'Shouldn't you shut the door?' said Stephanie.
Milo laughed-an unbelievably natural laugh-and said, 'Give me my towel, will you?'
She did, but didn't leave.
'And scram, kid! Let me get dressed, and we'll figure out what all to do at Disney World.'
That convinced her, and she left them alone. Tina said, 'You sure we should still go?'
He latched the towel around himself. 'I'm taking my family on vacation, and no one's going to stop me. No one will get that pleasure.'
It was the kind of answer she would have wanted to hear only an hour ago. But now, knowing what she knew and hearing his hard, almost brutal tone, she didn't know what she should want.
22
Sunday morning was like most Sunday mornings family men grow accustomed to, and then start to depend on. The smell of coffee, eggs, and toast, sometimes bacon, the rustle of newspaper and discarded advertising supplements, and everyone moving slowly in loose-fitting robes. Milo read a New York Times editorial on the administration's failure to leave Afghanistan with a stable government, six years after its post-9/11 invasion. It was depressing stuff. Then, on the facing page, he noticed a letter to the editor from Dr. Marwan L. Khambule, Columbia University, concerning the U.S.-supported embargo on Sudan. Were it not for Angela, he probably would have skipped it.
Though its aims-specifically, to force a peaceful settlement in Darfur -are commendable, the practical results are abysmal. Buoyed by Chinese oil investments, President al-Bashir has no need of Western funds. His present situation supplies him not only with the money, but also the arms, to continue his fight in Darfur and defend his rule against extremists in Khartoum.
By contrast, the trade embargo cuts off the sole potential income for the beleaguered citizens of the Darfur region, who receive no benefits from Chinese holdings in the country.
Dr. Khambule went on to explain that a more appropriate means of bringing al-Bashir to the peace table would be to offer U.S. help quelling the jihad ravaging the capital. 'The carrot, so to speak, instead of the stick.'
A little after ten, Tom Grainger appeared. He stood in the doorway facing Tina, carrying a plastic bag weighed down with a thick newspaper. 'Hope I'm not interrupting.'
Stephanie called her godfather 'Uncle Tom,' which was something they hadn't been able to unlearn her. She shouted it and threw herself at him. He caught her smoothly, bag rustling, and raised her with surprising strength to his hip.
'How's the prettiest girl in the United States?'
'I don't know. Sarah Lawton lives on the other side of town.'
'I'm talking about you, young lady.'
'Bring something?'
From his jacket pocket, Grainger produced a Hershey bar. Stephanie grappled at it, but he passed it over to Tina. 'Your mom decides when you get that.'
'Thanks anyway,' Stephanie said.
Grainger sat across from Milo at the kitchen table. Tina delivered a cup of coffee, and he gave her a sad smile of thanks as she went to join Stephanie in the living room, closing the door behind herself. 'Something wrong with her?'
Milo frowned. 'Don't think so.'
'Want to step out?'
'Have you bugged my place?'
'Anything's possible, Milo.'
Toting his newspaper bag, Grainger gave his farewells, and Milo promised to pick up milk on his way home. Stephanie explained to Grainger that she preferred hazelnuts in her chocolate, and the old man promised to make a note of this. They took the steps down to Garfield in silence, then walked up Seventh Avenue, which was full of baby carriages and families of many shades.
They ended up at a Starbucks clone that called itself a patisserie, serving fresh French pastries and coffee. They took their cups to the sidewalk tables, the sun warming them gently, and watched families stroll by.
'Talk to me,' said Milo.
Grainger seemed apprehensive. He lifted his bag and placed the thick Times on the table. That's when Milo noticed it was only the thin front section. Inside were papers in a manila folder. 'It's a photocopy,' he said.
'Tiger?'
The old man nodded. 'Benjamin Harris. In 1989, he left BU with a graduate degree in journalism. By 1990, he was on the CIA payroll, sent to Beijing, and stayed there until 1993, when he died in a car accident.'
'Died, huh?'
'Obviously not.'
'How long?'
'Three years. November '96-that's when he disappeared.' Grainger paused, glancing with approval at a pair of women in short skirts, then looked back. 'Among others, Lacey, Decker, and another Tourist named Bramble went after him. Catch or kill. Lacey and Decker came up empty. Bramble was found dead in Lisbon. I thought about sending you, but you had that thing in Vienna, the old commie spy.'
'I did that job with Frank Dawdle's help,' Milo said.
'Dawdle,' Grainger repeated. 'What a surprise he turned out to be. A friend. That's how I thought of him. Naive, I guess.' He looked at his hands, which were pressed together between his knees. 'I figured it out eventually, you know. Why he suddenly broke. I'd let too much slip. We were preparing to retire the guy, and I told him that this-meaning the Portoroz hand-off-would be a nice finale to his career.' He paused again. 'If I'd just played it a little closer to the chest, he might be alive today.'
Milo wasn't interested in Grainger's conscience. He pulled the heavy newspaper into his lap. 'Harris disappears in '96 and goes solo. He has a fine career in liquidation until one of his clients knocks him out with HIV. All that time, you pretend you have no idea who he is. And you know I'm running around with my head cut off, looking for him.'
'Read the file,' Grainger said wearily. 'You'll get it.'
'Why were you protecting him?'
Grainger didn't like to be pestered. He could take it from superiors, but not from subordinates. He leaned over the table, closer to Milo, and said, 'Look on page three of the file. His original case officer, the one who brought him into the Company, vetted him, and pulled him into Tourism.'
'You?'
'Pah!' said Grainger, waving a hand. 'I'm a little more perceptive than that.'
Milo finally understood. 'Fitzhugh.'
'Exactly.' He saw Milo 's expression. 'It's not just about protecting that old bastard's career, of course. With the climate the way it is, how do you think CNN would spin this?'
'We trained the mujahideen,' said Milo. 'This isn't anything new.'
'Tourists aren't shocked by anything.'
They sat in silence, watching families under the hot sun. Grainger was drenched in sweat, his blue short-sleeve blackened around the armpits. 'What about this?' said Milo, lifting the newspaper-covered file.
