Olen Steinhauer - The Nearest Exit

The senator sounded rushed and uncomfortable. “You going to give me a hint, Alan?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“This better be worth the inconvenience.”

When he got to the room, Drummond removed a tiny Scotch from the refrigerator, and as he unscrewed it the room phone rang. Milo said, “Where?”

“Six twenty.”

The line went dead.

Drummond threw back the Scotch, then unpacked his briefcase. There were some loose files and, beneath them, wrapped in a gray bath towel, his pistol.

It was an M9 the service pistol the marines had handed him, which they’d switched to in the late eighties in order to create uniformity with NATO firearms. A good weapon, it had never jammed, though when he’d been issued it the etched metal grip had irritated him. That only took a month to adjust to, though, and when he picked it up it felt as natural as grabbing his other hand in prayer.

Yet once he’d rechecked the full clip and cleared the breech, he went back for the second, and last, Scotch. With a background that included two miserable years in Afghanistan, the prospect of using the pistol didn’t disturb him; using it in a D.C. hotel room on a senator did. Particularly when the reasoning was based on a single agent’s epiphany.

Yet the epiphany was too damaging to ignore, so he placed the M9 on the dresser, behind the television, and checked his watch. It was seven fifty-two.

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Downstairs, Milo had watched Drummond arrive, and, after asking the front desk to patch him through to his room and getting the room number, he took a position at the far end of the foyer with a bouquet of flowers he’d purchased at the gift shop. He checked his wristwatch continually so that the staff would imagine he was waiting on a late date and leave him alone.

Irwin arrived focused on the space in front of himself, so Milo didn’t need to hide behind his flowers. Irwin, crossing to the elevators, looked like a man with an unpleasant but necessary task ahead of him, someone who wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Milo waited. No obvious shadows had preceded Irwin, and for the next five minutes no one else appeared. He got up and went to the elevators, but stepped back to let a family go up alone. He waited for the next one and took it to the sixth floor. He knocked on room 620 and heard voices-Drummond: “Can you get that, Nathan? Room service”-then the door opened. Senator Irwin, shocked, stared back. Behind him, Drummond was moving to the television.

“What the hell?” said Irwin. “Alan? What the hell have you-” He stopped in midsentence, because he’d turned to find Drummond pointing a gun at him.

Milo stepped inside and locked the door. He said to Drummond, “You didn’t tell him yet?”

“Tell me what?” Irwin demanded.

Alan Drummond looked uncomfortable, but he held the pistol like a pro, his hand steady. “Sit down, Nathan. We just want you to make a few phone calls.”

The first was Raymond Salamon. Despite the fifteen-minute fight the senator put up, threatening them both with things worse than expulsion, he finally called Salamon and put on his most authoritative voice. “Ray, you’d better get your ass down to Thomas Circle. Now. I’ve got some Company guys who need to talk to you.”

“CIA? What-what’s this about?”

“You tell me, Ray. What’ve you been doing that these thugs are looking for you?”

“I-nothing, sir.”

“Well, if that’s true, then there’s nothing to worry about. Just get down here five minutes ago, wait in front of the Washington Plaza, and we’ll get it all straightened out.”

“Okay.”

“And Ray? Don’t you dare tell anyone else about this. Not yet. We clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Salamon was true to his word. He arrived in a swift ten minutes, and Milo approached him in the drop-off area that was busy with taxis and bellboys. “Raymond Salamon?”

“Uh, yes,” he said.

“Right this way.”

He led the frightened aide into the hotel, and in the elevator Salamon tried to ask questions. Milo answered with hard silence. When they finally made it to room 620, Salamon relaxed visibly at the sight of Irwin, and Irwin gave him a grudging wink. “I knew you were a straight shooter, Ray.”

“Your phone, please,” said Milo.

“Go ahead, Ray. Give the man your phone. And settle down on the chair. We’re in for a long night.”

Because Maximilian Grzybowski and Derek Abbott lived together, Klein was stationed outside their apartment waiting for one to leave. When Abbott stepped out, Klein called in, and Irwin dialed Abbott’s number. The same sternness, but with a few more fraternal quips-Abbott was clearly one of Irwin’s favorites. The same orders, though: Come immediately to the Washington Plaza to speak to the CIA. Tell no one.

Fifteen minutes later, Milo was leading Abbott into the hotel, and Irwin was calling Grzybowski. While they waited, Abbott kept asking Salamon what he knew, and Salamon shrugged meekly. Abbott said, “What’s the deal?”

“The deal,” Irwin snapped, “is that I’m being forced to do this, and I’m not going to believe the charges until these men have proved them to me. And if they don’t prove them, then their careers are in the toilet.”

When Grzybowski joined them, though, he showed none of the patience the first two had been demonstrating. He, unlike them, had spent time in the Department of Tourism, and knew that the man holding the pistol was just another bureaucrat. “Didn’t I tell you, sir? Drummond couldn’t stand losing control of his department, and he was bound to get you back for the humiliation. Jesus. Like fucking high school.”

It was eleven o’clock by the time Milo met William Howington at the opening of the hotel’s looped drive, behind a line of four taxis. He was the first not to immediately follow him into the hotel. “I don’t know who the hell you are.”

“Irwin said to meet him here, right? I’m taking you to him.”

Howington wouldn’t be convinced until he’d called to receive a direct order from Irwin. When they reached the room, his mouth hung open. “Is this a surprise party?”

Milo had not expected any revelations by this point. Though anything was possible, these four men had nothing in their files to suggest they could be working for Zhu. Of the remaining three-Susan Jackson, Jane Chan, and David Pearson-all had had some sort of connection to China, but only the women still had emotional ties to that area: Jackson to mainland China, Chan to Hong Kong. Of those two, Milo’s suspicions rested more with Jackson, who could be used to keep her lover, Feng Liang, safe. Chan had family that could have been used as collateral, but Milo doubted a man with Zhu’s labyrinthine mind would choose an Asian to spy for him.

So his preference was to call Jackson last, but there was a problem. According to Leticia Jones, Chan and Pearson were spending the evening in with some DVDs and delivery pizza. If they called Pearson, he would have to tell Chan where he was going, and Chan-if she were the mole-would be tipped off. Call Chan first, and the same would be true of Pearson.

Klein, who had been watching Jackson’s apartment for the previous hour, told Milo that she had gone to bed alone. “Go ahead,” Milo told Irwin. “Call Jackson.”

He woke her up. “Susan, you need to get down here right away.”

“I just fell asleep. What is it?”

“It’s your career. Now get dressed and meet me at Thomas Circle. The Plaza. The CIA needs to talk with you.”

“CIA? Why?”

“They think you’ve been a bad girl, Susan-and they’re doing a hell of a job convincing me. So get down here and start arguing your side, and don’t call anyone else about this until it’s been cleared up. Understood?”