The Tourist Page 24

  All those T's-Tom, Terri, Tina, and Texas. He grinned, remembering something Tina had once said about Patrick and Paula in Paris.

  For a long time, Tina accompanied Terri to her chemo sessions. She became the older woman's confidante. Then, when the cancer worsened, and even the most optimistic knew this was going to be a losing battle, Terri shifted gears. She withdrew and ended phone calls in midsentence. She didn't want Tina to suffer through the end with her.

  Milo parked under the pines along Brady Drive, not far from the shore, but a good half mile from Grainger's house, hooked his knapsack over his shoulder, and began to walk. Pickup trucks and Fords rolled past, and sometimes a driver gave a toot on the horn and a wave. Milo smiled and waved back. Once he was close enough, he climbed off the road and worked his way through the foliage toward the lake.

  Grainger had picked it up in the seventies from an estate sale. It was from the thirties, built in a Teddy Roosevelt-inspired cabin style. According to Grainger, during the Depression the industrialist who owned it had moved here from Manhattan, with his wife and servants, in order to save money.

  The Graingers had let the servants' quarters collect spiders and hedgehogs-the two floors and three bedrooms of the main house were enough to keep up.

  He spent forty more minutes in the woods, circling the house to see it from various angles and check the trees for surveillance. Once he was convinced the woods were empty, he approached the house. On the far side, where the living room windows looked out on Grainger's parked Mercedes and the small pier, he saw that Grainger's rowboat was gone.

  The house was unlocked, so Milo went inside and looked around. It was empty. He climbed the stairs by the door, passing the bedroom and heading for Grainger's office. It was a small room, with a single large window that looked over Lake Hopatcong.

  It was the time of day photographers call the magic hour, when the light of the setting sun refracts just so, and faces seem to glow in the way pregnant women are said to glow. The lake glowed, and so did the small form in its midpoint: Tom Grainger, fishing.

  He went through desk drawers until he reached the locked one at the bottom, which he had to force open with a screwdriver from another drawer. During those old weekends, he'd seen the contents of this drawer: the German Luger Grainger claimed had been taken from a German soldier during the Battle of the Bulge, and a box of 9mm ammunition. He checked the breech, then loaded the magazine.

  If Grainger was surprised to see him, he hid it well. He was tying the boat to the pilings when Milo stepped out from behind a tree, the pistol hanging by his hip. "Catch anything?"

  Grainger, breathing heavily, didn't bother looking up from the rope. "Never do. Not in the last years, at least. I've got a suspicion some jackass dumped something in the lake and killed them all." He straightened, finally looking at Milo. "On the other hand, I've caught nothing since Terri died. So maybe it's just me." He noticed the Luger and frowned. "You didn't break my desk to get to that, did you?"

  "Afraid so."

  Grainger shook his head. "The key was in the top drawer.”

  “Sorry."

  "Oh well." He started to take the fishing pole and lures from the boat, then looked up at the clear sky. "I'll leave them. It's not going to rain."

  "Good idea." Milo waved the gun. "Let's go."

  Protest-that's what was missing here. Grainger wasn't protesting anything beyond the destruction of his desk. He had known that Milo would come. In fact, Milo suspected the old man had been waiting for him, day after day, fishing to fill his absent hours.

  They found places in the living room. First, Grainger went to the liquor cabinet, which was stocked with a dozen bottles, and picked out a ten-year-old scotch. He poured it into a collins glass, replaced the bottle, and filled another with Finlandia vodka. He gave the vodka to Milo, then took the narrow, leather-padded chair, while Milo sat on the cushioned sofa. Between them was a low coffee table, and against the wall sat an antique radio, from the days when the house was first built. Grainger said, "So. I see you made it back in one piece."

  "I did."

  "And you came to see me. Am I your first stop?”

  “You are."

  "Good." Grainger sipped his scotch. "Tell me. What evidence have you collected?"

  Milo took a breath. He knew the answers lay with this man, but the whole trip here he hadn't actually formulated how he was going to extract them. He had no method at his disposal, because the methods he knew didn't take into account godfathers and old friends and Company men who knew all the methods by heart. He said, "I've figured out that I didn't need to collect anything for my defense, Tom. You tricked me into running.”

  “I just tried to help you out."

  Milo felt the urge to shout-nothing in particular, just whatever nonsense touched his lips when his mouth opened. It wasn't only that Grainger was his friend and the closest thing to family Milo had in his daily life; it was this: the comfortable chairs, the living room stocked with old-world knickknacks, and the two of them nursing drinks from crystal glasses.

  Milo put his vodka on the coffee table and went to the kitchen.

  "The evidence," Grainger called.

  Instead of answering, Milo returned with a thick roll of duct tape.

  Grainger's smile faded. "For Christ's sake, Milo. Can't we just have a conversation?"

  Milo pulled off a length with a loud grinding sound. "No, Tom. We can't."

  Grainger knew better than to fight back as Milo attached the end to the back of his chair, then pulled the roll around his body five times, securing the old man to the chair from his shoulders to his elbows. He ripped off the end with his teeth and pressed it flat against the back of the chair. Then he stepped back, checking his handiwork, and returned to the sofa.

  "You're going to have to feed me my scotch," said Grainger.

  "I know."

  "Stick and carrot?"

  "Bait and switch," Milo suggested, then blinked. He could hardly make out Grainger's face. It was the sun. When he wasn't looking, the sun had disappeared behind the mountains.

  "So tell me," Grainger said as Milo turned on a floor lamp, "what evidence have you collected? Not suppositions, mind you. Not hearsay. Evidence."

  Milo returned to the sofa. "You set me up, Tom. You had me flee from Disney World when I didn't have to run. I was under suspicion, but that was all. Right?"

  Grainger, trying without success to shift under his bonds, nodded.

  "It was you all along. You passed money to Roman Ugrimov, who then passed it to the Tiger. You controlled Tripplehorn, who ran the Tiger. That was why you hid the Tiger's Tourism file from me for so long. It had nothing to do with Fitzhugh recruiting him."

  "Yes," Grainger admitted after a moment. "I hid the file from you for those reasons, but I showed it to you later because Terence Fitzhugh recruited him."

  "Let's not get off track. You ran the Tiger. Angela, like me, was hunting for the Tiger. So you had her killed. That was another Tripplehorn job."

  "Yes."

  "Colonel Yi Lien had nothing to do with anything. You just placed Tripplehorn in a few strategic spots and let the cameras do the work."

  Almost reluctantly, Grainger said, "MI6-well, I made that up, didn't I?"

  "So, it follows that you ordered the assassination of Mullah Salih Ahmad in the Sudan."

  "Yes." Since Milo didn't seem to want to follow it up immediately, he repeated the word he'd used earlier: "Evidence? You do have some evidence behind all this, don't you?"

  Milo wasn't sure if he should answer. To admit there was no real physical evidence might make the man clam up. Still, Grainger was adept enough to see through his lie, and would want to know precisely what the evidence was.

  But his silence was enough. Grainger shook his head morosely. "Shit, Milo. You don't have any, do you?"

  "No."

  "What have you been doing these last days? Boozing?" Milo stood up, as if to remind him who was running this conversation, then
grabbed the glass of scotch and brought it to Grainger's lips. Once he'd gotten a good sip, Milo put the glass back, down and said, "Please, Tom. Just tell me what the hell's going on."

  Grainger considered that, then nodded. "If you can't figure it out yourself, then okay. It's the oldest reason in the book. It's why we can't keep our hands to ourselves anymore."

  "Oil," said Milo.

  Grainger tried to shrug, but the duct tape limited his movement. "Sort of, yes. On the surface. But the answer that gets the gold star is empire. And you get bonus points if you mention China."

  40

  Once he'd started talking, Grainger couldn't stop. The duct tape kept him in place, but his head tilted and shifted freely as he explained details of a story that (it seemed to Milo) he had been wanting to get out for a long time.

  "Listen, Milo-and try not to be childish about this. You've got a continent wet with oil, as well as some of the most corrupt governments this world has ever seen. You think the Sudan's a land of peace and love? They were tearing out each other's throats before we ever decided on our little intervention. And we tried to do it peacefully. You know that. Our people met with the energy minister at Ugrimov's house. We put it to him: Stop selling crude to the Chinese, and sell it to us instead. We'll lift the embargo. Hell, we even offered to pay more. You hear me? The president gets more money to build his palaces and statues to his own glory. But he's a proud man. Politicians who murder their own people usually are. The energy minister gave him a call, and he refused us outright. So we cajoled. We threatened. We finally told him that if he didn't take our deal we'd make his life, and his country, more of a hell than it already was."

  "So it was just about oil. Is that really what you're saying?”

  “Milo, you sound like one of those protesters who still bring up the Exxon Valdez eighteen years after the fact. It's about the big picture. That's all it's ever about. We don't mind losing a little oil here and there. A country doesn't want to sell to us? We're not going to get our feathers ruffled. This is not about oil; it's about the century that's upon us. It's about China. They get seven percent of their crude oil from the Sudan. Each year, China uses more oil-it requires more to grow its economy. Losing seven percent won't decimate China now, but what about next year? Ten years from now? China needs all the oil it can get its hands on. One-third of its imported oil is African. They can't afford to lose it."

  "But you keep saying the same thing, Tom. Oil."

  Below the strips of duct tape, his hand on the arm of the chair shifted, and he raised a finger. "Wait. That's just the beginning. Because what will China have to do to make sure they get their oil? They need a stable Africa, don't they? They go to the United Nations. They ask for intervention in the Sudan. And for as long as is conscionable, the United States will veto these resolutions. That's the beauty of being a permanent member of the Security Council. You can veto whatever you like. Keep vetoing until China is pushed into a corner. Until-and this is the important part-they're forced to intervene on their own. Send in thousands of their own People's Army. We've got our Iraq, and it's draining us silly. If we can't pull out, we can at least pull some old enemies down. It's time to give China a few Iraqs. See how they manage."

  Milo kept his hands folded in his lap, staring at the old man. He was full of life, as if letting these secrets loose had given him a transfusion. "You agree with this tactic?"

  Grainger made as much of a shrug as the tape would allow. "It's insidious, I'll give it that. And there is a certain beautiful logic to it. Little strikes, a single assassination, and you can collapse an entire country. Governments have a great way of fostering the belief that they're immutable. It's seldom true."

  "You haven't answered my question."

  "I believed in it for a long time, Milo. For years. But it got messy, didn't it? If you just knock out a terrorist sympathizer, like the mullah, then who can really complain? You're doing the world a service. When chaos follows, you can call it a surprise. Well, it was seldom that simple. There were witnesses who had to be gotten rid of. Angela's friend Rahman, for example.”

  “Then Angela herself."

  "Yes," said Grainger. "We tried to get rid of her with libel. You know that. When she called me looking for photos of the Tiger, I knew she'd gotten close. So we set her up for treason. Either make her retire or, at worst, put her in jail a while-not long, just long enough for the trail to go cold. But by then the cracks were apparent, even to an idiot like me. Too many dead witnesses. So when it came time to put the final screws on Angela, I decided to put you in there. After all, you'd gotten closer than anyone else-you'd actually met the Tiger. So I thought that you could be the one. You were an old friend of Angela's. Like those assassinations, I could do one small thing, then let chaos take over, and pretend to my masters that I didn't know it would end up this way."

  "You wanted me to unravel it."

  "Yes. Then you made that call to me. You remember? After your lunch with Angela." He sighed. "You signed her death warrant with that call."

  Milo tried to remember what he'd said, but that conversation, after all that had happened in the last two weeks, was just a blip.

  Grainger explained: "You told me that Angela had followed the trail to Rolf Vinterberg. One step away from Ugrimov, another step away from us. Who do you think was in the office with me when you called?"

  "Fitzhugh."

  "Exactly. He had me call Tripplehorn immediately, while he was sitting there, and give the order to take out Angela as soon as possible."

  "But-" Milo began, then found himself without words. Was he really responsible for Angela's murder? "You could've rescinded the order once he left the office."

  "Perhaps." Grainger again tried to shrug. "Maybe I was too scared by then."

  Milo walked over to the liquor cabinet and refilled his vodka. "You want more?"

  "Thank you. Yes."

  He poured vodka into Grainger's glass and pressed the rim to Grainger's lips. The sip made the old man cough. "Where's my scotch?"

  Milo didn't answer. He set the glass aside and took a sip from his own. "This doesn't feel right. It feels like an elaborate story to cover your own ass."

  Grainger licked his pale lips. "I see what you mean. Spying, and in particular Tourism, is all about storytelling. After a while you collect too many layers. It's hard to discern story from truth. But what I'm telling you now really is the truth. Ask me what you like."

  "Your call for me to leave Disney World."

  "You know the answer. Twofold. Keep you out of custody, so you could continue your investigation. Also, put you on the run, turn the screws. You'd frustrated me by going on vacation, and I needed you back on the job. It was the only way to convince you."

  "The same thing with the Tiger's file," said Milo. "You gave that to me so I wouldn't trust Fitzhugh, in case he took over and called me."

  Grainger nodded. "Connecting the Tiger with Fitzhugh-I was just pushing you toward the real state of affairs. You wouldn't have connected them on your own. Don't get me wrong-him recruiting the Tiger means nothing. He doesn't want anyone to know about that, but it's not damning. I wanted you to start down the path of damnation. Collect real, physical evidence." He shook his head. "I guess I overestimated you, Milo. You've got nothing."

  "I've got a trail that leads directly to you."

  "Yes, a trail. But where's your bag of tricks? I thought that by the time you made it here you'd have videotapes and fingerprints and bank records. You can't even prove I was part of this, unless you're recording our conversation. You're not, are you?"

  Milo shook his head.

  "Very shoddy. Not that a confession in this situation would hold up in court." He paused. "If you can't even prove my guilt, how are you ever going to prove Fitzhugh's masterminding it? You think he's an amateur? His involvement was always verbal, and he never got anywhere near the action. He's never even met Roman Ugrimov- they wouldn't recognize each other if they were in the same room. How are
you going to collect evidence against a man like that?"

  It was a remarkable moment, Milo thought. Grainger had been forcibly retired, he was duct-taped to his chair and faced with the barrel of his own pistol, yet he still spoke as if he were in his Avenue of the Americas office, running a whole world of Tourists. "You're not giving the orders anymore, Tom."

  Perhaps he, too, realized the ludicrousness of his position, because he sighed. "It's probably best I'm not in charge. See what a mess I've made already?"

  Milo didn't answer.

  "You know when it started, don't you? This thing with the Tiger. Just after you left Tourism. You'd just finished protecting that fascist Tweede Kamer representative from him. You'd stopped him, yes, but we all knew the man was good at his job, so this information was filed away for future use. Next thing we know-next day, really-you're in Venice, and in New York we get hit by terrorists. We gather the military and prepare to hit back in Afghanistan, but Fitzhugh and a few others-they knew where the wind would start blowing. They discussed options. Fitzhugh visited me right here, in this house. They were rebuilding our offices, and it was the one clean place to meet. He asked if we could use Tourists as part of our tactic. Sneak them into the Middle East and take out this Saudi or that Iranian. I told him we didn't train Tourists for that kind of assassination, and it would be best to go private and use someone like the Tiger." Grainger nodded. "Yes. I was the first one to say his name. Fitzhugh came back a week later with a counterproposal. Use a Tourist to track the Tiger and approach him as a client."

  "Tripplehorn."

  "Of course."

  Milo imagined six years' worth of surgical strikes, killings he'd charted and been at pains to find a common thread among. A moderate Islamic figure in Germany, a French foreign minister, a British businessman. What, he'd always asked himself, unites these killings? He'd been stumped, falling back on the theory that nothing united them; they were simply jobs for different people. Sometimes, perhaps, they were, but whenever Tripplehorn, a.k.a. Herbert Williams, a.k.a. Jan Klausner, a.k.a. Stephen Lewis, approached the Tiger with a job, the underlying thread was always American foreign policy.