Olen Steinhauer - The Tourist

And over there, by the eastern edge of the park, a university student took vertical photos of the European Central Bank skyscraper that looked down on everything. Casual photographers were everywhere in a city like this, and they could shoot you from all directions.

"Hands up, cowboy!"

Milo almost fell off the bench as he jumped and twisted, finding Einner with a finger pistol pointed at him, grinning madly. "Jesus."

"Little rusty," Einner said as he safely pocketed his hand. "Keep going like this, old man, you'll be dead by sundown."

Milo recovered his breath, ignored the dangerous sound of his heart. They shook hands. "Tell me what you know."

Einner nodded in the direction of the opera house. "Let's walk."

They moved together, neither in a hurry.

"It's not what you think," said Einner. "They haven't called in Tourists-you're not that important yet. Tom told me to expect you."

If it was true, Milo was relieved. He was starting to believe that having Einner on his trail would be a serious problem. "Did Tom tell you why you should expect me?"

"I got that elsewhere. Had breakfast with a friend at the consulate. She's not…" He paused as they reached the street, wondering how to put it. "She's not quite a security risk, but she's no security saint either. She told me about a wire that came in, for all embassies and consulates, to look out for Milo Weaver."

"Company wire?"

"State Department."

"Are they looking?"

"Well, you don't get these all-embassy alerts often. They're looking. Last I heard, a lead went cold in Istanbul."

As they crossed the street, Milo felt a tug of regret for the Dutchman, whose phone had been a beacon for all the Company agents in Turkey. The feeling passed, though, when he realized that, by backtracking the Dutchman and his SIM card, they certainly knew that Milo had flown out of JFK and, within a few hours, when. "How about Frankfurt?" he asked when they reached the Opera doors. "Are you done here?"

The Tourist checked his watch. "Been off the clock eighteen minutes. I'm all yours."

Milo held open the door for him. "And you've got a car?"

"I can always get a car."

"Good." They entered the broad, modern lobby, and when Einner veered toward the opera cafe Milo tugged his arm and guided him through a side corridor leading past the bathrooms.

"You know a better place for a drink?"

"I know another exit. Come on."

"Jesus, Milo. You really are paranoid."

While Milo could only jimmy the doors of old-model cars, Einner had a more advanced tool at his disposal-a small remote control for power-door locks. He pointed it at a Mercedes C-Class saloon, pressed a small red button on the quarter-sized mechanism, and waited while it automatically went through possible code combinations. After forty seconds, they heard the car alarm bleep its disarming, then the doors unlocked with a quiet pop. It took just over a minute for Einner to start the car. They were soon heading out of town, and Einner said, "Where to?"

" Paris."

The destination didn't faze him. "We'll have to watch out for a couple hours, until we reach France. In case the owner reports this thing missing."

"Then drive fast."

Einner obliged, roaring out of town and crossing to the A3, which took them to Wiesbaden, where they switched roads and, after an hour, merged onto the broad, smooth A6 that would take them to France.

"You going to share?" Einner asked.

Milo gazed out the window at a highway landscape; he could have been in upstate New York and not known the difference. "I want to talk to Diane Morel, a.k.a. Renee Bernier."

"The communist novelist?"

"The very same."

"And what do you expect from her?"

"A little clarity. The Chinese colonel was the reason we came after Angela."

Einner let this sit before pressing. "And?”

“And what?"

"And is there a reason you need my help? Really, Milo. You expect people to take everything on faith." Milo didn't answer, so he said, "You know why I'm good at my job?"

"Because you're so pretty?"

"It's because I think as little as possible. I maintain no pretensions about understanding anything. Tom calls me, and that's all I need to know. Tom is God when he's on that line. But you, my friend. You're not Tom."

He was right, so Milo told him an abbreviated version of what had come before, including the quick end of his vacation and Grainger's secreted message to contact him. "Everything here, in Europe, really started with this colonel and Renee Bernier. I need to get my facts straight before pushing on."

"Okay," said the Tourist. "What happens after Diane Morel enlightens you?"

"I decide on the next step."

Though Grainger had told Einner to help Milo out, all Tourists know their orders last only until the next orders arrive. For all Einner knew, in the morning he'd receive a call to kill his passenger, but for the moment he seemed satisfied by temporary certainties.

Milo noticed that the owner of the Mercedes had fitted an adapter to use with an iPod. He went through his bag until he'd found his own and plugged it in. Soon the car was filled with France Gall.

"What's this?" Einner sounded irritated. "The best music in the world."

It was after four thirty when they crossed the European Unionized non-border into France, having seen three police cars but receiving no grief from any of them. The sun hung low in the windshield, sometimes obscured by a gray smudge of cloud in the direction of Paris. "We'll keep the car until tomorrow," Einner told him. "We'll find a Renault, I think. I'm trying to sample all of Europe 's brands before I finally buy one myself."

"Tom wouldn't let you do that, would he? All the registration involved?"

Einner's shrug suggested this was a concern for lesser Tourists. "I've built up a legend for a rainy day. It's good to get a few purchases on it."

Milo thought of the Dolan legend he'd spent years building up. "Apartment?"

"Little one. In the south."

He supposed all Tourists did the same thing. The smart ones, at least. "So what was the trouble in Frankfurt? Were you teaching manners to bankers?"

Einner chewed his peeling lower lip, wondering how much to share. "It's a dirty business, banking. But the job was straightforward enough. Get some answers, then get rid of the evidence."

"Successful?"

"I always am," said Einner.

"Sure you are."

"You don't believe me!"

After a moment, Milo said, "To the Tourist, success and failure are handed out in equal measure. To the Tourist, successes and failures are the same things-jobs completed."

"Jesus. You're not quoting the Book again, are you?"

"You really should get hold of it, Einner. Makes the life a lot easier to take."

Einner's drawn expression gave Milo a measure of satisfaction. He remembered his own Tourism days, the irregular biorhythms that would one day make him suicidal, and the next lead him to feelings of invincibility. He saw too much of that latter feeling in Einner, which would lead to a sudden death. If the only way to make him listen was to lie about the source of his lessons, then so be it.

"Where'd you find it?" he finally asked, staring hard at the darkening road.

" Bologna." Milo grunted amusement to make himself more believable. "In a bookshop, if you can believe it.”

“You're kidding."

"A dusty old place with racks up to the ceiling.”

“And how did you get there?"

"I followed the clues. I won't bore you with all the steps, but the final piece was in a Spanish mosque. Wedged in the spine of the imam's Qu'ran. Can you believe it?"

"Wow," said Einner. "What was the final piece?"

"The address of the bookstore, and the location in the shelves. On the top, of course, so no one would pick it up by accident."