The Tourist Read online

She sat up so he'd know this was important. "I don't want you to get angry."

  He sat up, too, the sheet falling from his chest. "Well, don't make me angry."

  That wasn't the answer she'd hoped for. "Listen. I've got a bad feeling."

  "You're sick?"

  She shook her head. "Something's not right here. That much I know for sure. Then some old Russian pops up, and I don't believe anything you're telling me about him."

  "You don't trust me," he said-a statement, not a question.

  "It's not that."

  "It's that exactly," said Milo, but he didn't get up or make any move to walk out, as he sometimes did during arguments. Instead, he looked past her at the windows.

  "For example. How did you learn such good Russian?"

  "What?"

  "You're completely fluent. Tom says you speak it like a native.”

  “I studied. You know that. I'm good at languages. Even when I'm no good at anything else."

  In Tina's exhale was a cluster of involuntary nonsense words.

  No reply made any sense to her. How could she put into words something that was only a gnawing anxiety in her bones?

  They both jerked when Milo 's phone lit up and vibrated a trail across the bedside table. His eyes, wide now, remained on her as he picked it up. "Yeah?" Still staring at her, his features stiffened as he said, "And Adam's." Then: "Now? But I'm with-" She watched his face dissolve into some indefinable expression. "Okay."

  Milo put the phone down but continued to stare at her. That's when she realized he hadn't been staring at her at all. He'd been staring through her, to somewhere else. Now, he got up, naked, and went to the terrace doors. He looked out, then turned to the drawers and began to dress as if the building were on fire.

  " Milo?"

  He put on his shirt. "Look, I can't explain everything. Not now. There's no time. If I had time, I'd explain everything. Absolutely everything." He moved to the closet, ripped open the door, and took out his suitcase. Squatting beside it, he turned to her. "You're right. I'm too secretive. I'm sorry. I really am. But right now, I have to leave."

  She got out of bed, also naked. "I'm coming."

  "No."

  Milo seldom spoke with such force. It was enough to push her back into bed, pulling up a sheet to cover herself.

  He came to the edge of the bed. "Please. You have to stay here. In a little while, people will come looking for me. You answer their questions completely. Don't hold anything back. They'll know."

  "Know what}" said Tina. "What have you done?"

  Again, he went blank. Then a vague smile appeared. "Truth is, I haven't done anything-nothing really wrong, at least. But listen to me. Are you listening? I want you to go to Austin. Stay with your parents a few days. A week, even."

  "Why?"

  "You'll want to rest up. That's it. Okay?" Stunned, she nodded.

  "Good." He went back to the suitcase, removed a small, pressedflat knapsack, and filled it with little items he packed every time they went on a trip. To this, he added his iPod, then a wire clothes hanger from the closet. She wondered why. The packing took only a minute and a half, then he zipped up the knapsack, took his phone, slipped into his sneakers, and sat beside her on the bed. When he raised his hand, she flinched involuntarily. The dismay in his eyes made her feel terrible.

  "Come here," she said and kissed him on the mouth. He whispered into her ear: "I don't want to do this. But it's necessary."

  "I'm completely confused.”

  “I know."

  "You're going to do what you used to do?" she whispered. "I think it's the only thing I can do."

  He kissed her again, went to the door, then looked back. "Give Stef my love. Tell her it's business." He grunted. "She's used to it." Then he was gone.

  She didn't know how long it took, though it couldn't have been more than seven or eight minutes, her staring at the empty bedroom doorway, numbed by everything she didn't understand. She heard noises outside-faint footfalls on the unnaturally green Disney grass-then silence. She slipped into her robe. Then the sharp sound of a fist on the front door. She ran to get it before Stephanie woke. A woman stared back at her-sort of, because one eye seemed focused elsewhere-and held out an unfolded ID. "Where is he?" the woman asked.

  With remarkable fortitude, Tina grabbed the corner of the woman's ID so she could read department of homeland security and the name SIMMONS, JANET beside her photograph. She started to say something about how they better have some kind of a warrant, but it was too late. Janet Simmons and a large man who'd shown no papers at all were already in the apartment, opening doors.

  That's when she heard Stephanie, sounding stone-cold awake: "Cut it out! I'm trying to sleep!"

  25

  He kissed his wife again, went to the door, then turned back. She looked tiny in that big Disney bed. "Give Stef my love. Tell her it's business." He realized how often he said this kind of thing. "She's used to it."

  He galloped down the outdoor stairs, heading for the parking lot. Through the cricket songs he heard them in the cool night air-two engines, approaching.

  He hit the ground leaning low and padded over tended grass toward the parked cars. Headlights splayed across the resort. It was after ten by now, the vacationers either at nearby family-friendly clubs or dozing off the fatigue of standing in hot lines all day. Nothing would wake them up.

  Squeezing between a Subaru from Texas and a Florida Mazda, he heard the cars park, doors flung open, and voices. A woman's voice, familiar. He looked through the driver's side window of the Subaru and watched them cross the grass. Special Agent Janet Simmons, in one of her blue Homeland Security suits, took the lead, followed by three men clutching Homeland-issue SIG Sauers. Simmons mounted the steps, George Orbach right behind her, while the other two men remained on the ground, spreading out to check escape paths.

  Riverrun, past Eve.

  And Adam's. Go, Milo.

  Now? But I'm with-

  Simmons is coming to get you. She's nearly there. Go.

  Milo looked up the height of the resort and spotted his bedroom terrace, where Tina had left the light on. As he watched, he took out his cell phone, popped out the battery, and removed the SIM card, then pocketed everything, thinking through his next steps.

  The window to the right of their terrace brightened. That was the living room. Simmons had decided to knock first, which he appreciated. On the grass before him, one of the agents stepped back to get a better look at the terrace, to be sure no one was climbing out. Through the window, Milo saw silhouettes-Tina, Janet Simmons, and George Orbach. He waited, listening for any sign that his daughter had woken. All he caught was crickets, and the indistinct murmur of adult voices. Then the silhouettes moved through the apartment.

  Still crouching, he padded farther away, weaving through cars until he had reached the edge of the lot. He unzipped his knapsack and unraveled the wire hanger as the figures on the grass moved, finally convinced he wasn't up in the apartment. With the hanger straightened, he formed a small hook at the end, then searched for an older-model car. It was difficult-this was the midrange resort, full of middle-class families who changed their cars every four years-but he finally spotted the one eyesore: a rusted late-eighties Toyota Tercel. He began to wedge the hanger down between the window and the door.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was heading southwest on 1-4. If Janet Simmons was on the ball, she'd send men to nearby Orlando International to search for him, so he would instead leave from Tampa. He still didn't know where he was going, but he needed to get out of Florida. This state would not give him answers.

  He pulled to the side of the road by a closed barbecue restaurant and put the phone together again. SIM card, battery, then he pressed the power button. It gave him a Nokia welcome, then started to ring-private number. He knew who that was. Milo pressed the hangup button; then, before Simmons could dial again, he typed 411. He asked an operator for the American Airlines desk at Orlando International. As she c
onnected him, his phone beeped, signifying another incoming call. He ignored it, then asked the woman at the airport for their next flight to Dallas. "That leaves at 6:00 a.m., sir."

  "I'd like to reserve a seat."

  "Do you have a credit card?"

  He tugged out his wallet. "The name is Milo Weaver, and I'll be putting this on my MasterCard."

  Five minutes later, he'd settled the reservation, and Simmons had tried three more times to get in touch. He disassembled the phone again and continued southwest, away from Orlando.

  Outside Polk City, he found a mall with a few cars in the lot. It took two minutes for him to break into an annoying-looking Ford Tempo, then another two minutes to use a shirt from his knapsack to wipe down the Tercel.

  He stopped again after Lakeland, took three hundred dollars from an ATM using the Dolan card, then used that money to fill up the tank at an all-night station. In the convenience mart, he bought cigarettes, a padded envelope, a book of stamps, a spiral notebook, and a black marker. Back in the car, he scribbled in the notebook:

  Miguel & Hanna-Please Burn this Note

  and Hold these for T & S in Safe Place

  Very Important

  No One Should Know

  Thanks for your Trust-M.

  He folded the page into the envelope, then went through his knapsack, coming up with three passports. He slipped Laura Dolan and Kelley Dolan into the envelope and put the Lionel Dolan passport into his own pocket. He sealed the envelope and addressed it to Tina's parents in Austin, Texas, pasting on more stamps than necessary.

  Nearly two hours had passed by the time he reached Tampa International. Milo parked in the short-term lot a little after midnight, wiped down the steering wheel, and took his knapsack with him into the north entrance.

  Once he'd passed the sliding glass doors, he grabbed a complimentary airport map and settled on a bench. There was a mail drop one floor up on the transfer level. From his seat, he read the monitors listing departure cities and times. It turned out that the "International" in the airport's name was a little misleading, since the best they could manage was a single London flight each day and a couple of Canadian destinations. Not that it mattered; he wasn't planning on leaving the country just yet.

  There-Delta could take him to JFK at 7:31 a.m., an hour and a half after Simmons would realize he wasn't on the Orlando flight. He hoped that would give him time.

  At the Delta counter, three other people stood in front of him-a father, mother, and teenaged son, also heading to New York.

  That's when it caught up with him, and he felt dizzy, thinking of Janet Simmons back in that apartment, interrogating his family. He should have stayed. He'd spent six years shielding Tina from his job, and in a matter of days all that work had been undone. He'd told her too much about Angela's murder, and now she was in the middle of something she had no way of understanding, because Milo didn't understand it either. Why did he have to run?

  He had to run because the old go-code had been used, and even after six years it was still hardwired to his feet. Grainger would only have used it if there was no other way.

  "Sir?" said the Delta clerk. "You wanted to go somewhere?"

  His 747 touched down at JFK just after 10:00 a.m.-the pilot apologized to everyone for being nine minutes late. The large woman who'd been squeezing Milo tight against the window turned out to be afraid of flying, and told him in a manic southern accent that she didn't care how late they were, just as long as she could walk on solid earth again. He said he could see her point. Her name was Sharon; he said his was Lionel. She asked if he was from the city, and, sticking to the original Dolan's particulars, he told her he was from

  Newark, and that his wife and daughter were still in Florida; he'd had to fly back unexpectedly for work. His answer seemed to disappoint her.

  He took stock of his possessions. He'd had to dump the clothes hanger in Florida to avoid awkward questions from Tampa airport security, but he knew seven other ways to pick up a car if necessary. He had his Dolan passport and Dolan credit cards, but didn't want to use the cards more than he had to. Best to work with cash, and in his wallet he still had two hundred and sixty dollars, which wouldn't take him far in New York.

  He spent twenty-five dollars on a shuttle service into town, reaching Grand Central by one. He got out in the shadow of the MetLife Building, then went to the Grand Hyatt, grabbing a tourist map and taking a seat in the huge, mirrored lobby, next to a marble fountain.

  It took five minutes to settle on his path. The Avenue of the Americas was out of the question. Even if he called to set up a meeting with Grainger elsewhere, he had no idea what his position was with the Company. All Grainger had said was "Go." After the risk of last night's call, Milo didn't want to sink him into deeper trouble.

  He descended into the subway and spent seven dollars on a day pass, then took the train north to Fifty-third Street and the Museum of Modern Art. He skipped the milling crowds waiting to enter the galleries and went to the gift store. He'd visited a month ago with Tina and Stephanie during the thousandth Van Gogh exhibition. They'd come for Stephanie's benefit, but other than a few comments on his choice of colors, she didn't have much use for the one-eared Dutchman. It was in the gift shop that she'd come alive. Milo, too, had enjoyed the store and puzzled for a long time over an interesting piece of jewelry he hoped was still there. He came around to the glass cases and found it: the magnetic bracelet collection, designed by Terrence Kelleman.

  "Can I help you?" said a teenaged boy in a MoMA shirt on the other side of the case.

  "That, please."

  It was remarkable in its simplicity. A series of a hundred or so quarter-inch-long nickel-plated rods clinging together solely by magnetism. He snapped it open to test the strength, then put it back together. He tried another link-yes, it might work.

  "I'll take it," he told the boy.

  "Gift wrap?"

  "I think I'll wear it now."

  Forty-five dollars lighter, it took another twenty minutes to get south again, to the Lord & Taylor on Fifth and West Thirty-eighth. He browsed by the entrance, on the edge of the expansive cosmetics department, examining the security. It was a simple two-pillar alarmdetector with shielded power cables leading to the wall. It didn't matter, but was good to know.

  He took the stairs up to the third floor, where a field of men's clothes was on display. For the next half hour he looked at suits, finally settling on a mid-priced Kenneth Cole three-button job. It was a bit long in the arms, covering his new bracelet, but otherwise fit perfectly, and was neither ostentatious nor cheap. It would do-that is, it would satisfy one of Tourism's many important rules, which is to always look like a businessman.

  Still in the dressing room, he popped off the bracelet and rubbed the end against each of the store's magnetized alarm strips. He knew that in theory this should work, but wasn't convinced until, after rubbing for a full minute, he heard the soft snap of the strip unlocking. He removed it carefully. Once the shirt, slacks, and shoes were also free, he transferred his wallet and keys to his new clothes.

  When he came out, one of the younger salesmen was watching. Milo looked around conspicuously, rising to see over racks of clothes. "Janet?" he called, then walked over to the salesman. "Hey, did you see a short woman, yea high, with a nose ring?"

  The salesman helpfully looked around with him. "Maybe she's downstairs in the women's section."

  "She can't stay still." Milo pointed at the stairs. "Can I run down and show this off?"

  The salesman shrugged. "Sure."

  "Cool. Thanks." Milo went back to the dressing room and took his knapsack.

  "You can leave that," the salesman informed him.

  "You think I don't watch Cops} I'll keep it on me. That all right?"

  "Sure. You just bring that suit back."

  "Like I said, I've seen Cops. Think I want to end up on a police car's hood?"

  The salesman laughed; Milo winked.

  By three, d
ressed in Kenneth Cole, he was at a pay phone on Ninth Avenue, just around the corner from Penn Station and across the street from a shamrock-motif bar called the Blarney Stone. He slipped in a coin and dialed Grainger's private mobile number. After three rings, he heard the old man's voice: "Uh, yes?"

  Milo spoke in an imitation of Sharon 's southern drawl. "Yeah, this Thomas Grainger?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, look, I'm Gerry Ellis from Ellis Dry Cleaning. Yesterday, you dropped your shirts off here. Someone went and lost the receipt, but we know it's a home delivery. Right?"

  Grainger paused, and in that brief space Milo feared he wasn't going to understand. But he did: "Yes. That's right."

  "Well, listen. We've got your address, but we don't have the delivery time. When were we supposed to drop it off this evening?"

  A pause. "Make it six o'clock. Is that all right?"

  "No problem, Mr. Grainger. We'll be there."

  Milo went into the Blarney Stone. It was a dark, dismal-looking place with photographs of famous Irish people from literary, cinematic, and musical history. He took a stool at the bar, across from Bono and two down from a thin, unshaven man who looked very much like a regular. The bartender-an over-the-hill redhead- sounded more Jersey than Dublin. "What'll you have?"

  "Vodka. Smirnoff."

  "We've got Absolut."

  "Then I'll have Absolut."

  As she measured out a shot, he turned so he had a clear view through the window to the pay phone across the street. He took out a Davidoff. The bartender delivered his shot. "You know you can't, right?"

  "What?"

  "That." She pointed at the cigarette between his lips. "Right. Sorry."

  For the next half hour, Milo kept his post at the bar. It was enough time to learn that no one had traced his call and come to collect forensic evidence, and enough time for the bartender to offer some conversation, him to reject it, and the regular to question his manners. Milo considered taking out his frustration on the drunk, but feared it would end in murder, so he paid his bill and left quietly.