Olen Steinhauer - The Tourist

Silence, then a long exhale that could have meant that the old man was preparing to bare his soul and sins to these strangers. It didn't mean that. His voice was suddenly young and full of venom as he pointed at the door: "Get out of my fucking home!"

As they left, Tina knew that she would tell Simmons everything. Milo was a liar, and at that moment she hated him.

It wasn't until they picked up Stephanie from the television room full of doting old people that she realized something else. "Oh, Christ."

"What?" said Simmons.

She looked into the special agent's eyes. "When we got back from Venice, Milo came with me to take care of Stephanie's birth records in Boston. He begged me to let him give her a middle name. I hadn't planned on one, didn't really care, and it seemed to mean a lot to him."

"What's her middle name?"

"Ellen."

About a half hour before they arrived, two doormen removed the Chinese takeout boxes, replaced his water bottle, and cleaned blood off the table, chair, and floor. It was a relief of sorts, because over the night, the stink of old kung pao and sweat had kept him on the edge of nausea.

Then Fitzhugh stepped inside, followed by Simmons. Milo hadn't seen her since Disney World, hadn't talked to her since Blackdale. She looked tired, as if she, too, had spent a sleepless night caged with her own stink.

Remember, Yevgeny had said, Simmons is your salvation, but don't treat her that way.

So Milo crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm not talking to her."

Simmons produced a smile. "Nice to see you, too."

Fitzhugh wasn't bothering with smiles. "Milo, it's not up to me, and it's not up to you."

"You don't look well," said Simmons.

Milo's left eye was swollen and purple, his lower lip broken, and one of his nostrils ringed with blood. The worst bruises were under his orange jumpsuit. "I keep walking into walls."

"So I see."

Before Fitzhugh could reach for it, she had taken his chair. He asked the doorman for another. They waited. During that minute and a half of silence, Simmons stared hard at Milo, and Milo returned the gaze without blinking.

When the chair arrived, Fitzhugh settled down and said, "Remember what we said before, Milo. About classified topics."

Simmons frowned.

"I remember," said Milo.

"Good," said Fitzhugh. "There's something I want to discuss first." He reached into his jacket pocket, but Simmons placed a hand on his lapel.

"Not yet, Terence," she said, then let go. "I want the story first.”

“What's that?" Milo sat up. "What's he got in there?" Fitzhugh took out his hand again, empty. "Don't worry about it, Milo. The story first. Okay? From where we left off." Milo looked at him.

"You were just about to head to Disney World," Simmons said, proving that she'd at least been given an interview summary from yesterday. She opened her hands like a well-trained interviewer. "I have to say, your last-minute escape from there was pretty snappy. Nicely done."

"Is she going to talk like this the whole time?" Milo put the question to Fitzhugh, who shrugged.

"Just talk," said Simmons. "If I think sarcasm's appropriate, I'll use it."

"Yes," Fitzhugh agreed. "Get on with it." To Simmons: "And try to temper the sarcasm, okay?"

He told the story of Disney World as it had happened, with a single omission: Yevgeny Primakov's appearance at Space Mountain. Though he had lied to Tina about so much, he hadn't lied about the purpose of the old man's visit-he had wanted to know what had happened to Angela Yates.

It was easy to leave out that meeting, because it had no bearing on the cause-and-effect that is the one concern of interrogators the world over. This ease allowed him to observe how the two people across from him acted.

Fitzhugh sat rigid, straighter than he had the day before. Whereas yesterday he had seemed as if he had all the time in the world, today he was in a rush, as if the contents of the interview no longer mattered. Occasionally, he would say, "Yeah, yeah. We already know that."

Each time, though, Simmons would cut in: "Maybe I don't, Terence. You know how uninformed Homeland is." Then, to Milo: "Please. Go on." She wanted to know everything.

So Milo obliged. He told his tale in a slow, purposeful way, leaving no detail untouched. He even mentioned the color of Einner's Renault, to which Simmons said, "It was a nice car, was it?"

"This agent has good taste."

Later in the day, when Weaver finally got to his meeting with Ugrimov, Simmons cut in again and said to Fitzhugh: "This Ugrimov. Do we have him on our arrest lists?"

Fitzhugh shrugged. "I don't know anything about the guy. Milo?"

"No," said Milo. "He's never broken a law in the United States. He can come and go as he pleases, but I don't think he ever does."

Simmons nodded, then placed both her hands flat on the table. "Anyway, we'll get to this in a little bit, but one thing's been nagging at me. After making all these connections, you went and killed Tom Grainger, right?"

"Right."

"In a fit of anger?”

“Something like that.”

“I don't buy it."

Milo stared at her. "I'd been through a lot, Janet. You never know how you're going to react."

"And, by killing your boss, you've obliterated the only evidence that might have proven at least some small part of your story."

"I never claimed to be a genius."

The silence was broken by Janet Simmons's ringing phone. She looked at the screen, then walked to the corner, a finger pressed against her free ear as she answered it. Both men watched. She said, "Yes. Wait a minute. Slow down. What? Yeah-I mean, no. I didn't do that. Believe me, I had nothing to do with it. No-don't do that. Don't touch anything until I'm there. Got it? I'll be"-she glanced back at them-"a half hour, forty-five minutes. Just wait, okay? See you then."

She snapped her phone shut. "I've got to go right now."

Both men blinked.

"Can we pick this up again tomorrow?"

Milo didn't bother answering, but Fitzhugh stood, muttering, "I guess so."

Simmons looked around the interview room. "And I want him out of here."

"What?" said Fitzhugh.

"I've cleared a solitary cell at the MCC. I want him moved there by the morning."

MCC was the Metropolitan Correctional Center, a pretrial holding facility next to Foley Square in Lower Manhattan.

"Why?" asked Milo.

"Yes," said Fitzhugh, annoyed. "Why?"

She looked at Fitzhugh and spoke as if she were voicing a threat: "Because I want to be able to talk to him in a place you don't control completely."

The air seemed to escape the room as she, miraculously, held both their gazes. Then she left.

Milo said, "Looks to me like Ms. Simmons doesn't trust the CIA."

"Well, fuck her," said Fitzhugh. "She doesn't tell me when my own interrogation ends." He shoved a thumb over his shoulder. "You know why she's hot and bothered now, don't you?"

Milo shook his head.

"We've got a Russian passport with your face on it, under the name Mikhail Yevgenovich Vlastov."

Milo looked taken aback by that, because he was. Whatever plan Yevgeny had hatched, exposing his secret life couldn't be part of it. "Where'd you get it?"

"That doesn't concern you."

"It's a forgery."

"I'm afraid not, Milo. Not even the Company makes them this good."

"So what's it supposed to mean?"

Fitzhugh reached again into his jacket and took out some folded sheets. He flattened them on the table. Milo didn't bother looking at them; instead, he watched the old man's eyes. "What's that?" he said flatly.

"Intel. Compromised intel that ended up in Russian hands. Intel you had access to immediately before it was compromised."

Slowly, Milo's gaze moved from Fitzhugh's eyes to the papers. The first one read: