Olen Steinhauer - The Tourist

But Angela was also practical. She'd faced enough disappointment in her life not to wallow in it. She raised her glass to him. "Congratulations, Milo."

"Don't congratulate me," he said. "I was just running to the Tiger's directions. He laid a trail for me to follow, so I could hear his last wish."

"Which was?"

"To track down whoever had him killed." She didn't reply, so he added: "Which means you're still at the forefront of this. I'd like to know who decided to off him."

She sipped her wine. "Okay, Milo. Talk to me."

Over the next quarter hour, he filled her in on the details of the Tiger's story, watching her face run through a range of emotions as she slowly regained her hopefulness.

She cut in: "Salih Ahmad? In the Sudan? He did that?"

The news seemed to invigorate her, though he didn't know why. "That's what he admitted to," he said. "Why? You know something about it?"

"No," she answered, a little too quickly. "Go on."

When he told her about Jan Klausner, a.k.a. Herbert Williams, he remembered something. "You've got a shot of him. He's the one with the Tiger in Milan."

She frowned. "Your office must have cropped him out."

"I'll get you a full shot."

"Thanks."

By the time he finished, she was sitting straight again, biting her lower lip in anticipation. It pleased Milo that he could bring her back like that, but he got the sense-and there was nothing he could put his finger on as evidence-that she was holding something else back. Something she didn't trust him with. So he pressed his original point, to help her feel in control: "I can't follow this up from the States, so it has to be your game. I'll run to your directions. Sound good?"

"Aye aye, cap'n," she said, smiling, but followed with silence. Whatever she was holding back would stay with her, at least for now. She held up a slender hand. "Enough about work, okay? Talk family. Stephanie's what? Seven?"

"Six," he said, reaching for the carafe, then remembering it was empty. "Mouth like a sailor's, but I'm not trading her in yet."

"Tina still ravishing?"

"More so. Probably best I didn't bring her."

"Watch out." She winked, then gave a misshapen smile that reminded him that Angela Yates was no fool. "So tell me what you want."

"Why do you think I want something?"

"Because you spent an hour outside the embassy waiting for me. You didn't bother calling ahead, because you didn't want a record of us meeting. And, like you said, you've got a family. I seriously doubt Tina would let you take a Paris vacation without her." She paused, her expression serious. "See where I'm going with this?"

The cafe was full of lunching French and very few, if any, Americans. Through the window, he noticed the tall, handsome man from earlier waiting on the street for a table-he wondered where his girlfriend, the one with swollen eyes, had fled to.

Milo folded his knuckles under his chin. "You're right: I need something. Small favor."

"Big trouble?"

"No trouble at all. Just an inconvenience. I need you to hold on to something until next week. On Monday, someone will ask you for it and you'll give it to him."

"Big? Small?"

"Very small. A flash drive."

She peered around the restaurant just as Milo had. She managed a whisper. "I'll need to know more.”

“Fine."

"What's on it?"

"Just a report. I can't send it because all my contact's communications are compromised.”

“He's in town?"

" Beirut, but he'll fly to Paris Monday morning and come to the embassy. Once he's got it, there's no more need for intrigue.”

“So why the intrigue now?"

Angela, Milo believed, trusted him. At least, she trusted the London field agent she'd once known so well, but in the last years their relationship, despite periodic visits, had become more distant, and he didn't know if she'd buy the story. He sighed. "Truth is, I'm supposed to hand it over myself. But I can't stay in France."

"Why not?"

Milo scratched his nose, feigning embarrassment. "It's… well, it's my vacation. Tina's already reserved our hotel in Florida. Disney

World. And she can't pull out of it. One of those cut-rate Internet deals." That part, at least, was true.

Angela laughed. "Don't tell me you're afraid of your wife!"

"I'd just like to spend my vacation on vacation. Not arguing."

"Not the man you used to be, are you?" She winked. "Why didn't you send someone from New York to deliver it?"

"There is no one else," he said. "I've been working up this report for the last month. I don't want anyone else looking at it."

"And then you remembered me."

"I remembered Angela Yates, my oldest friend."

"I'm assuming you didn't tell Tom about this."

"Look who's the sharpest knife in the drawer."

She glanced beyond Milo, scanning the crowd. "You going to tell me what's on it?"

Milo started to tell her what Grainger had ordered him to say, that it was an analysis of Chinese oil interests in Kazakhstan, but changed his mind. With Angela, curiosity was the killer. "Some Asian oil stuff. You don't need to know the details, do you?"

"I guess not." After a pause, she said, "Okay, Milo. For you, anything."

"You've saved my ass." A waiter slid past him, and he caught his arm, asking for a bottle of Moet. Then he leaned close to Angela. "Give me your hand."

She seemed unsure, but did as he asked. She had long fingers, and her nails were buffed but unpainted. Milo took her dry hand in both of his, tenderly, as if they were lovers. Her eyes grew, just a little, as she felt the flash drive press into her palm. Lightly, he kissed her knuckles.

There were two messages waiting at the hotel. James Einner wanted to know if everything had gone as planned, though he worded it as "Has the money been transferred yet?" Milo crumpled that into his pocket. The other message, blank, was from Grainger, signed "Father." Despite already having a buzz from lunch, once in his room he poured a tiny vodka from his fridge into a glass. He opened the high French windows and leaned out to look down on the rush-hour gridlock of the Rue Saint-Philippe du Roule. He lit a cigarette before dialing.

Tina answered drowsily. "Yeah?"

"Darling, it's me."

"Which one?"

"The stupid one."

"Oh. Milo. Still in Paris?"

"Yeah. How're things?"

"I don't know. Just getting up. You sound-are you drunk?"

"Actually, a little."

"What time's it there?"

He checked his watch. "Nearly three."

"I guess that's all right."

"Listen, I might not get back until Sunday."

Silence, then the noise of sheets as she sat up straight. "Why?"

"Things arc kind of complicated.”

“How complicated?”

“Not dangerous."

"Okay," she said. "You know when our plane leaves, right?”

“Monday, ten in the morning.”

“And if you're not here by then…”

“I'll be vacationing on my own."

"I'm glad that's understood," she said as he took a drag of his cigarette. "Hold it, mister.”

“What?”

“You're smoking"

He tried to sound offended: "I'm not"

"You're in a whole heap of trouble," Tina said, then: "Hey, baby."

"Hey what?"

"Stef's here." Her voice muted slightly as she said, "Wanna talk to your daddy?"

"Why would I?" he heard Stephanie say.

"Be nice," said Tina, and after a moment Stephanie came on.

"This is Stephanie Weaver. To whom am I speaking?"

"You're speaking to Milo Weaver," he said.

"Very nice to speak to you."

"Stop it!" he screamed, and she started laughing. Once the fit had passed, she slipped back into her six years and babbled about every single event that had filled her Thursday. It was mesmerizing stuff.

"You called him what?"