Olen Steinhauer - An American spy

It was as if God had sent him salvation, as if God wanted this, too.

“You realize that this is no longer easy,” said the man his Staten Island contact had sent him to. He was young, midtwenties, but he had the movements and deliberate speaking manner of someone much older. Alan supposed political exile did that to you. “A couple of years ago, the Youth League was moving upward, and then-well, you know what happened.”

Alan knew, and so did most politically aware Americans. A congressional committee had uncovered a CIA transfer of ten million dollars to the fledgling Chinese democracy group based in Guizhou province. Had the Youth League been part of the democracy movement that made itself understood through poetry and literary journals and hunger strikes, none of this would have troubled anyone very much. Yet the Youth League had watched the two post-Tiananmen decades slide by as if Tiananmen had never occurred and, as with so many armed groups before them, patience was no longer part of its vocabulary. The CIA had been crucified for its support of terrorists, first by outraged Chinese diplomats, and then by more congressional committees that made it a priority to dig as deeply as possible into the Company coffers.

“They’re on the run now,” said the man, “living in the woods. They’re still hungry, you understand. Their spirit is not diminished. However, they’re on the edge of extinction, and they know it.”

Alan had been ready for this. If the man wasn’t at least a little resistant, then he wouldn’t be trustworthy. “In this situation,” Alan said, “a single victory could make all the difference.”

“Or be the final blow that kills the movement,” the man said quickly, as if the line had been on the tip of his tongue all along.

“I’ve told you everything,” Alan said. “You have the details.”

“You’ll be in Rome for how long?”

“Two nights.”

“Well,” said the man, smiling elusively, “let us hope that everything is settled to the maximum of satisfaction.”

Alan shook the young man’s hand, then left.

He was staying in a small pension in the working-class neighborhood of Testaccio, where the Vespas buzzed and the sun baked the concrete and stones and encouraged his neighbors to shout at one another even louder until the afternoon siesta, when they fell into their sweat-soaked beds and made love or slept. It was during this empty period that he went down to a kiosk, bought a phone card, and went to the local post office to make his call. After two rings, Hoang said, “Hotel Manhattan.”

“Room 9612, please.”

Hoang didn’t bother connecting him.

“Is everything all right?” Alan asked.

“Of course. She’s in the next room. Do you want to talk to her?”

“Please.”

He heard movement, a squeaky door opening, then Hoang’s monotone, It’s him.

Then Penelope’s Jesus! “Alan? Alan!”

“Hey,” he said. “Hey, Pen. You all right?”

“I-well, of course I’m not all right. I’m shaken. Who the hell is this guy? Where are you?”

“He’s a friend, and I’m not in the country right now. But don’t worry-you’re there because it’s safe.”

“What do you mean, ‘safe’? Is this about the apartment?”

“What?”

“The Company ripped apart our place, looking for something.”

“Are you sure it was them?”

“I’m not sure of anything. Where are you?”

“I’m going to be gone a little while longer. Please, be patient.”

“I don’t have much choice, do I?”

“You always have a choice. But I’m asking you-please stay there until I get back. It’s for your own good.”

“Why does he have your wedding ring?”

“What-” he began, then remembered, rubbing the bald spot on his finger. “It was the only thing I could think to do. And, listen, Pen. I’m sorry.”

A pause, then, “He told me about those thirty-three people.”

“He?”

“Milo. I had no idea, Alan.”

“Don’t dwell on it.”

She took a breath, a clotted intake, and he worried she was going to cry. Instead, she said, “Just come home, okay?”

“As soon as I can.”

“When’s that going to be?”

“It’s not entirely up to me.”

Silence.

“Pen?”

“I’m here.”

“What’s Milo doing?”

“Well, he’s trying to find you, isn’t he?”

“Has anyone contacted him?”

“The CIA. They’re trying to figure out the same thing.”

He thought about that, doubting that the CIA really cared where he was. “Okay, listen. You can’t use your phone.”

“He already took it from me.”

“Don’t be insulted if he doesn’t give it back-he’s not very trusting-but he’s going to have to leave you alone for a few days. Go out with him and do some shopping-cash only-and make sure you’re stocked up for a week. Okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“When he comes back, he’ll have Tina and Stephanie with him.”

“ What? ”

“Listen, okay? They’ll be scared, but let them know they don’t need to be. They’ll have to follow the same rules as you-no phones, no credit cards-but you’ll all be fine. This shouldn’t last long.”

“Christ, you’re mysterious.”

She was starting to sound like the girl he had married.

With everything set up and ready to go, this was an unforgivable risk, but Hoang had been insistent. “You have to come-unless you want me to kill them, too.”

“Don’t touch them, Hoang. I’ll be there,” he said, then noticed what the man had said. “Wait-what do you mean: kill them, too?”

“There was an old man. He’d figured out where I was holding them.”

“What old man?”

“A Russian. His accent, at least. He was in the Weaver apartment, but he came out and knocked on the apartment we were in. He said he knew they were in there.”

“Jesus.” Alan’s stomach dropped an inch.

“What?”

“You killed Milo’s father.”

Silence. Finally, Hoang said, “I had no choice.”

“Of course you did, you murderous shit.”

Again, silence.

Alan closed his eyes, and the next day, as he descended into Denver International, he realized that, eventually, whether or not his plan succeeded, Milo Weaver would hunt him down and kill him for this.

He used the name Edward Leary for the flights, then used the name George Miller to rent a car, and by the time he reached Grand Lake he had been traveling for a day without rest. He didn’t feel up for this, but there was no choice. Time was running out, and, given another day, he had no doubt that Tran Hoang would shoot everyone.

He parked beside Hoang’s rental and walked up the lane to the two-story cabin that overlooked the lake. A chilly breeze rattled the trees. Hoang stepped out onto the porch to meet him but didn’t offer a hand. “Don’t worry,” said the Tourist. “Everyone’s breathing.”

Alan pushed past him and found Penelope first. She gripped him in a desperate hug and began to cry. At first, he feared that Hoang had been lying and the tears were for two corpses upstairs, but when she began to kiss him frantically, he realized the tears were for him. She was full of questions, but he fended them off, saying, “Where are they?”

She led him upstairs, holding his hand, and in a bedroom he found Tina Weaver sitting in bed looking angrier even than when he’d first met her at New York Methodist, just after her husband had been shot. Again, Stephanie was leaning against her arm, half asleep, but then she blinked, waking, and said, “Hi, Alan.”

“Hi, Stef. Tina.”

Tina kissed her daughter’s head and said, “Wait here, Little Miss. I’ve got some things to get straight with Alan.”