A nerve in Milo's cheek began to spasm, so he rubbed it. It was anxiety, the realization that Grainger was right.
Then another thought came to him: Grainger was lying. The old man was cornered. He knew that Milo would take him back to the Avenue of the Americas. Grainger had perhaps even planned for this eventuality. As he had said, the intelligence game is all about storytelling. Grainger presented no real evidence either, just stories to fill the gaps between actual events.
Milo realized he hadn't been breathing. He inhaled. It was a hell of a story, the kind that only a veteran like Grainger could dream up. A part of him even still believed it-that's how good it was. He tipped Grainger's vodka into the waiting lips, then sat across from him.
Before he could speak, the telephone on the far table began to ring. Milo stared at Grainger. 'Expecting someone?”
“What time is it?”
“Eleven.'
'I haven't mixed with the villagers in a long time. Maybe Fitzhugh, checking on us.'
Milo got up, the alcohol rushing to his head but not debilitating him, and turned off the lamp. In the darkness, the phone continued to ring-seven, now-and he stood beside the heavy drapes, peering into the nighttime darkness, toward the lake. He saw trees and the gravel road in the moonlight before a cloud slipped a little farther and obscured the scene. On the ninth ring the telephone quieted. Milo didn't know what he believed. 'We're going.'
'Please,' Grainger said. 'I'm exhausted. Fishing all day takes it out of you.'
He turned back and saw Grainger's dark form slump, chin against the duct tape across his chest, breathing loudly. 'You all right?'
The head raised. 'Just tired. But really, if there's someone out there, it's the Company. I'd rather be executed in bed, out here, than be grilled for months in Manhattan, then shot in some dirty safe house.'
Milo returned to the window. Lake, moonlight, and silence. If he hadn't been tracked here, there really was no hurry. Just his desperation to have all this finished. He let the curtains drop. 'We'll leave in the morning. Early. Same bed, though.'
'You always were sweet on me.'
'And you've had enough to drink.'
'I've just started,' said Grainger. 'Can you take off this tape so I can get to my scotch? This vodka is hell on my stomach.'
41
They slept in the upstairs bedroom, tied together at the wrists with a length of rope Milo had found in a kitchen drawer. Overall, it was a steady sleep, broken only once when Grainger sat up and started speaking. 'At first, I didn't like the idea. I want you to know that. That's why I lied and said our Tourists wouldn't be any good for assassinations.'
'It's all right,' Milo said. 'Go back to sleep.'
'If I'd known how it would end up, I would've found a way to nip it in the bud. Really. Maybe if I'd let our Tourists do the killings, we could've kept control to ourselves.'
'Go back to sleep,' Milo repeated, and Grainger dropped to his pillow and began to snore, as if his words had been part of a dream.
They woke and shaved and showered, never far apart, and Milo cooked scrambled eggs and toast. Grainger let half the breakfast go by in silence, then began again. He seemed desperate for Milo to believe him. 'Really, I thought you'd get the answers. It might have been stupid, but it made sense at the time.' He paused, watching Milo chew. 'You don't believe me, do you?'
Milo swallowed his eggs. 'No,' he said, if only to stop Grainger's chatter. 'I don't believe you. Even if I did, I'd still take you back. I can't live like this, and you're the only one who can set things right for me. And Tina.'
'Ah!' said Grainger, smiling wanly. 'It's all about your family, of course.' He swallowed. 'You're probably right. You're too young to ruin your career for this. They'll trump up something to prove I was behind everything, me alone. They can pack me away and begin again with this Cambodian boy.'
Milo felt cold toward the old man, because all he cared about now was his immediate future. He would drive Grainger straight back to Manhattan, help supervise the initial interrogation, and then collect his family from Texas. Simple.
When Grainger finished his breakfast, Milo rinsed off the plates. 'It's time to go.'
As if reading his mind, Grainger said, 'Time to get your life back?'
Milo put on his jacket and found a blazer for Grainger, checking its pockets before handing it over.
'You know,' Grainger said, 'a part of me still believes. A part of me believes that by talking to you I'm betraying the empire. Isn't that funny? We've been marking our territory like an imperial dog since the end of the last big war. Since 9/11, we no longer have to go about it sweetly. We can bomb and maim and torture to our heart's content, because only the terrorists are willing to stand up to us, and their opinion doesn't matter. You know what the real problem is?'
'Put on your jacket.'
'The problem is people like me,' Grainger continued. 'An empire needs men with iron guts. I'm not tough enough; I still need to make excuses about spreading democracy. The younger guys, though-even Fitzhugh-they're the kind of men we need if we want to keep moving forward. They're tough in a way my generation never was.'
'The jacket,' Milo repeated, and Grainger gave him a sour look before stretching an arm into his blazer.
They stepped out into the cool, tree-shaded morning, and Milo locked the front door while Grainger stood, hands on hips, staring at the house. 'I'm going to miss this.'
'Don't be mawkish.'
'Just being honest, Milo. You should know that's all I've been with you. In this house, at least.'
Milo grabbed his elbow and led him down the steps to the leaf-covered walkway. 'We'll have to walk to my car. I don't want to take yours.'
'I think I can manage,' Grainger said and smiled.
Something buzzed around Milo's ear, like a mosquito, then Grainger vibrated. He felt the vibration through Grainger's elbow, and though the smile didn't leave the old man's face, his head was tilted back and his forehead looked different. A small shadow of a hole lay against his forehead. Milo heard a second buzz, and Grainger's right shoulder popped back, spewing blood. He let go. The old man dropped onto his side, and in the back of his head Milo saw a large, gory hole, leaking blood and brain matter into the dirt.
For what seemed like a long time, Milo stared at the body. In reality, it wasn't more than a quarter of a second, but time is a relative thing, and, looking down at Grainger's corpse, time stretched long enough for him to realize with a shock as strong as a sniper's bullet that he'd been wrong. Grainger had told the truth. The old man knew that after speaking to Milo, he would be a dead man. So, too, would Milo.
As another bullet buzzed past, he threw himself back, dropped, and rolled behind the three concrete steps leading from the front door. He took out the Luger and breathed loudly through his lips, thinking: Three bullets. Suppressor. Suppressors decrease accuracy range, so the shooter is not far away.
Question: Would the shooter come to him, or would he wait?
Answer: It was Tuesday, which meant mail. He seemed to remember morning deliveries at, say, nine thirtyish. The shooter would know this, too. It was now nine o'clock.
He couldn't leave his position, because the shooter would be trained on these three lousy steps, waiting. At some point in the next half hour, though, he would have to approach. Milo closed his eyes and listened.
He tried to hold back all the thoughts that buzzed inside him now, but it was impossible. Grainger had been telling the truth. The truth. It was the only explanation. Get rid of the old man before he could spill the truth in one of those camera-ridden cells on the nineteenth floor of the Avenue of the Americas. Get rid of Milo before he could pass on any messages. Everything, Fitzhugh had decided, would end here, by a quiet lake.
