Olen Steinhauer - The Tourist

Milo was sent to London, where he worked (twice, if the file was to be believed) with Angela Yates, another wanderer brought into the Company family. One report suggested they were lovers; another report insisted that Yates was a lesbian.

Milo Weaver began to settle into the Russian expatriate community, and though the actual case files lay elsewhere, Simmons could chart a career of insinuation. He mixed with all levels of Russian expats, from diplomats to petty crooks. His focus was twofold: shed light on the burgeoning mafia gaining a foothold in the London underworld, and uncover the occasional spies sent from Moscow while the Soviet Empire suffered its death throes. Though he did well with the criminal element-in the first year his information led to two major arrests-he excelled at spycatching. He had at his disposal three major sources within the Russian intelligence apparat: denis, franka, and tadeus. In two years, he uncovered fifteen undercover agents and convinced a stunning eleven to work as doubles.

Then, in January 1994, the reports changed tone, noting Milo's slow decline into alcoholism, his trenchant womanizing (not, apparently, with Angela Yates), and the suspicion that Milo himself had been turned into a double by one of his sources, tadeus. Within six months, Milo was fired, his visa was revoked, and he was given a plane ticket home.

Thus ended the first stage of Milo Weaver's career. The second documented stage began seven years later, in 2001, a month after the Twin Towers fell, when he was rehired, now as a "supervisor" in Thomas Grainger's department, the details of which were vague. Of the intervening years from 1994 to 2001, the file said nothing.

She knew what that meant, of course. Weaver's dissolution in 1994 had been an act, and for the next seven years Milo Weaver had been working black ops. Since he was part of Grainger's ultra-secret department, Weaver had been a "Tourist."

It was a nice sketch of a successful career. Field agent to ghostagent to administration. Those lost seven years might have held the answers she sought, but they would have to remain a mystery. If she admitted to Fitzhugh what she knew of Tourism, Matthew would be compromised.

Something occurred to her. She flipped back through the sheets until she'd returned to the report on Milo Weaver's childhood. Raleigh, North Carolina. Orphanage in Oxford. Then two years at a small liberal arts college before arriving in England. She compared these facts to "Abigail's" report: "He has fluent Russian and excellent French."

She used her cell phone, and after a moment heard George Orbach's deep but groggy voice say, "What is it?" That's when she realized it was nearly eleven.

"You home?"

A broad yawn. "Office. Guess I passed out.”

“I've got something for you.”

“Other than sleep?"

"Take this down." She read off the particulars of Milo Weaver's childhood. "Find out if anyone in the Weaver clan is still alive. Says here they're dead, but if you can find even a distant second cousin, then I want to talk to them."

"We dig deep, but isn't this a bit much?"

"Five years after his parents' death, he was fluent in Russian. Tell me, George-how does an orphan from North Carolina do that?"

"He takes a course. Studies hard."

"Just look into it, will you? And find out if anyone's still around from the St. Christopher Home for Boys.”

“Will do."

"Thanks," Simmons said and hung up, then dialed another number.

Despite the hour, Tina Weaver sounded awake. In the background, a television sitcom played. "What?"

"Hello, Mrs. Weaver. This is Janet Simmons."

A pause. Tina said, "Special agent, even."

"Listen, I know we didn't get off on the right foot before."

"You don't think so?"

"I know Rodger interviewed you in Austin-was he all right? I told him not to press too much.”

“Rodger was a real sweetheart."

"I'd like to talk with you about a few things. Tomorrow all right?"

Another pause. "You want me to help you track down my husband?"

She doesn't know, Simmons thought. "I want you to help me get to the truth, Tina. That's all.”

“What kinds of questions?"

"Well," Simmons said, "you're pretty familiar with Milo's past, right?"

A hesitant "Yeah."

"Any surviving relatives?"

"None that he knows of," she said, then made a wordless sound, like choking.

"Tina? You all right?"

"I just," she gasped. "I get hiccups sometimes.”

“Get yourself some water. We'll talk tomorrow. Morning okay? Like, ten, ten thirty?"

"Yeah," Tina agreed, then the line went dead.

In the morning, a Company driver picked Fitzhugh up from the Mansfield Hotel on West Fourty-fourth and dropped him off at the Avenue of the Americas building by nine thirty. Once behind the desk, he picked up the phone and dialed a number. "John?”

“Yes, sir," said a flat voice.

"Can you go to Room 5 and give the treatment until I get down there? No more than an hour.”

“Face?"

"No, not the face.”

“Yes, sir."

He hung up, checked his e-mail, then connected to Nexcel, signing in with Grainger's username and password. One message from Sal, that occasional oracle in Homeland:

J Simmons has gone to DT HQ unexpectedly.

"Thank you," he said to the computer. The message might have been of use had it come before Simmons ambushed him here at "DT HQ" yesterday. He wondered if Sal was really earning his Christmas bonuses.

There was a stack of real mail on the desk, and among the interdepartmental memos he found a buff envelope, postmarked Denver, addressed to Grainger. Security had placed cleared stamps all over it, so he ripped it open. Inside was a brick-colored passport, issued by the Russian Federation.

With a fingernail, he opened it to find a recent photograph of Milo Weaver with his heavy, accusing eyes and long jowl, looking in some ways like a gulag survivor. But the name beside the picture was Mikhail Yevgenovich Vlastov.

"Oh, fuck me," he whispered.

He went to the door and pointed through the cubicles at one of the Travel Agents, using a finger to beckon him. Once the door was closed again, Fitzhugh snapped his fingers, as if the name were on the tip of his tongue, which it wasn't.

"Harold Lynch," the analyst said. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five; a sweat-heavy lock of blond hair curled over his smooth, high forehead.

"Right. Harry, listen. There's a new lead to follow. Milo Weaver as Russian mole."

The disbelief was all over Lynch's face, but Fitzhugh pressed the issue.

"Opportunities. Find when he had access to information, and, soon afterward or even simultaneously, access to the FSB. Line that up with known Russian intel. Take this." He handed over the passport and envelope. "Have someone run it through whatever we've got. I want to know who sent it, how tall they are, and what their favorite food is."

Lynch stared at the passport, overwhelmed by this sudden shift in gear.

"Get along, now."

No matter who sent it, the passport was an unexpected gift. Even before the interrogation had begun, Fitzhugh had been handed a serious weapon. Murder and treason-Weaver might talk his way out of one charge, but two?

He decided to share the good news with Janet Simmons. His secretary, a heavyset woman in pink, tracked down and dialed her number. On the second ring, he heard, "Simmons."

"You'll never guess what appeared today."

"I probably won't."

"Russian passport for Milo Weaver."

She paused, and in the background he heard the hum of an engine-she was driving. "What does that make him?" she said. "A dual citizen?"

He'd expected a little more joy from her. "It just might make him a double agent, Janet. It's not one of ours."