The Tourist Page 25

  He imagined not only six years of assassinations, but also six years at his computer in the office, the efforts of all his Travel Agents, and the years of feigned help from this man in front of him. Six years of tracking a man that no one, in the end, wanted caught.

  "But he came to me," Milo said suddenly. "The Tiger came to me because he had my file. That was you as well?"

  "I passed it to Tripplehorn to hand over. The orders to inject him with HIV had come from above. There was no way around that. The only thing I could do was add a piece of information to the Tiger's knowledge. Fitzhugh didn't think the Tiger would know where he'd picked up the disease. I knew he was underestimating the guy. I knew-or at least I suspected-that a celibate, religious man would put it together. I hoped he would look for you, if only because your file was the last piece of information handed over by his killers."

  "Everything went according to plan," Milo said, marveling at the way the old man's brain worked.

  "Not everything, Milo. You. You were supposed to go on the run, but return with the evidence. I even gave you Einner for help. Where is he now?"

  Milo cleared his throat. "I had to incapacitate him."

  "Probably for the best. But you see what I'm getting at, right? I gave you all I could, but I guess I had too much faith in you."

  "You should've been open with Angela, and with me. You didn't give anywhere near what you could have."

  Grainger pursed his lips to stifle a yawn. "Maybe you're right. But if I'd told you everything from the beginning, what would you have done? I know you: You're not as patient as you used to be. You would have taken it straight to Fitzhugh; you would have strong-armed him. You wouldn't have tried to track down the evidence. You would have acted like a Tourist, cornered Fitzhugh and his band, and put them down. You wouldn't have taken the time to collect what's needed to put a stop to the whole operation. In short, you would have acted like the thug you are."

  "But it's over," said Milo. "Your assassin is dead."

  "You think they won't find another? Despite everything, the fact is that the technique works more often than it fails. There's a Cambodian boy based in Sri Lanka. He doesn't have a silly name yet, which is preferable. Jackson's down there as we speak, tracking him."

  Milo finished his vodka, then got the bottle to refill both their glasses. "So what are you trying to convince me to do?"

  "Really, Milo. You're smarter than this. With no evidence, what have you got? Just my word. And if they know where you are now, then they'll make sure I'm not able to tell you a thing."

  "They don't know where I am."

  "You better be sure of that. Because after they get rid of me, they'll make sure you can't tell anyone what I've told you."

  A nerve in Milo's cheek began to spasm, so he rubbed it. It was anxiety, the realization that Grainger was right.

  Then another thought came to him: Grainger was lying. The old man was cornered. He knew that Milo would take him back to the Avenue of the Americas. Grainger had perhaps even planned for this eventuality. As he had said, the intelligence game is all about storytelling. Grainger presented no real evidence either, just stories to fill the gaps between actual events.

  Milo realized he hadn't been breathing. He inhaled. It was a hell of a story, the kind that only a veteran like Grainger could dream up. A part of him even still believed it-that's how good it was. He tipped Grainger's vodka into the waiting lips, then sat across from him.

  Before he could speak, the telephone on the far table began to ring. Milo stared at Grainger. "Expecting someone?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Eleven."

  "I haven't mixed with the villagers in a long time. Maybe Fitzhugh, checking on us."

  Milo got up, the alcohol rushing to his head but not debilitating him, and turned off the lamp. In the darkness, the phone continued to ring-seven, now-and he stood beside the heavy drapes, peering into the nighttime darkness, toward the lake. He saw trees and the gravel road in the moonlight before a cloud slipped a little farther and obscured the scene. On the ninth ring the telephone quieted. Milo didn't know what he believed. "We're going."

  "Please," Grainger said. "I'm exhausted. Fishing all day takes it out of you."

  He turned back and saw Grainger's dark form slump, chin against the duct tape across his chest, breathing loudly. "You all right?"

  The head raised. "Just tired. But really, if there's someone out there, it's the Company. I'd rather be executed in bed, out here, than be grilled for months in Manhattan, then shot in some dirty safe house."

  Milo returned to the window. Lake, moonlight, and silence. If he hadn't been tracked here, there really was no hurry. Just his desperation to have all this finished. He let the curtains drop. "We'll leave in the morning. Early. Same bed, though."

  "You always were sweet on me."

  "And you've had enough to drink."

  "I've just started," said Grainger. "Can you take off this tape so I can get to my scotch? This vodka is hell on my stomach."

  41

  They slept in the upstairs bedroom, tied together at the wrists with a length of rope Milo had found in a kitchen drawer. Overall, it was a steady sleep, broken only once when Grainger sat up and started speaking. "At first, I didn't like the idea. I want you to know that. That's why I lied and said our Tourists wouldn't be any good for assassinations."

  "It's all right," Milo said. "Go back to sleep."

  "If I'd known how it would end up, I would've found a way to nip it in the bud. Really. Maybe if I'd let our Tourists do the killings, we could've kept control to ourselves."

  "Go back to sleep," Milo repeated, and Grainger dropped to his pillow and began to snore, as if his words had been part of a dream.

  They woke and shaved and showered, never far apart, and Milo cooked scrambled eggs and toast. Grainger let half the breakfast go by in silence, then began again. He seemed desperate for Milo to believe him. "Really, I thought you'd get the answers. It might have been stupid, but it made sense at the time." He paused, watching Milo chew. "You don't believe me, do you?"

  Milo swallowed his eggs. "No," he said, if only to stop Grainger's chatter. "I don't believe you. Even if I did, I'd still take you back. I can't live like this, and you're the only one who can set things right for me. And Tina."

  "Ah!" said Grainger, smiling wanly. "It's all about your family, of course." He swallowed. "You're probably right. You're too young to ruin your career for this. They'll trump up something to prove I was behind everything, me alone. They can pack me away and begin again with this Cambodian boy."

  Milo felt cold toward the old man, because all he cared about now was his immediate future. He would drive Grainger straight back to Manhattan, help supervise the initial interrogation, and then collect his family from Texas. Simple.

  When Grainger finished his breakfast, Milo rinsed off the plates. "It's time to go."

  As if reading his mind, Grainger said, "Time to get your life back?"

  Milo put on his jacket and found a blazer for Grainger, checking its pockets before handing it over.

  "You know," Grainger said, "a part of me still believes. A part of me believes that by talking to you I'm betraying the empire. Isn't that funny? We've been marking our territory like an imperial dog since the end of the last big war. Since 9/11, we no longer have to go about it sweetly. We can bomb and maim and torture to our heart's content, because only the terrorists are willing to stand up to us, and their opinion doesn't matter. You know what the real problem is?"

  "Put on your jacket."

  "The problem is people like me," Grainger continued. "An empire needs men with iron guts. I'm not tough enough; I still need to make excuses about spreading democracy. The younger guys, though-even Fitzhugh-they're the kind of men we need if we want to keep moving forward. They're tough in a way my generation never was."

  "The jacket," Milo repeated, and Grainger gave him a sour look before stretching an arm into his blazer.

 
; They stepped out into the cool, tree-shaded morning, and Milo locked the front door while Grainger stood, hands on hips, staring at the house. "I'm going to miss this."

  "Don't be mawkish."

  "Just being honest, Milo. You should know that's all I've been with you. In this house, at least."

  Milo grabbed his elbow and led him down the steps to the leaf-covered walkway. "We'll have to walk to my car. I don't want to take yours."

  "I think I can manage," Grainger said and smiled.

  Something buzzed around Milo's ear, like a mosquito, then Grainger vibrated. He felt the vibration through Grainger's elbow, and though the smile didn't leave the old man's face, his head was tilted back and his forehead looked different. A small shadow of a hole lay against his forehead. Milo heard a second buzz, and Grainger's right shoulder popped back, spewing blood. He let go. The old man dropped onto his side, and in the back of his head Milo saw a large, gory hole, leaking blood and brain matter into the dirt.

  For what seemed like a long time, Milo stared at the body. In reality, it wasn't more than a quarter of a second, but time is a relative thing, and, looking down at Grainger's corpse, time stretched long enough for him to realize with a shock as strong as a sniper's bullet that he'd been wrong. Grainger had told the truth. The old man knew that after speaking to Milo, he would be a dead man. So, too, would Milo.

  As another bullet buzzed past, he threw himself back, dropped, and rolled behind the three concrete steps leading from the front door. He took out the Luger and breathed loudly through his lips, thinking: Three bullets. Suppressor. Suppressors decrease accuracy range, so the shooter is not far away.

  Question: Would the shooter come to him, or would he wait?

  Answer: It was Tuesday, which meant mail. He seemed to remember morning deliveries at, say, nine thirtyish. The shooter would know this, too. It was now nine o'clock.

  He couldn't leave his position, because the shooter would be trained on these three lousy steps, waiting. At some point in the next half hour, though, he would have to approach. Milo closed his eyes and listened.

  He tried to hold back all the thoughts that buzzed inside him now, but it was impossible. Grainger had been telling the truth. The truth. It was the only explanation. Get rid of the old man before he could spill the truth in one of those camera-ridden cells on the nineteenth floor of the Avenue of the Americas. Get rid of Milo before he could pass on any messages. Everything, Fitzhugh had decided, would end here, by a quiet lake.

  And what of Tina and Stephanie? They would be in Austin, under surveillance. That, he knew. But by whom? By the Company, or Homeland? He surprised himself by hoping that Janet Simmons was keeping an eye on them.

  If he got out of here alive-

  No, when he got out of here alive. That was another Tourism rule. Never doubt your ability to survive. With doubts come mistakes.

  When he got out of here alive, he-

  Stop. One thing at a time. Listen. Nothing exists except sound. When a man walks, he cannot aim.

  There: crunch crunch.

  Milo rose, Luger at arm's length, elbow bent slightly, and pivoted as he walked backward. Two hundred yards away, maybe, out of range, a figure in hunting camouflage stopped and raised his rifle. Milo disappeared behind the house.

  He needed close quarters, so he ran down the lake side of the house until he found the window to the dining room. He used an elbow to break it, the sound of shattering glass echoing across the lake. As he climbed inside, he heard feet running across dry earth.

  He dropped to the carpet, lost track of his pistol, then found it under one of the chairs. He went to the living room windows that faced the front of the house. Standing a few feet back, Milo peered out in time to catch sight of the shooter, the long-barreled rifle hanging from his back and a SIG Sauer in his gloved hand, working his way around the house. Before he disappeared, Milo saw that he was a tall man, nose thick and bent from old breaks; the bottom half of his face, below the hunter's cap, was covered in a thick red beard.

  Milo returned to the doorway to the dining room, looped an arm around the frame, and aimed at the broken window. He watched and waited until, from the opposite side of the house-guest bedroom, if his internal floor plan was right-another window shattered. He hurried to the closed door, popped it open, and aimed. But the broken window was empty.

  There-another window breaking, the living room. He hurried back, again finding nothing.

  Tripplehorn had given himself three possible entrances in three different rooms. Milo climbed the stairs and waited on the landing, squatting to make a smaller target.

  From his position, he could hear the Tourist climb into the house, but wasn't sure which window he was using. It didn't matter. However he'd entered the house, he would have to use the stairs to reach Milo.

  For three minutes, he only heard footsteps and doors opening suddenly. No one appeared at the bottom of the steps. Tripplehorn was searching the first floor before continuing to the next. Finally, he heard a high voice with an indeterminable accent say, "You'd better come down here."

  "Why should I, Tripplehorn?"

  A pause. "That's a funny name. Wish I knew who it was."

  "It's me. Milo Weaver. I run the European desk."

  "Don't know who you're talking about."

  "I used to go by Charles Alexander."

  Another pause, then a whisper that might have been Shit. Tourists had no qualms about killing other Tourists-this, in fact, was always a possibility-but Einner had been kind enough to point out that the name Charles Alexander had made the rounds.

  "Who sent you?" asked Milo, the hand on his pistol sweaty now.

  "You know who runs me."

  "It used to be that man in the front yard."

  "Grainger?" said the Tourist. "He's given few orders recently."

  Milo's eyes were damp, so when Tripplehorn threw himself past the stairs, firing upward, his reaction was delayed. The Tourist shot blindly, loud bullets drilling into the upper steps, and Milo shot back twice, but too late. Tripplehorn disappeared on the other side of the stairs.

  "You've got no position," Milo called. "Just get out of here."

  "I'm patient."

  Milo took a breath and stood slowly "You've got ten minutes until the mailman comes. You can't be patient." As he spoke, he took two steps down, feet by the wall to avoid creaks.

  "I'll kill the postman, too," said Tripplehorn.

  Milo was five steps down; ten more to go. "How's Fitzhugh going to explain that away? I doubt you're supposed to kill civilians."

  Another pause. Milo stopped. Tripplehorn said, "If I did leave, you know I'd still be waiting out there."

  Milo couldn't keep moving and speaking at the same time; Tripplehorn would hear his voice nearing. He said, "And what would you do? Shoot me while the cops are here, looking at the body? Come on, Tripplehorn. It's over. You know it."

  "If you are who you say you are, then you know I can pull it off."

  As he said those words, Milo descended two quick steps. He didn't answer.

  "If you are Alexander, you know that failure isn't an option." Two more steps. Now he was six from the bottom. That would do. "Alexander? You still with me?"

  With his arm extended, the pistol was only three steps from the corner. Behind it, Tripplehorn said, "Well, maybe you're right. Maybe I should just go with half the job done," and then launched himself out into the open, his gun raised high so he wouldn't again shoot too low.

  By the time he got off his second, wild shot, Milo had put a bullet in his chest, knocking him backward. He dropped and slid against the front door, leaving a smear of blood. His arm was still out, clutching his pistol, and he was blinking up at Milo.

  "Shit," he whispered, gurgling. "You got me."

  "You should've worn a vest."

  Tripplehorn's hunting jacket was drenched now, making the darkand-light-green design a little more monochrome. Milo kicked the pistol from his hand; it slid into the living room
. He squatted close to Tripplehorn's head, remembering that face from the Corso Sempione, sitting across from the Tiger, giving the assassin a bag of money and a shot of HIV. "Tell me who's running you," said Milo.

  Tripplehorn coughed blood onto the hardwood floor. He shook his head.

  Milo didn't have the heart to force it out of the man. He knew, or he believed he knew, that Terence Fitzhugh was running him. There was nothing else to say. He shot Tripplehorn in the forehead. He searched the corpse, taking his cell phone and the little automobile unlocker that he had so admired when Einner used it in Europe.

  He left by the front door, continuing past Grainger's corpse and into the woods. There, he was sick. As he crouched in the leaves, he realized it wasn't the normal sickness that overcomes a person at the sight of death. It was the sickness of too much adrenaline and too little to eat. That troubled him even more than the deaths, that he was no longer reacting like a real human being.

  He stared at his vomit in the grass. He was thinking and feeling like a Tourist now. Unbalanced.

  Despairing over this, his Tourist side calculated the next step. He didn't even cringe from it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and returned to the house.

  Five minutes later, from behind the shattered living room window, he clutched Grainger's car keys and watched the little mail truck bounce over ruts in the driveway until it had a direct view of Grainger's body. It stopped, and a fat man in a white uniform climbed out. He approached, halving the distance to the corpse, then turned and ran. He got into his truck, turned it around in a cloud of dust, and roared off.

  Ten minutes, max.

  Milo opened the front door and heaved Tripplehorn's body, now wrapped in Hefty bags, down the front steps, past the corpse, and to Grainger's Mercedes. He put Tripplehorn into the trunk, then got behind the wheel. He drove fast to the main road, then turned right, toward the mountains, as the low whine of police sirens grew somewhere behind him.