The Tourist Read online

  Despite his feelings about Fitzhugh, Milo agreed. It was one of Tourism's flaws, he'd once told Grainger, that Tourists were trained as hammers rather than feathers. Grainger had found the metaphor flimsy, so Milo tried again: "Tourists should be mobile propaganda machines. Personal and political propaganda." Unconvincingly, Grainger had said that he would make a note of this.

  After an extended training period at the Farm, Harris was sent to Beijing to apprentice under the then-famous Jack Quinn, who, according to Company lore, had carried much of Asia's cold war on his own shoulders, moving people and information in and out of Vietnam, Cambodia, Hong Kong, China, and Malaysia. The only country where he'd stumbled was Japan, where, from 1985 until his death from cancer in 1999, he was persona non grata.

  Quinn's early reports on his young recruit were enthusiastic, citing Harris's ability to absorb information quickly, his near-native fluency in spoken Mandarin, and a highly developed sense of tradecraft. Harris had, in the four months from August through November 1991, developed a network of twelve agents from the clerking sections of the Chinese government, which produced information that, when backtracked, led to an average of three monthly reports on the tensions and machinations within the Chinese Central Committee.

  By 1992, however, discord had appeared in the Beijing station. Comparing memos written by both Quinn and Harris, the problem was clear. Harris, the rising star, was attempting to gain control of the station, while Quinn, by now past his prime, was doing everything he could to hold on to his position. Langley 's opinion, inferred from additional memos, was that Quinn's position should be inviolable, and they approved disciplinary action against Harris. A three-month forced leave followed, which he spent in Boston with his family.

  Here, Fitzhugh reappeared, visiting Boston and making assessment reports on his young discovery. Though he noted Harris's anger about his shoddy treatment, Fitzhugh also pointed out that his protege "has developed far beyond his years in all areas of tradecraft and mental aptitude. His continued employment should be assured." Fitzhugh's report ended abruptly at that point, the rest of the text blacked out.

  When Harris returned to Beijing in February 1993, there was a month-long honeymoon before trouble reappeared. Quinn complained of a renewed attack on his position, and Langley unhesitatingly suggested disciplinary action, but insisted that under no circumstances was Quinn to send him back. Harris was demoted, his networks taken over by Quinn; according to some hastily scribbled memos, Quinn worried that he'd overdone the discipline. Harris had taken to drinking, appearing late at the embassy, and sleeping with a variety of shopgirls from all around the capital. Twice the Beijing police picked him up for public displays, and once a friendly official in China 's Ministry of Foreign Affairs suggested to Quinn that the young troublemaker be sent to a country "where such activity is considered more the norm."

  That suggestion was dated July 12, 1993, and followed by a copy and translation of a police report, five days later, of an automobile accident in Guizhou province, along the Guiyang-Bije highway. The diplomatic car, signed out to Harris, plummeted 305 meters off the Liuguanghe Bridge. Upon hearing of this, Quinn demanded that an American team be sent to sift through the wreckage of the car.

  China generously acquiesced. The team cleared away the mess, and Harris's remains were transferred to a family plot in Somerville.

  The file did not contain Harris's rebirth as a Tourist, nor a list of his works or the Tour Guides resulting from his travels. Such a breach of security was more than even Grainger could have managed. What he included was a report on Harris's 1996 disappearance, though in the report he was referred to by his Tourism name, Ingersoll.

  Last known location: Berlin, an apartment on Frobenstrasse. After a week of trying to get in touch about a new operation, Grainger (who had by then been running the Department of Tourism only two years) sent Lacey to track him down. The apartment had been cleaned from top to bottom. Grainger wrote a memo to Fitzhugh, asking if he'd had any word; he hadn't. Lacey, then, was assigned to track Ingersoll/Harris.

  It took nearly a week of meetings with Harris's known associates for Lacey to come up with a Trabant stolen by Harris and driven east, all the way to Prague, where it was abandoned. Grainger requisitioned Czech police reports to find that another car-a Mercedes- had been stolen two streets from where the Trabant had been deposited. This took them west again, into Austria, where Decker joined Lacey, and both found the Mercedes ditched in Salzburg. In each case, the abandoned car had been wiped entirely clean of fingerprints, which became its own kind of fingerprint-that level of cleanliness was probably a sign of Tourism.

  The trail petered out in Milan, where the frequency of stolen cars made following leads impossible.

  They picked up the trail again by pure luck, three months later in Tunisia, where Decker had just finished a job and was vacationing at the Hotel Bastia in L'Ariana, on the Gulf of Tunis. While working with Lacey, he'd studied a photograph of Ingersoll/Harris, and he saw that same face in the Hotel Bastia restaurant. The man with Harris's face was eating soup and staring out at the water. Decker got up, went to his room, and collected his pistol. When he returned to the restaurant, however, Harris was gone. Four minutes later, he broke into Harris's room, which was empty.

  Decker called Tunis, directing the embassy to watch the train stations, harbors, and airport. One young man, just graduated from Banking Section to Security, called in that he had spotted Harris at Carthage Airport. When Decker arrived, he found a cluster of police around the men's bathroom, examining the young man's corpse. He'd been strangled.

  Decker called in a list of possible destinations-if, in fact, Harris had stuck to flying-which included Lisbon, Marseille, Bilbao, Rome, and Tripoli. Grainger contacted Tourists in each of those areas, ordering them to abandon whatever they were doing and station themselves at the airports. Only by the next day, with the discovery of Bramble's corpse at Portela Airport, did they realize that Harris had flown to Lisbon.

  It was nearly one when Milo finished reading. It frustrated him to know he would be a wreck in the morning, while his reason for staying up hadn't given him any fresh answers.

  He stretched, filled a tall glass with vodka, and dropped a lighter into his pocket. He slipped on sandals and took the file and vodka into the stairwell, then climbed to the rooftop-access door. Once outside, looking over the Park Slope roofs leading to the hazily lit Prospect Park, he drank some of the alcohol, but just a sip. He put the file on the concrete roof and doused it with the vodka, opening the file to get the center wet as well.

  He lit his little funeral pyre and stared for a long time at the flames and ash that caught on the breeze and flew away, thinking of where he'd been during the saga of Harris's move to the open market. Vienna, with Frank Dawdle, then-Vienna station chief, planning the execution of a retired Eastern Bloc lieutenant general named Brano Sev. Dawdle had been nervous, he remembered-an old man who'd spent the seventies in the field, but the eighties and nineties behind a desk-yet at the same time excited that, once again, if only as support, he was in on the action. It had been Dawdie's job to watch the house and give the signal when, as usual on a Saturday, Sev's wife left the house to go into town for shopping with their daughter. Sev always remained at home on Saturdays. According to sources, he was working on a memoir. Grainger later told him that this job was a favor to some Eastern European friends who thought it best that the old man's memories die with him. The U.S. government, Grainger suggested, had just as much to lose from this man's stories.

  It went smoothly. Dawdle gave his signal, and Milo climbed into the house through a first-floor window. On the stairs, he stepped along the wall-edge to avoid creaks, and when he found the elderly cold warrior in his office, pen to paper, he was surprised by how small and meek the man looked. Milo removed his pistol, and the old man, hearing the noise, turned. There was surprise in his face, but the shocking thing was that it passed so quickly. Brano Sev's eyes, magnified by thick glasses, re
laxed, and he shook his head. In German, he said: "You certainly took your time." Those were his last words.

  Milo kicked at the embers, poured the last of the vodka, and lit the remaining pieces. It took a while, but finally everything turned to ash.

  24

  She had booked them into a long, red-roofed atrocity called Disney's Caribbean Beach Resort, where even the lobby was set up with stanchions and padded ropes to arrange the crowds into orderly lines, as if this were another ride. Restaurants of no recognizable real-world cuisine threaded through the complex, and after each long day of chasing Stephanie to the various attractions they collapsed in these places, ordering nachos or spaghetti, and then wandered out to the crowded "beach" that bordered the man-made lake.

  Despite an initial onrush of sarcasm, by the second day Tina was much less annoyed by Disney Reality. There was something narcotic about the easy predictability and the soft, cushioned safety that surrounded them at every moment. Ignoring the sudden outbursts of children, there was no chaos here, no unpredictable variable. There was nothing even remotely connected to the miserable stories of the planet's shadow side, that parallel world in which her husband worked.

  Tuesday night, after a long phone conversation with Grainger that had interrupted their dinner, Milo even said that it might be time to quit the Company completely. "I don't want this anymore," he said. He seemed surprised when she didn't get up and start cheering him.

  "What else would you do?”

  “Anything."

  "But your skill-set, Milo. Really. And what kind of resume would you have?"

  After considering this, he said, "Consulting. Security consulting for big business."

  "Aha," she said. "From the military to the industrial. Very complex."

  He laughed, which pleased her, then they made love, which pleased her more.

  It was a moment, one of those rare things that when you're old enough you know to appreciate, because the truth is you might never feel it again. Happiness. Despite the machinations in Milo's world, here in the fictitious land of Disney they had a little oasis.

  Like anything that good, though, it was short-lived, crumbling by the third day.

  " Space Mountain " Stephanie shouted over the hubbub around them.

  She was just ahead, Milo gripping her hand. He looked down with a confused expression. "Yeah. There it is." He pointed. "Space Fountain."

  "Not fountain. Mountain!"

  He turned back to eyeball Tina. "Can you understand a word this kid's saying?"

  With impressive precision, Stephanie landed a quick kick on Milo 's shin. He gripped it, hopping on one leg. "Oh! Mountain*."

  Tina hurried to catch up.

  They registered themselves for the ride using the Fastpass that allowed them to wander for most of the forty-five minutes' expected wait, listen to Stephanie's one-sided conversation with Minnie Mouse, then go find some snacks that required another twenty-minute line.

  Stephanie was unimpressed by the oranges Milo bought, so he explained that the vitamins were necessary for their upcoming space flight. "Astronauts have to eat barrels of fruit before they're allowed anywhere near the space shuttle."

  She believed that for approximately five seconds then glared up at him with a half-smile and sliced through his logic: "That makes no sense, Dad."

  "Doesn't it?"

  An exasperated sigh. "They take vitamin pills. Not oranges.”

  “When was the last time you went into space, Little Miss?”

  “Come on."

  Among the stanchions that forced Space Mountain guests into a line that folded back on itself ten times, Stephanie rechecked her height with the forty-four-inch marker as Milo 's phone sang. He turned away when he took it, so Tina couldn't hear the conversation. It lasted about a minute before he hung up, turned around with a smile, and said, "You two sit together, okay?"

  "And you?" said Tina. "You're not going?"

  "Of course he's going," said Stephanie.

  "I'll sit near the back. You guys get in front. Turns out there's an old friend here. I'm going to sit with him.”

  “Who's this old friend?"

  "She's a Lebanese dancer," Milo said, then broke into a grin when he saw the expression on her face. "I'm kidding. An old friend. He might have something for me."

  Tina didn't like this, but Milo had warned her before they left that, given the way work was going, they might have to make a concession now and then. Still, a secretive meeting at Space Mountain? "You'll introduce us on the other side?"

  Milo 's lower lip shivered briefly. "Yeah, of course. If he has time."

  Stephanie turned up her hands. "Who doesn't have time at Disney World?"

  Right on, Little Miss.

  They reached the front, where two empty trains sat at the platform. Each train consisted of two narrow cars, each with three seats, one behind the other. Milo kissed his girls and told them he'd take the next train, right behind them. A uniformed teenager led them to the front, but Milo whispered something to the boy, showed his Company badge, and took the second-to-last seat on the second train. Tina sat behind Stephanie, then turned to look back at Milo, but couldn't see him because of the other passengers. When she leaned out of the car to peer around them, another uniformed teenager, a girl, said, "Ma'am, please stay inside. It's for your safety."

  Tina thanked her for her concern.

  "You think so?" said Stephanie.

  "What, hon? I didn't hear you."

  "I said, do you think we're really going into space?"

  "Maybe," Tina answered as she again tried to get a look at Milo. The train lurched and clicked slowly forward into the dark tunnel ahead.

  Briefly, she forgot about the mystery of her husband's secret visitor. She was too distracted by the corny space-age music and the dated-looking asteroids and spaceships and light shows inside the huge dome. For once, Stephanie had no sarcastic quips, only happy squeals as they rose and plummeted wildly.

  By the time they lurched to a stop and climbed out, Stephanie had regained her voice. "Let's do it again!"

  "Let me get my breath first."

  They waited by a steel fence for Milo to arrive.

  "Why didn't he take our train?" said Stephanie.

  "Maybe his friend was running late."

  She pressed her chin against the railing, thinking about that, then raised her head. "There he is!"

  Some family in bright orange shirts filled the first four seats, and in the fifth seat Milo was expressionless, in front of an old man who was probably in his seventies. Tina watched closely as they got out, noting the old man's softly wrinkled, wide-jawed face. He had deep-set, heavy eyes, not unlike Milo, and his thin white hair had been shaved down to a flattop, like her own father wore back in the seventies.

  Despite his frail appearance, he needed no help climbing out of the train, and when he stood he was tall and imposing. Both men smiled as they came over, and the older man swiped at his cheek, as if scaring away a fly. Before Milo could say anything, he had stuck out the same hand and spoken in a voice flavored with a heavy Russian accent. "Very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Weaver."

  He took her dry hand and kissed her knuckles.

  "Yevgeny Primakov," Milo told her. "Yevgeny, that's Tina, and this one here," he said, picking up Stephanie, "is the finest chanson singer since Edith Piaf. Meet Stephanie."

  Primakov's smile was huge as he kissed the hand she presented him, and he laughed when Stephanie wiped the kiss off on her pants.

  "You're right to do that," said the Russian. "Very perceptive."

  "You're an old friend of Milo 's?" asked Tina.

  "You could say that." A smile. "I've been trying for years to get him to work for me, but the man's stubborn. A patriot, I think."

  "Want a drink?" Milo cut in. "I'm parched."

  Yevgeny Primakov shook his head. "I wish I could, but I need to find my own family. You go on. Maybe we'll find you later." He turned to Tina. "Everything Milo ever said about yo
ur beauty was absolute modesty."

  "Thank you," she muttered.

  "Take care, Yevgeny," Milo said and took his family down the exit ramp.

  It was a curious incident, and when pressed, Milo would only admit that Yevgeny was an old agent, retired, and that "he was one of the very best, in his day. He taught me a few tricks."

  "A Russian agent taught you things?"

  "Tradecraft knows no national borders, Tina. Besides, he's not a Russian agent anymore. He moved to the United Nations."

  "What does a spy do at the UN?"

  "He finds ways of making himself useful."

  In the spaces between his words, she could tell the meeting had troubled him. Whatever they had discussed had thrown a wrench into his jolly mood. "Were you talking about Angela?"

  "Mostly." He paused. "He knew her, wanted to find out what's going on."

  "Did you have much to tell him?"

  "Not enough," he said, then turned fully away from her and said to Stephanie, "Who's hungry?"

  They dined in one of those characterless restaurants in the Caribbean Beach Resort, and Milo managed some light, happy chatter as Stephanie expounded on the relative merits of Space Mountain. They returned to the apartment by nine thirty. Everyone was exhausted, so they cleaned up, put Stephanie to bed, and went to bed themselves. Sex would have required too much energy, so they lay together looking out the glass terrace doors at the moon bouncing off the man-made lake.

  "Having a good time?" Milo asked.

  She nodded into his chest. "It's nice to be away from the library."

  "Next year, let's see Switzerland. You've never been.”

  “If we can afford it.”

  “I'll knock over a bank."

  She gave a polite, close-mouthed laugh. " Milo?”

  “Yeah?"