Olen Steinhauer - The Tourist

Though its aims-specifically, to force a peaceful settlement in Darfur -are commendable, the practical results are abysmal. Buoyed by Chinese oil investments, President al-Bashir has no need of Western funds. His present situation supplies him not only with the money, but also the arms, to continue his fight in Darfur and defend his rule against extremists in Khartoum.

By contrast, the trade embargo cuts off the sole potential income for the beleaguered citizens of the Darfur region, who receive no benefits from Chinese holdings in the country.

Dr. Khambule went on to explain that a more appropriate means of bringing al-Bashir to the peace table would be to offer U.S. help quelling the jihad ravaging the capital. "The carrot, so to speak, instead of the stick."

A little after ten, Tom Grainger appeared. He stood in the doorway facing Tina, carrying a plastic bag weighed down with a thick newspaper. "Hope I'm not interrupting."

Stephanie called her godfather "Uncle Tom," which was something they hadn't been able to unlearn her. She shouted it and threw herself at him. He caught her smoothly, bag rustling, and raised her with surprising strength to his hip.

"How's the prettiest girl in the United States?"

"I don't know. Sarah Lawton lives on the other side of town."

"I'm talking about you, young lady."

"Bring something?"

From his jacket pocket, Grainger produced a Hershey bar. Stephanie grappled at it, but he passed it over to Tina. "Your mom decides when you get that."

"Thanks anyway," Stephanie said.

Grainger sat across from Milo at the kitchen table. Tina delivered a cup of coffee, and he gave her a sad smile of thanks as she went to join Stephanie in the living room, closing the door behind herself. "Something wrong with her?"

Milo frowned. "Don't think so."

"Want to step out?"

"Have you bugged my place?"

"Anything's possible, Milo."

Toting his newspaper bag, Grainger gave his farewells, and Milo promised to pick up milk on his way home. Stephanie explained to Grainger that she preferred hazelnuts in her chocolate, and the old man promised to make a note of this. They took the steps down to Garfield in silence, then walked up Seventh Avenue, which was full of baby carriages and families of many shades.

They ended up at a Starbucks clone that called itself a patisserie, serving fresh French pastries and coffee. They took their cups to the sidewalk tables, the sun warming them gently, and watched families stroll by.

"Talk to me," said Milo.

Grainger seemed apprehensive. He lifted his bag and placed the thick Times on the table. That's when Milo noticed it was only the thin front section. Inside were papers in a manila folder. "It's a photocopy," he said.

"Tiger?"

The old man nodded. "Benjamin Harris. In 1989, he left BU with a graduate degree in journalism. By 1990, he was on the CIA payroll, sent to Beijing, and stayed there until 1993, when he died in a car accident."

"Died, huh?"

"Obviously not."

"How long?"

"Three years. November '96-that's when he disappeared." Grainger paused, glancing with approval at a pair of women in short skirts, then looked back. "Among others, Lacey, Decker, and another Tourist named Bramble went after him. Catch or kill. Lacey and Decker came up empty. Bramble was found dead in Lisbon. I thought about sending you, but you had that thing in Vienna, the old commie spy."

"I did that job with Frank Dawdle's help," Milo said.

"Dawdle," Grainger repeated. "What a surprise he turned out to be. A friend. That's how I thought of him. Naive, I guess." He looked at his hands, which were pressed together between his knees. "I figured it out eventually, you know. Why he suddenly broke. I'd let too much slip. We were preparing to retire the guy, and I told him that this-meaning the Portoroz hand-off-would be a nice finale to his career." He paused again. "If I'd just played it a little closer to the chest, he might be alive today."

Milo wasn't interested in Grainger's conscience. He pulled the heavy newspaper into his lap. "Harris disappears in '96 and goes solo. He has a fine career in liquidation until one of his clients knocks him out with HIV. All that time, you pretend you have no idea who he is. And you know I'm running around with my head cut off, looking for him."

"Read the file," Grainger said wearily. "You'll get it."

"Why were you protecting him?"

Grainger didn't like to be pestered. He could take it from superiors, but not from subordinates. He leaned over the table, closer to Milo, and said, "Look on page three of the file. His original case officer, the one who brought him into the Company, vetted him, and pulled him into Tourism."

"You?"

"Pah!" said Grainger, waving a hand. "I'm a little more perceptive than that."

Milo finally understood. "Fitzhugh."

"Exactly." He saw Milo 's expression. "It's not just about protecting that old bastard's career, of course. With the climate the way it is, how do you think CNN would spin this?"

"We trained the mujahideen," said Milo. "This isn't anything new."

"Tourists aren't shocked by anything."

They sat in silence, watching families under the hot sun. Grainger was drenched in sweat, his blue short-sleeve blackened around the armpits. "What about this?" said Milo, lifting the newspaper-covered file.

"What about it?"

"Why'd you break security and copy it? I was going to come into the office."

Grainger wiped off his forehead. "You think I want a record of you looking at that file? You think you want a record of it?”

“Fitzhugh would check the library lists?”

“You can bet he would."

A frantic golden retriever puppy sniffed at Grainger's foot, pulling at a long lead held by one half of a mixed gay couple. The black man scolded, "Ginger! Get off him!"

"Sorry," said his Asian partner, smiling. "I keep saying he needs training."

"He needs nothing of the sort," the first snapped. "It's all right," Grainger said, looking very much like an old, confused man.

Milo suddenly wished they were having this conversation in the office, not here among all these families.

"Listen," said Grainger, watching the couple disappear. "About your vacation."

"Don't start."

"This is about the worst time for you to run off to Florida."

Milo shook his head. "Like Fitzhugh says, it's a cold case. Vinterberg's not coming back to the Union Bank of Switzerland, because there's no Tiger left to pay. Angela won't be passing any secrets to the Chinese, because she's dead, and the French can investigate her killer on their own. They can tell us what's going on. I'll look into it again when I get back."

"What about Janet Simmons?" said Grainger.

"What about her? If she thinks I killed the Tiger, tell her to bring on the evidence."

Grainger shifted his feet on the concrete, staring at his loafers. "She's scheduled a meeting with Fitzhugh for tomorrow. She says it's about you."

"Listen, Tom. Simmons has nothing. She's just angry she didn't get to run an interrogation. She'll get over it."

Grainger shrugged, as if everything Milo said were, by definition, up for debate. "Just keep that file safe."

That evening, after Stephanie had gone to bed, Milo took the newspaper-covered file from his sock drawer, where he'd slipped it as soon as he got home. Tina, taking the milk from him, had said, "How many papers do you need?" Now, as she undressed, she said, "You're not staying up, are you?”

“Just some reading."

"Not too late. We'll have to be in the car by six. You know how long it takes to get through security.”

“Sure."

"Don't 'sure' me, mister," she said, crawling leisurely onto the bed, naked. "Give me a kiss." He did so. "Now come to bed."