The Tourist Read online

  He took the 1 train north to West Eighty-sixth, where he found an inconspicuous French cafe with fresh bread and very small coffees among the tall old- New York apartment towers. He sat at an outdoor table so he could smoke.

  There was nothing in the papers. If Simmons had something incontrovertible on him, she might get Homeland to post his photograph in the major newspapers with some vague terrorist attributes. Then again, she might not. Homeland seldom posted terrorists' photos, because they didn't want them escaping to fight another day.

  Without more information-without knowing what, exactly, had triggered his attempted arrest-it was impossible to predict what Simmons would do next.

  What he needed was a theory of everything, but each piece didn't quite line up with the others. The Tiger, for instance. That he had led Milo on a chase in order to gain vengeance on the client who had killed him-he could believe that. But how, he wondered, had that client gained access to Milo 's file? All the Tiger had said was that he'd seen a "file." Company or foreign?

  Then Angela. She hadn't been selling secrets to the Chinese, but someone had-how else had they gotten that memo? He returned to the Chinese. Had the People's Republic's intelligence service, the Guoanbu, known that she was under investigation? Or did they know she was looking into their precious oil source, the Sudan? Had she gotten too close to something without knowing?

  His head spun. Anyone could have switched her sleeping pills. The French? They had probably realized, soon into Einner's flower-van surveillance, that Angela was being watched. But again: Why? She was on good terms with French intelligence.

  The answer-if, indeed, he ever found one-would come via Herbert Williams, a.k.a. Jan Klausner, the Tiger's client. A man with a face but no identity, serving the interests of X.

  Too many variables; too much unknown. He clutched at his cigarette and inhaled deeply. Then, remembering, he took out his iPod and asked France Gall to sing away his anxiety… but she just couldn't pull it off.

  26

  Tom Grainger's enormous apartment at 424 West End Avenue, at Eighty-first Street, had been purchased by his wife, Terri, two years before she succumbed to breast cancer. The West River House was a magnificent place for any Company man to live in, and occasionally people grumbled suspicions about how he could live so well. But other than the penthouse and a little lakeside home in New Jersey, Grainger owned nothing, most of his own money having been sapped during his wife's long and unsuccessful treatment.

  For twenty minutes, as the sun moved behind the towers, Milo watched from the shadows of the glass-shelled Calhoun School across the street. Other residents returned from jobs, the perky doorman chatting with each one, and a few deliverymen from FedEx, Hu Sung Chinese, and Pizza Hut arrived. He walked around to the underground parking lot on Eighty-first and followed a Jag down the incline. He took a circuitous path around the edge of the lot, avoiding security cameras.

  It was a path he'd charted out before, on other occasions when he'd wanted to meet the old man undetected and discuss things neither was supposed to know. The only trick was the entrance to the stairwell, which was watched by a camera lodged in the ceiling. There wasn't anything to do about that other than to cross into its field of vision facing away from the camera, so that all it picked up was a man of average height heading inside.

  He climbed the whole way up to the eighteenth floor and rested in the stairwell, waiting in the silence for six o'clock to arrive. When it came, he tugged open the door and peered into the soft-lit corridor, then jerked back. In a chair at the end of the corridor sat one of the FedEx deliverymen, a box leaned against his chair, fooling with an iPod.

  Milo squatted by the cracked door and closed his eyes, waiting for the sound of him making his delivery, or the pleasant ding of the elevator arriving to take him back to the lobby, but after five more minutes he still heard nothing. That's when he knew. Again, he peered out, and this time the man's eyes were shut, the iPod plugged into one ear. From the other, Milo noticed a flesh-colored wire that led down to his collar.

  Softly, he let the door fall shut. It was the call. The Company had either traced Grainger's warning call from last night, or-and he now realized his mistake-using the phone logs, they had traced the call from Gerry Ellis Cleaners to a pay phone.

  There was nothing, then, to do. Milo returned to the bottom of the stairwell, removed his jacket and held it in a ball to his stomach, then entered the parking lot backward. To the camera, he looked like someone carrying a box. He left the building.

  Tom Grainger was no fool. He'd been in the field during half the cold war and certainly knew what was going on. So Milo returned to the shadow of the Calhoun School, sat on a ledge, and waited. After an hour, a passing hippie bummed a cigarette, and in answer to the man's question, Milo said he was waiting on his girlfriend. "Women these days, eh?" said the hippie.

  "Yeah."

  Milo 's patience paid off. A little after seven, the city now lit by its own artificial illumination, the doorman let Grainger out. Milo watched him turn the corner onto Eighty-first, heading toward Central Park. Grainger didn't look around. A minute later, the doorman appeared again, opening the door for another man-in a suit, not a FedEx uniform-who stepped out onto the sidewalk and, talking on his cell phone, also walked down Eighty-first.

  He knew that second man-Reynolds, a forty-five-year-old ex-field agent who'd recently ended his embassy tenure. Milo followed, a half block back.

  All three men crossed Broadway and turned left on Amsterdam, where Grainger went into the Land Thai Kitchen at number 450. The shadow took a position across the street by a Mexican restaurant, Burritoville, while Milo waited at a southern corner of the block, groups of young diners swarming past him.

  The old man was inside less than ten minutes, emerging with a plastic bag full of takeout boxes. Milo withdrew into the shadows. Grainger appeared at the corner, the bag high so he could peer inside. Beside a trashcan, he stopped.

  He could also see Reynolds, a few doors back, watching Grainger take out a box, sniff, open it up, and put it back in. Then he took out a much smaller box, sniffed, made a face, then opened it. He shook his head in disgust, tossed the box into the trashcan, and continued back up Eighty-first, toward home. Reynolds followed, but Milo didn't.

  The whole walk here, Milo had watched out for a second or third shadow. Three-man teams were the norm for intensive surveillance work, but it had struck him that Fitzhugh-and Fitzhugh had to be the one behind this-had assigned Reynolds to the job; Reynolds, who was off active duty. Fitzhugh wanted to keep this quiet and had decided on a skeleton crew: Reynolds and the FedEx man Milo didn't know.

  Once they were out of sight, Milo jogged up to the trashcan, snatched the light, nearly empty takeout box, and kept moving swiftly up Amsterdam, then east on Eighty-second until he reached Central Park. Along the way, he'd opened the box, taken out the single slip of paper, and dropped the box into another trashcan.

  Near a streetlamp, he paused among some Japanese tourists discussing the details of a map. He unfolded the small square of notepaper and cursed Grainger for his brevity. He'd given no answers, only the tools to find them. Perhaps, though, the old man was just as in the dark as he was.

  After a scribbled international cell phone number, he read:

  E in Frankfurt:

  The Last Camel / Collapsed at Noon

  and a single word:

  Luck

  27

  While waiting for his ten o'clock Singapore Airlines flight in JFK's recently reopened Terminal 1, pushing back his desire to fly instead to Florida and collect his family, he rechecked his belongings and added a few things from the gift shops: an extra T-shirt, underwear, a digital wristwatch, and a roll of duct tape.

  Then, after passing from the United States into that stateless netherworld of the duty-free international terminal, he joined other travelers at the Brooklyn Beer Garden. He found a lonely Dutch businessman who kept his cell phone on the table. The Dutchman, he l
earned, was heading to Istanbul, trading in pharmaceuticals. Milo bought the man another beer and told him he sold advertising airtime for NBC. The Dutchman was intrigued enough by Milo 's off-the-cuff story to get up and buy two more beers in return. While he was at the bar, Milo took the man's cell phone, popped it open under the table, removed the SIM card and replaced it with the one from his phone, then put it back on the table.

  Before boarding, he turned on his phone and used the Dutchman's SIM card to call Tina. She answered on the third ring with a wary "Yes…?"

  "It's me, hon."

  "Oh," she said. "Hi."

  The silence was unnerving, so he broke it. "Look, I'm sorry about-"

  "What are you saying?" she said, edgy. "This isn't the kind of thing you just say sorry to. It doesn't work that way, Milo. I need more."

  A light, girlish voice in the background said, "Daddy?"

  The blood rushed to Milo 's head, mixing with the beers and his overall lack of food. "I don't know much. All I know is those agents are after me for something I didn't do."

  "For Angela's murder," she said.

  "Let me talk to Daddy!" said Stephanie.

  Now he knew-Simmons believed he had killed Angela. "I have to figure this out."

  Again, silence, punctuated only by Stephanie's plea: "I want to talk to Daddy!"

  Explain, she'd said, so he tried: "Listen, Tina. Whatever those people from Homeland said, it's not true. I didn't kill Angela. I didn't kill anyone. But I just don't know enough to say more than that."

  "I see." Her voice was flat. "Special Agent Janet Simmons seemed to think she was pretty justified in her suspicions."

  "I'm sure she thinks so. But whatever she's calling evidence… I don't even know what it is. Did she tell you?"

  "No."

  He wished she knew something. "The only thing I can think of is someone's setting me up."

  "But why}" she insisted. "Why on earth-"

  "I don't know," he repeated. "If I knew why, I would know who. If I knew who, I could figure out why. You follow me? And in the meantime, Homeland Security thinks I'm either a killer or, I don't know, a traitor."

  Again, silence.

  He tried again: "I don't know what that woman's been telling you, but I've got nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “And how are you going to prove that?"

  He wanted to ask if the proof was for them or for her. "Are you going to Austin?"

  "Tomorrow, probably. But where are you?”

  “Good. I'll be in touch. I love-”

  “Daddy?"

  He jerked physically; she'd handed over the phone without telling him. "Hey, Little Miss. How are you?”

  “I'm tired. Your friends woke me up.”

  “Sorry about that. They're jerks, aren't they?”

  “When're you coming back?”

  “As soon as my work's done."

  "Okay," she said, again sounding so much like her mother that Milo 's stomach started to cramp. When they finished, Stephanie claimed not to know where her mother was, so they hung up.

  Milo stared across the rows of chairs at families, some excited and others bored by their prospective trips. A fresh cramp hit him. He got up, stiff, and half-jogged down the carpeted terminal, past electric walkways, until he reached the bathroom. He shut himself into a stall and was sick, getting rid of all the beer his body hadn't yet absorbed.

  He wiped his mouth, gargled water, and returned to the corridor. The sickness had gotten rid of a mental block he hadn't even known was there, fogging up his vision of what to do next. He didn't want to use the Dutchman's phone card after boarding the plane-calling Tina had compromised it-so he put it to use now, dialing + 33 1 12. A female operator informed him in French that he had reached France Telecom directory assistance. He asked for the number for a Diane Morel in Paris. There was only one listing, and he asked her to put him through. It was five in the morning there, so the old woman who answered sounded vaguely terrified. Yes, she was Diane Morel, but she sounded at least sixty. He hung up.

  It was a wash, but at least he knew he couldn't simply call up Diane Morel and have a leisurely conversation about Angela Yates and Colonel Yi Lien. If he called the DGSE and asked to be passed on to her desk, or her home, his location would be tracked in minutes and relayed to the Company, and their conversation would be rushed. Milo needed time with Mme. Morel. He popped the battery out of his phone and tossed the SIM card in a wastebasket.

  Eight hours later, at one on Friday afternoon, a stolid, graying German behind Plexiglas compared his passport photo to the well-attired but exhausted-looking businessman in front of him. "Mr. Lionel Dolan?"

  "Yes?" said Milo, smiling broadly. "Are you here for business?”

  “Happily, no. Tourism."

  Just saying it again brought back unwanted memories. Milo remembered all those other airports, border guards, customs officials, and carry-on bags. He remembered plainclothes policemen and agents clutching newspapers and the times when he, too, held those newspapers, sitting for hours in airports, waiting for contacts who sometimes didn't arrive. Frankfurt Airport, one of Europe 's great, ugly hubs, had hosted him many times.

  The border guard was holding out his passport, so he took it. "Have a good vacation," the man told him.

  Steady, but not hurried. He carried his knapsack past the customs officials, who-like most of Europe 's customs officials-weren't going to bother a man in a tie. He continued through the crowded baggage claim, heading directly out to the noisy, car-choked curb, where he smoked a Davidoff. It didn't taste as good as it should have after the long flight, but he finished it anyway as he walked to a pay phone near the taxi stand. He dialed the number he'd memorized somewhere over the Atlantic.

  It rang three times. "Ja?"

  "The last camel," said Milo.

  A pause, then: "Collapsed at noon?"

  "It's me, James."

  " Milo?"

  "Can we meet?"

  Einner didn't sound overjoyed by the call. "Well, I am in the middle of something.”

  “Right now?"

  "Uh, yeah," he said, then Milo 's throat closed up as he heard a muffled voice in the background trying to scream. He knew that sound. The noise of someone who'd been gagged.

  "When'll you be free?"

  "Give me… I don't know. Forty minutes?"

  "Where?"

  "I'm in the Deutsche Bank right now, so-"

  "The twin towers?"

  "Yeah."

  Milo imagined him in an office in one of the upper floors of those famous mirrored towers in the center of the financial district, some unfortunate CEO bound and gagged under his desk, while Einner casually made a date on the phone. He'd forgotten how rough Tourism could be.

  "Listen, you know the Frankfurt Opera? Let's meet in front of there around two. I'll have another chance to prove we're not uncultured hacks."

  "Should you be saying all that aloud, James?"

  Einner grunted. "This guy? In ten minutes, he won't be able to say a thing."

  The man's muted howls rose in pitch.

  He took a clean, sparse train to Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof, where he hooked his knapsack over his shoulder and went on foot past afternoon gridlock toward the Friedensbrucke. Instead of crossing the bridge, he turned left up the dock running alongside the Main River. All the well-dressed businessmen and teenagers and pensioners reminded him of Paris. Only a week ago.

  He grabbed a schnitzel sandwich from a street vendor and walked back inland to the long park at Willy-Brandt-Platz, where he took a bench and gazed at the glassy modern face of the Oper Frankfurt. Despite Einner's confidence that he could speak openly in front of his captive, Milo kept an eye on passersby. It was" a habit he'd lost in the last six years, a habit he needed to regain if he wanted to stay a free man.

  All Tourists know the importance of awareness. When you enter a room or a park, you chart the escapes immediately. You take in the potential weapons around you-a chair, ballpoint pen, letter ope
ner, or even the loose, low-hanging branch on the tree behind Milo 's bench. At the same time, you consider the faces. Are they aware of you? Or are they feigning a forced ignorance that is the hallmark of other Tourists? Because Tourists are seldom proactive; the best ones bring you to them.

  Here in the sunny park, he noticed a woman at the curb having trouble starting her car. That was a typical setup. Feign exasperation until the target makes his own decision to come and help. Then you have him.

  Two children-twelve or so-played along the base of a huge, lit-up euro sign that dominated the park. Another potential trap, because Tourists are not above using children for their ends. One child falls and pretends injury; you go to help; a "parent" approaches. Simple.

  And over there, by the eastern edge of the park, a university student took vertical photos of the European Central Bank skyscraper that looked down on everything. Casual photographers were everywhere in a city like this, and they could shoot you from all directions.

  "Hands up, cowboy!"

  Milo almost fell off the bench as he jumped and twisted, finding Einner with a finger pistol pointed at him, grinning madly. "Jesus."

  "Little rusty," Einner said as he safely pocketed his hand. "Keep going like this, old man, you'll be dead by sundown."

  Milo recovered his breath, ignored the dangerous sound of his heart. They shook hands. "Tell me what you know."

  Einner nodded in the direction of the opera house. "Let's walk."

  They moved together, neither in a hurry.

  "It's not what you think," said Einner. "They haven't called in Tourists-you're not that important yet. Tom told me to expect you."

  If it was true, Milo was relieved. He was starting to believe that having Einner on his trail would be a serious problem. "Did Tom tell you why you should expect me?"

  "I got that elsewhere. Had breakfast with a friend at the consulate. She's not…" He paused as they reached the street, wondering how to put it. "She's not quite a security risk, but she's no security saint either. She told me about a wire that came in, for all embassies and consulates, to look out for Milo Weaver."