She snapped out of it and shrugged. “It’s a coincidence, isn’t it? The other time you showed up just after he’d woken. Now, he calls the same night you’re here. Remarkable.”
Remarkable, yes, but Milo didn’t believe in a coincidence like this. James Einner had arrived in town because he had learned that Gray had woken. That was cause and effect. It was explainable. But Henry calling while Milo was in town? “What did Henry say?”
“He said he’s done.”
“Done with what?”
“His work. It’s done.”
“The story? He’s done with that?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I’m just happy he’s alive.” She didn’t sound happy, though.
“It’s good news.”
She looked at him, the corner of her lip rising slightly. “Don’t patronize me.”
“Sorry. But it is good news, for us both.”
“What do you have planned?”
“I just want to talk to him.”
“And then?”
“And then leave. I’ve got a family I want to return to.”
She smiled and said, “That’s charming.”
“Now you’re patronizing me,” Milo said as he kneeled to tie his shoes. “Can I meet him?”
She considered that. Henry had told her to trust him, but Zsuzsa was the one with the power now, and she seemed to be toying with it, estimating its weight. “I’d like to see him first.”
“Why don’t we go together?”
She shook her head, then grabbed her coat. “Tomorrow at Moskva ter. You know where it is?”
Milo had passed through Moscow Square on his way to St. John’s Hospital. “Yes.”
“Go there at two o’clock, and he’ll come to you.”
“How will he find me?”
“Unlike me, he knows what the real Milo Weaver looks like.”
It was a kind of answer. Milo stood. “Thank you.”
With awkward formality, he shook her hand and thanked her again. He gave her a few minutes so she wouldn’t suspect he was following, then left the club by keeping close to the wall, far from Parkhall, who was laughing uncontrollably with two girls, both his hands occupied under the table.
23
He woke with a mild hangover and a sore arm but left the hotel quickly. He was down to less than a hundred euros, which he changed into forints and used to buy breakfast from a bakery on Batthany Square, on the Buda side of the river. He considered writing an e-mail to Alan Drummond, to assure him that he would return soon, and to ask for a meeting with James Einner, but decided against it. He could think of no reason for putting Drummond’s mind at ease. Then, as he was finishing his coffee, he noticed, out on the street, a man in his fifties, thinning on top, wearing a heavy overcoat and smoking beside a closed travel agent’s office with sun-bleached posters of Egypt and Rome.
With the Gray meeting just a few hours away, it was easy to forget that there were more things going on. The shadows from Berlin and London, whom he’d never identified. Perhaps they were working for the Chinese, perhaps for the Germans. Or maybe Drummond was a liar, and they were working for him. Whoever they were, he didn’t want them around when he met with Gray.
He paid his tab and descended into the subway without looking back. He took a train to Deak Ferenc ter, then switched to the Millennium Railway-the world’s second-oldest subway-that took him back to Oktogon. Again, he joined the crowds on that busy square and worked his way around to Szondi, but continued past number 10, keeping an eye on the scaffoldings with the curtains of plastic netting. It was Sunday, and the construction workers were still gone. There-on the right side of the street was a particularly messy site, with loose steel bars that had yet to be pieced together. He parted the netting and went inside, grabbing a heavy, meter-length of pipe, and stepped into the cavernous, dirty foyer. He waited.
He didn’t know how long it would take, but he was willing to wait as long as necessary. In the end, it took a half hour. During that time, two residents left the building, and each time he took out his battery-less cell phone and spoke German into it, pretending to be an investor wondering where his workers were. Then, a little after twelve thirty, his shadow entered the building.
There was a moment-less than a second-when he had to examine the face from his squatting position. He didn’t want to brutalize some innocent Hungarian. In that moment the shadow, too, recognized him. Milo was prepared, the pipe already drawn back, and as soon as he registered the heavy jowls and deep-set eyes, he put all his effort into the swing. The hollow end of the pipe made a faint whistling sound as it arced along the low path, just below the knee. A muted thump and crunch as the shin cracked.
There was no dramatic pause. Milo followed through with his swing, only briefly slowing on impact; then gravity took over, dropping the man to the ground, the tails of his trench coat catching on the pipe as the screaming began, filling the old Habsburg entryway.
At first, there was nothing intelligible from the screams, and Milo straightened and held the pipe like a shotgun aimed at the man’s head. He waited. Certainly some residents would be waking to the sound, suddenly interrupting their lunches, but he ignored that. He stared at the man’s twisted, screaming face.
He knew, of course, that this was just a man hired for a job. A simple job that Milo himself had done many times. Milo felt nothing. This was just collateral damage.
He squatted again as the screams became more intelligible. Oh Jesus fuck, my leg! My leg! American. The man held on to his shin, as blood spilled between his fingers. Milo got close to his bucking face and shouted, “Who do you work for?”
“Jesus Fucking H. Christ!”
“Who do you work for?”
The curses continued, and Milo dropped the pipe and grabbed the lapels of the trench coat and dragged the man deeper into the foyer, close to the stairs. A long trail of blood streaked the dirty tiles. He worried the man was going to pass out, so he slapped him twice, hard, and repeated the question. He didn’t get an answer, but the shouting ceased as the man fumbled with his wet, flopping shin and moaned softly.
It had been a mistake. He could see that now. He went back for the pipe, then squatted by his head. “Listen to me. Are you listening?”
Finally, the man registered him with his eyes. He didn’t answer, but the eyes were enough. Milo held up the pipe. “I’m going to brain you unless you tell me who you’re working for.”
“Global. Security.”
Global Security was one of the smaller security firms that had received government contracts to ease the military strain in Iraq and Afghanistan. Hired guns, which told him nothing. “Who hired you to follow me?”
“How should I know?” the man shouted. His face was wet with tears.
A woman’s voice shouted from above: “Mi tortenik legyoz ott?” Milo dropped the pipe, and as the clattering noise filled the building he started going through the man’s pockets. The man didn’t fight back. Finally, he found the cell phone and began running through the call logs. “What’s his name?”
“I told you, I don’t know!”
“Your boss. What’s the name of your boss?”
“Cy!”
There it was-cy-three calls in the last two days. Milo called the number and waited until a male voice with a southern accent said, “You lose him again, Raleigh?”
“No, he didn’t lose me,” said Milo. “He’s right here.”
“Shit,” said Cy.
“Listen, I’ve broken Raleigh’s leg, but he’s not telling me what I need to know. Maybe you can. Otherwise, I’m
