Olen Steinhauer - The Tourist

"Of course I don't, Weaver. That's why I'm sitting here with you, rather than arresting her and going home to my girlfriend." Einner cleared his throat. "Now you. Tell me how you know Mr. Williams."

"Motorcycle," said Bill, stiffening behind the wheel.

They leaned toward the window. The sun was mostly gone, and they could just make out the silhouette of a leather-clad cyclist heading toward them. Einner shifted, removing a small Beretta from his shoulder holster-a Beretta, of course. "Don't get all Gunsmoke, now," said Milo.

The motorcycle cut between two cars and leapt to the sidewalk. A red box on the rear said pizza hut.

Once the deliveryman had roared past and up to Angela's door, Einner holstered the Beretta. "Come on. Out with it."

Milo told him about Klausner/Williams and the Tiger. The news seemed to throw Einner off his game. From the speakers, they heard the soft melody of Angela's doorbell. Einner's hands floundered in his lap. "I-well, the Tiger." Then: "This changes everything, doesn't it?"

"I don't think so."

Einner regained his focus. "If Angela's connected to someone who controls-or controlled-the movements of the Tiger, then we're not just talking about her selling some secrets to the Chinese. She's being run by someone with serious contacts. She could be freelance now. Open market."

"The plan's still the same," said Milo. "Identify her contact, then bring him in. Don't touch Angela until we have him."

"Yes," Einner admitted with a touch of distracted melancholy, "you're right."

Milo opened the back door and climbed down into the street. "I'm getting some dinner. Call if you change position, okay?"

"Sure," Einner said, then pulled the door shut. The Parisian air smelled of ham and warm pineapple.

Milo found a small, neon Turkish place on a side street near Place Leon Blum and ordered a gyro, eating it against a stand-up table. None of this felt right. Either Angela was innocent, which was what he wanted to believe, or she was guilty of selling secrets-but to the Chinese? It would be more in her line to sell them to a country she sympathized with. The Poles, for instance. She was a third-generation Polish American who had grown up hearing that hard language all around her. Her fluency was one reason the Company had originally brought her on. So was her idealism. Money, in itself, wasn't enough to make Angela betray anyone.

Einner, whether or not he was giving her a fair shake, had invested a lot of budget hours into his two-month surveillance operation, and backing off Angela would look like a waste of government resources-a risky move in the midst of cutbacks.

Besides, the evidence was there. Angela was connected to the Tiger's client, Herbert Williams, and that man was connected to the Chinese colonel. Did she know this man was connected to the Tiger, whom she was so desperate to catch?

Another question: Why was the Sudan coming up so much? Angela had been shocked to learn of the Tiger's job there, and had hidden something-probably Rahman Garang, the young Sudanese terrorist.

But why?

As he stuffed flakes of moist roasted lamb into his mouth, he began to feel like he had when he'd smoked in the airport. He was being watched. In the window's reflection, he saw the whole of the narrow place: the low counter with a cash register and a bored girl in a peaked yellow cap, the young couple just behind him, leaning close and whispering nonsensical love-talk, and the two Arab men at a table by the wall, drinking Fanta and saying nothing. He gave the men a longer examination, but no-no one seemed interested in him. Then he returned to the lovers.

Yes. A tall, handsome man and a butch woman with heavy, swollen eyes, who looked as if she'd been beaten. From the cafe where he'd met Angela.

He lengthened his focus back to the street. It was nearly nine thirty, and the neighborhood was quiet. He swallowed a few more bites of lamb, then, without cleaning anything up, left the restaurant.

He headed to the next intersection-a right would put him on the busy street leading back to Angela's. As he rounded the corner, he glanced back and saw, at the door, the couple exiting the restaurant, holding hands and walking casually in his direction.

Once out of sight, he broke into a run, flying past cars and couples of all ages out for a stroll. A coincidence was always possible, but Milo 's carefully tended paranoia didn't buy it. Probably French intelligence- the Secretariat General de la Defense Nationale, or SGDN. They had a file on Milo, and certainly took notice of his arrival, sans family, and his visit with Angela. They would want to know what he was doing in their country. He, on the other hand, wanted to keep Angela's shaky situation as far from them as possible.

Instead of continuing straight at the next intersection, Milo took another right and waited behind the corner. He peered out in time to see the couple again. They emerged onto the street, kissed, and split up. The man walked to the left, away from Milo, and the woman walked straight, also away from him. He waited until they were gone, then phoned Einner.

"I'm being followed."

Einner hummed. "Well, the French are kind of nuts about their sovereignty."

"We can't let them know she's under investigation. They won't trust her."

"Then maybe you should go home, old man."

"Anything happen?"

"Just preparing for bed."

"She knows she's being watched."

"Clearly," Einner said. "And she knows it's best to wait for the surveillance men to tire. It's our job to not get tired."

Milo wanted to argue this, but there was nothing to debate. "I'll be at my hotel. Call me before you move in."

"If I must."

"You must."

He had made it halfway to the metro station when his phone rang. He frowned at the unknown French number, then stepped into a quiet alley and answered. "Hello?"

"Still in town?" It was Angela.

Milo hesitated, then: "My plane's in the morning. Nine o'clock.”

“How about a drink at your hotel? I've got insomnia, and there's more you might be interested in.”

“About what?”

“Grrowl."

He laughed, trying to sound natural. "Don't tell me you were holding out on me."

"I would never tell you that."

"Why don't I come to you? I'll bring a bottle. Besides, I think the French've been watching me. No need for them to see us together in a public place."

"Like they could follow a man of your considerable skills."

"Ha," he said. "Just give me your address, will you?"

He picked up more Davidoffs and a bottle of Smirnoff from an all-night convenience store, then called Einner. Einner, of course, had already heard everything. "She tried to get to sleep. No luck. She was fooling with her sleeping pills, but I guess even a conversation with you was more appealing than those."

"Do me a favor and knock off the surveillance, will you? We're good friends, and the talk will get personal."

"If you want to fuck her, go ahead. Don't ask my permission."

"I will punch you, James. Don't think I won't."

"Can't wait, old man."

"We'll talk about things no one needs to know about. If she starts to bring up anything relevant, then I'll call you."

"What's the code?" said Einner, pleased to be back in his own territory of ciphers and pass-phrases.

"Hell, I don't know. You'll hear my voice."

"Call your wife," he said. "Say you told her you'd call, and you forgot."

"But they're friends. Angela will want to talk to her, too.”

“She's in the middle of something and has to run." It was good enough, so Milo agreed. "You'll turn off the surveillance as soon as I show up?”

“Yeah. Promise."

Milo doubted that, but if things became too confessional, he knew the approximate locations of the cameras and could obstruct them. The microphones, though, would be another matter. Head to her terrace, perhaps?