Olen Steinhauer - The Nearest Exit

“It is,” said Oskar.

“Any idea if Wartmüller’s visitors have gone yet?”

“I believe they left about twenty minutes ago.”

“Hmm.” She moved back to her chair, both hands gripping it. “I suppose someone showed them the rear exit. You think that’s possible, Oskar?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, smiling. “Anything’s possible.”

The call came through at 1:23 P.M. on Tuesday, while Drummond was in the conference room, discussing with the fraud section the movement of funds between three banks-Cayman, Swiss, and Pakistani-and its connection (recently discovered by Malik Tareen, a Tourist who’d been in Lahore for nearly six months) to an Afghan tribe known to be hosting Taliban fighters. Unlike his predecessors, Drummond brought in two advisers from the director’s office to listen and offer advice on the next step, and it was generally agreed that while Tourism could squelch the money trail, the army should be brought in to deal with the tribe. Since the army didn’t know of Tourism’s existence, the information would have to flow through the deputy director of the National Clandestine service, who was one of the few people below the director’s office cleared to have knowledge of Tourism.

With Irwin back in Washington, this was Drummond’s second day as absolute sovereign, and it had been a beautiful day so far-no bad news had come through, no signs of impending disaster-and then his secretary told him of the call on line twelve. His mind was still on banking when he answered, and his “Drummond here” had none of the force it usually carried.

“It’s me,” said Milo.

Drummond blinked at Ascot’s men, who pretended not to be listening in. “Yes. How’s the job search coming?”

“I’m heading to an interview in D.C. right now. You’re on.”

“Okay,” he said, but Weaver had already hung up.

He wrapped up the meeting and returned to the floor to find Harry Lynch hunched over his keyboard, the remnants of a tuna sandwich all over his desk. “Harry, can you come to my office?”

“Uh, sir. Yes.”

He got up and followed Drummond to the far end of the floor, and once they were inside Drummond said, “Shut it, please.”

Lynch closed the door.

“Sit down. Please.”

Cordial behavior always seemed to trouble Lynch, and he lowered himself into a chair slowly, as if anything faster would lead to a reprimand.

“Thanks for taking care of those recalls for me, Harry. Are we still under the radar?”

Lynch nodded. “I’ve moved them around occasionally so no one will think they’re comatose.”

“Good idea. I’ve got one more thing to ask-can you flag seven passports so that no one else in the building knows about it?”

“Virtual keyboard,” said Lynch, shrugging.

“Excuse me?”

“I open a virtual keyboard on the screen and use the mouse to type my instructions. That way, the in-house keystroke recorder doesn’t pick it up.”

“Sounds simple,” Drummond said.

Lynch didn’t answer either way.

Drummond unfolded his wallet, took out a slip of paper, and handed it over. “Here are the passport numbers. I’ll need you to put my personal cell phone down as the initial contact, and the order is to hold the person until I’ve arrived.”

“No problem.”

“Or,” Drummond began, thinking through everything. “Me, or Milo Weaver.”

Lynch blinked a few times. “Milo’s still around?”

“Advising. And that, too, stays between you and me. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” Lynch grinned happily, his discomfort gone, and Drummond felt a pang of jealousy-the mention of his own name would lighten the moods of very few people.

Once Lynch was gone, he picked up his phone, but before he could dial, Irwin called on line seven. “That’s funny, Nathan. I was just about to call you.”

“Hilarious,” said Irwin. “Say, do you know how I can get in touch with Weaver? He’s not answering his phone.”

“No idea, sir. I haven’t talked to him since last week.”

“He say anything about going to Germany?”

“No… Why would he be in Germany?”

“Well, if you do hear from him, tell him I might have found some consulting work. Good pay and benefits. Tell him to call me.”

“I’ll do that. Say, are you going to be free this evening?”

A pause. “Why?”

“Because I’m heading to D.C. now, and I wanted to go over some departmental issues with you.”

“Don’t think so,” said Irwin. “The Democrats are holding some so-called nonpartisan dinner; they’re insisting I come.”

“You might want to skip it.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I want to talk to you about Milo Weaver.”

“Weaver-but you just said-”

“It’s not the kind of thing we can discuss over the phone.” Irwin paused. “Okay, then. You come by my Georgetown place at eight.”

“I’m going to need you to come to me. I’ll be at the Washington Plaza.”

“You’re being very mysterious, Alan. I don’t think I like that at all.”

“Sorry, sir. But I’ll need you to come to me. It’s the only way I’ll feel safe.”

“Now I’m completely confused. Why wouldn’t you feel safe in my house?”

“It’ll all make sense this evening. Eight o’clock, like you said, but at the Plaza. I’ll call you with the room number so you don’t have to ask the desk for it.”

Image

Milo reached Union Station by five, then took a taxi to Thomas Circle NW, where he met Klein and Jones in the Washington Plaza’s lounge, the International Bar, where From Russia with Love-the best of the cinematic Bonds-played on the flat-screen behind the bar. The film matched the sixties decor, but no one among the after-work business crowd was watching it. They took a leather U-shaped booth against the wall, and Milo ordered a round of coffees. Then he handed out cheap cell phones he’d picked up the day before. “Take apart your Company phones and use these.”

“You don’t think that’s overkill?”

“We’re not taking any chances. And we’ll maintain continual contact,” he told them. “These are answered on the first ring.”

“He talks like we’re schoolkids,” muttered Klein.

Jones smiled, her full lips spreading flatly over her teeth. “Hmm. A schoolmaster.”

He wasn’t entirely sure they were taking this seriously enough, but Drummond had assured him that these were two of his best Tourists. They seemed to enjoy their roles-Klein, the grumpy dunce; Jones, the exotic seductress. “We’re going in order of suspicion, least to greatest.” Since there were only seven names, there was no need for note-taking. They knew who each was and where each lived, and all that was required of these Tourists was that they locate and follow each one, calling Milo if any strayed from his or her expected route.

Once they’d gone through the sequence, Leticia Jones called over a waiter and asked for a gin martini. In answer to Milo’s look, she said, “I’m not staying up all night without at least one drink.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Milo countered.

So Klein started waving for another waiter. “I’m having a beer, then.”

Milo resisted the urge, even as he stared jealously at Jones’s drink. At seven, he got up to pay the bill, then told them to go. Jones touched his arm as she left, saying, “Chill out, baby. Mommy and Daddy will take care of you.”

He watched her sashay around tables on her way out, garnering appreciative male gazes the whole way.

Image

Drummond left work early to take the Acela Express from Penn Station, which got him to D.C. by seven. Stuck on the crowded train, steamy from the heat of so many bodies, he kept wishing he’d taken his Jag. Even in light traffic, though, speeding whenever possible, it would have taken him nearly four hours. It wasn’t a day for chancing tardiness. So he endured the trip and waited in line for a taxi to Thomas Circle and checked into the Washington Plaza under his own name. On his way up to the room he called Irwin. “Room 620.”