Olen Steinhauer - The Tourist

Einner buzzed while he was taking apart the bathroom, and when he let him in the young Tourist handed over a greasy bag with a gyro and fries. He'd eaten his own dinner in a doorway up the street, watching for shadows. "Not a peep. We should be fine, at least until morning."

Because Milo didn't want to spend too long at the scene of Angela's death, he gave Einner the bedroom. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep at this-he was bleary from fatigue-but he pushed on, settling beside the toilet and shaking the pipes leading to the water heater, then drawing his hand along the pipes' length. There. His finger caught the corner of a small aluminum box, the size of two thumbs side by side, magnetically attached to the pipe.

On the outside of the box was one of those reproductions of old French alcohol ads that Europhile New Yorkers buy in poster prints to cover their living rooms. A bobbed brunette in a red Victorian dress clasped her hands together in excitement, staring at a tray of glasses and a bottle of Marie Brizard mixer. A slogan read, PLAISIR D'ETE, PLEASURE OF SUMMER.

It was a magnetic key holder, and that's what it held. A single door key with a three-leaf-clover grip. There were no identifying features. He pocketed it and replaced the holder behind the pipe.

He didn't tell Einner about the key. There was no point in doing so until they had the next piece of the puzzle, but nothing else turned up. What they were faced with, in the end, was a clean apartment.

Einner took the deathbed, and Milo slept on the sofa. Unconsciousness came swiftly, and in the late morning he woke with the sheet knotted around his sweaty body and the key pinching the inside of his fist. He didn't remember taking it out of his pants.

They didn't leave until after noon. Madame Gagne appeared at the foot of the steps to greet them. Milo introduced his friend, Richard, and the old woman smiled sadly at Einner, as if he, too, had lost a sister.

It was raining again. As they ran to the car, Einner declared that he knew the finest place in all of Paris for a proper American breakfast. Milo, however, wanted to get moving. "Twentieth District."

Einner considered his wet windshield a moment. "You're kidding. The DGSE headquarters?"

"She does work there, you know."

"Yeah. And if our government's blaming you for Angela's murder, then the DGSE will happily hand you over."

"Which is why I need your help. You have a gun?"

Einner reached beneath his seat and pulled out a small Pistolet Makarova. It disturbed him that he hadn't noticed Einner put it there. "It's my backup. The one from yesterday's in the Main River."

They took a lengthy route, heading out to Boulevard Adolphe Pinard, which circled the city. They drove south and took the exit for Boulevard Peripherique. After a roundabout, they continued down another lane until they had reached Boulevard Mortier. They rolled past the unassuming, rain-streaked DGSE building at number 141, then drove two more blocks to where, on the corner, Milo spotted a glassed-in phone booth. "Pull over here and turn the car around."

The rain drenched him again before he could reach the booth. The phone book had been stolen, so he dialed 12, information, and asked for the phone number to the DGSE's central office.

He was first put through an endless menu. It took five minutes before a male operator picked up. Milo said, "Pourrais-je parler a Diane Morel?"

"Ne quittez pas," said the operator, and after a moment of on-hold Muzak, he returned and said, "La ligne est occupee."

She was there, but on another line. Milo said, "Je la rappellerai," and hung up. He held up a finger for Einner's patience, waited another minute, then called again. The same operator picked up.

Deepening his voice, Milo said, "II y a une bombe dans vos bureaux. Elle explosera dans dix minutes." There is a bomb in your offices. It will explode in ten minutes.

He hung up and ran back to the car. "Go."

They drove back those two blocks and stopped at the intersection before the DGSE headquarters.

"Keep the engine running," Milo said as, through the noise of the rain, they heard a faint two-toned alarm. "You'll either drive forward or backward. I'll tell you."

"The hell did you do?" Einner said as people began to emerge from the building. Not running, but not strolling either.

"Shh."

A few had umbrellas they popped open, but most had fled too quickly. Since it was the weekend, there were only twenty or so to evacuate, and then he saw them. They crossed the road together and found shelter under a cafe awning.

"Ahead," said Milo.

"What?"

"Now!"

Einner sped forward in first gear, splashing through puddles as they reached the awning. Morel and her partner weren't alone; others had just lit cigarettes and were hugging themselves. They all stared at the Mercedes. Milo rolled down his window and caught Morel's eye. "Get in."

Both she and her partner stepped forward. Milo raised a finger. "Just you."

"I'm not going anywhere without him," she said. Milo glanced at Einner, who shrugged. "Okay," said Milo. "Hurry."

They got in the back through separate doors, the man first. Before Morel's door was shut, Einner was already moving.

"Was that you?" she said. "The bomb?" She sounded out of breath.

"Sorry. I just need to chat."

The man beside her shook his head. "You have a funny way of talking."

Milo gave him a smile, then stuck out his hand. "First, though, please give me your phones.”

“No," said Morel.

Milo finally produced Einner's pistol. "Pretty please."

After several evasive maneuvers, including a dangerous U-turn in a tunnel, they left Paris proper and stopped at a near-empty bar outside Les Lilas, in the suburbs. Following some negotiation, Milo and Morel took a table in the back, while Einner and Adrien Lambert, her partner, began a staring contest at the bar. The bartender, a heavy man in a soiled smock, brought over espressos as Morel said, "So glad you've returned to our country, Mr. Weaver."

Milo thanked the bartender and watched him leave.

"You wanted to talk to me?"

"I have some questions."

"What luck!" she said, tapping the table. "I have questions, too. For example, we heard from our American friends that you were on the loose, but we have no record of your entry into Europe. Please. What name are you traveling under?"

"I'm sorry," Milo told her. "That's one question I can't answer."

"Then maybe you can tell me why you murdered Angela Yates."

"I don't know who killed her. I'm trying to find that out."

Diane Morel crossed her arms under her breasts, watching him across the table. "Then maybe you can tell me why you care about a little civil servant like myself."

"You have a friend with a place in Brittany," Milo told her. "When he was still working out of London, you visited him on the weekends and in the meantime worked on what I hear is an excellent socialistthemed novel. He's Chinese, and I assume he made the trip across the Channel from London just to meet with you. Am I right?"

Diane Morel opened her mouth, then shut it. She stretched back in her chair. "That's interesting. Who told you that?"

"A friend."

"The CIA knows a lot of things, Mr. Weaver." She grinned. "To tell the truth, we're often jealous. We have a paltry staff, and every year the socialists attack our budget. They came close to scrapping us completely in the seventies." She shook her head. "No, I'm not the type of woman to write a new Communist Manifesto."

"Then I'm misinformed."

"Not entirely."

"No?"

Diane Morel noticed his interest. "I'll tell you everything, Mr. Weaver. Just be patient."

Milo tried to exemplify patience.