The Tourist Read online

  "Tom thought the Tiger would kill you."

  "Yes."

  "Go on."

  Milo explained that Grainger was desperate to dig himself out of his hole. "What's the best way to do that? You shift the blame to those above you."

  "People like Mr. Fitzhugh here?" Simmons suggested, smiling.

  At first, Fitzhugh didn't smile, then he did, forcefully, and leaned forward. "Yes, Milo. Did Grainger try to soil my good name?"

  "Sure he did. But what else could he say? He accused everyone he could think of. Everyone except himself."

  "And so you killed him," Fitzhugh said, urging the story on.

  "Yes. I killed him."

  Simmons crossed her arms over her breasts and stared at Milo a moment. Then: "Inside the house, just inside the front door, someone else died. Blood everywhere. Also, three windows were broken. In the stairs to the second floor we found seven slugs."

  "Yes. That would be Tripplehorn."

  "You killed this man?"

  "I interrogated Tom for a few hours on Monday night. I don't know how he did it, but somehow he made contact. Maybe he'd already expected me and had prepared. But in the morning Tripplehorn arrived. He trapped me on the stairs, and I was lucky to get him."

  "Where was Tom when this occurred?"

  "In the kitchen. I guess he broke the windows, looking for a way out-"

  "Away out?" Simmons interrupted. "But the windows were broken from the outside."

  Milo paused, looking uncomfortable, but he was glad Simmons had a clear memory for details. "Like I said, I don't know. All I know is, Tom got out. I was next to Tripplehorn's body when I saw him running past. I didn't even think. I was furious. I took Tripplehorn's rifle, aimed, and shot twice."

  "Once in the forehead, once in the shoulder."

  Milo nodded.

  "He was running away?"

  "Yes."

  "Yet he was shot from the front."

  Milo blinked, trying not to show his pleasure. Primakov had been right about everything. "I shouted his name. He stopped and turned back."

  Her expression suggested she knew this already. "One thing's strange, though."

  Milo, staring at the table, didn't bother asking what that strange thing was.

  "You got rid of Tripplehorn's body, but not Grainger's. Why'd you do that, Milo?"

  He shook his head, not meeting her eyes. "I thought that if I got rid of Tripplehorn, then ballistics would match the bullets to his gun. The hunt would shift from me to him. What I forgot was that he doesn't really exist. He was black ops.”

  “You mean, a Tourist?"

  Milo raised his eyes to meet hers, while Fitzhugh shifted in his seat, saying, "What're you talking about, Janet?"

  "Let's cut the bullshit, okay? We've known about your special field agents for years. Just answer the question."

  Milo looked to Fitzhugh for guidance, and the older man, chewing his cheek, finally nodded.

  "Yes," said Milo. "He was a Tourist."

  "Thank you. Now that that's out of the way, can we go on?"

  He told them about disposing of Tripplehorn's corpse in the mountains near Lake Hopatcong, but claimed not to remember exactly where. Then he'd sent a coded e-mail to Tina from an Internet cafe.

  "The barbecue party," Simmons said with a grin. "That was good. Only figured it out after Tina told us."

  "Then you also know that it was a failure. She wouldn't leave with me."

  "Don't take it personally," said Simmons. "Not many people would just drop everything and disappear."

  "Either way, I was stuck. I didn't want to leave without my family, and my family wouldn't leave with me."

  "So you drove to Albuquerque," Fitzhugh cut in. "Stayed at the Red Roof Inn."

  "Yeah."

  "This is verified?" asked Simmons.

  Fitzhugh nodded, then looked up at the sound of someone knocking on the door. He opened it a crack. The voice of a guard wafted in: "This is for Special Agent Janet Simmons."

  "Who's it from?" asked Fitzhugh, but Simmons was already on her feet, pulling the door open and taking the flat manila envelope from the guard.

  "Just a sec, guys," she said, then stepped into the corridor.

  Fitzhugh looked at Milo, sighing heavily. "It's a hell of a thing."

  "What is?"

  "All this. Tom Grainger. Did you have any idea he could be so manipulative?"

  "I hardly even believe it now."

  Simmons returned with the envelope under her arm. Her cheeks, both men noticed, were nearly fuchsia.

  "What's the news?" asked Fitzhugh, but she ignored him and returned to her chair.

  She stared hard at Milo, thinking something over, then placed the envelope flat on the table, her hand on top of it. "Milo, I want you to explain the Russian passport."

  He wanted to know what was in that envelope, but said, "Terence mentioned it. It's a forgery, or a trick. I'm not a Russian citizen."

  "But your father is.”

  “My father's dead."

  "Then how did he show up in Disney World two weeks ago to have a secret meeting with you?”

  “What?" said Fitzhugh.

  Simmons ignored him. "Answer me, Milo. Your wife might not be the kind of person to disappear with you, but she's just as human as the rest of us. You introduced her to Yevgeny Primakov without ever telling her that she was meeting her father-in-law. And two days ago, we went to see your grandfather on your mother's side. William Perkins. Ring any bells?"

  The air went out of Milo. His scalp buzzed. How had she done it? Trust me, his father had said, but this couldn't have been part of any plan, exposing all this. He turned to Fitzhugh. "There's nothing to say about this. I'm devoted to this country and the Company. Don't listen to her."

  "Talk to me" said Simmons.

  "No," said Milo.

  "Milo," Fitzhugh began, "I think you better-"

  "No!" he shouted, and started jumping in his chair, the noise of rattling chains filling the small room. "No! Get out of here! This conversation is over!"

  The guards were already inside, two of them, holding Milo's shoulders, kicking his feet off the floor and pressing him down. "Get rid of him?" one asked Fitzhugh.

  "No," said Simmons, standing. "Keep him there. Terence, come with me."

  They left, and Milo calmed beneath the guards' hands. This had not been part of any plan-his outburst had come from somewhere else. It was the nervous reaction to that secret place being cracked open. Now they knew. Not just them, though, but Tina.

  He slumped until his forehead settled on the table. Tina knew. She knew now what her husband was and had always been. A liar.

  Did any of this even matter anymore? All he'd wanted was to go home again, and now, probably, that was one place he was no longer welcome.

  Without knowing it, he began to hum. A melody.

  Je suis une poupee de cire,

  Une poupee de son

  He stopped himself before it broke him completely.

  Through the closed door, he heard Fitzhugh shouting something indecipherable, then footsteps leading away. Simmons entered alone, the envelope under her arm, the flush in her cheeks fading. She spoke to the guards: "I want you to turn off the cameras and microphones. Got it? All of them. When you've done that, knock three times on the door but don't come in. Yes?"

  The two men nodded, glancing down at the prisoner, then left.

  She took her seat across from Milo, placed the envelope on the table, and waited. She said nothing, and Milo said nothing, only shifted for a better position, the chains making a little noise. He decided not to speculate on what was going on-speculation was killing him. When, finally, they heard three clear knocks on the door, Simmons allowed herself a soft smile. She used the friendly voice she'd first used in Blackdale, Tennessee, the one she'd been taught in interrogation training, and leaned forward, the better to close the psychological distance.

  She pulled out the photographs one by one until the three wer
e beside each other on the table, facing Milo. "Do you recognize these men, Milo?"

  It was a restaurant, Chinese. Two men shaking hands. He gritted his teeth, finally understanding.

  You'll know. You'll know when it's time for the Third Lie.

  When he spoke, his voice was crackly from his shouting fit. "Light's not too good."

  She considered this statement, as if it had basis in fact; it didn't. "Well, that one looks like Terence, doesn't it?"

  Milo nodded.

  "The other man-his friend-does that face look familiar?"

  Milo made a show of examining the face. He shook his head. "Hard to say. I don't think I know him."

  "It's Roman Ugrimov, Milo. Surely you remember his face."

  Milo wouldn't admit to anything. He pursed his lips and shook his head.

  She collected the photographs and slipped them back into the envelope. Then she pressed her hands together, at her cleavage, as if in prayer. Her voice was sweetness and light. "We're all alone here, Milo. Terence is out of the building. He's out of the picture now. You can stop protecting him."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," he answered, but it was a whisper.

  "Cut it out, okay?" she said softly. "Nothing will happen to you if you simply tell me the truth. I promise."

  Milo considered that, looked ready to say something, then changed his mind. He took a raspy breath. "Janet, despite our personal issues, I do trust that you'll stick to your promise. But that might not be good enough."

  "For you?"

  "And others."

  Janet sat back, eyes narrowing. "Who? Your family?" Milo didn't answer.

  "I'll take care of your family, Milo. No one's going to touch them."

  He flinched, as if she'd touched a nerve.

  "So stop protecting him, okay? He can't do anything. He can't even hear us. You and me, Milo, we're completely alone. Tell me the real story."

  Milo considered this, then shook his head. "Janet, none of us are ever alone." He exhaled, glanced at the door, and leaned close so his whispered Lie Number Three would be better heard. "I made a deal with him."

  "Terence?"

  He nodded.

  She watched him a moment, and he waited to see if she could fill in the details herself. "To take the rap for Grainger's murder," she speculated.

  "Yes."

  "And blame Grainger for everything else?"

  Milo didn't bother confirming this. He only said, "I was promised a short jail term, and he…" Milo swallowed. "And he would leave my family alone. So if you plan on doing something about this, you had better be ready to protect them with your life."

  16

  He'd known, even before walking into that interview room off of Foley Square, that things were sinking fast. It was the note from Sal:

  Not compromised. My last communication was about JS's trip to DT HQ. How is it wrong?

  It was a tragic reply, no matter how he looked at it. There were three possibilities.

  1. It was not Sal on the line. He had been exposed, and someone at Homeland was writing him confusing e-mails, using Sal's name.

  2. Sal was there, but again, he was compromised, and his new masters were telling him what to say.

  3. Sal was there, but didn't know he was compromised. Someone had decided to slip Fitzhugh an extra message and watch him sweat it out.

  All three possibilities were bad news.

  But he'd collected his wits before the interview. The truth was that nothing could connect him to the Tiger, the death of Angela Yates, or even Grainger. The whole operation had been run through

  Grainger, who was dead, which meant that, other than Milo Weaver, there was nothing left to threaten him. It was a dead case-it should be a dead case.

  Self-assurances can only take you so far. Simmons had first thrown him off guard with that revelation about Weaver's parentage-how had they not found this before? Then she asked him into the corridor.

  "Tell me why two aides to Senator Nathan Irwin were questioning Tina Weaver about you. Can you do that?"

  "What?" He'd never heard anything about this before. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  Janet Simmons's cheeks were brilliant in their flush, as if they'd each been slapped hard. "You told me before that you didn't know anything about Roman Ugrimov. That's correct?"

  Fitzhugh nodded.

  "Which I guess means you've never met him."

  "That's exactly what it means. What's this about?"

  "Then what's this?" She let him open the envelope himself. He pulled out three page-sized photographs. A Chinese restaurant, shot from a wide-angle hidden camera pointed at a small rear table.

  "Wait a minute," he began.

  "You and Ugrimov look pretty friendly to me," said Simmons.

  His vision fogged as he thought back to the previous night. Just a mistake, a man who mistook him for someone else. He tried to get Janet Simmons in focus. "Who gave you these?"

  "It doesn't matter."

  "Of course it does!" he shouted. "This is a setup, don't you see? This was taken last night! The man-he thought I was someone else… that's what he said. He shook my hand, then apologized because he thought I was someone named…" He tried to remember. "Bernard! That's it! He said Bernard!"

  "These were taken last year in Geneva." Her quiet voice contrasted with his hysteria.

  Then, finally, he understood. It was her. It had always been her. Janet Simmons and the Department of Homeland Security had come gunning for him. Why, he didn't know. Maybe in retaliation for Sal. All this-her pretense of wanting Milo Weaver behind bars, of being frustrated by Tom Grainger-it was all a ruse to distract him from her real aim, which was to bury Terence Albert Fitzhugh. Christ, he thought. They didn't even care about the Tiger or Roman Ugrimov. Bait and switch. It was all about him.

  Finally, some words had come to him. "Whatever you think you know, it's just fantasy. I don't know Roman Ugrimov. I'm not the guilty party here." He pointed at the door. "That's the guilty party, Janet, and you can falsify all the evidence you like. It won't change a thing."

  He'd stormed out and found his way to this bar full of tourists, not far from his hotel. Scotch had always been his drink, because that's what his father and his grandfather had sworn by, but all around him idiots from south of the Mason-Dixon guzzled beer, while their women sipped wine coolers and laughed at their men's stories.

  How could it have gone so bad, so quick? What had he done wrong?

  He tried to pull back, to see the situation from a distance, but it was hard. He knew, if only from his good work in Africa, that a few well-placed acts could be interpreted in any number of ways. Was he interpreting correctly? Was he in touch with the underlying truth of the evidence in front of him?

  After six, someone at the jukebox put on Journey, which felt like his cue to leave. He slipped into the movement of weekend tourists heading to Broadway shows, wanting to be just another part of their anonymous body, but at the next corner, spotting a pay phone a block from the Mansfield, he realized he couldn't. He needed help.

  He shoved in coins and called the number he tried not to abuse, and Senator Irwin answered on the fifth ring with a wary "Hello?"

  "It's me," said Fitzhugh, then remembered what he was supposed to say: "Carlos. It's Carlos."

  "Well, how are you, Carlos?"

  "Not well. I think my wife's got me figured out. She knows about the girl."

  "I told you, Carlos, you've got to cut that out. It does no one any good."

  "And she's heard about you."

  Silence followed.

  "It'll be all right," Fitzhugh insisted. "But I might need some help. You know, someone to cover for me.”

  “Want me to send someone?”

  “Yeah. That would be great.”

  “You still meeting her at the hotel?"

  "Yes," said Fitzhugh, pleased by the senator's patience. "I'm meeting her there at…" He checked his watch in the light of the setting sun. "She'll
be there at ten this evening."

  "Better make it eleven," Senator Irwin told him.

  "Sure. Eleven."

  The senator hung up first, and Fitzhugh settled the dirty receiver in the cradle and wiped his hands on his pants. A bellboy recognized him with a smile and a nod, and Fitzhugh returned the greeting. He had about five hours to get sober, so he went to the Mansfield's M Bar and ordered coffee. But after a half hour and a few words with the twenty-year-old bartender, a pretty aspiring actress, he changed his mind. A little buzz wouldn't ruin him. Three more scotches, and he stumbled up to his room.

  What to do about Simmons? The senator had enough pull to transfer her to one of those dreary regional Homeland offices, up around Pierre, South Dakota, perhaps. Simply keep her away until the investigation could be completed and Weaver sentenced to prison for killing Grainger. He no longer placed his bets on Weaver being a Russian mole-that was a bird in the tree. The bird in the hand was murder, and Weaver's beautiful confession. He might change his story at the last minute, of course, but with Simmons out of the way Fitzhugh could work with the story already recorded. Really, he assured himself, finding what was left of his scotch beside the bed and pouring himself one more shot, it was just a matter of removing Simmons from the present equation-that would make everyone, even the irritated senator, happy and safe.

  Punctually at eleven, a knock on the door woke him. He'd slipped off into an easy nap without realizing it. Through the spy hole was a man as old as himself, gray on the sides, one of the senator's aides. He opened the door and offered a hand, but when they shook the man didn't offer his name. That's how these special men were; they didn't use names. Fitzhugh locked the door, turned on the television for covering noise, and offered the man a drink from Grainger's bottle. The man politely refused.

  "We should get down to business," the man said. "Tell me everything."

  17

  Special Agent Janet Simmons arrived on Monday, July 30, the morning after Milo's third night at the MCC. The path to Milo Weaver had begun the previous morning, Sunday, when her cell phone buzzed her awake at 5:00 a.m. It was the local Homeland office, which thought she might be interested in some 911 chatter. She was, and took a taxi over to the Mansfield Hotel.