Olen Steinhauer - The Tourist

"X," they agreed, had hired the Tiger to kill a radical mullah in the Sudan, and when the Tiger began investigating the identity of his employer, X had him killed.

"Anyone could have killed Rahman," she said, blinking to keep Milo in focus. "His terrorist friends see him talking to me, and they decide he's a double. Or, whoever had the mullah killed thought he was discussing X's identity with me, and so X had him killed for the same reason he killed the Tiger."

Milo had to hold his tongue, because what he wanted to say would have given away what he knew. X's agent, Herbert Williams, had been seen with Angela Yates. What if, instead of being her contact, Williams was spying on her? Williams had been there, in the restaurant, when Rahman was meeting with Angela.

Ignore the Chinese diplomat and his stolen secrets, and the picture became something else. Angela as victim, rather than security leak.

Yet the question the Tiger had posed on his deathbed remained: Who was X? Who would have hired the Tiger to kill both Mullah Salih Ahmad and the French foreign minister? Would some terrorist group want them both dead? While Ahmad's death in the end helped militant Islam's cause in the Sudan, the foreign minister's death would do nothing to help them.

What, further, would explain all the acts of assassination by the Tiger since 2001, when Herbert Williams became one of the Tiger's clients?

Maybe Herbert Williams was X. Perhaps he was just a broker of death for whatever powerful people needed someone vanquished. In which case, there was nothing to tie the various murders together.

"The Chinese," she said. "Branding Salid Ahmad's corpse looks a lot like a direct warning to the extremists-quit harassing our friend, or you'll end up like this man. But it's almost too obvious, isn't it?"

Milo nodded. " China 's a lot of things, but it's not shortsighted. The Central Committee doesn't want a fight with the Sudanese masses. China doesn't want to send its troops to Africa, or have the international community looking too closely-they're hosting the Olympics in a year. The brand was supposed to inflame anti-Chinese, anti-imperialist sentiment." He took a breath. "I'm with the Tiger on this-I think he was working for the jihadists."

"The only way to know is to find Herbert Williams," she said.

Despite the frustration of no solid answers, he was enjoying this. Sitting with Angela, going through the details and variables and working through possible solutions, reminded him of their friendship more than a decade before, when both were young, unattached, and wildly enthusiastic about their employer and their country.

Then the mood shifted. She rubbed her arms as if chilled by the morbid stories they were spinning. A little after one, she said, "I'll call a taxi. Don't want to be late for Disney."

After calling, she used the toilet and came out popping a pill from a prescription bottle.

"What's that?"

"For sleeping."

He raised a brow. "You really need those?”

“You're not my shrink, Milo."

"Remember when I tried to hook you on amphetamines?"

At first she didn't, then she did. Her laugh was natural. "Man, you were such a wreck."

He gave her a kiss on the way out, and she handed him the still two-thirds full Smirnoff bottle. "Let's stay in touch about this," he said. "You've done so much more than I ever could have."

She patted his ass to urge him out. "That's because I'm smarter than you are."

The taxi was waiting for him, and before getting inside he looked toward the flower van. From its passenger seat, Einner was staring at him, holding up a questioning thumbs-up sign. Milo gave him an answering thumbs-up, and the Tourist returned to the back of the van. To Milo 's surprise, Einner had actually given him his privacy. Milo never would have been so generous.

He woke early Saturday morning with a hangover, his lungs suffering dry rot. The television shouted the weather in French. He tried to open his eyes, but the room was a blur, so he shut them again.

This was what happened when he was away from his family. There was no one around to remind him that it was a mistake to spend the night with a bottle of vodka and a pack of smokes, watching late-night French television. He hadn't been like this when he was a Tourist, but now, Milo-the-family-man traveled like an immature teenager just set free from home.

Something moved-a creak-and he opened his eyes again, smeared colors shifting. He pushed back, fist rising. From the chair beside his bed, Einner smiled at him.

"You with me?"

Milo tried to sit up against the headboard; it was difficult. He remembered sinking into the vodka and, out of curiosity, a child-sized bottle of hotel brandy and another of ouzo. He coughed up some bitter phlegm, then swallowed it.

Einner held up the bottle for examination-only three or so shots remained. "At least you didn't down the whole thing."

Milo realized, not for the first time, that he was no good at living.

Einner set the bottle on the floor. "Awake enough to talk?"

"I'm still a little drunk.”

“I'll order coffee.”

“What time is it?”

“Six in the morning."

"Jesus." He'd slept two and a half hours, max.

Einner called down for coffee while Milo went to wash his face. Einner appeared in the bathroom doorway, grinning. "Not like when you were young, eh?"

Milo used the toothbrush to scrape stomach acid from the back of his tongue. He felt like he was going to be sick, but didn't want to do that in front of Einner. Not that.

By the time Milo came out again, he could get Einner in focus. Amazingly, the Tourist looked well rested as he flipped through stations, settling on CNN International. Milo wished he looked like that. A shower-that would help.

"You here for a reason, James?"

Einner raised the television's volume, his expression morose. "It's Angela."

"What about her?"

Einner started to speak, then looked around the room. From his jacket pocket he produced an oil-stained receipt and a pen. Leaning against the bedside table, he wrote one word and held it out for Milo to read:

Dead

Milo 's legs tingled and threatened to give out. He moved to the bed, settled down, and rubbed his face. "What're you talking about?"

Again, Einner hesitated, lifted his pen, but decided he could tell this without giving much away. "You left last night. You gave me the thumbs-up, so I powered it all up again."

"Okay. And?"

"She was just climbing into bed. Out like a light.”

“Sleeping pills," said Milo. "She took them when I was still there."

"Right. So there she goes. Off to sleep. After an hour, I left to get some food. Bill took over. I got back an hour after that. That's when I noticed-she hadn't moved. Not at all. She-" He paused, looking at the paper and pen, considering, but again changed his mind. He leaned to whisper in Milo 's ear. "For something like an hour, she hadn't moved an inch. She didn't even snore. Another hour passed-same damned thing."

"Verified?" Milo whispered back.

"Forty minutes ago. I went in and checked her pulse. Nothing. I made sure to take the flash drive.”

“But…" Milo began. "But how?"

"Bill thinks it was something in her pizza, but he's like that. I'm for those sleeping pills you mentioned."

Milo 's stomach cramped. He had been right there, watching her commit unintended suicide. He regulated his breaths. "Did you tell the police?"

"Really, Weaver. You must be convinced I'm an idiot."

Milo didn't feel like disputing that. He didn't feel anything beyond an acute hollowness. He knew it was the shock before the storm. He took the remote from Einner and muted the television, where Palestinian children were jumping in a street, celebrating something. "I'm taking a shower."