Olen Steinhauer - The Nearest Exit

“Nincs,” Parkhall said with a wave of his long fingers. “Bocsánat, Edit.”

As Parkhall unlocked his gate, Edit locked her own door, filling the stairwell with the echo of locks being turned. They shook hands, but Parkhall didn’t let him in that easily. “You have some kind of ID?”

“I left my investigator’s license in the hotel. Passport do?”

Parkhall shrugged, then examined the Hall passport to his satisfaction. Milo followed him into a large living room decked out in IKEA and a muted television playing BBC News. The place had been nicely renovated from what must have been a ubiquitous chopped-up communist apartment. Parkhall grabbed a coffee and two pills from the coffee table and swallowed them. “Hangover. You’ve had Unicum?”

“Sure. It’s not bad.”

“Just remember moderation, or you’re in for a world of hurt.”

“I’ll make a note of it.”

“Coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’ve had enough already.”

Parkhall flopped onto his couch. “Go ahead. Sit down.”

Milo kept his coat on and took a chair. “This should just take a few minutes. I mean, I have the background already. Gray was in the hospital before he vanished, wasn’t he?”

Parkhall nodded. “How did he end up in a coma?”

“You don’t know?”

“I’ve got conflicting reports. I’d rather hear what you, as a journalist, have to say.”

Parkhall shrugged. “According to him, an intruder in his apartment threw him off his terrace. Back in August.”

That was unexpected. “Did the police find the intruder?”

“You’ll have to ask them. As far as I know, they didn’t.”

“I’m visiting them next,” he lied. “So why ask me?”

“It’s good to cover your bases.”

A smile slipped into Parkhall’s face. “Particularly with Hungarians.”

“What about Gray? Did he have any idea who did it? Or was it just a random break-in?”

Parkhall considered him a moment, then stood up with his mug. “Sure you don’t want some coffee? I’m getting a refill.”

“Twist my arm. Thanks. Black.”

Milo followed him to the kitchen doorway. “What about Gray?”

Parkhall was filling the cups from a French press, and when he turned his expression was pained. “Henry has a lot of ideas-theories.

He’s that kind of journalist. A theory about everything. Conspiracy theories.”

“I saw a few things he wrote,” Milo admitted. “Kind of weird. To me, at least.”

“To the rest of us, too,” Parkhall said as he handed over a cup and they returned to the living room. “Honestly, the guy was a bit of a joke with us. That tsunami that wiped out Indonesia a few years ago? We were out drinking, and I joked that I’d heard of a document proving the CIA was behind it. Weather experiments. Everyone laughed except Henry-I mean, he really bought the story!”

“Unbelievable.”

“Yeah. So if you asked him who tossed him off his terrace, there’s only one possible answer, and it’s the one he spouted about as soon as he woke from his coma. The CIA had tried to kill him.”

“He told you this?”

“Called me after he woke up. Thought I would write something for the Times on it. Pure delusion.”

Milo set down his coffee. “Any reason the CIA would want him dead?”

“It’s called hubris, Mr. Hall, and Henry has it in spades. According to him, he received a letter that would have blown the CIA apart. The CIA knew he had it, so they decided to liquidate him. The guy really should be writing thrillers.”

Milo shared a polite laugh over that, then drew a serious face. “Any idea what was in this letter?”

“God’s own mystery. Disappeared when he was tossed off his terrace. When I asked what was in it, he said he couldn’t tell me. Know why?”

“Why?”

“He didn’t want them coming after me, too. Shocking!”

“But then he disappeared, didn’t he?” Milo said, trying to stay on topic. “Isn’t anyone worried about him?”

“Ah, hell,” Parkhall muttered. “I mean, the boys like him all right, but…” He frowned, thinking through his words. “But life hasn’t gotten much worse with him gone, if you know what I mean. No, we’re not worried, because we know he’s just holing up somewhere, maybe in Prague, maybe Belgrade, with a bottle of vodka, waiting for the heat to blow over. An extended bender, probably. We’ve all had them.”

Milo nodded agreeably. “Listen, I heard something-maybe just a rumor-that just after he disappeared someone else came looking for him. A man.”

“Milo Weaver,” Parkhall said with some enthusiasm. “Nice guy. Works for AP, you know.”

“AP?”

“Associated Press.”

“Right, of course. I have a feeling I’ve met the guy before, but I’m not sure-can you describe him?”

“Sure. Blond. Tall. What else? Blue eyes-vivid blue. Jesus. Sounds like I’m describing a girl I’m hot for, doesn’t it?”

“Exactly,” Milo said. While it wasn’t much of a description, it was a start. “Speaking of girls, didn’t Gray have one? A Hungarian girlfriend?”

“Zsuzsa!” Parkhall exclaimed, sitting up. “If you believe him, they did sleep together, but ‘girlfriend’ is a stretch. Now, she was worried about him. Spent a while poking around. Zsuzsa’s all right, but she got obsessed to the point that she lost her job.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Maybe. But she takes her clothes off now for much better money.” He paused. “If you want to know about Henry, she’s the one to talk to. When you see her you’ll understand why none of us could believe he actually got her in bed. Me, maybe. But Henry?”

“That good, huh?”

“Better. Listen,” Parkhall said, straightening. “If I can get rid of this damned headache, maybe you and I should go see her. She’s dancing tonight at the 4Play. If you go alone, she’ll think you’re just some pervert… or from the Company. Which is the same difference.”

“Thanks,” Milo said. “That would be really kind of you.”

On the surface, Milo and Henry Gray were not so different. To an outside observer, Milo realized with despair, they might just look the same. Both viewed the world with a paranoid eye, were prone to sudden disappearances, and chose to leave their friends in the dark in order to protect them-this was what Milo had done to his wife. In the hours leading up to his eight thirty rendezvous with Parkhall, though, he concentrated on their differences.

While Gray puzzled over Masonic symbols to back up his conspiratorial premises, Milo looked at facts to find the connection, if any, between them, and then built up his theories. This distinction, though small, was crucial: For someone like Gray, Occam’s Razor did not exist, for his logic was already corrupted by assumptions. Milo’s, hopefully, began with as few assumptions as possible.

So he examined the facts at hand by breaking into Gray’s dusty Vadász utca apartment. He browsed Gray’s extensive collection of books (nonfiction with a small shelf of international thrillers), the elaborately renovated kitchen (which suggested a budding chef), the unopened box of twenty condoms in the bedside drawer (Gray lived in hope), and an enormous plasma television.

He called the closest major hospital, the Péterfy Sándor Kórház, and like his namesake claimed to be an American doctor interested in Henry Gray’s medical records. After being passed to someone who spoke English, he was told that Gray and all of his records had been forwarded to the Szent János Kórház last year. He took the number 6 tram across the Danube to Buda and visited the St. János grounds, but the doctors were gone, and the few nurses who spoke to him were too busy to help. They told him to come back on Monday.