Olen Steinhauer - The Tourist

Einner decided to put their rooms on one of the five credit cards he had in his wallet, under the name Jack Messerstein. Once they'd gotten the keys to their adjoining rooms on the fourth floor, Einner whispered to him, "You go on up. I'll ditch the car."

"Now?"

"I know a guy who knows a guy. And he never sleeps."

"Can I use your phone?"

Einner didn't seem sure about that.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'm not calling home."

It was true. He was merely ensuring that Einner didn't receive new orders just yet.

Before going upstairs, he checked the lobby phone book-no listing for Ugrimov. With a Dolan card, he withdrew a stack of Swiss francs from an ATM and asked a desk clerk about Roman Ugrimov, an old friend living nearby. Yes, he knew Ugrimov-a man with that much flagrant wealth couldn't go unnoticed. Did he know where Roman lived? The clerk, eyeing the money, shook his head sadly, but in exchange for a few bills directed Milo to a stunning-looking prostitute sipping white wine in the hotel bar. Thinking Milo a potential customer, she touched his arm often. Once he said what he wanted, she pulled back. "You're a cop?"

"Old friend."

"My customers pay for my discretion, Mr. Old Friend.”

“Then let me pay for it, too."

Roman Ugrimov, it turned out, wasn't one of her customers, but the circle of Geneva prostitutes in her class was small, and she knew a girl-"Very young, you know. He likes them young"-who had been to his place a few times. For two hundred and fifty francs, around two hundred dollars, she made the call and scribbled Ugrimov's address on a Lowenbrau beer coaster.

The room was called "deluxe," and indeed it bore no resemblance to the hundreds of mid- to low-priced rooms he'd lived in during his life as a Tourist. The large bed had a headboard of romantic drapes; there was a sitting area with love seats; the whole room had an elegant old-world feel. The marble bathtub was built for two. The window overlooked the lake and pleasure boats and lights of the city. What a waste, he thought, being here without his family.

They skipped breakfast, and once they were under way Einner explained that he'd delivered the stolen Renault to a friend who ran a chop shop on the outskirts of Geneva. In return, the friend gave him a Daewoo that had been stolen in Spain, repainted, and registered under a new name with Swiss papers. For a cheap car, it gave a smooth ride, even along the mountainous northern coastline of Lake Geneva.

"You look better this morning," Einner said as he drove. "Any fresh perspectives?"

"Just that sleep is a good idea," Milo said, because that was true. It was more than simply being rested, though. It was this, reentering his old life so suddenly. He'd woken this morning sore, but feeling like he was a Tourist, and his brain had reverted to its old methods of boxing up his anxiety. It was a temporary measure, he knew, but a necessary one. It could only last so long before the anxiety burst out and broke him completely, as it had six years ago, nearly killing him. He said, "And maybe I'm starting to feel hopeful."

"I'll bet the Book has something to say about hope," said Einner. He glanced over to see if Milo would share the Black Book's knowledge on this point, which Milo was happy to do.

"It tells you to not get hooked on it."

They reached Ugrimov's estate by eleven thirty via winding mountain roads that brought them past obscured mansions to a high electrified gate clotted with video cameras and a squawk box. Milo got out of the car, crunching over gravel, and pressed the speaker button. A heavy Russian voice said, "Oui?"

Milo answered in Russian: "Please tell Roman that Charles Alexander is here to see him."

Silence followed, and he glanced back to see Einner, in the car, staring expectantly at him. The speaker clicked, and Roman Ugrimov spoke through it. "Mr. Alexander-Weaver? It's been a long time."

Milo looked into one of the video cameras, smiled, and waved. "Half hour at most, Roman. I just want to talk.”

“And your friend?”

“He doesn't need to come in.”

“Then he can wait there."

Milo went over to the car and told Einner to stay where he was. After a few minutes, a black Mercedes appeared on the other side of the gate, rolling slowly through the trees. Two men got out, one of them familiar from their last meeting six years ago. "Nikolai," said Milo.

Nikolai pretended not to remember him. His associate opened a door in the gate, and when Milo stepped through they frisked him, then locked the door again. They walked him to the car, put him in the rear, and reversed out of sight.

Milo had imagined that Ugrimov's house at the end of the long, winding driveway would be akin to a mansion, but he was wrong. The Russian, surprisingly, had more humble tastes. The Mercedes stopped in front of a low but very wide stone house that curved like a U, the bottom facing forward and the inside hiding a stone courtyard and swimming pool. That's where Ugrimov was waiting for him, sitting on an aluminum lounge chair sipping something pink and frothy. He got up with a grunting noise, set his drink on a glass table, and came over to shake Milo 's hand. The last six years had turned his thick gray hair white. "It's been a long time," Ugrimov told him in Russian.

Milo agreed, then sat in a matching lounge chair that Roman Ugrimov offered.

"Something to drink? Nikolai blends a tasty grapefruit daiquiri."

"No thanks."

"As you like," he said, settling back into his own chair.

The warm noontime sun made the bright stones hard to look at. "I need some information, Roman."

"Information, I can handle. Information is my business. But you're not going to threaten me again, are you?" Ugrimov asked with a smile. "I found your last threats distasteful."

"You killed that girl. I watched you."

"You weren't even looking at the terrace, Mr. Weaver. No one was. Not when she jumped." He shook his head in an imitation of grief. All this man's emotions, Milo thought, were imitations. "It was a sad enough day without you pointing fingers."

"I'm not here about her. I'm here about your company, Ugritech."

"Oh, good. I'd been hoping for some fresh investors.”

“Who's Rolf Vinterberg?"

Ugrimov pursed his lips, then shook his head. "No idea."

"How about the three hundred thousand dollars placed by Rolf Vinterberg into the Union Bank of Switzerland, in an account later emptied by Samuel Roth? Or the meeting that took place here, late last year, with the Sudanese energy minister?"

The Russian considered him over the edge of his glass as he loudly slurped the last of his daiquiri. He set the glass on the table. "Do you have any idea what we at Ugritech do, Milo?"

"I don't really care."

"You should," he said, wagging a finger. "We do good things. We bring the twenty-first century to the black masses. Others look to China for the next big thing, but me, I'm an optimist. I see our future in our past, in the dark continent from which we all crawled. Africa has potential. Natural resources-minerals, oil, open terrain. It should be dictating its own terms. But it's not. Why do you think that is?"

Milo wasn't sure if Ugrimov was being serious. "Corrupt governments?"

"True, yes. But that's not the cause; it's an effect. At the root of Africa 's problems lies a single word: ignorance."

Milo rubbed his nose and sat up straighten "Roman, I'm not interested in your racist views."

The Russian laughed loudly at that, then quickly settled down. "Don't turn politically correct on me. Of course they're not stupid. Ignorance is the lack of objective knowledge, which is an African curse. Why do villagers believe condoms will not prevent the spread of AIDS?"

"Because Catholic priests tell them so."