the men on either side of Milo got out of the Explorer. The one on his right left the door open so the tall figure could climb in beside him. “I think you know Mr. Einner?”
He had last seen James Einner the previous July in Geneva. Milo had attacked him in his hotel bathroom, bound him in duct tape, and wrapped him in a shower curtain. Hatred or anger hadn’t motivated his actions, just expediency. In fact, he liked James Einner.
“James,” he said, smiling.
In James Einner’s memories, however, the humiliation of that July incident colored everything, and when Milo stuck out a hand to shake, Einner planted a swift fist into the center of Milo’s face, knocking him back against the far door. Shock, then pain, filled Milo’s features.
Mildly, Drummond said, “Now, James.”
Einner raised both his hands, his long fingers dancing merrily and his bright blue eyes twinkling. “All done, sir.”
The pain poured into Milo’s nose now. His eyes were awash in tears, and he tasted blood. “You fucka,” said Milo. “You bwoke my nose.”
Einner took a silk handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it over, still smiling.
“Meet your babysitter, Sebastian. He’ll be your partner while you vet Marko Dzubenko’s tales. Unlike me, Einner doesn’t have a soft spot for old farts like you. He’ll cut your throat at the first sign of disloyalty. Isn’t that right, James?”
“You’ve got that right, sir.”
With the handkerchief pressed to his leaking nose, Milo looked back and forth between these two men, and to the driver, who was trying hard not to laugh. As he tilted his head back to avoid too much mess, he was consumed by hatred. Not for Drummond, or even James Einner, but again for Yevgeny Primakov, who had abandoned his parental responsibilities as soon as they had become inconvenient. Yevgeny’s abandonment was nothing new, but that made it no less appalling.
14
They were sitting seven rows apart in coach, another sign of Tourism’s budget constraints, and James Einner looked comfortable in his pin-striped, and not very cheap, Tom Ford suit (a ludicrous expense since most Tourists tossed their clothes after a couple of wearings), while Milo was stuffed into an ill-fitting and starchy Italian suit. Correctly predicting that the clothes Milo had picked up back in Zurich wouldn’t be presentable by the time he left JFK-blood spatter didn’t sit well with any country’s passport control-Drummond had brought him the suit, as well as a wheeled Baggallini tote full of necessities: the official “Tourism kit” most Tourists soon realized was too cumbersome for the life.
Once they had boarded this American Airlines flight to London, Milo plugged himself into his iPod, pressed a complimentary napkin to his nostrils, and tilted his head back as far as it would go. He closed his eyes and listened to David Bowie, circa 1972:
News guy wept and told us,
Earth was really dying
He wasn’t angry about the punch-he’d deserved it. Last year’s fight with Einner had been particularly humiliating for the younger man, who’d been dragged off a toilet in the middle of a bowel movement, then wrapped in a shower curtain, pants around his ankles, stained with his own shit.
The real shock was that he was still here. Drummond hadn’t released him from Tourism; the morning hadn’t found him free of all this. Now he even had a chaperone to make sure he didn’t step out of line.
Somewhere over the Atlantic, they met by the bathrooms. Einner said, “If you’re waiting for me to apologize, then forget it.”
Milo gave him a generous smile and looked at the dried blood on the napkin; the flow was finished. “I’m just wondering why I’m still employed. Drummond doesn’t trust me.”
Einner rocked his head from side to side, then made room for a stewardess to pass. He whispered, “You know how many Tourists we’ve got in Europe right now?”
Back when he’d been in administration, twelve had been the default number, but there’d been cutbacks. “Eight?”
“Five,” said Einner. “Including you and me. We lost three in the last few months, and one of us five is laid up in a hospital in Stockholm.”
“He told you all this?”
“This guy’s not like Grainger. I know the old man was your friend, but he was a goddamned sphinx when it came to sharing information. And Mendel-you dealt with him, right?”
Milo nodded.
“You got a little more information from him, but it’s like he was always leaving out the most important detail. Drummond, though…” He faded off a moment. “He’s trying to make you a partner with him. I like it, this new Tourism.”
“So what else has he told you?”
Einner wagged a finger. “You’re not going to get me that easily. Just know that the situation has saved your ass. We can’t afford to lose any more Tourists, not even ones as washed up as you.”
“We.”
“What?”
“You said we can’t afford to lose Tourists. Drummond really does have you thinking you’re partners. It’s fantastic.”
Einner waved off his cynicism and wandered off. Milo envied his belief in the new Tourism, the Tourism of “we.”
Because of air traffic, they had to float for a half hour over Heathrow before finally descending at nine Saturday night. Milo hadn’t been able to sleep at all, so when they finally approached the gate, he was flagging, and Einner looked noticeably young and alert among the tired passengers shuffling off the plane. They continued separately down the labyrinth of corridors to the crowded border control, where, after twenty minutes’ wait, an overly polite official said, “You have an accident, sir?”
“Excuse me?”
He tapped the side of his nose.
“Back in America. I’ll survive.”
“Then please enjoy yourself, Mr. Hall. And try not to have any accidents here.”
He felt itchy and clammy in his starched suit as he moved through the throng of real-world tourists, but it was another rule of Tourism that, when traveling, one should look as much like a businessman as possible, like someone who has come to invest in the host nation, who has money to blow, who has no patience for customs delays and might easily take his gold card elsewhere. As young and old tourists flushed in the face of hard questions from British customs, Milo passed unmolested, pulling the Baggallini behind him.
In preparation for the next day, he perused the stores in Terminal 3 and bought a T-shirt with a silhouette of London across it, white sports socks, and sunglasses. He took the escalator back down to the arrivals level and joined a twenty-minute taxi queue.
As he finally made his way into the redbrick metropolis, to Piccadilly and Mayfair, he considered his situation. His new boss looked upon him with suspicion, and James Einner, despite their past camaraderie, was here to threaten him each step of the way. Why should he put up with this? Why not ask the driver to turn back to Heathrow? He could dump his phone in a wastebasket and buy a ticket back to his family.
Adriana was gone-but only a fool could believe that it set him free of anything other than guilt, and it didn’t even do that.
The reason he remained, like the reason Drummond hadn’t fired him, was far more practical than the safety of a Moldovan girl: He wasn’t sure he could survive the exit interview.
These extended interrogations went on for weeks as you spilled everything you had done and seen, accounted for all your absences and contacts, and made a general accounting of the money you’d spent. The Company didn’t
