The Tourist (34 page)

By then, a scholarship had taken him to Lock Haven University, a tiny school in a sleepy Pennsylvania mountain town. A few pages charted an irregular student who, while never arrested, was suspected by local police as being "involved with drug-users and spends much time in the old house at the corner of West Church and Fourth where marijuana parties are a regular occurrence." He'd arrived at the school majoring in "undecided" but by the end of his first year had settled on international relations. Despite its size, Lock Haven boasted the largest student exchange program on the East Coast. During his third year, in the fall of 1990, Milo arrived in Plymouth, England, to study at Marjon, the College of St. Mark and St. John. According to these early CIA reports, Milo Weaver quickly found a circle of friends, most from Brighton, who were involved in socialist politics. While calling themselves Labour, their true beliefs led more down the path of "ecoanarchism"--a term, Simmons noted, that wouldn't come into popular use for nearly another decade. An MI5 plant inside the group, working in cooperation with the CIA, reported that Weaver was ideal for an approach. "The ideals of the group are not his, but his desire to take part in something larger than himself predicates most of his endeavors. He has fluent Russian and excellent French." The approach occurred during a weekend trip to London in late December, a month before Weaver was scheduled to return to Pennsylvania. The MI5 plant--"Abigail"--brought him to the Marquee Club on Charing Cross, where, slipping into a rented back room, he was introduced to the London head of station, who in the reports was referred to as "Stan."

The conversation must have been favorable, because a second meeting was arranged for three days later in Plymouth. Milo then dropped out of school and, lacking a UK visa, went underground with his environmental anarchist friends.

It was a strikingly last recruitment, which Simmons also noted in her Word document, but of that first job there was nothing else, and the file referred the researcher to File WT-2569-A91. Still, she knew Milo's role in the operation lasted only until March, because that was when he was put onto the CIA payroll and sent to Perquimans County, North Carolina, where, along the Albemarle Sound, he trained for four months at the Point, a Company school less well known than the Farm but just as accredited. Milo was sent to London, where he worked (twice, if the file was to be believed) with Angela Yates, another wanderer brought into the Company family. One report suggested they were lovers; another report insisted that Yates was a lesbian.

Milo Weaver began to settle into the Russian expatriate community, and though the actual case files lay elsewhere, Simmons could chart a career of insinuation. He mixed with all levels of Russian expats, from diplomats to petty crooks. His focus was twofold: shed light on the burgeoning mafia gaining a foothold in the London underworld, and uncover the occasional spies sent from Moscow while the Soviet Empire suffered its death throes. Though he did well with the criminal element--in the first year his information led to two major arrests--he excelled at spycatching. He had at his disposal three major sources within the Russian intelligence apparat:
DENIS, FRANKA
, and
TADEUS
. In two years, he uncovered fifteen undercover agents and convinced a stunning eleven to work as doubles. Then, in January 1994, the reports changed tone, noting Milo's slow decline into alcoholism, his trenchant womanizing (not, apparently, with Angela Yates), and the suspicion that Milo himself had been turned into a double by one of his sources,
TADEUS
. Within six months, Milo was fired, his visa was revoked, and he was given a plane ticket home. Thus ended the first stage of Milo Weaver's career. The second documented stage began seven years later, in 2001, a month after the Twin Towers fell, when he was rehired, now as a "supervisor" in Thomas Grainger's department, the details of which were vague. Of the intervening years from 1994 to 2001, the file said nothing.

She knew what that meant, of course. Weaver's dissolution in 1994 had been an act, and for the next seven years Milo Weaver had been working black ops. Since he was part of Grainger's ultra-secret department, Weaver had been a "Tourist."

It was a nice sketch of a successful career. Field agent to ghostagent to administration. Those lost seven years might have held the answers she sought, but they would have to remain a mystery. If she admitted to Fitzhugh what she knew of Tourism, Matthew would be compromised. Something occurred to her. She flipped back through the sheets until she'd returned to the report on Milo Weaver's childhood. Raleigh, North Carolina. Orphanage in Oxford. Then two years at a small liberal arts college before arriving in England. She compared these facts to "Abigail's" report: "He has fluent Russian and excellent French." She used her cell phone, and after a moment heard George Orbach's deep but groggy voice say, "What
is
it?" That's when she realized it was nearly eleven.

"You home?"

A broad yawn. "Office. Guess I passed out."

"I've got something for you."

"Other than sleep?"

"Take this down." She read off the particulars of Milo Weaver's childhood. "Find out if anyone in the Weaver clan is still alive. Says here they're dead, but if you can find even a distant second cousin, then I want to talk to them."

"We dig deep, but isn't this a bit much?"

"Five years after his parents' death, he was fluent in Russian. Tell me, George--how does an orphan from North Carolina do that?"

"He takes a course. Studies hard."

"Just look into it, will you? And find out if anyone's still around from the St. Christopher Home for Boys."

"Will do."

"Thanks," Simmons said and hung up, then dialed another number. Despite the hour, Tina Weaver sounded awake. In the background, a television sitcom played. "What?"

"Hello, Mrs. Weaver. This is Janet Simmons." A pause. Tina said, "Special agent, even."

"Listen, I know we didn't get off on the right foot before."

"You don't think so?"

"I know Rodger interviewed you in Austin--was he all right? I told him not to press too much."

"Rodger was a real sweetheart."

"I'd like to talk with you about a few things. Tomorrow all right?" Another pause. "You want me to help you track down my husband?"
She doesn't know,
Simmons thought. "I want you to help me get to the truth, Tina. That's all."

"What kinds of questions?"

"Well," Simmons said, "you're pretty familiar with Milo's past, right?" A hesitant "Yeah."

"Any surviving relatives?"

"None that he knows of," she said, then made a wordless sound, like choking.

"Tina? You all right?"

"I just," she gasped. "I get hiccups sometimes."

"Get yourself some water. We'll talk tomorrow. Morning okay? Like, ten, ten thirty?"

"Yeah," Tina agreed, then the line went dead.
3

In the morning, a Company driver picked Fitzhugh up from the Mansfield Hotel on West Fourty-fourth and dropped him off at the Avenue of the Americas building by nine thirty. Once behind the desk, he picked up the phone and dialed a number. "John?"

"Yes, sir," said a flat voice.

"Can you go to Room 5 and give the treatment until I get down there?

No more than an hour."

"Face?"

"No, not the face."

"Yes, sir."

He hung up, checked his e-mail, then connected to Nexcel, signing in with Grainger's username and password. One message from Sal, that occasional oracle in Homeland:

J Simmons has gone to DT HQ unexpectedly.

"Thank
you
," he said to the computer. The message might have been of use had it come before Simmons ambushed him here at "DT HQ" yesterday. He wondered if Sal was really earning his Christmas bonuses. There was a stack of real mail on the desk, and among the interdepartmental memos he found a buff envelope, postmarked Denver, addressed to Grainger. Security had placed
CLEARED
stamps all over it, so he ripped it open. Inside was a brick-colored passport, issued by the Russian Federation.

With a fingernail, he opened it to find a recent photograph of Milo Weaver with his heavy, accusing eyes and long jowl, looking in some ways like a gulag survivor. But the name beside the picture was Mikhail Yevgenovich Vlastov.

"Oh, fuck me," he whispered.

He went to the door and pointed through the cubicles at one of the Travel Agents, using a finger to beckon him. Once the door was closed again, Fitzhugh snapped his fingers, as if the name were on the tip of his tongue, which it wasn't.

"Harold Lynch," the analyst said. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five; a sweat-heavy lock of blond hair curled over his smooth, high forehead.

"Right. Harry, listen. There's a new lead to follow. Milo Weaver as Russian mole."

The disbelief was all over Lynch's face, but Fitzhugh pressed the issue.

"Opportunities. Find when he had access to information, and, soon afterward or even simultaneously, access to the FSB. Line that up with known Russian intel. Take this." He handed over the passport and envelope. "Have someone run it through whatever we've got. I want to know who sent it, how tall they are, and what their favorite food is." Lynch stared at the passport, overwhelmed by this sudden shift in gear.

"Get along, now."

No matter who sent it, the passport was an unexpected gift. Even before the interrogation had begun, Fitzhugh had been handed a serious weapon. Murder and treason--Weaver might talk his way out of one charge, but two?

He decided to share the good news with Janet Simmons. His secretary, a heavyset woman in pink, tracked down and dialed her number. On the second ring, he heard, "Simmons."

"You'll never guess what appeared today."

"I probably won't."

"Russian passport for Milo Weaver."

She paused, and in the background he heard the hum of an engine--

she was driving. "What does that make him?" she said. "A dual citizen?" He'd expected a little more joy from her. "It just might make him a double agent, Janet. It's not one of ours."

"Under his name?"

"No. Mikhail Yevgenovich Vlastov."

A pause. "Where'd it come from?"

"Anonymous. We're looking into that now."

"Thanks for telling me, Terence. Give Milo my best." At ten thirty, Fitzhugh used his keycard in the elevator to access the nineteenth floor, where instead of cubicles there were corridors of windowless walls marked by pairs of doors. One led to a cell, the other to the control room for each cell, full of monitors and recording equipment. He entered the control room to cell five, carrying a plain gray folder. Nate, a hard-drinking ex-agent with the stomach of a goat, sat crunching Ruffles in front of monitors where Milo Weaver, on a floor, naked, screamed from electric shocks delivered to his exposed body parts. The sound echoed sickly in the small room.

A small, thin man in a blood-spattered white smock did his work silently--that was John. One of the doormen held Weaver's shoulders down with rubber gloves, while the other doorman, the big black one, stood by a wall, wiping his mouth and staring.

"What the hell's he doing?" Fitzhugh asked.

Reaching for another potato chip, Nate said, "Just evacuated his breakfast. It's right there by his feet."

"Christ. Get him out of there."

"Now?"

"Yes, now!"

Nate slipped on a wireless headset, tapped on the keyboard, and said,

"Lawrence."

The black man stiffened and put a finger to his ear
.

"Get out. Now."

While Weaver screamed, Lawrence walked slowly to the door. Fitzhugh met him in the corridor and, despite the fact that the doorman was a head taller, shoved a stiff finger into his chest. "If I ever see that again, you'll be out of here. Got it?"

Lawrence nodded, eyes moist.

"Get back to the lobby and send up someone with balls." Another nod, and the big man walked off to the elevators. Nate had told John to prepare for his entrance, so when Fitzhugh opened the door, Milo Weaver was crouched, leaning against the wall, blood seeping from spots across his chest and legs and groin. The remaining doorman stood at attention by the opposite wall while John packed up his electrodes. Weaver began to cry.

"It's a shame," said Fitzhugh, arms crossed over his chest, tapping the folder against his elbow. "A whole career flushed down the toilet because of a sudden desire for vengeance. It doesn't make sense to me. It doesn't make sense here," he said, tapping his temple, "nor here"--his heart. He squatted so he was level with Weaver's red eyes and opened the folder. "This is what happens when Milo Weaver defends his dignity?" He snapped the folder around to reveal page-sized color photos of Tom Grainger, crumpled in front of his New Jersey house on Lake Hopatcong. Fitzhugh went through them one at a time for Milo's inspection. Panoramic shots, showing the position of the body--five yards from those concrete steps. Close-ups: the hole through the shoulder, the other through the forehead. Two soft dumdum bullets that widened after entry, taking out a massive chunk as they left, leaving a mutilated shell of Thomas Grainger. Milo's crying intensified, and he lost his balance, falling to the floor.

"We've got a weeper," Fitzhugh observed, standing. Everyone in that small white room waited. Milo took loud breaths until the tears were under control, wiped his wet eyes and runny nose, then worked himself into a hunched standing position.

"You're going to tell me everything," said Fitzhugh.

"I know," said Milo.

4

Across the East River, Special Agent Janet Simmons worked her way through slow Brooklyn traffic, stopping abruptly for pedestrians and children leaping across Seventh Avenue. She cursed each one of them. People were like that--they blundered through their little lives as if nothing would ever cross their paths. Nothing, not automobiles, crossfire, stalkers, or even the unknown machinations of the world's security services, who could easily confuse you with someone else and drag you to a cell, or simply put a misplaced bullet in your head.