“Right now?'
'Uh, yeah,' he said, then Milo 's throat closed up as he heard a muffled voice in the background trying to scream. He knew that sound. The noise of someone who'd been gagged.
'When'll you be free?'
'Give me… I don't know. Forty minutes?'
'Where?'
'I'm in the Deutsche Bank right now, so-'
'The twin towers?'
'Yeah.'
Milo imagined him in an office in one of the upper floors of those famous mirrored towers in the center of the financial district, some unfortunate CEO bound and gagged under his desk, while Einner casually made a date on the phone. He'd forgotten how rough Tourism could be.
'Listen, you know the Frankfurt Opera? Let's meet in front of there around two. I'll have another chance to prove we're not uncultured hacks.'
'Should you be saying all that aloud, James?'
Einner grunted. 'This guy? In ten minutes, he won't be able to say a thing.'
The man's muted howls rose in pitch.
He took a clean, sparse train to Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof, where he hooked his knapsack over his shoulder and went on foot past afternoon gridlock toward the Friedensbrucke. Instead of crossing the bridge, he turned left up the dock running alongside the Main River. All the well-dressed businessmen and teenagers and pensioners reminded him of Paris. Only a week ago.
He grabbed a schnitzel sandwich from a street vendor and walked back inland to the long park at Willy-Brandt- Platz, where he took a bench and gazed at the glassy modern face of the Oper Frankfurt. Despite Einner's confidence that he could speak openly in front of his captive, Milo kept an eye on passersby. It was' a habit he'd lost in the last six years, a habit he needed to regain if he wanted to stay a free man.
All Tourists know the importance of awareness. When you enter a room or a park, you chart the escapes immediately. You take in the potential weapons around you-a chair, ballpoint pen, letter opener, or even the loose, low-hanging branch on the tree behind Milo 's bench. At the same time, you consider the faces. Are they aware of you? Or are they feigning a forced ignorance that is the hallmark of other Tourists? Because Tourists are seldom proactive; the best ones bring you to them.
Here in the sunny park, he noticed a woman at the curb having trouble starting her car. That was a typical setup. Feign exasperation until the target makes his own decision to come and help. Then you have him.
Two children-twelve or so-played along the base of a huge, lit-up euro sign that dominated the park. Another potential trap, because Tourists are not above using children for their ends. One child falls and pretends injury; you go to help; a 'parent' approaches. Simple.
And over there, by the eastern edge of the park, a university student took vertical photos of the European Central Bank skyscraper that looked down on everything. Casual photographers were everywhere in a city like this, and they could shoot you from all directions.
'Hands up, cowboy!'
Milo almost fell off the bench as he jumped and twisted, finding Einner with a finger pistol pointed at him, grinning madly. 'Jesus.'
'Little rusty,' Einner said as he safely pocketed his hand. 'Keep going like this, old man, you'll be dead by sundown.'
Milo recovered his breath, ignored the dangerous sound of his heart. They shook hands. 'Tell me what you know.'
Einner nodded in the direction of the opera house. 'Let's walk.'
They moved together, neither in a hurry.
'It's not what you think,' said Einner. 'They haven't called in Tourists-you're not that important yet. Tom told me to expect you.'
If it was true, Milo was relieved. He was starting to believe that having Einner on his trail would be a serious problem. 'Did Tom tell you why you should expect me?'
'I got that elsewhere. Had breakfast with a friend at the consulate. She's not…' He paused as they reached the street, wondering how to put it. 'She's not quite a security risk, but she's no security saint either. She told me about a wire that came in, for all embassies and consulates, to look out for Milo Weaver.'
'Company wire?'
'State Department.'
'Are they looking?'
'Well, you don't get these all-embassy alerts often. They're looking. Last I heard, a lead went cold in Istanbul.'
As they crossed the street, Milo felt a tug of regret for the Dutchman, whose phone had been a beacon for all the Company agents in Turkey. The feeling passed, though, when he realized that, by backtracking the Dutchman and his SIM card, they certainly knew that Milo had flown out of JFK and, within a few hours, when. 'How about Frankfurt?' he asked when they reached the Opera doors. 'Are you done here?'
The Tourist checked his watch. 'Been off the clock eighteen minutes. I'm all yours.'
Milo held open the door for him. 'And you've got a car?'
'I can always get a car.'
'Good.' They entered the broad, modern lobby, and when Einner veered toward the opera cafe Milo tugged his arm and guided him through a side corridor leading past the bathrooms.
'You know a better place for a drink?'
'I know another exit. Come on.'
'Jesus, Milo. You really are paranoid.'
While Milo could only jimmy the doors of old-model cars, Einner had a more advanced tool at his disposal-a small remote control for power-door locks. He pointed it at a Mercedes C-Class saloon, pressed a small red button on the quarter-sized mechanism, and waited while it automatically went through possible code combinations. After forty seconds, they heard the car alarm bleep its disarming, then the doors unlocked with a quiet pop. It took just over a minute for Einner to start the car. They were soon heading out of town, and Einner said, 'Where to?'
' Paris.'
The destination didn't faze him. 'We'll have to watch out for a couple hours, until we reach France. In case the owner reports this thing missing.'
'Then drive fast.'
Einner obliged, roaring out of town and crossing to the A3, which took them to Wiesbaden, where they switched roads and, after an hour, merged onto the broad, smooth A6 that would take them to France.
'You going to share?' Einner asked.
Milo gazed out the window at a highway landscape; he could have been in upstate New York and not known the difference. 'I want to talk to Diane Morel, a.k.a. Renee Bernier.'
'The communist novelist?'
'The very same.'
'And what do you expect from her?'
'A little clarity. The Chinese colonel was the reason we came after Angela.'
Einner let this sit before pressing. 'And?”
“And what?'
'And is there a reason you need my help? Really, Milo. You expect people to take everything on faith.' Milo didn't answer, so he said, 'You know why I'm good at my job?'
'Because you're so pretty?'
'It's because I think as little as possible. I maintain no pretensions about understanding anything. Tom calls me, and that's all I need to know. Tom is God when he's on that line. But you, my friend. You're not Tom.'
He was right, so Milo told him an abbreviated version of what had come before, including the quick end of his vacation and Grainger's secreted message to contact him. 'Everything here, in Europe, really started with this colonel and Renee Bernier. I need to get my facts straight before pushing on.'
