Olen Steinhauer - The Tourist

Einner took the remote to the bed, flipped to MTV Europe, and raised the volume. The room filled with French rap.

Milo crossed to the window and lowered the blinds, feeling numb all over except for the phenomenally loud pulse in his head.

"What's that for?"

Milo didn't know. He'd closed the blinds on instinct.

"Paranoia," said Einner. "You've got a touch of paranoia. I saw that before, but I didn't know why-not until last night. I checked on it. You-" He returned to his whisper: "You used to be a Tourist."

"It was a long time ago."

"What was your legend?"

"I've forgotten."

"Come on."

"Last one was Charles Alexander."

The room went silent-Einner had muted the television. "You're jerking my chain.”

“Why would I?"

"Because," Einner began, sitting up on the bed. He had a moment of thought, then raised the volume again. "They still talk about Charles Alexander."

"Do they?"

"Really." Einner nodded vigorously, and Milo was unnerved by this sudden flush of respect. "You left a few friends and a lot of enemies scattered across the continent. Berlin, Rome, Vienna, even Belgrade. They all remember you well."

"You keep delivering such good news, James."

Milo 's phone rang-it was Tina. He took it to the bathroom to escape the thumping music. "Hi, hon."

" Milo? Are you at a club?"

"It's the TV," he said, pushing the bathroom door shut. "What's up?"

"When're you getting home?" She didn't sound scared, just… "Are you drunk?" She laughed-yes, she was. "Pat brought over a bottle of bubbly."

"What a prince." Milo wasn't jealous of Patrick; her ex was just a mildly annoying fact of life. "What's the problem?"

She hesitated. "Nothing, nothing. Pat's gone, Stef's in bed. Just wanted to hear your voice."

"Listen, I've got to run. There's been some bad news here."

"Angela?"

"Yeah."

"She isn't… I mean…" Tina trailed off. "She in any trouble?”

“It's worse than that."

He listened to her silence, as she tried to figure out what was worse than being caught for treason. Then, somehow, she got it. "Oh Christ." She began to hiccup, as she often did when drunk, or nervous.

An Italian man Milo once knew liked to say, "There's something banal about grief. All that kitsch just turns my stomach." The Italian was an assassin, so his philosophy served to protect him from the emotional impact of his jobs. As he showered, though, Milo found himself feeling the same way about Angela. It turned his stomach the way he kept evoking her features and her tone of voice, her bright, pretty face and the way she had taken to Parisian fashions. He remembered her funnily seductive Grrowl. Unlike the emptiness of shock, he now felt as if he were full to overflowing with the kitsch of death.

When he came out of the bathroom, the towel around his waist, Einner was drinking room-service coffee from a tray, staring at the television, where two hundred or more Arab protesters shouted, fists raised, pressing forward against a high steel fence.

"Where?" said Milo.

" Baghdad. Looks like Iran, 1979, doesn't it?"

Milo slipped into a striped shirt. Einner again raised the volume-a move that had by now grown into an omen of important subjects-but he just watched Milo dress; he seemed to be thinking. As Milo pulled on his slacks, Einner said in his stage whisper, "You ever come across the Black Book? Or is that just one of those Tourism myths?"

In the young man's face, Milo saw a moment of naive expectation. For various reasons-in particular because he wanted Einner to quit second-guessing him-he decided to lie. The Tiger, strangely enough, had provoked honesty from him. "It's real enough," he said. "I tracked down a copy in the late nineties."

Einner leaned closer, blinking. "Now you're really jerking my chain."

"No, James. I'm not."

"Where, then? I've looked, but never got close.”

“Then maybe you're not meant to find it.”

“Give me a break."

Milo gave him the line he'd heard so many times when he was younger. It was the line that gave the Black Book of Tourism, whether or not it existed, more of an aura than it probably deserved. "The book finds you, James. If you're worthy, you'll find a way to put yourself in its path. The book doesn't waste time with amateurs."

Einner's cheeks flushed and his breathing became shallow. Then, perhaps remembering who he was, he smiled and lowered the television's volume to a bearable level. "Know what?"

"What?"

"You're a Class-A bullshitter, Milo Weaver.”

“You've got me figured out."

Einner started to laugh, then changed his mind. He had no idea what to believe.

On Milo 's suggestion, they left the hotel by the rear stairwell and slipped out through the service entrance. Einner insisted on driving, and as they sped along the Al toward Charles de Gaulle, Milo filled him in on what Angela had told him the previous night.

"You were supposed to call me, Weaver. Wasn't that our deal?"

"I thought you'd at least leave the microphones on."

Einner shook his head, frustrated. "We made a deal. I stick to my deals."

"You cleared it with Tom, didn't you?"

A pause. "At first he said no, but he called back and told me to do as you asked. But still, Weaver. You should've called."

"Sorry, James." He continued with Angela's tale of the young Sudanese radical convinced his mullah had been killed by the West.

"So he saw a European face," said Einner. "What's that mean?"

"It means the Tiger wasn't lying. He did kill Salih Ahmad. And probably not for the president. If I believe Angela's story- and I do-then I don't think she was ever in contact with Herbert Williams. I think Williams was spying on her. Maybe he worried she was looking into his identity-who knows? If she was tracking Rolf Vinterberg in Zurich, and if Vinterberg is connected to Williams…" Anything, really, was possible. "All I know is that Angela started collecting evidence, then she ended up dead."

"What about Colonel Yi Lien?" Einner asked. "You can weave whatever complicated story you want, but the fact remains that he got hold of information that she had access to. This Williams character was photographed with Lien. You're not seeing this straight, Weaver."

"But it makes no sense," Milo insisted. "If Angela was leaking information, then why would her controller kill her? That only draws more attention."

"So she couldn't give up his identity," Einner said, as if this were obvious.

"No," Milo began, but he didn't have anything to follow it up with.

"Whatever the reason," said Einner, "killing Angela served some purpose. We just don't know what it is yet."

Einner was right, and he knew it. He noticed how the young Tourist's hands trembled on the wheel. Was that how he could be so bright-eyed this early in the morning? "Are you doing uppers?"

Einner gave him a sidelong glare as he took the airport exit. "What?"

"Amphetamines, coke, whatever."

"You think I'm high?"

"I mean in general, James. For the job. To keep going." A bouquet of road signs listed airlines. "Now and then, sure. When I need to."

"Watch out. They ruined me in the end. I was a real mess.”

“I'll remember."

"I'm serious, James. You're a good Tourist. We don't want to lose you."

Einner shook his head to shake off the confusion. "Fine. Okay."

Together, they bought a ticket from a pretty Delta clerk who'd shaved her head bald, then settled in a cafeteria to wait for the plane. Since there was no hard liquor available, Einner took a small, leather-covered flask of bourbon from his jacket. He set it on the table and told Milo to drink. As it burned Milo 's throat, the bourbon shook loose a thought. "Dead drop."