Olen Steinhauer - The Nearest Exit

As he undressed, the doubt returned. Was this really the only way to scare a mole? He’d used his real passport at JFK, and before his flight took off he saw one of the shadows running to the gate to catch it in time. That one-a young woman with red bangs-had remained with him in the Munich airport before handing him off to the mustached man they must have called ahead to prepare. The man had followed his rental car all the way to the Pullach grocery store, and was probably still there, watching his abandoned car in the darkness.

Maybe it wasn’t the only way, but it was having the desired effect. Irwin knew exactly where Milo Weaver was. Thus, the mole did, too.

The robe Schwartz brought down was soft and thick and very pink, and as he slipped it on she turned on the dryer, ignoring his nakedness. “Do you have something to drink?” he asked.

“I only bought one wine.”

“Just water, Erika. I’m thirsty.”

They went upstairs to the living room, passing the steel door to the panic room, and settled in the darkness. Schwartz made no move to turn on any light. She went to the kitchen and brought out a bottle of Evian, two wineglasses, and her bottle of Riesling. “So,” she said as they each began to drink. “You have come to offer me your wonderful service.”

“Something like that.”

“Well, I’m flush with excitement.”

Milo didn’t launch into it yet. Instead, he said, “I hear Conference Room S is finally in service.”

“How did you hear about that?”

“You did tell me to ask my own people, didn’t you?”

She raised her eyebrows. “A delegation of Americans arrived today. You know what I told Oskar when they arrived with their bright ties and big smiles and vigorous handshakes?”

“What?”

“That we’ve finally learned the value of a girl’s life.”

Milo nodded into his water. “When’s the next delegation due?”

“Monday. They have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Good.”

“Is it?”

Milo examined her heavy, damp cheeks in the light from the street, then noticed that on the cushion beside her hand was a small pistol. She looked exhausted. He said, “Everything stays in this room. Agreed?”

Erika Schwartz shrugged.

“A few weeks ago,” he said, “there was a scare in the department. We had reason to believe there was a double agent working among us.”

“Double agent?” asked Schwartz. “For whom?”

“For the Chinese.”

She waited.

“We followed the clues, but they didn’t add up. Or, they did, but they proved there wasn’t one at all.”

Schwartz waited patiently.

“Now, though, it appears that we were twice fooled. We believe we do have a mole.”

Schwartz appeared unfazed. “We? I heard you had left the CIA.”

“It’s a figure of speech.”

“Sounds like a CIA problem to me.”

“I’m afraid it’s your problem, too, Erika. Which is why I’ve come to you. The Company now has access to a lot more of your secrets than it did a month ago, and, ergo, so do the Chinese.”

“Thanks to a young girl.”

Milo didn’t say a thing.

She said, “Are you here just to deliver bad news?”

“We’d like your help with this problem.”

“We, again. Who is this abstract pronoun, exactly?”

“Myself, and Alan Drummond.”

Schwartz blinked at him, blank, her eyelids a confusion of tiny wrinkles when they closed. Then, even in the darkness, she found a loose hair on the thigh of her slacks and brushed it away. “The CIA employs twenty thousand people-that’s the number it will admit to. Is there really no one else you can go to? Not one?”

Milo didn’t answer.

Schwartz took a long breath. “You began this conversation by suggesting you had something to offer me. Maybe you should start with that.”

“We’ll give you the means to bring down Theodor Wartmüller. The videotape.”

“Of him with the girl?”

Milo nodded.

Schwartz found another hair on her slacks, picked at it with her stubby fingers, and said, “If you’d asked me a week ago, I would have told you that the videotape was the only thing I wanted. Now I’ve had some time to think. If it goes public, it’ll cause more grief than solutions. Theodor knows that, too. I’m not sure it’s of any use to me now.”

“You don’t want it?”

“I didn’t say that. I’d rather I held on to it than you. I’m simply saying that it won’t solve my troubles. And it certainly won’t bring down Teddi.”

“Then I’ll give you other means,” said Milo.

“You have other means just sitting around?” A slow grin grew on her face, and she sighed. “Of course you do. Frame-ups are child’s play for the Department of Tourism.”

Milo felt her watching his face for some reaction. He gave none, and Schwartz finally shook her head.

“That’s not enough.”

“What is enough?”

“The person who broke her neck.”

“That’s not up to me.”

“Then call Alan Drummond right now and ask him.”

They both knew calling wasn’t an option, so Milo said, “I’ll give you the name myself. All right?”

Schwartz nodded slowly, very serious. “So, to be clear. I will receive the original videotape, the identity of Adriana Stanescu’s killer, and the means with which to prosecute Theodor Wartmüller.”

Milo wondered if it was really worth it. He supposed it was, but for all this she would do only one small thing. “Yes,” he said. “That’s right. Now can I tell you what you’re going to do to earn all these riches?”

“I am breathless, Milo. Really, I am.”

He landed at noon and took a taxi back into town, thinking over his escape route. The woman with the red bangs had been on his flight, ten rows up, and while he wanted them to know where he’d been, he didn’t want them knowing his destination: the Bronx safe house, which would now be housing two Tourists.

He peered back at the highway. It was a busy time of day, and any of the cars could have been on him-or none. So he asked the driver to take him to Williamsburg and the Hasidic neighborhood he and Tina used to visit for Israeli specialties-any shadow would look as out of place there as he would. However, once they reached the long, lifeless streets, Milo remembered that it was Saturday; this part of Williamsburg was abandoned. It wasn’t the kind of place to try to lose a shadow.

“Bedford and Seventh,” he told the driver.

As they headed north, the streets filled with hip young Brooklynites at sidewalk tables, munching bagel sandwiches and sushi. He got out in front of a Salvation Army thrift store, then crossed Bedford and bought a Coke at a corner market beside the L-train subway stop. He peered out the window.

“Twenty-five cents,” the woman behind the register said as she handed over his change.

There: An old Suzuki pulled up in front of the Salvation Army.

A tall black man got out and stood beside his door, watching faces. If he was irritated, he didn’t show it.

“You need something else?” asked the woman.

The man left his car and walked left, toward Sixth, and Milo hurried out, took the corner and descended into the subway. As his head sank beneath the sidewalk, the black man turning, scanning, caught his eye.

Milo used his MetroCard as the train arrived at the station. His shadow ran up to the turnstile, stopping, slapping his pockets. Cursing. The subway doors closed. Milo smiled as the train headed out.

The L-train had the advantage of crossing five different lines inside Manhattan, and he chose one at random, then crisscrossed the island, taking locals and expresses until he was sure he was alone. In the Bronx, he picked up groceries-instant noodles and bread and ham and coffee-and by the time he finally climbed the stairs to the safe house, the sun was setting. He listened at the door but heard nothing. He knocked and waited.