“What could I possibly add to that?” he’d said, though he’d been thinking the same thing he thought every time she retold that story: That’s the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard.
Milo stared at the bare walls and felt desire. Not for Tina, or even escape, but for that pack of cigarettes he’d optimistically ditched at Howard Beach.
13
A pair of suits arrived, ignored his request for dinner, and led him out. More hidden corridors, then he was taken outside to where the whine of planes soaked the cold, wet air. A black Ford Explorer awaited them, and he climbed into the back. The two men joined him on either side, and another put the SUV into gear and began to drive.
Questions are only useful when the answers will lead somewhere. In this case, there was no point. He’d jumped the Tourist train, and now he was going to pay for it.
They stopped near one of the domestic terminals, and Drummond climbed into the passenger seat, wearing a disheveled tux. Milo wondered if he’d been dragged from the opera, but it was two in the morning. He didn’t bother looking at Milo, just pointed at the windshield, and the driver got going again.
“You seriously fucked up, Hall.”
Milo didn’t answer; he was serene.
“Did you think we wouldn’t know? That we wouldn’t figure it out?”
Milo cleared his throat; his hunger had subsided. “Did you get the money?”
A pause, then he said, “Yes, we got it. Kudos on a fine job there.” Another pause, longer this time, and when Drummond spoke again he turned to face Milo. “Who do you think you are? Don’t let your job title go to your head. I knew where you were as soon as you sent that last message from Zurich. We watched you hop the train to Paris, where you lifted a passport, then wander around Charles de Gaulle waiting for your plane. They’re called video cameras. You used the passport of a Monsieur Claude Girard-he looked enough like you for it to work. JFK? Simple stuff. You were followed all the way to Columbia.”
“I didn’t know seeing your family was a crime.”
That was greeted by the rumble of engines and wheels humming across tarmac. Beyond the driver the colored lights of airplanes taxied endlessly in the blackness.
A queer grin filled Drummond’s face. “When I found out who you were meeting, I called off the tail. I’m not an ogre. An employee feels the need to take a day to see his wife, that’s not a problem. You’d finished your work, and the next assignment hadn’t been sent yet. Sure, I was pissed off that you did it behind my back, but you guys are paranoid. It’s to be expected. No. Visiting your wife wasn’t a problem. This,” he said, lifting a gray folder from his lap. “This is the problem. Adriana Stanescu.”
“Oh.”
“Who were you working with? Who was holding her?”
Milo looked at the guard to his right, who had a military buzz cut and a wide, clean-shaven jawline. Neither he nor the one to his left carried a gun, which made this somehow less tragic. The doors just beyond them were unlocked. Though he had no plans to make a break for it, he charted possible escape routes, figuring where he had to land blows, and in what order, to get out of here-and in which direction, then, to run, but this geometry of escape was only academic, a way of distracting him from the question.
“Well?”
“Some guys. From the Buhrle job.”
“Their names?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
So Milo gave him two names-the German, Stefan, and the Italian, Giuseppe-then changed the subject. “Where did you find her?”
“You don’t know?”
“I didn’t have time to find a safe house, so it was up to those two. Where was it?”
“France. In the mountains.”
“Which ones?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
It does to me, Milo wanted to say, but Drummond was right. The details were beside the point. He should have known from the start that, once the frustrations of temporary parenthood kicked in, Yevgeny Primakov would cut and run. Let the girl go, and let Milo face the consequences. Perhaps he’d decided that, son or not, Milo’s occasional intel wasn’t worth the trouble.
Milo was struck by another How did I end up here? moment, because even in his business it was a strange thing for your own father to cheat you.
He considered giving up the old man’s name. It would end his obligations, making his job so much easier. He could give more, too: Yevgeny Primakov, my father, is running a shadow agency within the United Nations. That would certainly ruin Yevgeny’s day.
Milo wasn’t ready for that level of vindictiveness, though. Not yet. Nor was he ready to be turned into a triple agent, informing on Yevgeny, which was the least Drummond would demand.
“Will you put her back?” Milo asked.
“What?”
“Adriana. I failed that test, but there’s no need to make her pay for it. Drop her off somewhere in Berlin and let it go.”
They had reached the end of the tarmac, far past the airport buildings, and the driver turned the Explorer in a long arc and headed back again. Drummond’s grin had returned, and he said to the driver, “Do you hear this guy?”
He rocked his head in a kind of answer.
To Milo, he said, “Test? What are you talking about?”
“Enough, Alan. There was no reason to kill that girl, not unless you had a Tourist you couldn’t trust. Not unless you wanted a last test before you put him on to more serious work.”
“Ha ha.” The laugh sputtered forcibly out, and Drummond had to wipe spittle from his lips. “Christ, the ego on this man! You think I’d kill a teenager just to find out if you were loyal? Do you really think that?”
Milo just stared.
“Jesus, Weaver,” he said, mistakenly letting his real name slip out. “The whole world really does revolve around you, doesn’t it?” He shook his head. “No. I knew it would be tough on you, sure, but we wanted her killed for the most excellent of reasons.”
“What’s the most excellent of reasons, then?”
Drummond considered him a moment, then shrugged. “The future of our relationship with German intelligence, if you must know. With her alive, we remain out in the cold. With her death, we’re in.”
The geometry of escape left him, replaced by some weird algebra of cause and effect. “I don’t get it.”
“Because there’s no need for you to get it. I’m not here to connect the dots for you. Just know that what you did put the entire transatlantic relationship in jeopardy.”
“So you’re going to kill her anyway?”
“You haven’t been reading the papers,” said Drummond. “Adriana Stanescu’s body was found only hours ago- late Thursday night, I mean. All of Europe is in mourning, or so the newspapers would have you believe. Me, I kind of doubt most of Europe gives a damn about a Moldovan girl, but I’m like that. I suspect most people, particularly in that racist backwater across the ocean.”
It was too much to keep straight; he couldn’t chart the repercussions of everything he’d just heard. So he said the first thing that came to mind. “Who did it?”
“That’s something we’d all like to know.”
They pulled up to one of the terminals-he’d lost track of which was which-and parked beside a tall figure illuminated briefly in the headlights. Hat, long overcoat. Drummond said, “Time to meet your babysitter,” and then
