Olen Steinhauer - The Tourist

Tina thought about that, then nodded. "At the door, yes. One was Jim Pearson, the other was… Max Something. I can't remember his last name. Something Polish, I think."

"What did they ask you about?"

"You know what they asked about, Special Agent."

"No, actually. I don't."

Tina came out from behind the television while Patrick looked for the best defiant pose. By the time Tina settled on the sofa, he had found it: He moved behind her, a hand on each shoulder. "Do you really need to interrogate her again?"

"Maybe," Simmons said. She took the chair across from the sofa, the same place she'd sat during their first interview here. "Tina, it may be nothing, but I'd really like to know what kinds of questions they asked."

"You think they're the ones who did this?"

"Maybe, yes."

Tina thought about it. "Well, they started with the usual. Where was Milo? And they wanted to know what Milo had told me in Austin."

"When he asked you to leave with him," Simmons said encouragingly.

Tina nodded. "I told them the other Company people had already been through that-your people, too-but they said maybe I'd forgotten something that would help them. They were actually pretty nice about it all. Like high school career counselors. One of them-Jim Pearson-he went down a list of items to see if anything rang a bell for me."

"He had a list?"

"In a little spiral notebook. Names, mostly. Names of people I didn't know. Except one.”

“Which one?"

"Ugrimov. Roman Ugrimov. You know, the Russian I told you about, from Venice. I had no idea why they'd bring him up now, so I dutifully said that I'd met him once, and that he'd killed a girl and I didn't like him. They asked when, I said 2001, and they said they didn't need to hear about it." Tina shrugged.

"What other names?"

"Foreign names, mostly. Rolf… Winter, or something like that."

"Vinterberg?"

"Yeah. And some, I guess, Scottish name. Fitzhugh.”

“Terence Fitzhugh?"

Again, Tina nodded. The look on Simmons's face encouraged her to go on. "When I said I didn't know anything about him, who he was or otherwise, they didn't believe me. I don't know why. It was all right that I didn't know Vinterberg, but Fitzhugh?" She shook her head. "That, they didn't buy. They said things like, Milo didn't tell you anything about Fitzhugh and some money? I said no. They kept pushing. At one point, Jim Pearson said, What about Fitzhugh in Geneva, with the minister of- But Max hit him in the arm and he never got around to finishing the question. Finally, once they saw I was really annoyed, they packed up their shit and left."

While she'd been talking, Simmons had again produced her BlackBerry. She was typing. "Jim Pearson and Max…"

"I don't know."

"But they had Company IDs."

"Yeah. They looked fine to me. I know Milo's pretty well-it keeps ending up in the wash."

"And they never said why they were asking about Fitzhugh?"

Tina shook her head. "I got the feeling Max thought they were saying too much." She paused. "You really think those are the guys who made this mess? They annoyed me, but I wouldn't expect this from them."

"Like I said, Tina. It wasn't Homeland. I'd have heard about it.”

“And the Company?"

"Maybe, but I haven't heard anything from them either."

Tina grinned. "You're still in counseling, right?"

"Exactly." Simmons got to her feet. "Okay, let's get this place finished, and if you come across something that doesn't belong here, let me know."

They spent the next three hours reassembling electronics, picking up broken pictures, and restuffing cushions. It was frustrating work for all involved, and halfway through it, Patrick opened a bottle of vodka for general use. Simmons declined with thanks, but Tina poured herself a tall shot and drank it down in one go. Stephanie watched all of this wryly. She spent most of the time in her own room, repositioning dolls that had been taken from their proper homes. Around seven, as they were finishing, she came out of her room holding a cigarette lighter that advertised a Washington D.C., bar, the Round Robin, at 1401 Pennsylvania Avenue NW.

"How about that," said Simmons, slipping on a latex glove and turning it over in her hand.

"What is it?" asked Tina, a little bubble of adrenaline rising at the sight of physical evidence.

"Strange, is what it is." Simmons held it up to the light. "I know the place-big politicians' haunt. It might be nothing though."

"That's pretty bad tradecraft," said Tina. "Leaving something behind."

Simmons slipped the lighter into a ziplock bag and pocketed it. "You'd be surprised just how lousy most agents are."

"I wouldn't be," Patrick assured them all, and Tina almost smiled-the poor man was feeling left out.

As she prepared to go, Simmons's phone rang. She took it into the kitchen. Tina caught a momentary, uncharacteristic sound of glee from the special agent's lips. "You're kidding! Here? Perfect."

When she emerged from the kitchen, though, she was all business again, and after thanking Patrick for his help she pulled Tina into the hall and told her that, in the morning, she'd be meeting with Yevgeny Primakov. Tina's feet went cold. "He's in New York?"

"He'll be at the UN headquarters. It's a nine o'clock appointment. Do you want to meet him?"

Tina considered it, then shook her head. "I need to go to the library, take care of stuff I've let slip." She paused, knowing that Simmons could see through the lie-the truth was that she was terrified. "But maybe later, you could… I don't know…"

"I'll give you a full report. Sound all right?"

"Not really," said Tina, "but it'll have to do."

Fitzhugh ate at the same Chinese restaurant on Thirty-third they'd ordered Weaver's takeout from. He chose a table near the back to avoid interruptions, and to ponder the Nexcel message he'd received from Sal.

J Simmons sent request at 6:15 PM to DHS acting director requesting license to access bank and phone records of Terence A Fitzhugh. At present, request is under consideration.

Over Szechuan chicken, he tried to think through this. It proved what he'd been sensing, that Simmons didn't trust him at all. It was in her tone, the entire way she dealt with him. Interagency rivalries were one thing, but this level of tension… she treated him as if he were the enemy. And now, she was asking Homeland's director for access to his records.

So he'd nipped it in the bud with a phone call. The request for access, he had been assured, would be denied.

Even so, he felt himself on the defensive, and that wasn't what he needed now. He should be leading the attack in order to control all possible damage by putting away Milo Weaver and ending this investigation.

The passport. That was his trump card. He still didn't know who had sent it. Forensics had only produced a single white hair: Caucasian male, aged fifty to eighty, a diet high in protein-but that described half of the intelligence world. He no longer cared who his benefactor was; his only concern was to wrap up this case before Simmons found a way to ruin all their hard work.

His thoughts were interrupted by a stranger who approached and said in French, "It's been so long," reaching out his hand to shake. Fitzhugh, stuck in the mental rhythms of his worries, was caught off guard. Staring up at the handsome, sixty-something face under wavy white hair, he took the heavy hand. Where did he know this man from?

"Excuse me," Fitzhugh said as they shook. There was something familiar in the face, but he wasn't sure. "Do I know you?"

The man's smile faded, and he switched to English-not his native language, but spoken in a kind of easy swing. "Oh. Bernard, right?"

Fitzhugh shook his head. "You have the wrong person. I'm sorry."