it?"

A swift shake of the head. "If I told you, then it wouldn't be my secret, would it? Suffice it to say, it was financial in nature. This young man would not only remain quiet about his knowledge of it, but would also make sure that no one else learned of it. He would be my protector, so to speak."

"What was his name?"

"He introduced himself as Stephen Lewis, and that's what I've always called him."

"American?"

"I doubted his name, but never his American character. Pushy, you know. Like the whole world belongs to him."

"What did he want you to do?"

Ugrimov drank more of his daiquiri, then got up and closed the terrace doors. As he wandered back, he stared hard at the open end of the courtyard, which led into forest. He sat down and lowered his voice.

"You've already seen what he asked me to do. To take cash-- different amounts each time--and deliver them to a variety of Zurich banks, opening accounts under two names: my man's name and Samuel Roth. What could I do? Yes? What would you do? I did as he asked, of course. Not often--two or three times a year. And what's illegal about it? Nothing. I send one of my employees with some false papers--Rolf Vinterberg is the one we've used the last two years-- and he opens the account."

There it was. Milo felt unexpectedly thrilled. The simple moneylaundering scheme used to pay the Tiger for his jobs; Angela had only been a hair's breadth away. Then he wondered aloud, but without hope, "Did he have a beard?"

"What?"

"Stephen Lewis. Does he have a red beard?"

Ugrimov brightened. "You know him! Red on top, red in the face, red in the beard. You know this man!"

There, again. Connections. He shook his head. "Not yet I don't, but I hope to meet him soon. Go on. Please."

"Well, there's not much more on that point. It was always as he promised. My fiscal secrets never came to light, and every now and then I'd be approached by Mr. Lewis. He'd give me the cash--euros-- with the bank instructions, and I'd have my Mr. Vinterberg follow those instructions. In fact, after a few years the agreement benefited me even more. Some other problems arose, and some bureaucrats in Germany started demanding Switzerland send me to them. Truly, I was scared. I told Lewis, and Lewis--don't ask me how--made sure Switzerland would leave me in peace." He nodded reverently. "And that they did. Until recently, at least."

"What happened?"

"I got a note on Monday from the Swiss Foreign Ministry. Guess what?

The new administration has decided I might not be an ideal citizen anymore, because of the angry Huns in Berlin."

"So you contacted Lewis."

"How could I? He never left me a phone number--we didn't work like that. But--coincidence of coincidences!--four days ago, I got my final visit from Mr. Stephen Lewis. I considered this fortuitous, as I could ask for his help. However, he hadn't shown up with a bundle of euros and banking instructions. He'd shown up empty-handed. He told me our arrangement had reached its conclusion. He thanked me for my cooperation and assured me that his people would never reveal our little secret, just as long as I didn't reveal it either. As for the new German problem plaguing me, he admitted he couldn't do anything about it anymore. That time had passed." It was an incredible piece of luck. The Swiss Foreign Ministry letter had been Milo's ticket, converting Roman Ugrimov's anger into a desire for revenge. Otherwise, they might have sat here in silence, Ugrimov betraying nothing of his long-standing arrangement with Stephen Lewis, a.k.a. Jan Klausner, a.k.a. Herbert Williams. How many names did the bastard have?

Ugrimov cleared his throat, then sipped the daiquiri. "I don't know what game you're playing, Milo Weaver. I hope it's not aimed at me."

"I don't think it is," Milo said truthfully. "Tell me about the Sudan."

"Oh! Well, you'll like this. The connection between the events I've just described and the Sudan is, of course, the elusive Mr. Lewis." Hands on his knees, Milo said, "Tell me."

"Well, this is back in late October, when we were still friends. Lewis came to me--to here, in fact--and asked a favor. Could I invite the energy minister, Mr. al-Jazz, to my house? Some friends of his would like to invest in electricity. I knew the minister, of course. Not my favorite--I still have a nasty feeling he's dismantling our computers as fast as we can install them. Anyway, Lewis made it clear that our continued cooperation hinged on this, so I said okay. I sent out the invitation, the minister accepted, and on November 4th I welcomed him into my home. There was Lewis, of course, with four mute American businessmen. And before you ask," he said, raising a hand, "no. They didn't give their names. In fact, they were rude. At Lewis's request, I withdrew to the parlor, and didn't come out again until I heard the energy minister shouting and storming down the hall to the front door, his security men right behind him. I went out to wish him a safe drive home. To my glee, he was livid. Know what he said?" Milo indicated that he didn't.

"He said,
We'll sell to whoever we goddamned want to!
Yes, he did say that. Then:
Threaten my president, I'll bury yours!"
Ugrimov nodded vigorously. "It was a very lively evening."

"You have no idea what they discussed?"

Ugrimov shook his head. "Some of Lewis's people swept for bugs first. Afterward, they all left without a word, and I drank myself to sleep. One of those moments when you no longer feel master of your own domain. Know what I mean?"

"Yes. I do."

That was all Milo could say as, staring at the Russian, he made more connections. Herbert Williams represented a group of American businessmen. They used the Tiger to murder a Muslim extremist after--and this was crucial--a failed talk with the Sudanese energy minister.
Threaten my
president
. . . It was as the Tiger had suspected. The murder was supposed to enrage the population, to make an unstable government that much less stable. Not for the terrorists, though, but for some businessmen. Why?

We'll sell to whoever we goddamned want to!

Sell what?

The only thing the Sudan had that was of value to anyone in America was oil.

Who did Sudan sell its oil to? The Chinese; U.S. companies bought none, because of the embargo.

The sun was too hot to deal with. Milo got up and walked to the glass doors, where the extended roof protected him. He regulated his breaths.

"You all right, Milo Weaver?"

"I'm fine. Is that all?"

Ugrimov stretched out in his chair and brought the now-melted daiquiri to his lips. "That's the whole thing. And now, it's time for reciprocation. I ask you any question I like?"

"If I know the answer, I'll tell you."

"Fair enough," said the Russian. His face turned bleakly serious: "Where do you suggest I go?"

"What?"

"I'm going to have to leave Switzerland soon. Where to? Someplace with a good climate, of course, but someplace where I won't be hounded by German bankers. I thought about your country, but I'm not very positive about Americans these days."

"How about the Sudan?"

"Ha!" Ugrimov seemed to find that funny, and Milo realized that there was nothing this man needed from him. He'd shared the story out of spite, nothing more.

"What about Lewis?" Milo asked. "I imagine you tried to find out who he was, didn't you?"

"Of course I did. Years ago."

"And?"

"And what? Guys like that, they cover their tracks. We came up with a couple names. Herbert Williams, for one, in Paris."

"Was the other name Jan Klausner?" Milo asked. Ugrimov frowned, then shook his head. "No. It was Kevin Tripplehorn."

"Tripplehorn?"

The Russian nodded. "There's no telling how many aliases this guy has."

Tripplehorn, Milo thought, and kept repeating it in his head. That's when he knew. Not everything, not yet, but enough. Kevin Tripplehorn, the Tourist. Tripplehorn, who was also Jan Klausner, Herbert Williams, Stephen Lewis. Tripplehorn, who had posed with Colonel Yi Lien in a photo and floated around Angela Yates in order to spy on her, or incriminate her. Tripplehorn.

He woke without knowing he'd passed out. Ugrimov, above him, was slapping his cheeks, then tried to feed him some daiquiri. It was too bitter. The back of his head throbbed.

"You need to take care of yourself, Milo. You can't depend on others to do it for you. My advice? Depend on your family, no one else." Ugrimov stood and called, "Nikolai!"

Nikolai kept a suspicious eye on Milo as he drove the sick man back to the gate. Milo, in the late stages of shock, kept thinking about Ugrimov's last words.
Depend on your family, no one else.
It was a curious thing to say. Einner, at the gate, stood smoking one of Milo's Davidoffs, and dropped it to the ground when he saw the Mercedes approaching. When Milo got out, his legs stronger now, Nikolai also got out and pointed at Einner. "You," he said in stiff, angry English. "Don't you litter!"
38

On the drive back into town, Einner told him that Geneva was one of his favorite cities. "Have you kept your eyes open? The girls here. I'm in a permanent state of erotic excitement."