Olen Steinhauer - The Tourist

"Who's it from?" asked Fitzhugh, but Simmons was already on her feet, pulling the door open and taking the flat manila envelope from the guard.

"Just a sec, guys," she said, then stepped into the corridor.

Fitzhugh looked at Milo, sighing heavily. "It's a hell of a thing."

"What is?"

"All this. Tom Grainger. Did you have any idea he could be so manipulative?"

"I hardly even believe it now."

Simmons returned with the envelope under her arm. Her cheeks, both men noticed, were nearly fuchsia.

"What's the news?" asked Fitzhugh, but she ignored him and returned to her chair.

She stared hard at Milo, thinking something over, then placed the envelope flat on the table, her hand on top of it. "Milo, I want you to explain the Russian passport."

He wanted to know what was in that envelope, but said, "Terence mentioned it. It's a forgery, or a trick. I'm not a Russian citizen."

"But your father is.”

“My father's dead."

"Then how did he show up in Disney World two weeks ago to have a secret meeting with you?”

“What?" said Fitzhugh.

Simmons ignored him. "Answer me, Milo. Your wife might not be the kind of person to disappear with you, but she's just as human as the rest of us. You introduced her to Yevgeny Primakov without ever telling her that she was meeting her father-in-law. And two days ago, we went to see your grandfather on your mother's side. William Perkins. Ring any bells?"

The air went out of Milo. His scalp buzzed. How had she done it? Trust me, his father had said, but this couldn't have been part of any plan, exposing all this. He turned to Fitzhugh. "There's nothing to say about this. I'm devoted to this country and the Company. Don't listen to her."

"Talk to me" said Simmons.

"No," said Milo.

"Milo," Fitzhugh began, "I think you better-"

"No!" he shouted, and started jumping in his chair, the noise of rattling chains filling the small room. "No! Get out of here! This conversation is over!"

The guards were already inside, two of them, holding Milo's shoulders, kicking his feet off the floor and pressing him down. "Get rid of him?" one asked Fitzhugh.

"No," said Simmons, standing. "Keep him there. Terence, come with me."

They left, and Milo calmed beneath the guards' hands. This had not been part of any plan-his outburst had come from somewhere else. It was the nervous reaction to that secret place being cracked open. Now they knew. Not just them, though, but Tina.

He slumped until his forehead settled on the table. Tina knew. She knew now what her husband was and had always been. A liar.

Did any of this even matter anymore? All he'd wanted was to go home again, and now, probably, that was one place he was no longer welcome.

Without knowing it, he began to hum. A melody.

Je suis une poupee de cire,

Une poupee de son

He stopped himself before it broke him completely.

Through the closed door, he heard Fitzhugh shouting something indecipherable, then footsteps leading away. Simmons entered alone, the envelope under her arm, the flush in her cheeks fading. She spoke to the guards: "I want you to turn off the cameras and microphones. Got it? All of them. When you've done that, knock three times on the door but don't come in. Yes?"

The two men nodded, glancing down at the prisoner, then left.

She took her seat across from Milo, placed the envelope on the table, and waited. She said nothing, and Milo said nothing, only shifted for a better position, the chains making a little noise. He decided not to speculate on what was going on-speculation was killing him. When, finally, they heard three clear knocks on the door, Simmons allowed herself a soft smile. She used the friendly voice she'd first used in Blackdale, Tennessee, the one she'd been taught in interrogation training, and leaned forward, the better to close the psychological distance.

She pulled out the photographs one by one until the three were beside each other on the table, facing Milo. "Do you recognize these men, Milo?"

It was a restaurant, Chinese. Two men shaking hands. He gritted his teeth, finally understanding.

You'll know. You'll know when it's time for the Third Lie.

When he spoke, his voice was crackly from his shouting fit. "Light's not too good."

She considered this statement, as if it had basis in fact; it didn't. "Well, that one looks like Terence, doesn't it?"

Milo nodded.

"The other man-his friend-does that face look familiar?"

Milo made a show of examining the face. He shook his head. "Hard to say. I don't think I know him."

"It's Roman Ugrimov, Milo. Surely you remember his face."

Milo wouldn't admit to anything. He pursed his lips and shook his head.

She collected the photographs and slipped them back into the envelope. Then she pressed her hands together, at her cleavage, as if in prayer. Her voice was sweetness and light. "We're all alone here, Milo. Terence is out of the building. He's out of the picture now. You can stop protecting him."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he answered, but it was a whisper.

"Cut it out, okay?" she said softly. "Nothing will happen to you if you simply tell me the truth. I promise."

Milo considered that, looked ready to say something, then changed his mind. He took a raspy breath. "Janet, despite our personal issues, I do trust that you'll stick to your promise. But that might not be good enough."

"For you?"

"And others."

Janet sat back, eyes narrowing. "Who? Your family?" Milo didn't answer.

"I'll take care of your family, Milo. No one's going to touch them."

He flinched, as if she'd touched a nerve.

"So stop protecting him, okay? He can't do anything. He can't even hear us. You and me, Milo, we're completely alone. Tell me the real story."

Milo considered this, then shook his head. "Janet, none of us are ever alone." He exhaled, glanced at the door, and leaned close so his whispered Lie Number Three would be better heard. "I made a deal with him."

"Terence?"

He nodded.

She watched him a moment, and he waited to see if she could fill in the details herself. "To take the rap for Grainger's murder," she speculated.

"Yes."

"And blame Grainger for everything else?"

Milo didn't bother confirming this. He only said, "I was promised a short jail term, and he…" Milo swallowed. "And he would leave my family alone. So if you plan on doing something about this, you had better be ready to protect them with your life."

He'd known, even before walking into that interview room off of Foley Square, that things were sinking fast. It was the note from Sal:

Not compromised. My last communication was about JS's trip to DT HQ. How is it wrong?

It was a tragic reply, no matter how he looked at it. There were three possibilities.

1. It was not Sal on the line. He had been exposed, and someone at Homeland was writing him confusing e-mails, using Sal's name.

2. Sal was there, but again, he was compromised, and his new masters were telling him what to say.

3. Sal was there, but didn't know he was compromised. Someone had decided to slip Fitzhugh an extra message and watch him sweat it out.

All three possibilities were bad news.

But he'd collected his wits before the interview. The truth was that nothing could connect him to the Tiger, the death of Angela Yates, or even Grainger. The whole operation had been run through

Grainger, who was dead, which meant that, other than Milo Weaver, there was nothing left to threaten him. It was a dead case-it should be a dead case.

Self-assurances can only take you so far. Simmons had first thrown him off guard with that revelation about Weaver's parentage-how had they not found this before? Then she asked him into the corridor.