most of its remaining clientele hadn’t gotten out of work yet. He settled at the extremely long, woody bar and ordered a vodka martini. It was delicious, and he thought over all the vodka martinis he’d had over the last three months, in Moscow, Paris, Podgorica, London, Zurich, Budapest, Berlin, Rome…
While the drink’s name made most people think of Italy, the only place he’d ever had a really good one-big, ice cold, and very strong-was in Manhattan. Though Stout’s version wasn’t nearly as good as, say, the Underbar of the W Hotel on Union Square, it was still leagues ahead of any Florentine cafe’s, and he gave the bartender-a blonde with a slight harelip-earnest thanks.
The other customers-five in all-were scattered at the tables behind him. One woman with a man, a pair of men, and a man on his own. The male pair, he decided, was Irwin’s contingent, and he was proved right when one of them made a call from his cell, hung up, and seconds later Irwin walked in alone. He went straight to the bar without looking around, settled next to Milo, and summoned the bartender with a snap of his fingers. She hid her annoyance admirably and delivered his Scotch on the rocks with a smile, then moved to the far end of the bar.
“So, Weaver,” Irwin said after taking his first sip. The way he said the name made Milo think of a high school principal beginning yet another session with the class troublemaker. “You do, I believe, know me?”
“I don’t think we’ve ever met, sir.”
“Of me, I should have said. You know of me.”
“I think all politically aware Americans know of you, sir.”
Irwin swirled his drink. “September twenty-eighth, October fifteenth, January seventh. Those dates ring any bells?”
“Afraid not.”
“Those are three dates you accessed files related to me personally. Phone records, my home addresses, details on my foreign trips. You,” he said, wagging a finger, then lowered it and began again. “You seem very interested in me, Milo.”
“I got bored, Nathan.”
The senator grinned.
“No, really,” Milo insisted. “We both know why I should be interested in you. You had two of my friends killed. You tried to kill me. I’m not one to hold grudges, but that’s a lot to bear. Then you had me followed. How is Raleigh, by the way?”
“Raleigh?”
“The shadow I nearly killed in Budapest.”
Irwin’s face went slack, and he wiped at the corners of his mouth, muttering, “So that’s why Cy’s not returning my calls,” and took another drink. “I made a mistake last year. I didn’t know Terence Fitzhugh would start doing things in my name.”
Terence Fitzhugh had been Irwin’s liaison with Tourism, his hand in the department. He, too, was dead. “I’ve seen the call records,” said Milo.
“Oh. Right.” Irwin considered that, then frowned, realizing his lie had been untenable. “And you’re still bored?”
“I’m tired of blaming you. I’m tired of my own anger. I’m also sick of politicians who think they’re patriots.”
“You think I’m a patriot?” The idea seemed to please him. “I think you believe you’re a patriot.”
“And you? Are you a patriot, Milo?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
That seemed to kill the conversation. Both worked on their drinks and glanced at the bartender, who finally wandered over and had to be sent away again. Finally, Irwin said, “I actually liked Grainger. He was a likable guy.”
“He was an excellent guy. There was a lot of blood when he died. I suppose you never looked at the pictures.”
“I took a glance.”
“Just to be sure?”
Irwin shrugged.
“Did you know Angela Yates?”
“Never met her.”
“She was an excellent woman. A fantastic investigator.”
“A lesbian, right?”
“Yes, Nathan. A lesbian.”
Milo was doing it again, measuring distances. Geography, geometry, and time. How long would it take him to reach out, break the senator’s neck, and get away before one of the two men at the table could pull a gun and stop him? He doubted he could do much more than bruise the senator’s windpipe before he was stopped cold. That would have been enough for his mother, he suspected.
No, the math didn’t add up, but it was comforting all the same.
Irwin said, “You know, politics is a funny thing. At first glance, there’s something glamorous about it. Then you look harder, and you start to think that behind all the glamour, all there really is is a world of spreadsheets. budgets and polls and itemized bills. That’s true enough, but the real key to any political success is the ability to read people. If you can read another politician’s real thoughts, then you’ve got something. I’m pretty good at reading politicians. People like you-simple citizens-they’re a cinch. The fact is, you’re not so good a Tourist that I can’t see through you. You’re not done with me at all.”
“Talk to Drummond. He’ll tell you I’m done.”
“Will he?”
“I’ve quit.”
Irwin raised his brows to show how interested he was. “Now, that’s something.”
“It certainly is.”
“And how does that affect us?”
“It shows how uninterested I am. I no longer care about anything that happens in this world. I’d call it a tempest in a teacup if so many people didn’t get killed.”
“Tempest in a teacup?” Irwin grunted his amusement. “I’ll have to tell that to the other guys on the committee.”
“Tell them what you like. I just want you to know that we-you and me-we’re finished. Here. Now.”
“So you can go back to your lovely family? To Tina and Stephanie?”
Two and a half feet between his hand and the senator’s neck. “Something like that.”
Perhaps reading Milo’s mind, Irwin leaned back. “Two things, Milo. First is that this doesn’t make me feel any better. Why do you think you were even brought back into Tourism?”
“Shortages.”
“Shortages, sure, but Mendel was my man, and I’m the one who made sure he brought you back in. Why do you think I did that?”
Milo went for his drink again. He didn’t like where this was going. “So you could keep an eye on me.”
“Very good. During Mendel’s tenure I could find out where you were at any moment. Now that this kid’s running things and sticking to procedure, I have to pay out of my own pocket for people to track you. Which brings me to the second thing.” Irwin reached into his jacket and brought out a six-by-four color snapshot. He placed it on the damp bar. It was of Milo in Berlin, standing at a courtyard entrance, talking with a pretty Moldovan girl. “I believe they refer to this as the money shot.”
Milo almost slipped off the bar stool, but didn’t. Then he almost strangled the senator. But didn’t.
“I’ve shelled out a lot on these private dicks, but with this I can finally call them off.” He reached into his jacket again and took out another picture. “This one’s the coup de grace.”
It certainly was. Milo and Yevgeny Primakov inside the Berliner Dom, beneath a painting, discussing the future of Adriana Stanescu. He hadn’t seen the shadows-they must have mixed with the Bavarians, just as Yevgeny had.
“Your father, yes?”
Milo didn’t answer.
“You know, before taking over the department, I was largely ignorant of what it did. Of course, I knew the
