Olen Steinhauer - The Nearest Exit

“Did she say why?”

Finally, Pearson looked at him. “Her family. She was protecting them. Do you know what that means?”

Milo didn’t answer.

“She said-and she kept telling me how sorry she was-she said that she used the information I shared with her. I mean, we talked about everything, Jane and me. Everything.”

“Tell me what happened next.”

“Well, I was angry. You can imagine. Can you?”

“Sure.”

“I told her I couldn’t speak to her. I walked out.”

“Outside?”

“No. To the bedroom. She was in the living room, and I went to the bedroom and slammed the door. And this…” He trailed off. “The last words I spoke to her were in anger. My God.”

“Go on.”

He finally took his hands off the table and put them in his lap, which made him look cold, though his face was shiny with sweat. “After some time-ten, fifteen minutes? I don’t even know. I came out again. And there she was, on the couch. The window was open-it was cold in the room-and she was dead.”

“You didn’t hear anything?”

Pearson shook his head. “The TV was on. No, I didn’t hear any gunshots.” He frowned, as if this had never occurred to him. “Do you think they used a silencer?”

Milo stared at the corner of Pearson’s mouth, which was twitching uncontrollably.

“What happened next?”

“I ran. Stupid, maybe. But I thought… well, I thought that they didn’t know I was there in the other room. As soon as they figured that out I would be next. Witness, that sort of thing. So I wanted to run as fast as I could.”

“Why Montreal?”

“Why not?” he said, then shook his head. “Actually, it was the next flight out of the country, so I took it.” He frowned. “Am I under arrest for running away?”

Milo got up. “You want anything? Coffee?”

“Alcohol,” said Pearson. “Something to settle me down.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Milo said and left.

In the dim outer room, Irwin had collapsed in an office chair, while Jones and Drummond were standing by the window, arms crossed. They’d heard everything from speakers.

“It’s tight,” Leticia Jones said. “The story, I mean.”

“Think so?” Milo asked, turning to watch Pearson reexamining his fingernails. “What I don’t understand is how they did it so quickly. Maybe they had a gunman in the area, but the decision? That had to be Zhu’s call. And it’s-what time is it in Beijing?”

“One in the afternoon,” said Jones.

“She calls-who? Not Zhu directly. Her controller. Wakes up her controller. The controller contacts Zhu. Zhu makes a decision, relays it back to the controller, and the controller contacts the gunman. The gunman climbs up into the apartment and kills her. All this in… twenty minutes, a half hour? It’s efficient; I’ll give it that.”

Pearson had moved on to his wristwatch, removed it, and begun to examine it.

“The television was off,” said a voice, and they all turned to find Irwin, white-faced and old, staring through them. “He turned off the television after finding her body.”

No one spoke for a moment. It was a small thing, but it reminded Milo of something else. “And he didn’t say anything about Chan making a phone call. She received the call from Susan, they argued, and he stormed off. Fifteen minutes later she’s dead. When did she call her controller?”

Irwin made a long exhale, like a deflating tire. “Jesus Christ.”

There was no point giving him what they knew and didn’t know, so when he returned to the room he lied. “We just heard from our people-your prints are all over the shell casings. You killed her.”

Pearson looked shocked. “What? No!”

“Did Zhu tell you to kill her? Or was that your idea? I’m guessing it was your idea, because Zhu would have done it properly. He would have moved her body so that it looked like she had run away from an intruder. Shot her in the back. Or he’d simply hide her body. But not you. You were in a panic; you did it all wrong. You walked right up to her, and she sat up-she trusted you, of course. Then you whipped out the pistol and did it. Then you turned off the television and opened the window and dreamed up the story of the assassin.”

Pearson’s eyes were drier now, but he still held on to his confusion. “You don’t understand anything. I loved Jane. We were going to be married.”

Milo wasn’t listening; he was too taken by his own thoughts. “That was Zhu’s idea, wasn’t it? The relationship. He probably told you from the beginning-stay close to Chan. If you’re ever discovered, you can shift the blame to her. Pillow talk. Yes,” Milo said, now sure. “You both knew everyone would buy her as a mole-but a round-eye like you? Never.”

“Shut up!”

“We were watching your place when you left. You came out walking. Like a man who’d just killed someone, not like someone afraid for his life. You checked your watch, because you wanted some grounding. But you still had your head on your shoulders. People who’ve just committed murder still have their heads. People who’ve just discovered their fiancée’s corpse-they don’t.”

At some point, Pearson had begun to shake. It started with the left hand, where he wore his watch, then moved to the right. Milo could hear his foot tapping the tiled floor and noticed the occasional jerk of his chin. It was too much for him. Pearson was a white-collar spy; he wasn’t used to things like blood and bullets. Few people were. His body was fighting against itself, against Pearson’s will, against the act it had committed. Then the body won, and Pearson heaved and vomited clear liquid across the tabletop.

“So,” said Milo. “You want to tell me?”

Releasing the truth was not as difficult as Pearson had likely imagined. You begin with one truth, and the rest slides through that open hole with little effort. Yes, he had killed her. Yes, it had been his own idea. “I’d come up with it when I found out that you’d been in Germany, getting their help to track me down. I didn’t know if I could do it or not, but I asked Li for a gun and a silencer.”

“Li?”

“I don’t know if that’s his real name. My contact. He gave me one yesterday, left it in my mailbox.”

“Where is it now?”

“A Dumpster. Somewhere between home and here. Don’t ask me which one.”

“Why Montreal?”

Pearson rocked his head from side to side. “That was the plan. If things fell through and I could make it, I should go to Montreal, to the consulate there.”

“Was there a Plan B?”

“I hope so. Because that’s all I have to depend on now.”

Milo stared at him. There were other questions, important ones such as what kinds of information Pearson had given Zhu, and what Pearson was getting from the relationship, but right now Milo was interested in one thing. “Did you ever meet Xin Zhu personally?”

Pearson shrugged. “Twice. Once in Shanghai. Once here.”

“In D.C.?”

“Your Ukrainian source was right-he’s a big man. Enormous. But he’s not a drinker. Not a womanizer. What he is is very serious. He’ll do anything to get revenge. He knows what he needs, and he knows exactly how to get it. He’s daunting. He knew exactly how to get at me, and he knew exactly how to get me into Tourism. And I imagine that, by now, if there is a Plan B, it’s fully in effect. I’d watch out if I were you.”

“He wants revenge for the Sudan.”

“Yes,” said Pearson. “Not all fathers can hold a grudge so intensely.”

Milo wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Fathers?”

Pearson leaned back, his fingers tapping out some code on the table. “Yes. You do know about that, don’t you?”