Olen Steinhauer - The Tourist

"You always were sweet on me."

"And you've had enough to drink."

"I've just started," said Grainger. "Can you take off this tape so I can get to my scotch? This vodka is hell on my stomach."

They slept in the upstairs bedroom, tied together at the wrists with a length of rope Milo had found in a kitchen drawer. Overall, it was a steady sleep, broken only once when Grainger sat up and started speaking. "At first, I didn't like the idea. I want you to know that. That's why I lied and said our Tourists wouldn't be any good for assassinations."

"It's all right," Milo said. "Go back to sleep."

"If I'd known how it would end up, I would've found a way to nip it in the bud. Really. Maybe if I'd let our Tourists do the killings, we could've kept control to ourselves."

"Go back to sleep," Milo repeated, and Grainger dropped to his pillow and began to snore, as if his words had been part of a dream.

They woke and shaved and showered, never far apart, and Milo cooked scrambled eggs and toast. Grainger let half the breakfast go by in silence, then began again. He seemed desperate for Milo to believe him. "Really, I thought you'd get the answers. It might have been stupid, but it made sense at the time." He paused, watching Milo chew. "You don't believe me, do you?"

Milo swallowed his eggs. "No," he said, if only to stop Grainger's chatter. "I don't believe you. Even if I did, I'd still take you back. I can't live like this, and you're the only one who can set things right for me. And Tina."

"Ah!" said Grainger, smiling wanly. "It's all about your family, of course." He swallowed. "You're probably right. You're too young to ruin your career for this. They'll trump up something to prove I was behind everything, me alone. They can pack me away and begin again with this Cambodian boy."

Milo felt cold toward the old man, because all he cared about now was his immediate future. He would drive Grainger straight back to Manhattan, help supervise the initial interrogation, and then collect his family from Texas. Simple.

When Grainger finished his breakfast, Milo rinsed off the plates. "It's time to go."

As if reading his mind, Grainger said, "Time to get your life back?"

Milo put on his jacket and found a blazer for Grainger, checking its pockets before handing it over.

"You know," Grainger said, "a part of me still believes. A part of me believes that by talking to you I'm betraying the empire. Isn't that funny? We've been marking our territory like an imperial dog since the end of the last big war. Since 9/11, we no longer have to go about it sweetly. We can bomb and maim and torture to our heart's content, because only the terrorists are willing to stand up to us, and their opinion doesn't matter. You know what the real problem is?"

"Put on your jacket."

"The problem is people like me," Grainger continued. "An empire needs men with iron guts. I'm not tough enough; I still need to make excuses about spreading democracy. The younger guys, though-even Fitzhugh-they're the kind of men we need if we want to keep moving forward. They're tough in a way my generation never was."

"The jacket," Milo repeated, and Grainger gave him a sour look before stretching an arm into his blazer.

They stepped out into the cool, tree-shaded morning, and Milo locked the front door while Grainger stood, hands on hips, staring at the house. "I'm going to miss this."

"Don't be mawkish."

"Just being honest, Milo. You should know that's all I've been with you. In this house, at least."

Milo grabbed his elbow and led him down the steps to the leaf-covered walkway. "We'll have to walk to my car. I don't want to take yours."

"I think I can manage," Grainger said and smiled.

Something buzzed around Milo's ear, like a mosquito, then Grainger vibrated. He felt the vibration through Grainger's elbow, and though the smile didn't leave the old man's face, his head was tilted back and his forehead looked different. A small shadow of a hole lay against his forehead. Milo heard a second buzz, and Grainger's right shoulder popped back, spewing blood. He let go. The old man dropped onto his side, and in the back of his head Milo saw a large, gory hole, leaking blood and brain matter into the dirt.

For what seemed like a long time, Milo stared at the body. In reality, it wasn't more than a quarter of a second, but time is a relative thing, and, looking down at Grainger's corpse, time stretched long enough for him to realize with a shock as strong as a sniper's bullet that he'd been wrong. Grainger had told the truth. The old man knew that after speaking to Milo, he would be a dead man. So, too, would Milo.

As another bullet buzzed past, he threw himself back, dropped, and rolled behind the three concrete steps leading from the front door. He took out the Luger and breathed loudly through his lips, thinking: Three bullets. Suppressor. Suppressors decrease accuracy range, so the shooter is not far away.

Question: Would the shooter come to him, or would he wait?

Answer: It was Tuesday, which meant mail. He seemed to remember morning deliveries at, say, nine thirtyish. The shooter would know this, too. It was now nine o'clock.

He couldn't leave his position, because the shooter would be trained on these three lousy steps, waiting. At some point in the next half hour, though, he would have to approach. Milo closed his eyes and listened.

He tried to hold back all the thoughts that buzzed inside him now, but it was impossible. Grainger had been telling the truth. The truth. It was the only explanation. Get rid of the old man before he could spill the truth in one of those camera-ridden cells on the nineteenth floor of the Avenue of the Americas. Get rid of Milo before he could pass on any messages. Everything, Fitzhugh had decided, would end here, by a quiet lake.

And what of Tina and Stephanie? They would be in Austin, under surveillance. That, he knew. But by whom? By the Company, or Homeland? He surprised himself by hoping that Janet Simmons was keeping an eye on them.

If he got out of here alive-

No, when he got out of here alive. That was another Tourism rule. Never doubt your ability to survive. With doubts come mistakes.

When he got out of here alive, he-

Stop. One thing at a time. Listen. Nothing exists except sound. When a man walks, he cannot aim.

There: crunch crunch.

Milo rose, Luger at arm's length, elbow bent slightly, and pivoted as he walked backward. Two hundred yards away, maybe, out of range, a figure in hunting camouflage stopped and raised his rifle. Milo disappeared behind the house.

He needed close quarters, so he ran down the lake side of the house until he found the window to the dining room. He used an elbow to break it, the sound of shattering glass echoing across the lake. As he climbed inside, he heard feet running across dry earth.

He dropped to the carpet, lost track of his pistol, then found it under one of the chairs. He went to the living room windows that faced the front of the house. Standing a few feet back, Milo peered out in time to catch sight of the shooter, the long-barreled rifle hanging from his back and a SIG Sauer in his gloved hand, working his way around the house. Before he disappeared, Milo saw that he was a tall man, nose thick and bent from old breaks; the bottom half of his face, below the hunter's cap, was covered in a thick red beard.

Milo returned to the doorway to the dining room, looped an arm around the frame, and aimed at the broken window. He watched and waited until, from the opposite side of the house-guest bedroom, if his internal floor plan was right-another window shattered. He hurried to the closed door, popped it open, and aimed. But the broken window was empty.

There-another window breaking, the living room. He hurried back, again finding nothing.