Olen Steinhauer - The Tourist

There it was. Milo felt unexpectedly thrilled. The simple money-laundering scheme used to pay the Tiger for his jobs; Angela had only been a hair's breadth away. Then he wondered aloud, but without hope, "Did he have a beard?"

"What?"

"Stephen Lewis. Does he have a red beard?"

Ugrimov brightened. "You know him! Red on top, red in the face, red in the beard. You know this man!"

There, again. Connections. He shook his head. "Not yet I don't, but I hope to meet him soon. Go on. Please."

"Well, there's not much more on that point. It was always as he promised. My fiscal secrets never came to light, and every now and then I'd be approached by Mr. Lewis. He'd give me the cash-euros- with the bank instructions, and I'd have my Mr. Vinterberg follow those instructions. In fact, after a few years the agreement benefited me even more. Some other problems arose, and some bureaucrats in Germany started demanding Switzerland send me to them. Truly, I was scared. I told Lewis, and Lewis-don't ask me how-made sure Switzerland would leave me in peace." He nodded reverently. "And that they did. Until recently, at least.”

“What happened?"

"I got a note on Monday from the Swiss Foreign Ministry. Guess what? The new administration has decided I might not be an ideal citizen anymore, because of the angry Huns in Berlin."

"So you contacted Lewis."

"How could I? He never left me a phone number-we didn't work like that. But-coincidence of coincidences!-four days ago, I got my final visit from Mr. Stephen Lewis. I considered this fortuitous, as I could ask for his help. However, he hadn't shown up with a bundle of euros and banking instructions. He'd shown up empty-handed. He told me our arrangement had reached its conclusion. He thanked me for my cooperation and assured me that his people would never reveal our little secret, just as long as I didn't reveal it either. As for the new German problem plaguing me, he admitted he couldn't do anything about it anymore. That time had passed."

It was an incredible piece of luck. The Swiss Foreign Ministry letter had been Milo 's ticket, converting Roman Ugrimov's anger into a desire for revenge. Otherwise, they might have sat here in silence, Ugrimov betraying nothing of his long-standing arrangement with Stephen Lewis, a.k.a. Jan Klausner, a.k.a. Herbert Williams. How many names did the bastard have?

Ugrimov cleared his throat, then sipped the daiquiri. "I don't know what game you're playing, Milo Weaver. I hope it's not aimed at me."

"I don't think it is," Milo said truthfully. "Tell me about the Sudan."

"Oh! Well, you'll like this. The connection between the events I've just described and the Sudan is, of course, the elusive Mr. Lewis."

Hands on his knees, Milo said, "Tell me."

"Well, this is back in late October, when we were still friends. Lewis came to me-to here, in fact-and asked a favor. Could I invite the energy minister, Mr. al-Jazz, to my house? Some friends of his would like to invest in electricity. I knew the minister, of course. Not my favorite-I still have a nasty feeling he's dismantling our computers as fast as we can install them. Anyway, Lewis made it clear that our continued cooperation hinged on this, so I said okay. I sent out the invitation, the minister accepted, and on November 4 thI welcomed him into my home. There was Lewis, of course, with four mute American businessmen. And before you ask," he said, raising a hand, "no. They didn't give their names. In fact, they were rude. At Lewis's request, I withdrew to the parlor, and didn't come out again until I heard the energy minister shouting and storming down the hall to the front door, his security men right behind him. I went out to wish him a safe drive home. To my glee, he was livid. Know what he said?"

Milo indicated that he didn't.

"He said, We'll sell to whoever we goddamned want to! Yes, he did say that. Then: Threaten my president, I’ll bury yours!" Ugrimov nodded vigorously. "It was a very lively evening."

"You have no idea what they discussed?"

Ugrimov shook his head. "Some of Lewis's people swept for bugs first. Afterward, they all left without a word, and I drank myself to sleep. One of those moments when you no longer feel master of your own domain. Know what I mean?"

"Yes. I do."

That was all Milo could say as, staring at the Russian, he made more connections. Herbert Williams represented a group of American businessmen. They used the Tiger to murder a Muslim extremist after-and this was crucial-a failed talk with the Sudanese energy minister. Threaten my president… It was as the Tiger had suspected. The murder was supposed to enrage the population, to make an unstable government that much less stable. Not for the terrorists, though, but for some businessmen. Why? We'll sell to whoever we goddamned want to!

Sell what?

The only thing the Sudan had that was of value to anyone in America was oil.

Who did Sudan sell its oil to? The Chinese; U.S. companies bought none, because of the embargo.

The sun was too hot to deal with. Milo got up and walked to the glass doors, where the extended roof protected him. He regulated his breaths.

"You all right, Milo Weaver?"

"I'm fine. Is that all?"

Ugrimov stretched out in his chair and brought the now-melted daiquiri to his lips. "That's the whole thing. And now, it's time for reciprocation. I ask you any question I like?"

"If I know the answer, I'll tell you."

"Fair enough," said the Russian. His face turned bleakly serious: "Where do you suggest I go?”

“What?"

"I'm going to have to leave Switzerland soon. Where to? Someplace with a good climate, of course, but someplace where I won't be hounded by German bankers. I thought about your country, but I'm not very positive about Americans these days."

"How about the Sudan?"

"Ha!" Ugrimov seemed to find that funny, and Milo realized that there was nothing this man needed from him. He'd shared the story out of spite, nothing more.

"What about Lewis?" Milo asked. "I imagine you tried to find out who he was, didn't you?"

"Of course I did. Years ago."

"And?"

"And what? Guys like that, they cover their tracks. We came up with a couple names. Herbert Williams, for one, in Paris."

"Was the other name Jan Klausner?" Milo asked.

Ugrimov frowned, then shook his head. "No. It was Kevin Tripplehorn."

"Tripplehorn?"

The Russian nodded. "There's no telling how many aliases this guy has."

Tripplehorn, Milo thought, and kept repeating it in his head. That's when he knew. Not everything, not yet, but enough. Kevin Tripplehorn, the Tourist. Tripplehorn, who was also Jan Klausner, Herbert Williams, Stephen Lewis. Tripplehorn, who had posed with Colonel Yi Lien in a photo and floated around Angela Yates in order to spy on her, or incriminate her. Tripplehorn.

He woke without knowing he'd passed out. Ugrimov, above him, was slapping his cheeks, then tried to feed him some daiquiri. It was too bitter. The back of his head throbbed.

"You need to take care of yourself, Milo. You can't depend on others to do it for you. My advice? Depend on your family, no one else." Ugrimov stood and called, "Nikolai!"

Nikolai kept a suspicious eye on Milo as he drove the sick man back to the gate. Milo, in the late stages of shock, kept thinking about Ugrimov's last words. Depend on your family, no one else. It was a curious thing to say.

Einner, at the gate, stood smoking one of Milo 's Davidoffs, and dropped it to the ground when he saw the Mercedes approaching. When Milo got out, his legs stronger now, Nikolai also got out and pointed at Einner. "You," he said in stiff, angry English. "Don't you litter!"

On the drive back into town, Einner told him that Geneva was one of his favorite cities. "Have you kept your eyes open? The girls here. I'm in a permanent state of erotic excitement.”