The Tourist Read online

  His thoughts were interrupted by a stranger who approached and said in French, "It's been so long," reaching out his hand to shake. Fitzhugh, stuck in the mental rhythms of his worries, was caught off guard. Staring up at the handsome, sixty-something face under wavy white hair, he took the heavy hand. Where did he know this man from?

  "Excuse me," Fitzhugh said as they shook. There was something familiar in the face, but he wasn't sure. "Do I know you?"

  The man's smile faded, and he switched to English-not his native language, but spoken in a kind of easy swing. "Oh. Bernard, right?"

  Fitzhugh shook his head. "You have the wrong person. I'm sorry."

  The man held up his hands, palms out. "No, my mistake. Sorry to bother you."

  The man walked off, and though Fitzhugh expected him to return to a table, he actually left through the front door. He'd been so convinced Fitzhugh was his friend Bernard that he had come in from the street. French? No-in his accent he'd caught Slavic traces. Czech?

  Eleven blocks uptown, on the twenty-third floor of the Grand Hyatt, Simmons was sitting on her stripped bed, typing queries into the Homeland database, looking for the record of a Company agent, Jim Pearson. It came up empty. She tried variations on the name, then sent a message to Matthew, her plant inside Tourism, asking him to check the Langley computers, in case Jim Pearson's records hadn't made the trip to Homeland.

  While waiting for the answer, she looked for whatever she could find on Yevgeny Primakov. In the morning, she would meet him in the lobby of the UN's General Assembly building, which, as George had put it, was "un-fucking-believable."

  Unbelievable, indeed. From what she read on the United Nations site, Yevgeny Primakov worked in the financial section of the Military Staff Committee of the Security Council, with an office in Brussels. An accountant? She doubted that. Was his presence in New York a beautiful coincidence? Or had he made sure to be there in case he was called upon by the United States to answer questions about his son?

  She accessed a secure section of the Homeland site, and her searches turned up a skeletal history of Yevgeny Aleksandrovich Primakov, onetime colonel. He was inducted into the KGB in 1959, and in the mid-sixties began his travels. Known destinations: Egypt, Jordan, West and East Germany, France, and England. When the KGB morphed into the FSB after the fall of the Soviet Union, Primakov stayed on, heading a department of military counterintelligence until 2000, when he retired and began a new career with the United Nations.

  They had little more on him, though in 2002 the U.S. representative to the UN requested a background check on Primakov. No reason given, and the resulting report was not available.

  During the last years, Homeland had been absorbing FBI files connected to terrorism, past and present. It was within this clerical subsection that she found a single sheet on Ellen Perkins, who was convicted in absentia for being an accomplice in two crimes: the 1968 robbery of a branch of the Harris Bank in Chicago, and, in early 1969, the attempted arson of the Milwaukee police's District Seven headquarters. Last spotted in Oakland, California, before disappearing completely.

  Given what William Perkins had told her about Ellen-robbing banks in Germany-she was surprised to find nothing else under her name, or under Elsa Perkins. It took a Google search-Elsa Perkins Germany armed robbery-to come across a site dedicated to the history of seventies' German terrorist groups. Baader-Meinhof, the Red Army Faction, the Socialist Patients' Collective, and the Movement 2 June, which counted among its members one Elsa Perkins, American. According to the webmaster,

  Perkins joined the Movement 2 June in October 1972. By most estimates, she was seduced into the Movement by the charismatic Fritz Teufel. She lasted longer than most members, but was arrested in 1979 and sent to Stammheim-Stuttgart Prison. In December of that same year, she committed suicide in her cell.

  Milo's door opened. Three doormen stepped in, and he noticed that the swelling around Lawrence's eye was beginning to subside. It was Lawrence who held the manacles, which he attached to Milo's wrists and ankles; then the three of them went with their shuffling prisoner down the corridor to the elevators, where they used a special keycard to access the parking lot on the third underground floor.

  They took Milo to a white van not unlike armored police vans seen in movies. In the rear, two steel benches stretched its length, punctured by holes through which Lawrence threaded the chains. Once they were out on the street, heading south, Milo could see through the tinted rear window that it was nighttime, and asked if it was Friday or Saturday. Lawrence, sitting across from him, checked his watch. "Still Friday, just about."

  "And the eye? Looks better."

  Lawrence touched it. "I'll survive."

  In Lower Manhattan, the van arrived at Foley Square, took a side street around the Metropolitan Correctional Center, then descended into the secure underground lot. The driver showed his identification and prisoner-transfer order to the guards, who raised the gate and let them through. They parked beside a steel elevator and waited until the doors had opened before unlocking Milo and moving him to it.

  "They have room service here?" Milo asked innocently.

  The two other doormen stared uncomprehendingly at him, but Lawrence smiled. "Private cells, at least."

  "Like I didn't have that before.”

  “Come on, man."

  Simmons's mail program bleeped for her attention, and she read Matthew's reply. The last record of a Company agent by the name of Jim Pearson was in 1998, when the forty-year-old agent with that name died of a congenital heart defect.

  So Jim Pearson wasn't a Company agent-no real surprise there. All the ruse took was a fake badge. There was also no Jim Pearson in Homeland. What, really, did she have? Of course: the cigarette lighter that Stephanie had found in her room. Round Robin. A haunt of Washington politicians and their entourages.

  She opened two browser windows, one to the House of Representatives, one to the U.S. Senate. In each she found the personnel directories and typed Jim Pearson. The House gave up nothing, but the Senate had a single Jim Pearson, who worked as an "assistant scheduler" to Minnesota Republican Nathan Irwin. There was no photograph, just his name. She followed links to Nathan Irwin's page and studied the list of twenty aides in his employ. There again was Jim Pearson, and a few lines above him was Maximilian Grzybowski, "legislative assistant." One of those unfamiliar Polish names that could easily slip a harried woman's mind.

  At ten, when his phone rang, Fitzhugh was back at the Mansfield Hotel. He'd brought a bottle of scotch back to the room, but tried not to drink too much of it. "Carlos?" said the senator. His voice sounded tense.

  Fitzhugh cleared his throat. "It's taken care of?"

  A pause. "There never was a request."

  "Wait a minute. Say that again."

  "I'm saying, Carlos, that you made me look like a fool. I'm talking to the top man, and when he calls me back he tells me no one ever asked anything about you. Nothing. You may not understand this, but you only get a few favors from these kinds of people. I just wasted one of mine."

  "If there was nothing," Fitzhugh began, but the senator had already hung up.

  He felt like he was going to be sick. Not because of Nathan Irwin's anger-he'd worked in Washington long enough to know a senator's anger lasts only until the next good deed you do for him. What upset him was that Sal's message, sent through the proper channels, had been wrong. For the past six years, Sal had been Tourism's best source inside Homeland Security. His information was never contradicted. This time he'd made a mistake.

  Or perhaps, Fitzhugh worried as he plunged deeper into the scotch, Homeland had uncovered Sal, and was now using him to feed disinformation into Tourism. Was that possible?

  He set his scotch aside and dragged out his laptop. It took a moment to power it up and access the Nexcel account, but as soon as he did he drafted a quick e-mail to Sal:

  Information proved wrong. Is it a mistake, or were plans changed? Are you compromised?

&n
bsp; He sent it off with a hard click on the trackpad button, only afterward realizing his mistake. If Sal were compromised, then Homeland would be watching his account. What would they do? Write back in his name? Probably. What reply, then, would prove he was compromised? That is, what would Homeland want him to believe?

  13

  The taxi worked its way through the morning traffic up First Avenue, then let her off on Raoul Wallenberg Walk. She hurried across the lawn, passing plainclothes security men and New York troopers. It was nearly nine. She cut through a long line of tourists that led to metal detectors and showed her Homeland ID to a Vietnamese guard. He passed her to two uniformed women who patted her down and went over every inch of her body with a handheld explosive detector.

  The United Nations General Assembly building has a long, sixties-modern lobby, littered with paintings of past secretaries general, low leather couches, and placards with slogans and lists of upcoming events. Simmons found a spot beneath the suspended Foucault pendulum, knowing that Yevgeny Primakov would have to come to her, since she didn't have a photo of him. He apparently had one of her-this meeting place, according to Orbach, had been his idea.

  As she stood there, looking expectant, the faces of the world passed by in the form of assistants and interns from all the UN countries. She remembered her last visit, not long after her divorce, when she thought that there was something special about this place. The warmth of internationalism had filled her, just briefly, and she'd even considered working for this amalgam of nations. Like most

  Americans, though, in the years that followed she heard more about its failures than its successes, and when the Department of Homeland Security came calling, and the recruiter described how this new department wouldn't be hogtied by the red tape that plagued so many institutions, she succumbed to her innate patriotism.

  "Look up," said an old man, smiling. His accent was Russian.

  She peered up at the gold-plated sphere that swung directly from a wire.

  "It's a nice thing to have around," said Primakov, clasping his hands behind his back and staring up with her. "It's the physical evidence that the planet rotates, despite how things feel where we're standing. It reminds us that what our eyes see and our senses feel isn't always the complete truth."

  She stared at the mechanism a moment longer, just for politeness, then stuck out a hand. "I'm Janet Simmons, Homeland Security."

  Instead of shaking, he brought her knuckles to his mouth; he kissed them. "Yevgeny Aleksandrovich Primakov of the United Nations, at your service."

  When he let her hand go, she slipped it into her blazer pocket. "I wanted to ask about your son, Milo Weaver."

  "Milo Weaver?" He paused. "I have two wonderful daughters- around your age, I believe. A pediatric surgeon in Berlin and a litigator in London. But a son?" He shook his head, smiling. "No son."

  "I'm talking about the son you had with Ellen Perkins in 1970."

  His broad, confident smile didn't falter. "Are you hungry? I missed my breakfast, which in America is a crime. The diner breakfast is America's great contribution to world cuisine."

  Simmons nearly laughed. "Sure. Let's get some breakfast."

  Together, they crossed the lawn again, Primakov sometimes nodding at others heading in the opposite direction, toting briefcases. He was in his element, a man at ease with his position in the world, even under the threat of a Homeland Security agent dredging up old secrets. He had a single nervous gesture, though: He sometimes raised a fleshy finger to his cheek and swiped at it, as if ushering away a fly. Otherwise, he was all old-world elegance in his tailored gray suit, blue tie, and perfectly fitting dentures.

  The diner he'd promised turned out to be an overpriced nouveau American restaurant with a separate breakfast menu. When the hostess offered a window seat, Primakov licked his lips, swatted at his cheek, and suggested a booth in the rear of the restaurant.

  He ordered the "Hungry Man" plate of scrambled eggs, toast, sausage, ham, and home fries, while Simmons stuck with coffee. Playfully, he accused her of trying to lose weight, "which is baffling, because you have a perfect figure, Ms. Simmons. If anything, you should add a few kilos."

  She wondered when a man had last talked to her this way. Not in a while. She called over the waitress and ordered an English muffin.

  Before the food came, they went through some of Primakov's particulars. He openly admitted to having risen to the rank of colonel in the KGB, staying on during its transformation into the FSB. By the midnineties, though, he had become disillusioned. "We kill our own journalists, you know that?"

  "I've heard."

  He shook his head. "It's a pity. But from inside, there's little you can do about it. So I considered my options and in 2000, the new millennium, decided to work for the world at large, rather than my own nation's petty interests."

  "Sounds commendable," she said, remembering her own brief thoughts in that direction. "But the UN must be frustrating."

  He raised his bushy brows and conceded with a nod that this was true. "The failures are what reach your newspapers. The successes- those are just boring, aren't they?"

  The waitress returned with two warm plates. Once the old man had begun eating, Simmons said, "I want you to tell me about it. I'm not interested in digging up dirt. I just want to know who Milo Weaver really is."

  Chewing, Primakov stared at her. "Right. That Milo person you mentioned."

  She gave him the most endearing a smile she knew how to make. "Yevgeny. Please. Let's start with Ellen Perkins."

  Primakov looked at her, then at his food, and then, with an exaggerated shrug, set down his utensils. "Ellen Perkins?"

  "Yes. Tell me about her."

  The old man flicked something from his lapel-a woman's hair, it looked like-then snatched at his cheek. "Because you're so charming and beautiful, I have no choice. Russian men are like that. We're too romantic for our own good."

  One more endearing smile. "I appreciate it, Yevgeny."

  So he began.

  "Ellen was special. You have to know that first of all. Milo's mother wasn't just another pretty face, as you say in America. In fact, she wasn't really that beautiful, physically. In the sixties, the revolutionary cells of the world were full of long-haired angels. Hippies who stopped believing in peace, though they still believed in love. Most of them had no real conception of what they were doing. Like Ellen, they were from broken homes. They just wanted a new family. If they had to die, so be it. At least they'd die for a reason, unlike those poor boys in Vietnam." He used his fork to point at Simmons. "Ellen, though-she saw through the romance. She was an intellectual convert."

  "Where did you meet?"

  "Jordan. One of Arafat's training camps. She'd spent the last few years being radicalized in America, and when I met her she was inspired by the PLO and the Black Panthers. She was a bit ahead of her time, you see. At that time-sixty-seven-there was no one in America she could talk to. So, with a couple of equally disenfranchised friends, she showed up in Jordan. She met Arafat himself, as well as me. She was far more impressed by Arafat."

  He paused, and Simmons realized she was supposed to fill in the silence. "What were you doing there?"

  "Spreading international peace, of course!" A wry smile. "The KGB wanted to know how much money to spend on these fighters, and who we could recruit. We didn't really care about the Palestinians;

  we just wanted to stick a thorn in America's great Middle Eastern ally, Israel."

  "Ellen Perkins became a KGB asset?"

  He swiped at his cheek. "That was the plan, wasn't it? But Ellen saw right through me. She saw that I didn't care as much about world revolution as I did about keeping my job. The more names I added to my roster of friendly warriors, the more secure my pension became. She saw that. She called me a hypocrite!" He shook his head. "I'm not kidding. She started listing the atrocities the Soviet Union had committed. The Ukraine famine, trying to starve West Berlin, Hungary in fifty-six. What could I say? I dismi
ssed the Ukraine as a madman's mistake-Stalin's, that is. For Berlin and Hungary, I talked up counterrevolutionaries from the West, but Ellen had no time for my excuses. Excuses-that's what she called them."

  "So she wouldn't work with you," Simmons said, thinking she understood.

  "Quite the contrary! As I said, Ellen was smart. Jordan was just foreplay. If you understand my meaning. Her little ragtag group would learn to shoot and blow things up, but afterward they would need support. At the time, Moscow was generous. She wanted to use me. I, on the other hand, was failing in my duty already. You see, I'd fallen in love with her. She was ferocious."

  Simmons nodded, as if all this made sense to her, but it didn't. She was too young to have known the nuances of the cold war, and her parents' stories of the revolutionary sixties made it sound like the Decade of Cliche. Falling in love with a revolutionary meant falling in love with a suicide bomber chanting disconnected verses from the Qu'ran. That was a few steps beyond her imaginative abilities. "Her father, William-Ellen didn't talk to him, did she?"

  All the good humor bled from Primakov's face. "No, and I never would have encouraged her to do so. That man is a true shit. Do you know what he did to Ellen? To Ellen and her sister, Wilma?"

  Simmons shook her head.

  "He deflowered them. At the age of thirteen. It was their comingof-age present." Decades on, the anger was still with him. "When I think of all the good people who died, who were killed by my people and your people over the last sixty years, I find it humiliating-yes, humiliating-that a man like that continues to breathe."

  "Well, he's not living well."

  "Living at all is too good for him."

  14

  She wouldn't make Weaver's ten o'clock interview at the MCC, so she excused herself and called from beside the cash register. Fitzhugh answered after two rings. "Yes?"