“Of course it does, Mr. Weaver,” Rollins said. His voice was different now, relaxed, the odd accent heavier. As if he’d given over a small piece of his secret and now felt free to share anything. “But I’m not sure you could pronounce it.”
“Try me.”
“Guojia Anquan Bu,” said Stephen Rollins.
To stop himself from slipping off his chair, Milo shot out a hand to catch the edge of the table. Guojia Anquan Bu; Guoanbu; the Chinese Ministry of State Security. He was finally able to place Rollins’s accent. He tried to speak, but it was difficult. He cleared his throat. “Who is this?”
“I think you know, Mr. Weaver, but I think that perhaps you’re too proud to admit that you know.”
His hand felt the fear first. It took the phone away from his ear, holding it at a safe distance, and the thumb stretched over the keypad to hang up. He stopped it, though, and forced the phone back to his face. He said, “What’s going on.”
Xin Zhu said, “Mr. Chaudhury believes you only know what you’ve told him about Alan Drummond’s plans, but I’m not convinced. I asked him to give you my phone number. I knew you would call eventually.”
Milo remembered Chaudhury saying, I just think you’d like to stay off my boss’s radar.
His dry mouth made his words hurt in the back of his throat. “I don’t know anything else.”
“What about Leticia Jones? She certainly knows more than either of us do.”
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
“She beat one of my people senseless on her way to meet you. She knows enough to make sure no one is listening. What did she share with you?”
“She told me that they’re going to bury you.”
Another pause. “How?”
“She didn’t tell me, because I don’t want any part of it.”
“But she would tell you if you did want to be part of it.”
Milo said nothing. There was nothing to say.
“I have a proposition, Mr. Weaver. Once in the past you said that you admired my work; now is your chance to be a part of it.”
Milo had said that once, but it had been a long time ago, and said in confidence. He tried to remember if he’d said it in front of the man had who turned out to be Xin Zhu’s mole, but he couldn’t focus. “I was delusional,” Milo said. “I’ve gotten over it.”
Xin Zhu made a noise, either a wheeze or a laugh, and Milo noticed a faint digital echo, the kind that sometimes accompanies transatlantic calls. “You must understand my position,” he said. “I am here, attempting to the best of my abilities to do my job, and then it comes to my attention that someone wants to do me harm. Not just me, but harm to my country-to the security of my country. What do I do? What would you do?”
Milo didn’t answer.
“You would do the same thing I’ve done. Try to find out who wants to do you harm, and how.”
“Not why?”
“I know why. Because Americans are obsessed with revenge.”
“That’s a joke, right?”
“Is it?”
“You killed thirty-three people to avenge your son’s death. That’s shockingly vengeful.”
“Simply because Americans are obsessed with revenge does not mean that I am not. One does not contradict the other, does it?”
Milo stood and shook out a leg, trying to ease the tingling, “What does Alan Drummond say? You have him, of course.”
“I wish I did,” said Xin Zhu. “Ms. Jones doesn’t have him?”
“Maybe he’s dead.”
“I don’t think either of us believe he’s dead. Your father certainly doesn’t.”
Milo wondered if they had been following him or following Yevgeny, or if they had simply read the SMS his father had sent, arranging lunch. That would’ve given them a full day to wire the Byblos table and fill all the other tables with customers. He said, “I don’t know either way.”
“Another thing for you to discover. I never had any plans to touch a hair on Alan Drummond’s head.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“It’s true, Mr. Weaver. He decided to break our agreement. Had I chosen to reprimand him for this, I would have killed his wife, not him.”
“Penelope?”
“It was her life he was risking by doing what he did.”
“What did he do?”
“He ignored my instructions.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will. But for now let’s discuss how you can uncover the facts.”
“No,” said Milo. “First, you’ll tell me why you think I’ll help you.”
“Maybe because you once helped a dead man, who also happened to be your enemy, to uncover the identity of his murderer. Mr. Sam Roth, otherwise known as the Tiger.”
“Get yourself killed, and I’ll be happy to find the murderer.”
“That joke is in poor taste, Mr. Weaver.”
“Tell me about your relationship with Alan.”
“Simple. I discovered he was engaged in a plan to, at the very least, smear my reputation. I convinced him of the error of his ways. He began to work with me to undermine the plan.”
“Why didn’t he just stop it?”
“Because he was not the only person involved. Leticia Jones, for example. Senator Nathan Irwin.”
“Irwin’s involved?” Worse and worse. A year ago, Irwin had tried to have Milo killed.
“As I told you, Americans are obsessed with revenge, none more than politicians. There are two more conspirators from your old employer. A retired Directorate of Operations officer named Stuart Jackson, and Dorothy Collingwood, who works in the National Clandestine Service. Perhaps you know them?”
Milo didn’t, and said as much.
Xin Zhu sighed. “But you understand now. Alan Drummond could not simply tell these three powerful people that the plan was canceled, therefore his job was to make sure it failed.”
“He double-crossed you?”
“You could say that.”
“The camera was yours. The one in Alan’s office.”
“Of course. Upon our instructions, he placed it there himself. It turned out that he did very little work in his office.”
Enough time had passed so that the shakes had lessened, and Milo had lost the feeling that he was under a great weight. He said, “Listen, Zhu.”
“You call me by my first name. Very intimate.”
Milo hesitated, realizing that Xin Zhu was right. Chinese names end with the given name, yet Milo, Alan, Nathan Irwin… they had simply fallen into the rhythm of calling him Zhu. He had no idea why. “Xin Zhu,” he said. “I wasn’t going to fly around the world for Alan, and I’m not doing it for you. You’ve got plenty of people to take care of this.”
“I don’t think Leticia Jones or Nathan Irwin would trust my employees. No, Mr. Weaver. It has to be you.”
“Well, it won’t be.”
“Please,” said Xin Zhu, “open up your computer.”
Milo’s laptop was already open in front of him. “Okay.”
“Now go into the browser and type the following IP address.”
Milo typed the four numbers, separated by periods, that Xin Zhu dictated. The computer stalled a second on a white screen, working to load two videos. “What is this?”
“It will just be a moment,” Xin Zhu said, then, to someone else, spoke a short phrase in what Milo suspected
