The Tourist Read online

  "How did her memory suddenly start working?"

  "You forget how long French vacations are. She'd been skiing."

  "Oh."

  "Back to Marseille, then, and we went over the bank's footage. Bingo-there he was. November 18, three days before the assassination, emptying and closing an account of three hundred thousand dollars. Samuel Roth was listed as the account's cosigner-that's one of the Tiger's aliases. Of course, he had a passport to identify himself, and we got the copy they made. But more importantly, we had the account."

  Milo 's hands were on the table, on either side of his glass. "Yes?"

  To stretch out the suspense, Angela took another sip. She was enjoying this. "Opened November 16 in Zurich under the name Rolf Vinterberg."

  He leaned back, amazed that, in mere months, she had followed a trail farther than he had in the last six years. "So? Who's Rolf Vinterberg?"

  "Hard to say. Address is just a door on a Zurich side street. He opened the account with cash. The Zurich branch camera catches a man with a hat. Tall. And the name's trash."

  "How come I never heard any of this? Weren't you reporting to Langley?"

  She looked uneasy, then she shook her head.

  Admiration mixed with frustration. If she hadn't been so paranoid, they could have pooled their resources. But Angela didn't want to dilute the credit-this kind of catch really was a career-maker. He said, "I've been after him for years. Did you know that?"

  There was no reason she would have known. She looked into her glass and shrugged. "Sorry." She wasn't sorry, though.

  "I met with him on Wednesday. In the States."

  "The Tiger?"

  He nodded.

  Her pink cheeks drained of color. "You're joking."

  "He's dead, Angela. Took cyanide. Turned out one of his employers stuck him with HIV. Unlike us, his employer knew he was a Christian Scientist."

  "Christian-what}" She didn't seem to understand. "He was what?"

  "He wouldn't take drugs for it, so it was killing him."

  She couldn't speak, could only drink her wine and stare at him. Angela had spent the last eight months building up an investigation-an impressive one, he had to admit-that would finally take her to the next level in her career, and with a few words, Milo had dashed those months of hope.

  But Angela was also practical. She'd faced enough disappointment in her life not to wallow in it. She raised her glass to him. "Congratulations, Milo."

  "Don't congratulate me," he said. "I was just running to the Tiger's directions. He laid a trail for me to follow, so I could hear his last wish."

  "Which was?"

  "To track down whoever had him killed." She didn't reply, so he added: "Which means you're still at the forefront of this. I'd like to know who decided to off him."

  She sipped her wine. "Okay, Milo. Talk to me."

  Over the next quarter hour, he filled her in on the details of the Tiger's story, watching her face run through a range of emotions as she slowly regained her hopefulness.

  She cut in: "Salih Ahmad? In the Sudan? He did that?"

  The news seemed to invigorate her, though he didn't know why. "That's what he admitted to," he said. "Why? You know something about it?"

  "No," she answered, a little too quickly. "Go on."

  When he told her about Jan Klausner, a.k.a. Herbert Williams, he remembered something. "You've got a shot of him. He's the one with the Tiger in Milan."

  She frowned. "Your office must have cropped him out."

  "I'll get you a full shot."

  "Thanks."

  By the time he finished, she was sitting straight again, biting her lower lip in anticipation. It pleased Milo that he could bring her back like that, but he got the sense-and there was nothing he could put his finger on as evidence-that she was holding something else back. Something she didn't trust him with. So he pressed his original point, to help her feel in control: "I can't follow this up from the States, so it has to be your game. I'll run to your directions. Sound good?"

  "Aye aye, cap'n," she said, smiling, but followed with silence. Whatever she was holding back would stay with her, at least for now. She held up a slender hand. "Enough about work, okay? Talk family. Stephanie's what? Seven?"

  "Six," he said, reaching for the carafe, then remembering it was empty. "Mouth like a sailor's, but I'm not trading her in yet."

  "Tina still ravishing?"

  "More so. Probably best I didn't bring her."

  "Watch out." She winked, then gave a misshapen smile that reminded him that Angela Yates was no fool. "So tell me what you want."

  "Why do you think I want something?"

  "Because you spent an hour outside the embassy waiting for me. You didn't bother calling ahead, because you didn't want a record of us meeting. And, like you said, you've got a family. I seriously doubt Tina would let you take a Paris vacation without her." She paused, her expression serious. "See where I'm going with this?"

  The cafe was full of lunching French and very few, if any, Americans. Through the window, he noticed the tall, handsome man from earlier waiting on the street for a table-he wondered where his girlfriend, the one with swollen eyes, had fled to.

  Milo folded his knuckles under his chin. "You're right: I need something. Small favor."

  "Big trouble?"

  "No trouble at all. Just an inconvenience. I need you to hold on to something until next week. On Monday, someone will ask you for it and you'll give it to him."

  "Big? Small?"

  "Very small. A flash drive."

  She peered around the restaurant just as Milo had. She managed a whisper. "I'll need to know more.”

  “Fine."

  "What's on it?"

  "Just a report. I can't send it because all my contact's communications are compromised.”

  “He's in town?"

  " Beirut, but he'll fly to Paris Monday morning and come to the embassy. Once he's got it, there's no more need for intrigue.”

  “So why the intrigue now?"

  Angela, Milo believed, trusted him. At least, she trusted the London field agent she'd once known so well, but in the last years their relationship, despite periodic visits, had become more distant, and he didn't know if she'd buy the story. He sighed. "Truth is, I'm supposed to hand it over myself. But I can't stay in France."

  "Why not?"

  Milo scratched his nose, feigning embarrassment. "It's… well, it's my vacation. Tina's already reserved our hotel in Florida. Disney

  World. And she can't pull out of it. One of those cut-rate Internet deals." That part, at least, was true.

  Angela laughed. "Don't tell me you're afraid of your wife!"

  "I'd just like to spend my vacation on vacation. Not arguing."

  "Not the man you used to be, are you?" She winked. "Why didn't you send someone from New York to deliver it?"

  "There is no one else," he said. "I've been working up this report for the last month. I don't want anyone else looking at it."

  "And then you remembered me."

  "I remembered Angela Yates, my oldest friend."

  "I'm assuming you didn't tell Tom about this."

  "Look who's the sharpest knife in the drawer."

  She glanced beyond Milo, scanning the crowd. "You going to tell me what's on it?"

  Milo started to tell her what Grainger had ordered him to say, that it was an analysis of Chinese oil interests in Kazakhstan, but changed his mind. With Angela, curiosity was the killer. "Some Asian oil stuff. You don't need to know the details, do you?"

  "I guess not." After a pause, she said, "Okay, Milo. For you, anything."

  "You've saved my ass." A waiter slid past him, and he caught his arm, asking for a bottle of Moet. Then he leaned close to Angela. "Give me your hand."

  She seemed unsure, but did as he asked. She had long fingers, and her nails were buffed but unpainted. Milo took her dry hand in both of his, tenderly, as if they were lovers. Her eyes grew, just a little, as she felt the f
lash drive press into her palm. Lightly, he kissed her knuckles.

  13

  There were two messages waiting at the hotel. James Einner wanted to know if everything had gone as planned, though he worded it as "Has the money been transferred yet?" Milo crumpled that into his pocket. The other message, blank, was from Grainger, signed "Father." Despite already having a buzz from lunch, once in his room he poured a tiny vodka from his fridge into a glass. He opened the high French windows and leaned out to look down on the rush-hour gridlock of the Rue Saint-Philippe du Roule. He lit a cigarette before dialing.

  Tina answered drowsily. "Yeah?"

  "Darling, it's me."

  "Which one?"

  "The stupid one."

  "Oh. Milo. Still in Paris?"

  "Yeah. How're things?"

  "I don't know. Just getting up. You sound-are you drunk?"

  "Actually, a little."

  "What time's it there?"

  He checked his watch. "Nearly three."

  "I guess that's all right."

  "Listen, I might not get back until Sunday."

  Silence, then the noise of sheets as she sat up straight. "Why?"

  "Things arc kind of complicated.”

  “How complicated?”

  “Not dangerous."

  "Okay," she said. "You know when our plane leaves, right?”

  “Monday, ten in the morning.”

  “And if you're not here by then…”

  “I'll be vacationing on my own."

  "I'm glad that's understood," she said as he took a drag of his cigarette. "Hold it, mister.”

  “What?”

  “You're smoking"

  He tried to sound offended: "I'm not"

  "You're in a whole heap of trouble," Tina said, then: "Hey, baby."

  "Hey what?"

  "Stef's here." Her voice muted slightly as she said, "Wanna talk to your daddy?"

  "Why would I?" he heard Stephanie say.

  "Be nice," said Tina, and after a moment Stephanie came on.

  "This is Stephanie Weaver. To whom am I speaking?"

  "You're speaking to Milo Weaver," he said.

  "Very nice to speak to you."

  "Stop it!" he screamed, and she started laughing. Once the fit had passed, she slipped back into her six years and babbled about every single event that had filled her Thursday. It was mesmerizing stuff.

  "You called him what?"

  "Sam Aston is a jerk, Dad. He called me prissy. So I called him a dirty rat. What do you expect?"

  Once she'd run out of stories, Tina came back on and made veiled threats about what might happen if he didn't make it back in time. Milo made veiled whimpers. When he hung up, left with only the noise of the traffic, the world seemed a little deader. He called Grainger.

  "What?" the old man shouted.

  "It's me, Tom."

  "Oh. Sorry, Milo.”

  “What was that about?"

  "Nothing. Did everything work out? It's done?"

  Below him, the traffic was getting loud, so he stepped back from the window. "Yeah."

  "See what I told you? Fly home tonight and you won't miss a minute of your vacation."

  "Is Einner running surveillance?"

  "What surveillance?"

  "You're not just waiting to see if that report turns up in Beijing, are you?"

  "Oh. Of course not. Yes, he's running it.”

  “Then I'm going to float a little."

  Grainger cleared his throat. "I don't know why you're making trouble over this."

  "Because she's innocent."

  "Has Einner shown you his evidence yet?"

  "I don't need to see evidence, Tom. We spoke for nearly two hours. She's innocent."

  "One hundred percent sure?"

  "Let's say, ninety-seven."

  "Three percent's enough to go on. You know that.”

  “But she's doing important work here," Milo persisted. "I'd hate to see that compromised."

  "She's a security chief, Milo. It's not rocket science."

  "She's trailing the Tiger."

  Silence.

  "Don't play stupid, Tom. You sent her photos of him months ago. Why didn't you tell me?"

  " Milo," he said, his tone vaguely authoritative, "don't pretend to know everything that's going on here, okay? I made a decision that seemed correct at the time. And besides, she wanted to keep it quiet. I respected that."

  "Sure."

  "So, what's she got?"

  "She has a lot more than I ever pulled together. She has him on video at the Marseille branch of the Union Bank of Switzerland, withdrawing his fee for killing Michel Bouchard. Three hundred grand. She followed the account to Zurich, set up by a Rolf Vinterberg."

  "Vinterberg," Grainger said slowly, perhaps writing this down.

  "Fact is, we should've had her working on the Tiger from the beginning. We would've caught him years ago. Compared to her, I'm a dunce."

  "Consider that noted, Milo. But if she's trading secrets, I want to know.”

  “Okay."

  "You're not going to make trouble for him, are you?"

  "Who?"

  "Einner."

  "You know me, Tom. I'm just happy to be of help."

  14

  He returned to the park after four, having changed into something less obvious-a T-shirt and jeans, the earplugs of his iPod on view beneath a trilby hat he'd grabbed from a shop near the hotel. With sunglasses, it was enough of a disguise to avoid easy detection from the embassy's cameras, but wouldn't hold up to scrutiny. He didn't think he'd need that.

  Einner's old woman had been replaced by an old man in a grimy Members Only jacket who leaned back on the bench, his face to the sun, a soiled plastic bag balled up beside him. Einner's flower van was still parked along Avenue Gabriel.

  There wasn't much to do until five, so Milo let himself be taken away by the iPod mix-his French sixties was continuing, and he hoped it could raise his spirits. More France Gall, some pre-children's-music Chantal Goya, Jane Birkin, Francoise Hardy, Anna Karina, and Brigitte Bardot with Gainsbourg, singing "Comic Strip":

  SHEBAM! POW! BLOP! WIZZ!

  By 5:10 p.m., the park was full of people heading home. Even the old man was sitting up, turning to look toward the embassy.

  From his position, Milo couldn't see the embassy gate, so he started walking toward Avenue Gabriel, holding the iPod near his face, as if having trouble with it. But he stared ahead at the old man, who got slowly to his feet in an imitation of old bones, then crouched to fool with his shoelaces.

  Milo, too, had to hide his face, because Angela had passed the fleurs van and was walking in their direction, heading east through the park to the Place de la Concorde metro station. Milo, among the crowd, turned casually away from her. The old man followed Angela away.

  Milo hurried toward Gabriel and reached the van as it was beginning to reverse out of its tight parallel parking situation. He rapped on the tinted rear window and waited.

  Einner didn't answer immediately, probably looking out at Milo 's face and wondering if he'd go away. Then he made up his mind and popped open the door. His lips were in terrible shape-it looked like he'd been chewing them. "What the hell are you doing here, Weaver?"

  "Give me a lift?"

  "Get out of here. Go home."

  He started to pull the door shut again, but Milo put himself in the way. "Please, James. I need to come along.”

  “What you need to do is get home."

  "Come on," Milo said, making friendly. "If you have to pick her up, it'll be easier with me. She won't run if I'm there." Einner considered that. "Honestly," Milo said. "I just want to help.”

  “Did you clear this with Tom?”

  “Call him if you want."

  Einner pushed the door open again and grinned to show that he wasn't such a bad sport. "You look like an over-the-hill teenager."

  Milo didn't bother telling him what he looked like.

  Einner's mobile control ce
nter was an elaborate affair consisting of two laptops, two flat-screen monitors connected to a mainframe, a generator, and a microphone and speakers. The seats had been moved flat against the right wall, facing the equipment. It made for a tight fit, particularly since the embassy lightweight behind the wheel drove by punching the pedals. The whole way to Angela's apartment in the Eleventh Arrondissement, Einner remained in radio contact with his shadows. They reported that Angela had boarded the metro, gotten out at Place de la Nation, and taken the long walk up tree-lined Avenue Philippe Auguste to her apartment on Rue Alexandre Dumas.

  "Good thing you were on top of that," said Milo.

  Einner was focused on a video feed of Angela's apartment building, taken from a wide-angle tie-pin job. They watched Angela push through the glass doors. He said, "If your role here is to offer sarcasm, we'll drop you off at the airport."

  "Sorry, James."

  They rode in silence and soon reached her neighborhood. Some members of the diplomatic crowd, which was big enough in Paris to constitute its own city, kept house in this eastern part of the eleventh district. The streets were lined with Beamers and Mercs.

  From a speaker, they heard a click and a dial tone.

  "You tapped her phone?" Milo said as a monitor displayed the number she'd dialed: 825.030.030.

  "What did you think, Weaver? We're not amateurs."

  "Neither is she. I'll bet your vacation time that she's on to you."

  "Shh."

  A woman's voice said, "Pizza Hut."

  The computer's phone directory verified that this was true.

  She proceeded to order a Hawaienne pizza with a Greek salad and a six-pack of Stella Artois.

  "Big eater," Einner said, then typed on a laptop. The second monitor, wedged against the inside of the roof, flickered and lit up on a high angle of Angela's living room. There she was, walking away from the phone to the couch, and yawning. Milo imagined the afternoon champagne had made the rest of her day a chore to get through. She found a remote among the cushions, flopped down, and turned on the television. They couldn't see the screen, but heard canned laughter as she unzipped her boots and set them beside the coffee table.