The Tourist Page 22

  "It tells you to not get hooked on it."

  They reached Ugrimov's estate by eleven thirty via winding mountain roads that brought them past obscured mansions to a high electrified gate clotted with video cameras and a squawk box. Milo got out of the car, crunching over gravel, and pressed the speaker button. A heavy Russian voice said, "Oui?"

  Milo answered in Russian: "Please tell Roman that Charles Alexander is here to see him."

  Silence followed, and he glanced back to see Einner, in the car, staring expectantly at him. The speaker clicked, and Roman Ugrimov spoke through it. "Mr. Alexander-Weaver? It's been a long time."

  Milo looked into one of the video cameras, smiled, and waved. "Half hour at most, Roman. I just want to talk.”

  “And your friend?”

  “He doesn't need to come in.”

  “Then he can wait there."

  Milo went over to the car and told Einner to stay where he was. After a few minutes, a black Mercedes appeared on the other side of the gate, rolling slowly through the trees. Two men got out, one of them familiar from their last meeting six years ago. "Nikolai," said Milo.

  Nikolai pretended not to remember him. His associate opened a door in the gate, and when Milo stepped through they frisked him, then locked the door again. They walked him to the car, put him in the rear, and reversed out of sight.

  Milo had imagined that Ugrimov's house at the end of the long, winding driveway would be akin to a mansion, but he was wrong. The Russian, surprisingly, had more humble tastes. The Mercedes stopped in front of a low but very wide stone house that curved like a U, the bottom facing forward and the inside hiding a stone courtyard and swimming pool. That's where Ugrimov was waiting for him, sitting on an aluminum lounge chair sipping something pink and frothy. He got up with a grunting noise, set his drink on a glass table, and came over to shake Milo 's hand. The last six years had turned his thick gray hair white. "It's been a long time," Ugrimov told him in Russian.

  Milo agreed, then sat in a matching lounge chair that Roman Ugrimov offered.

  "Something to drink? Nikolai blends a tasty grapefruit daiquiri."

  "No thanks."

  "As you like," he said, settling back into his own chair.

  The warm noontime sun made the bright stones hard to look at. "I need some information, Roman."

  "Information, I can handle. Information is my business. But you're not going to threaten me again, are you?" Ugrimov asked with a smile. "I found your last threats distasteful."

  "You killed that girl. I watched you."

  "You weren't even looking at the terrace, Mr. Weaver. No one was. Not when she jumped." He shook his head in an imitation of grief. All this man's emotions, Milo thought, were imitations. "It was a sad enough day without you pointing fingers."

  "I'm not here about her. I'm here about your company, Ugritech."

  "Oh, good. I'd been hoping for some fresh investors.”

  “Who's Rolf Vinterberg?"

  Ugrimov pursed his lips, then shook his head. "No idea."

  "How about the three hundred thousand dollars placed by Rolf Vinterberg into the Union Bank of Switzerland, in an account later emptied by Samuel Roth? Or the meeting that took place here, late last year, with the Sudanese energy minister?"

  The Russian considered him over the edge of his glass as he loudly slurped the last of his daiquiri. He set the glass on the table. "Do you have any idea what we at Ugritech do, Milo?"

  "I don't really care."

  "You should," he said, wagging a finger. "We do good things. We bring the twenty-first century to the black masses. Others look to China for the next big thing, but me, I'm an optimist. I see our future in our past, in the dark continent from which we all crawled. Africa has potential. Natural resources-minerals, oil, open terrain. It should be dictating its own terms. But it's not. Why do you think that is?"

  Milo wasn't sure if Ugrimov was being serious. "Corrupt governments?"

  "True, yes. But that's not the cause; it's an effect. At the root of Africa 's problems lies a single word: ignorance."

  Milo rubbed his nose and sat up straighten "Roman, I'm not interested in your racist views."

  The Russian laughed loudly at that, then quickly settled down. "Don't turn politically correct on me. Of course they're not stupid. Ignorance is the lack of objective knowledge, which is an African curse. Why do villagers believe condoms will not prevent the spread of AIDS?"

  "Because Catholic priests tell them so."

  "Very good. In that case, the Catholic Church encourages African ignorance. And why do some believe that sex with a virgin will kill the HIV virus?"

  "I get your point, Roman."

  "I see you do. Ugritech-and, please, I do know the egomania the name suggests-is one effort to break the gridlock of African ignorance. We start with computers, hooked into the Internet. Last year, we installed two thousand computers in Nairobi schools and community centers."

  "How many in Khartoum?"

  "About the same amount. I don't remember."

  "Is that why the energy minister visited you here?"

  Ugrimov looked at his empty daiquiri glass. "Nikolai!" he called, and the bald man appeared. "Do you mind?"

  Apparently, Nikolai didn't. He took the glass and went back inside.

  "Well?" said Milo.

  Roman Ugrimov put his palms together in front of his lips. "You, Milo Weaver-there are stories going around now that you're on the run. Is that right?"

  A pause. "Yes."

  "A man on the run from his own people suddenly shows up on my doorstep. It's strange, isn't it?"

  "Are you going to answer my questions, or not?"

  "Please. You're in such a rush. You really should try a daiquiri.”

  “Thank you, but no.”

  “Did you kill someone?”

  “No."

  "But of course I shouldn't believe you, should I? You never believed that I didn't kill my dear Ingrid, even though I told you that she took her own life."

  "Fair enough."

  A sudden smile flashed across Ugrimov's face. "Remember when we last talked? You were upset, of course. I mean, you'd been shot, hadn't you? Anyone would be upset."

  "I was upset because you wouldn't answer my questions," Milo remembered aloud. "You wouldn't tell me why Frank Dawdle had visited you. You might as well tell me now."

  "You ask a lot."

  Milo shrugged.

  "It was simple, Mr. Weaver. Franklin Dawdle wanted a new identity. South African. He knew I had contacts who could make this happen quickly."

  "That's why he was there, to ask for it?"

  "He asked for it several days before. The day you people killed him, he was coming to pick it up. I suppose you found the passport on his body. Yes?"

  Milo had been too out of it back then, and no one had told him a thing. "How did Ingrid come into it?"

  Ugrimov's expression changed. "Ingrid Kohl. She was a beautiful girl-you never met her, but… you saw her pictures?"

  "I saw her on the terrace-the night before."

  The Russian swallowed loudly. "Your Frank Dawdle was a cretin. I expect that of CIA men, but not to this level. He came with a simple business transaction-yes, he was paying for the passport. But he had to sully it with a threat. He had evidence that I was more than just a guardian to my beloved Ingrid. Photographic evidence, apparently."

  "She was very young, Roman."

  "Thirteen," Ugrimov admitted, then chewed his lower lip a moment, gazing past Milo at the glass doors, perhaps at his own reflection. "Pregnant, too. With my… our…" He closed his eyes, cleared his throat, and finally looked directly at Milo: "It would've been bad for business if that got out. No one cares about the circumstances or the nature of your love. They only see numbers."

  Milo, thinking of Stephanie, wanted to point out that thirteen-year-old girls could be manipulated into believing anything, even love. He quickly cut the connection. "You killed her to show him he had no control over
you anymore."

  "She jumped," he whispered.

  Milo wondered if, over the years, Ugrimov had convinced himself of that lie.

  "Anyway, that was a tragedy. A tragedy compounded perhaps by Dawdle's death seconds later-then overshadowed by what happened soon after in New York City." A sudden smile. "And happiness! You met your wife in the midst of tragedy, didn't you?"

  It disturbed Milo how much this man knew, but he didn't show it. He needed Roman Ugrimov. "Yes, and we're still together."

  "I heard."

  "From who?"

  Another smile.

  Milo said, "Do you remember Angela Yates? She was with me in Venice."

  "Indeed I do. She's the pretty one who took care of the cretin Dawdle. I read that she committed suicide recently. Then I heard you were wanted in connection with her murder. Which, then, is true?"

  "She was killed, but not by me."

  "No?"

  "No."

  The Russian pursed his lips. "These questions you're asking, about my Africa company-do they have to do with her murder?”

  “Yes."

  "I see." He smacked his lips together. " Milo. The same day pretty Angela Yates killed that cretin, the world we knew suddenly stopped, didn't it? Now, people who couldn't even spell it before have actually read the Qu'ran. Or," he said, smiling, "they at least claim to know its message."

  "And you've changed with the world?"

  Ugrimov rocked his head from side to side. "You could say that. My priorities have evolved. My friends are now many shades.”

  “Are you supplying computers to terrorists?”

  “No, no. Not that. Never that.”

  “How about China?" A puzzled frown; a shake of the head.

  Milo was getting tired of beating around the bush, which was de rigueur when talking to Russians. "Tell me.”

  “What'll you give me in return?"

  Milo wasn't sure he had anything a man of Ugrimov's reach and influence could want. "How about information?”

  “About what?"

  "Anything you want, Roman. If I know it, I'll answer the question."

  Nikolai returned with a fresh grapefruit daiquiri and placed it beside Ugrimov. The Russian smiled. "I like your style, Milo Weaver." Silence followed, as they waited for Nikolai to leave.

  37

  "You want to know about two things. Some person named Rolf Vinterberg who puts money into a bank, and my relationship with the government of the Sudan. Correct?”

  “Yes."

  "As it so happens, these two things are not entirely unconnected. In fact, I'd call them very connected. You know, of course, that I'm a powerful man. But like many powerful men, I sit on a bubble. At any moment, it can burst. One example was your Franklin Dawdle, the cretin. In that case, it was my personal tastes that threatened to pop the bubble. These days, I'm established enough that it couldn't hurt me. But six years ago, I was still negotiating contracts in the public eye. I was just beginning to insinuate myself into the European economy." He shrugged. "I was vulnerable."

  "Which is why you killed Ingrid. You didn't want to be vulnerable anymore."

  Ugrimov dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "Let's not stir up old dust. What I want to talk about is after that sad day. Three months, to be precise. December 2001. I was approached, via some American friends, by a young man who had a similar proposition. Yes, he, too, was blackmailing me! I thought: What have I done that God keeps cursing me? Who knows? And this time it wasn't about girls-no, it was something more sinister."

  "What was it?"

  A swift shake of the head. "If I told you, then it wouldn't be my secret, would it? Suffice it to say, it was financial in nature. This young man would not only remain quiet about his knowledge of it, but would also make sure that no one else learned of it. He would be my protector, so to speak."

  "What was his name?"

  "He introduced himself as Stephen Lewis, and that's what I've always called him.”

  “American?"

  "I doubted his name, but never his American character. Pushy, you know. Like the whole world belongs to him.”

  “What did he want you to do?"

  Ugrimov drank more of his daiquiri, then got up and closed the terrace doors. As he wandered back, he stared hard at the open end of the courtyard, which led into forest. He sat down and lowered his voice. "You've already seen what he asked me to do. To take cash- different amounts each time-and deliver them to a variety of Zurich banks, opening accounts under two names: my man's name and Samuel Roth. What could I do? Yes? What would you do? I did as he asked, of course. Not often-two or three times a year. And what's illegal about it? Nothing. I send one of my employees with some false papers-Rolf Vinterberg is the one we've used the last two years- and he opens the account."

  There it was. Milo felt unexpectedly thrilled. The simple money-laundering scheme used to pay the Tiger for his jobs; Angela had only been a hair's breadth away. Then he wondered aloud, but without hope, "Did he have a beard?"

  "What?"

  "Stephen Lewis. Does he have a red beard?"

  Ugrimov brightened. "You know him! Red on top, red in the face, red in the beard. You know this man!"

  There, again. Connections. He shook his head. "Not yet I don't, but I hope to meet him soon. Go on. Please."

  "Well, there's not much more on that point. It was always as he promised. My fiscal secrets never came to light, and every now and then I'd be approached by Mr. Lewis. He'd give me the cash-euros- with the bank instructions, and I'd have my Mr. Vinterberg follow those instructions. In fact, after a few years the agreement benefited me even more. Some other problems arose, and some bureaucrats in Germany started demanding Switzerland send me to them. Truly, I was scared. I told Lewis, and Lewis-don't ask me how-made sure Switzerland would leave me in peace." He nodded reverently. "And that they did. Until recently, at least.”

  “What happened?"

  "I got a note on Monday from the Swiss Foreign Ministry. Guess what? The new administration has decided I might not be an ideal citizen anymore, because of the angry Huns in Berlin."

  "So you contacted Lewis."

  "How could I? He never left me a phone number-we didn't work like that. But-coincidence of coincidences!-four days ago, I got my final visit from Mr. Stephen Lewis. I considered this fortuitous, as I could ask for his help. However, he hadn't shown up with a bundle of euros and banking instructions. He'd shown up empty-handed. He told me our arrangement had reached its conclusion. He thanked me for my cooperation and assured me that his people would never reveal our little secret, just as long as I didn't reveal it either. As for the new German problem plaguing me, he admitted he couldn't do anything about it anymore. That time had passed."

  It was an incredible piece of luck. The Swiss Foreign Ministry letter had been Milo 's ticket, converting Roman Ugrimov's anger into a desire for revenge. Otherwise, they might have sat here in silence, Ugrimov betraying nothing of his long-standing arrangement with Stephen Lewis, a.k.a. Jan Klausner, a.k.a. Herbert Williams. How many names did the bastard have?

  Ugrimov cleared his throat, then sipped the daiquiri. "I don't know what game you're playing, Milo Weaver. I hope it's not aimed at me."

  "I don't think it is," Milo said truthfully. "Tell me about the Sudan."

  "Oh! Well, you'll like this. The connection between the events I've just described and the Sudan is, of course, the elusive Mr. Lewis."

  Hands on his knees, Milo said, "Tell me."

  "Well, this is back in late October, when we were still friends. Lewis came to me-to here, in fact-and asked a favor. Could I invite the energy minister, Mr. al-Jazz, to my house? Some friends of his would like to invest in electricity. I knew the minister, of course. Not my favorite-I still have a nasty feeling he's dismantling our computers as fast as we can install them. Anyway, Lewis made it clear that our continued cooperation hinged on this, so I said okay. I sent out the invitation, the minister accepted, and on November 4th I welcomed
him into my home. There was Lewis, of course, with four mute American businessmen. And before you ask," he said, raising a hand, "no. They didn't give their names. In fact, they were rude. At Lewis's request, I withdrew to the parlor, and didn't come out again until I heard the energy minister shouting and storming down the hall to the front door, his security men right behind him. I went out to wish him a safe drive home. To my glee, he was livid. Know what he said?"

  Milo indicated that he didn't.

  "He said, We'll sell to whoever we goddamned want to! Yes, he did say that. Then: Threaten my president, I’ll bury yours!" Ugrimov nodded vigorously. "It was a very lively evening."

  "You have no idea what they discussed?"

  Ugrimov shook his head. "Some of Lewis's people swept for bugs first. Afterward, they all left without a word, and I drank myself to sleep. One of those moments when you no longer feel master of your own domain. Know what I mean?"

  "Yes. I do."

  That was all Milo could say as, staring at the Russian, he made more connections. Herbert Williams represented a group of American businessmen. They used the Tiger to murder a Muslim extremist after-and this was crucial-a failed talk with the Sudanese energy minister. Threaten my president… It was as the Tiger had suspected. The murder was supposed to enrage the population, to make an unstable government that much less stable. Not for the terrorists, though, but for some businessmen. Why? We'll sell to whoever we goddamned want to!

  Sell what?

  The only thing the Sudan had that was of value to anyone in America was oil.

  Who did Sudan sell its oil to? The Chinese; U.S. companies bought none, because of the embargo.

  The sun was too hot to deal with. Milo got up and walked to the glass doors, where the extended roof protected him. He regulated his breaths.

  "You all right, Milo Weaver?"

  "I'm fine. Is that all?"

  Ugrimov stretched out in his chair and brought the now-melted daiquiri to his lips. "That's the whole thing. And now, it's time for reciprocation. I ask you any question I like?"