anything. You can ask your own people.”
“I’ll do that. And I’ll find a way to pass on anything that looks useful.”
“Let’s hope I don’t need anything from you.”
“Let’s hope,” said Milo. “One last thing.”
“Yes?”
“Budapest. You told me I’d been in Budapest, but I hadn’t. Were you making that up?”
She sounded surprised. “We have it through a source. You were there, all right. Not just a writer-you also claimed to be a doctor and a film producer.”
“Why?”
“You don’t know?”
“Please. It’s important.”
“You were looking for an American journalist named Henry Gray. He’d just come out of a coma and had disappeared. You apparently plagued his girlfriend, who’s also a journalist.”
“Does she have a name?”
“Zsuzsanna Papp, I think. Hungarian. Works for Blikk.”
“Did I find this Henry Gray?”
“Not as far as we know. All we know is that you were there some days, asking around, then disappeared.” She paused. “Is someone out there using your name?”
“Thanks, Erika. I’ll be in touch if I can help.”
He returned the phone to Oskar, who grinned oddly as he hung it up. It was no more comforting than his boss’s smiles. In English, he said, “So Mr. Weaver is going to help us. Excuse me if I’m not filled with the hope.”
When they finally stopped a little before noon, they were in the center of Innsbruck, across the Austrian border. “The train station is a block that way,” Oskar said, pointing, then handed over Milo’s wallet, disassembled phone, key ring, and iPod, along with two hundred euros in small bills “to get you closer to home.” He made no move to shake hands, so Milo didn’t either, but when he passed the cab he waved to Gustav and Heinrich. Gustav, confused, waved back with a smile.
The Innsbruck Hauptbahnhof was stocked with stores and cafes. After looking over the departures schedule, he bought a fresh gauze bandage for his forearm, a bottle of orange juice, and a large sandwich of cold cuts, which he ate outside, staring at the Friday lunch crowds and the gray traffic pushing through Sudtiroler Platz. Once he was finished eating and had wrapped his arm in the bathroom, he put his phone together again, powered it up, and went to a cafe to wait. As soon as he sat down, the phone vibrated for his attention. A message: Myrrh, myrrh.
Never in his career had the universal return code been sent. It meant that Dzubenko’s various stories had checked out, a Chinese mole was assumed, and the entire department was closing down.
If there was a surprise in all this, it was only that he didn’t give a damn anymore.
Things could change so quickly-a department could panic and call back all its agents, and one of its agents could hear a single name, Theodor Wartmuller, and decide that the department itself no longer deserved to exist. Let it go down in flames, he thought.
Still, he followed procedure, if only because it was second nature. He didn’t call in, because Schwartz could easily have wired his phone to send her any numbers he dialed, and no one called him, because his reappearance might simply mean that another agency had control of the phone. He also avoided pay phones, since he couldn’t be sure that Schwartz hadn’t warned the Austrians of his arrival. He wanted to trust her, but that wasn’t really an option.
He ordered a caffe latte and settled in for the long wait, which turned out to last four hours. During that time, he drank coffee and wandered the claustrophobic streets around the train station, peering into windows selling liquor, chocolates, and aids for sexual gratification. He plugged into his iPod and found himself listening to Bowie’s Low, that desperate-sounding voice saying, “Oh, but I’m always crashing in the same car.”
It was around three when, on his way back to the station, he saw James Einner walking briskly toward him. There was a smile in his eyes, but nowhere else, and as they passed one another he only said, “Check the window,” and continued on. Three doors down, on a windowsill, he spotted a cheap Nokia; it was already ringing.
“Lovely to hear from you,” Milo said into it as he continued back to the station.
“You being watched?”
“Doubtful, but with this many cameras around they don’t need to leave their laptops. Where am I going?”
“Vienna, then Dulles. I’ll be on the plane with you. You see the recall message?”
“Why the panic?”
There was a pause. “We’ll talk about it in Vienna. The Eurotel at the airport. I’m bringing the drinks,” he said and hung up.
Milo bought a first-class ticket to Vienna’s Westbahnhof and dozed briefly as the landscape turned black. Occasionally, his forearm throbbed, but he didn’t feel like checking for infection, and during a particularly stinging session he noticed a dark-skinned man-midthirties, long sideburns, fit, glum-enter the car and move slowly along, touching seat backs as if counting them. As he approached Milo’s seat toward the rear, he glanced briefly into Milo’s eyes and dropped a gray Siemens onto the empty seat beside him. Milo stared at the phone, then glanced back, but the man was already exiting the car.
It was common enough in his line of work to gradually collect cheap phones, but it didn’t usually happen so quickly. Milo left the phone where it was and peered out at the night, the train gradually overtaking the lights of a distant city. Then the phone rang a monotone beep-beep, and he answered it but said nothing.
“Misha, it’s me.”
“You’re here?”
“The front of the train. You met Francisco?”
“He’s charming. How did you find me?”
“You think your boss is the only one who keeps track of your phone? Really, Misha.”
He sounded very pleased with himself, so Milo hung up. He kept the phone on his knee and noticed that they had finally passed the town-no lights were visible at all. He waited until the phone had rung seven times before picking up again.
“You’re angry,” said Yevgeny.
“Think so?”
“Listen, son. I take full responsibility for Adriana.”
“I’ll give you that.”
“But what I said before was true. It was my fault, but not my intention. She got away, and someone else killed her. One of your Tourists, I’d guess.”
Milo knew he was right. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Yevgeny. I’m done with you. I’m done with all of this.”
The old man didn’t answer immediately. He was likely considering what technique would best keep hold of his precious source. “Okay,” he said finally. “You’re done with me. I’ve failed you. Let me redeem myself. You know I can help. What’s your new project?”
Involuntarily, laughter shook through Milo’s frame; his arm throbbed. He had to set the phone down until he had control of himself. He lifted it to his ear. “Sorry, Yevgeny. Your tenacity is hilarious. I’m not going to tell you what I’m doing now.”
“Fine,” he said in a tone that Milo remembered from his teenaged years-abrupt, insulted. “Don’t tell me a thing. Still, because of Adriana, I do owe you, and I intend to repay that debt.”
The old man was serious-that, too, was a tone he knew. Various favors crossed his mind-find me a new job was high on the list-but then he remembered his father’s particular range of knowledge and networks. “Okay. Here’s something. Find me everything you can on a Chinese colonel in the Guoanbu, Xin Zhu. I’ll need it as soon as possible.”
Yevgeny sighed, the barely satisfied exhale when he had finally gotten his way. “I can do that without a problem. It would help to know what exactly I’m looking for.”
“You’re looking for everything,” Milo said, then hung up again and placed the phone on the empty seat. Within five minutes, the dark man had worked his way back through the car; the phone left with him.
