Olen Steinhauer - The Tourist

Rue David d'Angers was one of six major streets that grew like irregular flower petals out of Place de Rhin et Danube 's ovule. It was decided-that is, Milo decided-that Einner should stay in the car, parked along the street as lookout, while Milo and his knapsack went inside. He trusted Diane Morel to a certain extent, though her partner, Lambert, might do anything. "Need the gun again?" Einner asked.

"If I do, that means I'm doing something wrong."

Number 37 lay at the beginning of the street, its corner facing the Danube metro stop in the middle of the square. The one key Milo had from Angela's apartment didn't fit it, so he looked at the board of buzzers. Rather than listing apartment numbers, there were only names. There-one of them was a business: Electricien de Danube. He pressed it.

"Nous sommes fermes," came the answer, a man. We are closed.

"S'il vous plait," said Milo. "C'est une urgence." It's an emergency. "Oui?"

"Mon ordinateur." My computer.

The man didn't answer at first, but he could hear him sighing. The door buzzed as he said, "Quatrieme etage." Fourth floor.

"Merci."

Milo pushed inside, then moved under the stairwell, where five soiled trashcans were lined up. He hid, squatting behind them, suffering the stink of old cabbage and bad meat.

First he heard the sound, four floors up, of a door opening. Then: "Hello?" Then feet stomping as someone came down the stairs, muttering to himself. The old man came all the way to the ground floor and peered out the front door, finally saying, "Merde," and slowly ascending the stairs again. Once his door slammed shut, Milo emerged from the claustrophobic stink and mounted the stairs.

Luckily, apartment seven was on the third floor, so he didn't have to pass the electrician's door. The name beside the doorbell was Marie Dupont-essentially, a French version of Jane Smith.

On the off chance a friend named Dupont actually did live there, he rang the bell, but got no answer. He heard a television (Formula One racing) from the next apartment, number six, but nothing from seven.

It was a typical old-Europe heavy door with two small opaque windows that opened from the inside so that fearful pensioners could have entire conversations without ever opening their doors. And, he noticed, there were two locks.

His heart sank, because he knew before he verified it what would happen. His key fit the lock in the center of the door, which worked a loud double dead bolt-but it didn't fit in the second lock, just below the handle. He had no idea where that second key could be. It wasn't under the doormat.

Damned Angela and her overdone security. Like the door itself, the frame was heavy and old, reinforced on the outside by steel. Very effective, just like Angela Yates.

Milo quietly returned to the ground floor and went back into the courtyard, looking up. On this side, terraces rose up, beginning with the second floor. Each terrace was accessed by a sliding glass door, and in the five-foot space between the terraces was a small, high window, probably from the bathroom.

A drainpipe along the corner grew to the building's height, but, after tugging at it, he knew it wouldn't hold. So he returned to the third floor and rang the bell for number six.

After a minute, the inset window opened an inch and a young man stared back at him. "Qui est la?"

"Uh," Milo began, trying to sound flustered. "You speak English?"

The man shrugged. "A little."

"Oh, wow. That's super. Listen, can I use your bathroom? I've been waiting for my girlfriend, Marie, all day. She just called and it looks like I've got another half hour. You mind?"

The young man rose slightly so he could see down the length of Milo 's body, perhaps checking for a gun.

Milo showed off his empty hands and flashed the unzipped knapsack at him. "A change of clothes," he explained. "Really. I've just got to take a dump."

Convinced, he unlocked the door, and Milo kept up the act, pointing and asking, "This way?"

"Yes."

"Swell."

Once inside, he closed and locked the bathroom door, turned on the noisy fan, then listened until he heard the man walk back to his television.

The small window sat at head height above the tub. Its deep frame was grimy from old showers and dust, but a flip of the latch popped it open. He reached into his knapsack and took out the duct tape, then filled it with his jacket, tie, and dress shirt. He put the knapsack on the floor beside the toilet. In his undershirt, he held the duct tape roll in his teeth, climbed on the edge of the tub, and pulled himself up so he could slip his head through the window. Two and a half feet to his right, and down, was the guardrail of Marie Dupont's terrace. Five feet to the left of it was this apartment's terrace. Directly below, a long drop led to the hard courtyard floor.

It was a narrow window, but by turning himself sideways he could get his shoulders through. It was difficult holding his body aloft, his legs inside the bathroom swinging until they caught the shower curtain rod.

Eventually, gasping through clenched teeth holding the tape, and sweating, he got out to his waist, and for a moment, to an outside observer, it looked as if the apartment had grown a human torso, one arm propped against the outside wall to keep it perpendicular. His center of gravity was off now, and if he let go of the wall he'd tumble to his death. He used his free hand to take the duct tape from his mouth and toss it onto the Dupont terrace, where it rolled until it hit the railing.

It had been a long time since Milo had put himself through this kind of thing, and he was suddenly sure he didn't have it in him anymore. As Tina had pointed out to him a few times, he'd gotten fat. As Einner liked to point out, he'd gotten old. Why was he hanging out of a window three floors above Paris?

Stop it.

He pushed farther, until his hips had passed through the frame and he could lean forward, his knees now bent along the inside of the wall to keep him up. He stretched out his hands-briefly hanging unsupported along the wall-and caught the Dupont guardrail. He squeezed harder than he needed to, terrified that now, as he unhooked his aching legs from the window, he'd plummet. But he didn't. Instead, gripping the rail, he straightened his legs, and when they slid out the window and his body dropped, his tightened stomach hit the concrete edge of the terrace floor, making him nauseous. Yet his hands held, and so did the railing. He breathed through pursed lips, trying to get his strength back, then slowly pulled himself up.

His burning arms almost didn't make it, but he threw a leg over the corner of the terrace floor, which helped. All his extremities now worked painfully for one purpose, and soon he was crouched on the outside edge of the terrace, the pain all over him, shocked that he was still alive. He climbed over the rail and squatted, staring at his red, numb, shaking hands.

He didn't have time for this. He grabbed the duct tape and tore off ten two-foot-long strips, plastering them on the glass door until he'd made a square of tape. He punched his elbow into the center of it. Glass shattered, but quietly, and remained attached to the tape.

He peeled off the tape, exposing a jagged hole in the glass, stuck his arm through, and unlocked the door from the inside.

Without bothering to take in the apartment, he walked directly to the front door and, using a key hanging from a wall hook, unlocked it. He went to number six again and rang the bell. Formula One lowered in volume, then the little window opened. The young man gaped at him.

"Sorry again," said Milo, "but I left my knapsack in your bathroom."

The man, stunned, started to reply, then changed his mind and disappeared. After thirty seconds the door opened and he handed over the knapsack. "How did you get out?"