Olen Steinhauer - The Tourist

"What did you do in Albuquerque?”

“I drank. A lot. I drank until I realized it couldn't go on.”

“Lots of people live their whole lives drunk. What makes you so special?"

"I don't want to live on the lam. Someday," he said, then stopped and began again. "I want to return to my family someday. If they'll have me. And the only way to make this happen was to turn myself in. Mercy of the court, and all that."

"Pretty far-fetched."

Milo didn't dispute this.

"That week in Albuquerque. Where did you stay?”

“The Red Roof Inn.”

“Who with?"

"I was alone." Lie Number Two.

"Who'd you talk to? A week is a long time."

"Some waitresses-from Applebee's and Chili's. A bartender. But not about anything important." He paused. "I think I scared them."

They stared at each other, one clothed, one naked, and Fitzhugh finally said, "We're going to go through the whole thing, Milo. Sometimes it'll feel like a test of your memory, but it's not. It's a test of your truth." He snapped his fingers close to Milo's face. "You with me?"

Milo nodded, and the movement pained him.

"Two chairs," Fitzhugh said to no one in particular. The remaining doorman took it to be his order, and left. "John, keep yourself available."

John nodded curtly, lifted his case, and left looking like a blood-spattered encyclopedia salesman just after a sale.

The doorman returned with aluminum chairs and helped Weaver into one. Fitzhugh sat opposite, and when Milo slipped to the side and fell off, he ordered a table as well. This helped, for Milo was able to collapse on its smooth white surface, streaking it with blood.

"Tell me how it started," said Fitzhugh.

That first day's debriefing lasted nearly five hours, chronicling the events lasting from the Fourth of July through the ill-fated Paris trip to Sunday, July 8, when Milo returned. He might have gotten the story out in less time, but Fitzhugh broke in often, questioning aspects of the tale. After the Tiger's suicide in Blackdale, Fitzhugh patted the table, annoyed that Weaver had slid down again, cheek against the blood-smeared Formica. "And this was a surprise, was it?"

"What?"

"Sam Roth, al-Abari, whatever. That he had been a Tourist."

Milo placed a soiled hand on the table, palm down, and rested his chin on it. "Of course it was a surprise."

"So let me get this straight. The Tiger-a professional with one of the world's stupider names-comes to this country solely in order to have a chat with you and then off himself."

Milo nodded into his knuckles.

"My question, I suppose, is: How did your file-your Tourism file, which should be resting in the upper stratosphere of top secret-how did this file end up in his hands?"

"Grainger gave it to him."

"Whoa!" Fitzhugh exclaimed, pushing back in his chair. "Let me be sure I heard you right. You're saying Tom was working with the Tiger? That's a big claim."

"I'm afraid it is."

"And Samuel Roth-you let him take his own life, right in front of you, when you knew the man was full of invaluable information."

"I didn't have a chance to save him. He was too quick."

"Maybe you didn't want a chance. Maybe you wanted him to die. Maybe-and this is interesting-maybe you knew he had the tooth cap and you reached into his mouth with your bare hands and pierced it for him. He was weak, after all, and your fingerprints were all over his face. It would've been a cinch for a strong man like you. Maybe you even did it on Grainger's orders-why not? You're blaming the poor man for everything else." Milo answered with silence.

When they'd gotten to Grainger's briefing, the morning before he flew to Paris to test Angela Yates, Fitzhugh cut in again.

"So you did finally ask him about the Tiger."

"But he put me off," said Milo. "What was so hard about showing me the file? That's what I didn't understand. Not then. It took a long time before I got it. Too long."

"Got what?" Milo didn't answer, so Fitzhugh leaned back, crossed one knee over the other, and said, "I know he showed you the file, Milo. When you got back from Paris. So I hope you're not going to suggest that, because I hired Benjamin Michael Harris, I'm somehow connected to this. Poor recruitment skills still aren't a crime in this country."

Milo stared back, wondering if he should call this next part one of the lies or an omission. Sometimes the distinctions were baffling. "No. I knew that your involvement couldn't explain all the secrecy. Tom wasn't in league with you."

"Right. He was in league with the Tiger."

"Which is why it took so long to figure out," Milo explained. "Grainger gave me the file to put, me off the scent; he wanted me sniffing in your direction."

Fitzhugh seemed satisfied with this.

It went on, Fitzhugh cutting in frequently for clarification, or to feign confusion. When Milo said he'd stayed on in Paris because of his suspicions, Fitzhugh said, "But you'd seen Einner's evidence. You saw the pictures."

"Yes, but what did they prove? Was she feeding Herbert Williams information, or was Williams feeding her information? Or was she being unwittingly pulled into someone else's game? Or was Williams spying on her to keep track of her investigation? Or was she actually guilty, and the man in the red beard just happened to be running both the Tiger and Angela, selling information to the Chinese? If so, who did he represent? It wasn't a single-person operation. Maybe the Chinese ran Herbert Williams as well."

"It's a goddamned Chinese puzzle."

"It sure is."

Fitzhugh answered his buzzing phone. He nodded to the caller, grunted a few times, then hung up. "Listen. It's been a long day, and you've done extremely well. We can delve deeper into the conspiracy tomorrow, okay?" He patted the table-his side, the clean side. "Excellent day's work."

"Then maybe I can get some food," said Milo.

"Sure. We'll also find you some clothes," Fitzhugh promised as he pushed back his chair and stood, smiling. "I really am pleased. And the details-they put a human face on all this miserable stuff. Tomorrow, I think, we should get a little more of that human face. Tina, for instance. Maybe we can discuss how you two are getting along. How things are with your darling stepdaughter."

"Daughter," Milo said.

"What?"

"Daughter. Not stepdaughter."

"Right." Fitzhugh raised his hands in an expression of defeat. "Whatever you say, Milo."

As his inquisitor left the room, Milo remembered Primakov's instructions. Three lousy lies, Milo. You've lived your whole life lying, why change now?

"I don't want you to be scared," Janet Simmons had whispered when Tina returned home. "We've located your grandfather-in-law, Milo's maternal grandfather, and I think it's only right you come along."

"That's impossible. They're all dead."

"Well, there's only one way to find out for sure."

Now, in a twin-engine Spirit Airlines flight from LaGuardia to Myrtle Beach, Tina held on to Stephanie, who had insisted on a window seat.

For her daughter, the sudden shift in agenda was exciting. An overnight trip to the beach, they'd called it. Christ, Little Miss was a good sport. How much had she suffered since two weeks ago, when, at Disney World, she'd woken to find a Homeland Security thug in her bedroom, looking for her father, who had suddenly disappeared? Why should she have to deal with any of this?

"How you doing, hon?"

Stephanie yawned into her cupped hand, staring at the leaden clouds. "I'm a little tired.”

“Me, too."

"Are we really going on vacation?"

"Sort of. A short one. I just need to talk to someone. After that we can chill out on the beach. Sound all right?"

She shrugged in a way that worried Tina, but said, "Why's she coming?"