Olen Steinhauer - The Tourist

But his silence was enough. Grainger shook his head morosely. "Shit, Milo. You don't have any, do you?"

"No."

"What have you been doing these last days? Boozing?" Milo stood up, as if to remind him who was running this conversation, then grabbed the glass of scotch and brought it to Grainger's lips. Once he'd gotten a good sip, Milo put the glass back, down and said, "Please, Tom. Just tell me what the hell's going on."

Grainger considered that, then nodded. "If you can't figure it out yourself, then okay. It's the oldest reason in the book. It's why we can't keep our hands to ourselves anymore."

"Oil," said Milo.

Grainger tried to shrug, but the duct tape limited his movement. "Sort of, yes. On the surface. But the answer that gets the gold star is empire. And you get bonus points if you mention China."

Once he'd started talking, Grainger couldn't stop. The duct tape kept him in place, but his head tilted and shifted freely as he explained details of a story that (it seemed to Milo) he had been wanting to get out for a long time.

"Listen, Milo-and try not to be childish about this. You've got a continent wet with oil, as well as some of the most corrupt governments this world has ever seen. You think the Sudan's a land of peace and love? They were tearing out each other's throats before we ever decided on our little intervention. And we tried to do it peacefully. You know that. Our people met with the energy minister at Ugrimov's house. We put it to him: Stop selling crude to the Chinese, and sell it to us instead. We'll lift the embargo. Hell, we even offered to pay more. You hear me? The president gets more money to build his palaces and statues to his own glory. But he's a proud man. Politicians who murder their own people usually are. The energy minister gave him a call, and he refused us outright. So we cajoled. We threatened. We finally told him that if he didn't take our deal we'd make his life, and his country, more of a hell than it already was."

"So it was just about oil. Is that really what you're saying?”

“Milo, you sound like one of those protesters who still bring up the Exxon Valdez eighteen years after the fact. It's about the big picture. That's all it's ever about. We don't mind losing a little oil here and there. A country doesn't want to sell to us? We're not going to get our feathers ruffled. This is not about oil; it's about the century that's upon us. It's about China. They get seven percent of their crude oil from the Sudan. Each year, China uses more oil-it requires more to grow its economy. Losing seven percent won't decimate China now, but what about next year? Ten years from now? China needs all the oil it can get its hands on. One-third of its imported oil is African. They can't afford to lose it."

"But you keep saying the same thing, Tom. Oil."

Below the strips of duct tape, his hand on the arm of the chair shifted, and he raised a finger. "Wait. That's just the beginning. Because what will China have to do to make sure they get their oil? They need a stable Africa, don't they? They go to the United Nations. They ask for intervention in the Sudan. And for as long as is conscionable, the United States will veto these resolutions. That's the beauty of being a permanent member of the Security Council. You can veto whatever you like. Keep vetoing until China is pushed into a corner. Until-and this is the important part-they're forced to intervene on their own. Send in thousands of their own People's Army. We've got our Iraq, and it's draining us silly. If we can't pull out, we can at least pull some old enemies down. It's time to give China a few Iraqs. See how they manage."

Milo kept his hands folded in his lap, staring at the old man. He was full of life, as if letting these secrets loose had given him a transfusion. "You agree with this tactic?"

Grainger made as much of a shrug as the tape would allow. "It's insidious, I'll give it that. And there is a certain beautiful logic to it. Little strikes, a single assassination, and you can collapse an entire country. Governments have a great way of fostering the belief that they're immutable. It's seldom true."

"You haven't answered my question."

"I believed in it for a long time, Milo. For years. But it got messy, didn't it? If you just knock out a terrorist sympathizer, like the mullah, then who can really complain? You're doing the world a service. When chaos follows, you can call it a surprise. Well, it was seldom that simple. There were witnesses who had to be gotten rid of. Angela's friend Rahman, for example.”

“Then Angela herself."

"Yes," said Grainger. "We tried to get rid of her with libel. You know that. When she called me looking for photos of the Tiger, I knew she'd gotten close. So we set her up for treason. Either make her retire or, at worst, put her in jail a while-not long, just long enough for the trail to go cold. But by then the cracks were apparent, even to an idiot like me. Too many dead witnesses. So when it came time to put the final screws on Angela, I decided to put you in there. After all, you'd gotten closer than anyone else-you'd actually met the Tiger. So I thought that you could be the one. You were an old friend of Angela's. Like those assassinations, I could do one small thing, then let chaos take over, and pretend to my masters that I didn't know it would end up this way."

"You wanted me to unravel it."

"Yes. Then you made that call to me. You remember? After your lunch with Angela." He sighed. "You signed her death warrant with that call."

Milo tried to remember what he'd said, but that conversation, after all that had happened in the last two weeks, was just a blip.

Grainger explained: "You told me that Angela had followed the trail to Rolf Vinterberg. One step away from Ugrimov, another step away from us. Who do you think was in the office with me when you called?"

"Fitzhugh."

"Exactly. He had me call Tripplehorn immediately, while he was sitting there, and give the order to take out Angela as soon as possible."

"But-" Milo began, then found himself without words. Was he really responsible for Angela's murder? "You could've rescinded the order once he left the office."

"Perhaps." Grainger again tried to shrug. "Maybe I was too scared by then."

Milo walked over to the liquor cabinet and refilled his vodka. "You want more?"

"Thank you. Yes."

He poured vodka into Grainger's glass and pressed the rim to Grainger's lips. The sip made the old man cough. "Where's my scotch?"

Milo didn't answer. He set the glass aside and took a sip from his own. "This doesn't feel right. It feels like an elaborate story to cover your own ass."

Grainger licked his pale lips. "I see what you mean. Spying, and in particular Tourism, is all about storytelling. After a while you collect too many layers. It's hard to discern story from truth. But what I'm telling you now really is the truth. Ask me what you like."

"Your call for me to leave Disney World."

"You know the answer. Twofold. Keep you out of custody, so you could continue your investigation. Also, put you on the run, turn the screws. You'd frustrated me by going on vacation, and I needed you back on the job. It was the only way to convince you."

"The same thing with the Tiger's file," said Milo. "You gave that to me so I wouldn't trust Fitzhugh, in case he took over and called me."

Grainger nodded. "Connecting the Tiger with Fitzhugh-I was just pushing you toward the real state of affairs. You wouldn't have connected them on your own. Don't get me wrong-him recruiting the Tiger means nothing. He doesn't want anyone to know about that, but it's not damning. I wanted you to start down the path of damnation. Collect real, physical evidence." He shook his head. "I guess I overestimated you, Milo. You've got nothing."