Olen Steinhauer - The Nearest Exit

“We don’t do anything, Alan. I’m not in the department anymore, and I don’t want to be. I’m bringing this to you, and I’ll help look over some of the files, but I’m not taking part in any sting operation.”

Drummond shrugged that off. “I’ll bring in a couple of Tourists on the sly.”

“How big is Irwin’s staff? How many people are we talking about?”

“You met Grzybowski and Pearson-chief of staff and legislative director. There’ll be a lot of interns, as well as staff at his district office, but I think there’s only five more in the core D.C. group-I can get their names. Only those first two had direct access to the building and met with Tourists, but I’ll lay odds Irwin’s smuggling copies of files out of the twenty-second floor. In that case, all seven are possibilities.”

“Seven,” Milo said and sipped his vodka. “Not so many.”

“Not so few, either. Not with the kind of hunch you’re going on. If I round up seven congressional aides and put John on them, Irwin might just notice the disappearance of his entire staff. If I tell him one of them’s a mole, he’s going to ask for evidence. What do I do then? Bring you in?” He shook his head. “Besides, if you’re wrong the department will lose its last ally. Even if you’re right about it, Irwin will close us down before John’s even put on his gloves.” Drummond made a face, as if his Scotch had gone bad. “As much as it pains me, the only way might be to bring in some outside help. I know someone in the Bureau. Good guy, but-”

“But I’ll bet he’s interested in promotion,” Milo said. “When competing agencies start going after each other, friendship goes out the window.”

“Yeah,” Drummond said into his glass. “And if you choose another Company department, it’ll run straight up to Ascot, or to the Committee on Homeland Security. Either way, the department is dead in the water.”

“You almost sound like you give a damn, Milo.”

“Almost.”

Milo stuck out his glass, and, taking the hint, Drummond refilled it, saying, “We’ve gotten rid of everyone. If I make it a regular Tourist case, Irwin will hear about it and the mole will disappear. There’s just the two of us and whatever Tourists I can muster without anyone noticing.”

“You bring the files,” Milo said. “I’ll help you work through them. Maybe we can narrow it down. But I’m not sticking around for the whole show.”

“We can use the Bronx safe house.”

“Good. I don’t want to see you in public again. I think Irwin’s goons are still following me.”

The Scotch stopped halfway to Drummond’s mouth. “What?”

“It’s not important. We’ll just have to be careful.”

“Jesus.”

Milo didn’t share Drummond’s anxiety; he wouldn’t even later when he was heading home again, feeling the eyes of a young guy with glasses on the same subway car. The fact was that Milo had become the kind of dreaded creature that feels more comfortable evading surveillance and calculating the flow of information than discussing his feelings with a Long Island therapist while the eyes of his wife are on him.

He said, “If so, they saw me come here, but that’s fine. I’m visiting my old employer, asking for help finding work. The important thing is that I know they’re watching. Hopefully we’ll find a way to use that to our advantage.”

“Makes me wonder why you’re bothering with this at all. Don’t you have a marriage to suture back together?”

“Maybe I like you, Alan. Maybe I don’t want to see you lose your job. Maybe-and this is sort of disturbing-maybe I really buy your line about making Tourism humane.”

“That would make you the only one,” Drummond said, then laughed despite himself. He took another sip of his Scotch. “You still like him, don’t you?”

“Irwin?”

“No, Zhu.”

Milo shrugged. “He’s played this brilliantly.”

Drummond’s smile went away. “Before this is over, I’ll lay odds you lose that hero worship.”

“We’ll call it a bet.”

They both looked up at a knock on the door. “Yes?” Drummond called.

Penelope opened the door and knotted her arms. “Fellas, this fifties thing is getting pretty old. Is one of you going to cook me some dinner, or what?”

She began angry and, as hours passed and she kept getting recorded messages from his phone, moved steadily into the realm of worry. By the time she was giving Stephanie her bath, the worry was inching closer to panic. She showed none of these conflicting emotions to Stephanie, but children are antennas tuned to the frequency of hidden emotions. Stef knew something was up, and as she wiped shampoo from her eyes she said, “Where’s Dad?”

“He had some work to do.”

“But he doesn’t have a job. He’s unemployed.”

“Don’t you think he’s trying to find a job?”

“This late?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Then how come you keep trying to call him?”

Tina blinked at her. She was asking these questions with no particular malice, absentmindedly pushing a plastic power boat around the tub. “I want him to pick up some groceries,” Tina lied.

“Why don’t you go downstairs and buy stuff?”

“Because I’m giving you a bath.”

“I can take my bath myself. I am six. I’m big enough.”

“No, Little Miss. Not alone in the house you’re not.”

So it went, distracting Tina from her anger and worry, and once the water in the bath was draining and Stephanie was wrapped in a towel that stretched to her toes, they both heard the front door open, and Stephanie ran out in her towel shouting, “Dad! Dad!”

“Whoa,” Tina heard him tell their daughter. “You’re going to catch a cold.”

As they had done many times during their life together, they temporarily set aside their conflict and focused on Stef. He apologized for missing bathtime, sounding earnest, but it was a sign of her trust issues that she even questioned that.

They finished the drying together, and Milo read a chapter of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone to Stephanie, while Tina took care of the dishes. She set aside a plate of chicken fingers and peas for Milo and placed it inside the microwave and left the door open-she had a feeling that if she didn’t, he’d eat it cold. He sometimes became that absentminded when his mind was elsewhere. Once, when he’d been dealing with some particularly vexing problem at the office, he’d even left the house without shoes, not noticing until he’d reached the street.

“She asleep?” she asked when he came out.

“Not yet. She wants to Skype with some friend in Botswana. Did you know she had a friend in Botswana?”

“That’s Unity Khama. It’s a class project. We used to do pen pals, but these days they don’t even know what a pen is.”

He snorted a laugh and heated up the dinner.

“So I guess you’ve got some talking to do,” she said.

“Can you wait a sec?”

He left as the microwave bleeped, and when he returned again he was carrying both of their coats. “Here,” he said, handing hers over. “Put this on. We’ll go upstairs.”

“What about Stef?”

“I told her we’d be out a few minutes, and not to unlock the door for anyone. Come on. She’ll be fine.”

“Why can’t we talk here?”

“Can you just indulge me?”

She wasn’t entirely sure, but she was willing to try. Dr. Ray had said that mistrust breeds more mistrust, and that the danger of this was that it spiraled out of control, particularly when it remained locked inside you. So she said, “Milo, right now I’m not feeling very indulgent.”

“I wouldn’t either,” he admitted, “but please.”