The Tourist Read online

  "Exactly," she said, unflustered by the name of that country. "Right now, they're supplying seven percent of China 's oil. China supplies the Sudanese government with weapons to kill its own people-they'll do anything to keep the oil flowing." She touched her lower lip. "It's funny. China 's been under a lot of pressure from the UN to encourage President al-Bashir to make peace in Darfur. Finally, last February, Hu Jintao-the Chinese president, no less- met with him to discuss this. At the same time, he announced the cancellation of Sudan 's Chinese debt and promised to build him a presidential palace. How fucked up is that?"

  "Very fucked up."

  "But go back to Salih Ahmad. This afternoon, you told me the Tiger killed Ahmad, and he wasn't doing it for the Sudanese government."

  "He might have been wrong. He never knew who he was working for. Muslim extremists was his best guess."

  She frowned. "There's a kid I met with a few times back in May. Rahman Garang. Sudanese. He was part of Salih Ahmad's group."

  "Terrorist?"

  Angela tilted her head, then nodded. "I'm not sure what all Rahman actually did, but yes, I'd call him a terrorist-a budding one, at least. His family's been here for about five years, and when he came back to visit in May, the French picked him up. They'd connected him to some cell in Lyon. He was a real hardhead. Vitriolic. It turned out he wasn't actually connected to anything in France, but while he was held he kept blaming his interrogators for the death of his mullah. You and the Americans, he said. That's why I got a call from my ex-she's not actually a princess, though she acts like one. She's French intelligence. I think it was her way of making peace with me. I talked with Rahman once in jail, and he told me he wasn't afraid of me. I-meaning the United States and all its allies-had killed Mullah Salih Ahmad, and he fully expected to be killed next. The French let him go, due to lack of evidence.

  "But I was curious. We'd all seen the news. It was in his interest to blame President al-Bashir. After all, overthrowing him is the whole point of that insurgency. I tracked down Rahman's family about a week later, then convinced him to talk to me again. We had lunch in the center-same place you found me today. Rahman's brother-Ali-insisted on coming along for protection. I agreed, but made him wait outside the restaurant while we talked."

  May 16, Milo remembered from Einner's photos. As she gulped down her wine, he said, "Was he raving? Or did he actually know something?"

  Angela set down the glass; it was empty. "A little bit of both. Rahman had been at the mullah's house in Khartoum the night his body reappeared. A lot of friends were there, a kind of vigil with the family. Rahman went to the bathroom. Through the window, he could see into the backyard. He saw a European-a white man- delivering the body. That was the crux of his argument."

  "Did you show him the photos of the Tiger?"

  She shook her head, possibly embarrassed. "Didn't occur to me. But I told him I would look into it. If I'd been a man, I don't think he would've believed me. But he seemed to like me. I drove him and Ali back to his house, and over the next several days started looking into it. Really, I had nothing to go on. I had no reason to think this one was also the Tiger. There are a lot of white faces in the world, and I assumed al-Bashir had just gone to the regional open market for his killers."

  "Did you report this?" Milo asked. "That you were helping Rahman."

  Again, she shook her head, but there was no shyness now. "You know what would've happened-no one cares about a potential suicide bomber's conspiracy theories. I just reported that I was working him as a possible source."

  "I see."

  "After five days, it still wasn't going anywhere, so I went to give Rahman the bad news. His family wouldn't let me in. His mother, father, sister-I was suddenly a leper. Ali finally came out. They didn't know where he was. The day after our lunch, he got a call. Told his mother he had an important meeting. That was the last they saw of him."

  "He didn't head back to Khartoum?"

  She shook her head. "He couldn't have. This kid had no tradecraft. He wasn't using fake passports or anything like that." She paused. "Then, last week, his body was found in Gonesse, not far off the Charles de Gaulle flight path. Two bullets in the chest. Forensics says he's been dead a month and a half or so-just after I talked to him."

  Now it was Milo who needed to move. He rubbed his knees, stood, and went to get the chilled vodka. He should have made that call to Einner a while ago, under the guise of calling Tina, but he assumed Einner was listening anyway. He poured the vodka into their empty wineglasses; Angela didn't argue. "Forensics give anything else?"

  "Nine millimeter, PPK. Those are spread pretty evenly throughout the world."

  "Sounds like his friends saw him talking to you.”

  “That's what Ali thinks.”

  “You talked to him?"

  "He called me. As soon as the body was found. That's how I learned about it."

  Over the next hour, working their way through the vodka, they mused over the connections that these revelations seemed to suggest. "Seemed" was the operative word.

  "X," they agreed, had hired the Tiger to kill a radical mullah in the Sudan, and when the Tiger began investigating the identity of his employer, X had him killed.

  "Anyone could have killed Rahman," she said, blinking to keep Milo in focus. "His terrorist friends see him talking to me, and they decide he's a double. Or, whoever had the mullah killed thought he was discussing X's identity with me, and so X had him killed for the same reason he killed the Tiger."

  Milo had to hold his tongue, because what he wanted to say would have given away what he knew. X's agent, Herbert Williams, had been seen with Angela Yates. What if, instead of being her contact, Williams was spying on her? Williams had been there, in the restaurant, when Rahman was meeting with Angela.

  Ignore the Chinese diplomat and his stolen secrets, and the picture became something else. Angela as victim, rather than security leak.

  Yet the question the Tiger had posed on his deathbed remained: Who was X? Who would have hired the Tiger to kill both Mullah Salih Ahmad and the French foreign minister? Would some terrorist group want them both dead? While Ahmad's death in the end helped militant Islam's cause in the Sudan, the foreign minister's death would do nothing to help them.

  What, further, would explain all the acts of assassination by the Tiger since 2001, when Herbert Williams became one of the Tiger's clients?

  Maybe Herbert Williams was X. Perhaps he was just a broker of death for whatever powerful people needed someone vanquished. In which case, there was nothing to tie the various murders together.

  "The Chinese," she said. "Branding Salid Ahmad's corpse looks a lot like a direct warning to the extremists-quit harassing our friend, or you'll end up like this man. But it's almost too obvious, isn't it?"

  Milo nodded. " China 's a lot of things, but it's not shortsighted. The Central Committee doesn't want a fight with the Sudanese masses. China doesn't want to send its troops to Africa, or have the international community looking too closely-they're hosting the Olympics in a year. The brand was supposed to inflame anti-Chinese, anti-imperialist sentiment." He took a breath. "I'm with the Tiger on this-I think he was working for the jihadists."

  "The only way to know is to find Herbert Williams," she said.

  Despite the frustration of no solid answers, he was enjoying this. Sitting with Angela, going through the details and variables and working through possible solutions, reminded him of their friendship more than a decade before, when both were young, unattached, and wildly enthusiastic about their employer and their country.

  Then the mood shifted. She rubbed her arms as if chilled by the morbid stories they were spinning. A little after one, she said, "I'll call a taxi. Don't want to be late for Disney."

  After calling, she used the toilet and came out popping a pill from a prescription bottle.

  "What's that?"

  "For sleeping."

  He raised a brow. "You really need those?”

 
; “You're not my shrink, Milo."

  "Remember when I tried to hook you on amphetamines?"

  At first she didn't, then she did. Her laugh was natural. "Man, you were such a wreck."

  He gave her a kiss on the way out, and she handed him the still two-thirds full Smirnoff bottle. "Let's stay in touch about this," he said. "You've done so much more than I ever could have."

  She patted his ass to urge him out. "That's because I'm smarter than you are."

  The taxi was waiting for him, and before getting inside he looked toward the flower van. From its passenger seat, Einner was staring at him, holding up a questioning thumbs-up sign. Milo gave him an answering thumbs-up, and the Tourist returned to the back of the van. To Milo 's surprise, Einner had actually given him his privacy. Milo never would have been so generous.

  17

  He woke early Saturday morning with a hangover, his lungs suffering dry rot. The television shouted the weather in French. He tried to open his eyes, but the room was a blur, so he shut them again.

  This was what happened when he was away from his family. There was no one around to remind him that it was a mistake to spend the night with a bottle of vodka and a pack of smokes, watching late-night French television. He hadn't been like this when he was a Tourist, but now, Milo-the-family-man traveled like an immature teenager just set free from home.

  Something moved-a creak-and he opened his eyes again, smeared colors shifting. He pushed back, fist rising. From the chair beside his bed, Einner smiled at him.

  "You with me?"

  Milo tried to sit up against the headboard; it was difficult. He remembered sinking into the vodka and, out of curiosity, a child-sized bottle of hotel brandy and another of ouzo. He coughed up some bitter phlegm, then swallowed it.

  Einner held up the bottle for examination-only three or so shots remained. "At least you didn't down the whole thing."

  Milo realized, not for the first time, that he was no good at living.

  Einner set the bottle on the floor. "Awake enough to talk?"

  "I'm still a little drunk.”

  “I'll order coffee.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Six in the morning."

  "Jesus." He'd slept two and a half hours, max.

  Einner called down for coffee while Milo went to wash his face. Einner appeared in the bathroom doorway, grinning. "Not like when you were young, eh?"

  Milo used the toothbrush to scrape stomach acid from the back of his tongue. He felt like he was going to be sick, but didn't want to do that in front of Einner. Not that.

  By the time Milo came out again, he could get Einner in focus. Amazingly, the Tourist looked well rested as he flipped through stations, settling on CNN International. Milo wished he looked like that. A shower-that would help.

  "You here for a reason, James?"

  Einner raised the television's volume, his expression morose. "It's Angela."

  "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 thumbs-up, 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.
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br />   "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 second-guessing 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