Olen Steinhauer - The Tourist

Patrick repeated, "Wow."

Tina whistled, standing and shouting, swinging her fist in the air, exhilarated. Some other parents stood and clapped, and Tina didn't care if they were just being polite. She felt giddy all over. Milo really would've loved this.

It had been a lousy year and a half for the Company. No one could say exactly where the trail of bad luck had started, which meant that the blame leapfrogged up and down the hierarchy depending on the public mood, pausing to wreak havoc on this or that career. News cameras arrived to witness early retirements and awkward dismissals.

Before moving on, these humiliated unemployed dropped in on Sunday morning television roundtables to spread the blame further. It was the ex-assistant director, a soft-spoken career spook, now exceedingly bitter, who best summed up the general consensus.

" Iraq, of course. First, the president blames us for supplying bad information. He blames us for not killing Osama bin Laden before his big act of public relations. He blames us for uniting both of those failures into a disastrous, unending war, as if we pointed him to Iraq. We defend ourselves with facts-facts, mind you-and suddenly the president's allies in Congress begin to pick us apart. What a coincidence! Special investigation committees. If you spend enough money and look hard enough, all organizations turn up dirty. That, too, is a fact."

Georgia Republican Harlan Pleasance was the one who really dropped the bomb, back in April 2006. He headed the second special investigation committee, which, based on the results of the first committee the previous month, focused on money trails. With access to the CIA budget (a secret since the 1949 Central Intelligence Agency Act), Senator Pleasance wondered aloud how the Company could fund, for example, the recently uncovered ten-million-dollar gift to the unlikely named Youth League, a militant Chinese democracy group based in the mountainous Guizhou province that had ironically named itself after the communist youth organization. It took less than three months for Senator Pleasance to report on CNN's The Situation Room that the Chinese militants' gift had come from part of the sale, in Frankfurt, of eighteen million euros' worth of Afghan heroin, which had been clandestinely harvested by Taliban prisoners under U.S. Army guard. "And no one told us a thing about it, Wolf."

It was an open secret within Langley that, while all this might be true, there was no human way to discover it from the existing paper trails. Another agency was feeding Senator Pleasance his information. Most believed it was Homeland, while others-and Milo was part of this group-believed it was the National Security Agency, which had a much older, historic beef with the CIA. It didn't matter, though, because the public didn't care where the information came from. The facts were just too enticing.

Whatever began the steady bloodletting, it was Pleasance's discovery that turned it into a public, and international, massacre. First, the embarrassed Germans rolled back their historic support and shut down many joint operations. Then it became a race. Fresh special committees demanded financial records as minor politicians took a stab at national recognition, while Langley began incinerating hard drives. Louise Walker, a typist, was arrested for this, and after a lengthy meeting with her lawyer became convinced that the only way out was to give a name. That name was Harold Underwood, a low-level bureaucrat. Harold was also assigned a convincing lawyer.

So it went. Eighteen months from beginning to end, resulting in thirty-two arrests: seventeen acquittals, twelve jail terms, two suicides, and one disappearance. The new CIA director, whose approval was rushed through the nomination hearings, was a tiny but vociferous Texan named Quentin Ascot. In front of the Senate, on elevated heels, he made his position clear. No more black money. No more operations that hadn't been approved by the Senate Committee on Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs. No more cowboy antics at Langley. "No more rogue departments. It's a new world. We serve at the pleasure of the American people, who pay our bills. We should be an open book."

The Company's collective groan could be heard around the world.

The four secret floors of offices on the Avenue of the Americas, stocked with Travel Agents who focused on the running of, and assimilation of information collected by, Tourists based in all the populated continents, was (behind closed doors) considered a prime target for the inevitable cuts. Director Ascot, it was rumored, wanted to relieve the world of Tourism altogether. He claimed that Tourists, with open-ended resources and no need to collect receipts, would bankrupt the Company. But since he didn't have enough internal support to erase the clandestine department, all he could do was slowly chew it up.

Milo learned of Ascot's first tentative steps when he arrived at LaGuardia from Tennessee and met Tom Grainger in the airport security office. The old man had sent away the "rent-a-cops," as he called most non-Company personnel, and through a two-way mirror they watched crowds jostling at the luggage carousel, the irregular flow of travelers along mass transit lines that had in recent years become national threat centers. Both men missed that almostforgotten time when travel was about arriving someplace new, not about getting through the clunky measures of antiterrorist law.

"They're starting the post-massacre frenzy," Grainger said to the glass, a drawn look on his face.

Even by CIA standards, Tom Grainger was old-seventy-one years, most of his white hair lost to the shower drain, his cabinet full of prescription pills. He never appeared in public without a tie.

"The Grand Inquisitor has sent a memo through his underlings-through Terence Fitzhugh, to be precise. I'm to prepare for executions, he says. Ascot 's predicting a war of attrition, and he's getting me to take out my own people. It's slow hara-kiri."

Milo had known Grainger since 1990, when he'd been invited to become part of the Company's clandestine world in London, and he knew the old man was always melodramatic when it came to Langley. His secret department in Manhattan was his private dominion, and it hurt him to be reminded that people in another state really pulled the strings. Maybe that was why he'd decided to appear at the airport, rather than wait for morning to talk in the office-no one here could listen to his bitching. "You've been through worse, Tom. We've all been through worse."

"Hardly," Grainger said dismissively. "One-quarter. That's how much we're losing. He's giving me the heads-up. Next year we'll work on one-quarter less funds, which'll barely cover operational costs. I'm supposed to decide which Travel Agents get pink slips, and which get transferred to more public departments."

"And the Tourists?"

"Aha! Too many. That's the gist of it. Twelve slots for the whole of Europe, working around the clock, and yet I'm supposed to get rid of three of them. Bastard. Who does he think he is?"

"Your boss."

"My boss wasn't there when the planes came, was he?" The old man rapped a knuckle on the glass. A boy standing nearby turned to frown at the noisy mirror. "I guess you weren't either, were you? You never did visit the old office… no." He was fully engaged in his memories now. "You were still a Tourist, just barely, and we were sitting at our desks, drinking Starbucks, as if the world wasn't preparing to explode."

Milo had heard all this before, Grainger's endless replay of September 11, when the former secret CIA office at 7 World Trade Center collapsed. It didn't happen immediately, because the nineteen young men who hijacked four planes that morning didn't realize that by hitting one of the smaller towers they could wipe out an entire Company department. Instead, they went for the glory of the enormous first and second towers, which gave Grainger and his staff time to flee in panic before the main targets crumbled, bringing number seven down with them.