An American Spy (37 page)

A gift from heaven. Alan Drummond was coming to him.

“Let him pass through, but put at least six men on him. Don’t lose him.”

“Understood.”

Two hours later, he was told that Sebastian Hall—a Caucasian man who fit Alan Drummond’s description—had checked into the Peninsula Hotel, room 212. He was dwelling on his pleasure when he received another call, this one from Sun Bingjun. “Xin Zhu,” he said slowly, sounding like he already had a few drinks in him, “Wu Liang just gave me some interesting news.”

“Yes?”

“He tells me Alan Drummond is in Hong Kong.”

How information traveled. “It’s true, Comrade Lieutenant General. He’s in a room in the Peninsula.”

“So you’ll be arresting him?”

“I’m not sure I will.”

“Good. I was going to suggest we take care of this more quietly.”

“Not that either,” Zhu said, for he didn’t want Alan Drummond dead. Not at this point, at least.

“Then what are you planning to do, Xin Zhu?”

It took him a moment to think it through, watching his wife smiling vaguely at something on television, but Sun Bingjun was waiting. He hated making decisions like this. “Alan Drummond expects us to detain him, or to attack him. Thus, we will do neither.”

“Are you sure, Xin Zhu? This could be your only chance to clean up your mess.”

“I understand that, comrade, but if we kill him, nothing will be cleaned up. If we arrest him, we’ll be forced to play the game the way he wants us to play it. No. The only solution is to wait and watch.”

“Maybe he wants to talk.”

“In that case, he can pick up the phone. He knows how to get in touch with me.”

Sun Bingjun said nothing.

“I’ve already recalled some agents from America. They’re familiar with the situation. In the meantime, I’ll send Shen An-ling with some men to assist the Third Bureau’s surveillance.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Xin Zhu.”

“So do I, Sun Bingjun.”

“And if you need anything, anything at all, do not hesitate to call on me.”

“Thank you, Comrade Lieutenant General,” Zhu said, thinking that things, finally, were turning his way. “Let’s hope I don’t need anything.”

3

Using the passports from the hotel, Milo and Leticia took a Cathay Pacific flight that left Jeddah at two ten, landing in Dubai to let off and take on more passengers before continuing on to Hong Kong International. While they sat on the tarmac in Dubai, Leticia checked her phone, read a message, then walked to the rear of the plane to make a call. When she returned, she had removed her abaya, and Milo got the sense that something else had changed as well. It wasn’t until they were a couple of hours from Hong Kong, nine hours into their journey, that she said, “By the way, Milo. Your father’s dead.”

She’d chosen an ideal moment, when his eyes were closed and he was starting to fade into sleep, but he used that to deflect, moaning, “Huh?”

“Your father,” she said. “Yevgeny Aleksandrovich Primakov. He’s dead.”

He snapped open his eyes and pulled back from her, glaring. It was the only thing he could think to do. “What the hell are you talking about?”

She was watching him so closely. “Milo, I don’t know how many ways I can keep saying it.”

“Says who?”

“Says Dorothy, that’s who. Homeland Security knocked down your door on Thursday night and found your dad’s body.”

He blinked. “What? In my—
wait.
What about Tina and Stephanie? Were they there when this happened?” He was trying to measure out the hysteria in his voice. “Did they see this?”

Quickly, Leticia shook her head. “No, they’re fine. Don’t worry about them. They were at a restaurant.”

Relief—just a touch for show—then confusion. “I don’t get it. Homeland was there? Why?”

“You tell me.”

“And who killed Yevgeny? Why was he in the apartment?”

“How’m I supposed to know?”

He put on his thinking face. “Call her back. Now. Tell her she has to protect my family.”

“Already done, Milo.”

“What does that mean?”

“She told me that they moved your ladies to a safe house uptown. They’re fine,” she said, and he marveled at how easily she could spin a lie. “What they don’t understand is who offed your dad. Any ideas?”

“Let me out.”

“What?”

He began to stand. “I said, let me out. Now.”

She got up so he could step into the corridor, then settled back down, looking up at him. He played up his anxiety, for it was the one true emotion he needn’t hide. He said, “You can thank Alan Drummond for it. Alan Drummond and Dorothy Collingwood and Nathan-fucking-Irwin. Even you, Leticia.”

“Ain’t none of us pulled that trigger,” she said, a touch of insult to her voice.

“We both know who pulled the trigger,” Milo said, “and he wouldn’t have done it if it hadn’t been for all of you.” He looked as if he were going to spit on her, and, at that moment, talking himself through the emotions all over again, he nearly did spit on her. He held back, though, and decided to push her into a corner. “Call her back. I want to talk to them.”

“To your family?”

“They’ll want to hear from me.”

Leticia shrugged. “I’ll call, see what I can do,” she said, but for the rest of the flight, she didn’t take out her phone.

By the time they landed in Hong Kong it was six o’clock Sunday morning, and they’d spent eleven hours on the plane. Milo had taken some of Leticia’s Adderall—she’d gotten a refill in Jeddah—and he was alert as he showed his Canadian passport to a uniformed man with quick, efficient movements. Leticia went through a different line, and as Milo walked alone through the glittering airport, speculating on everything, he noticed a short man in cheap civilian clothes approaching him, catching his eye. As he neared, the man turned his left hand to reveal a cell phone nestled in the palm. Milo opened his right hand. As they passed each other, he accepted the phone and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

The phone didn’t ring, and by the time he met Leticia under the futuristic awning over the taxi station, where a steady South China Sea breeze cleared away cigarette smoke, he felt a pressure in his chest waiting for a call to come. Leticia grabbed one of the red taxis that went into the city center, and he climbed in after her, sitting behind the driver. “The Peninsula,” she told the driver. He hoped they were being watched, for a call from Zhu while sitting beside Leticia Jones would be worse than a disaster.

It didn’t ring, and as they crossed bridges and passed expanses of water, finally sinking into the knot of claustrophobic towers, he tried to get straight in his head the various people he was dealing with here. Zhu, watching from a distance. Leticia and, by extension, Collingwood, Irwin, and Jackson, were close enough to touch. Somewhere, Erika Schwartz’s people were working with Alexandra and her United Nations people. In a crowded city like Hong Kong, with so many hands on the wheel, things could go very wrong.

He wondered what Leticia really knew. Had Collingwood told her the truth about his family, that they had disappeared, or had she lied to Leticia? Was it possible that Leticia believed what she’d told him?

He thought of his sister.
Sister.
He still couldn’t quite believe he’d faced off with Alexandra, nor that Yevgeny had had the gall to hire her for his agency. She, he suspected, was the assistant that their father had said did not want to take over his job. Who would?

And then a part of him, the tiny, wiggling, panicked mortal who lives inside all of us, even Tourists, wondered what would happen if Leticia’s phone rang and she said to him, “Here you are, Milo—you can talk to your wife.” What if Leticia was on the side of the angels?

The Peninsula Hotel, with its looped drive that in itself seemed a luxury on this crowded island, was bustling with activity when they got out of the taxi. Leticia smiled at the doorman who let them in, and it was in the creamy colonial lobby that Leticia finally leaned close to Milo’s ear and said, “Alan’s in 212. We’re here to get him.”

“Extract him?” Milo asked, looking around the bustling space. Faces of many colors and shapes floated around.

“Something like that. He’s been a pain in our asses for too long,” she said, striding toward the elevators.

Milo felt frustrated by her rush, and by the mix of nationalities. What did he really expect to see? Men hiding behind newspapers? Women waiting for dates who were never going to come? Perhaps, but the most useful way to approach any entrance was to begin by suspecting everyone and everything. Then he saw it, against one of the many squared columns.

Milo caught her arm. “Wait.”

“What?”

There, a large Chinese man, big boned, a black mole on the cheek, sitting in one of the thronelike chairs scattered throughout the lobby, actually thumbing a newspaper. “Not now,” he told her. “We’re being watched.”

“We’re always being watched,” she said, and pulled out of his grip, heading forward.

He jogged to catch up and grabbed her elbow. “Brooklyn,” he whispered. “I recognize one of them from Brooklyn. At my daughter’s school.”

That got her attention. “Well, it’s a popular hotel.”

“No,” he said. “He was only there a couple of days. Said he was a father, but no one saw him with a child.”

Leticia stared a moment into Milo’s eyes, then relaxed. If the Chinese had brought someone over from America who had already been watching Milo, then they’d likely do more than just watch the two of them take Alan away. “Okay, baby. Let’s go somewhere else.”

The modern Kowloon Hotel sat on a crowded stretch of the Middle Road, opposite the rear of the Peninsula. They installed themselves in a seventh-floor room, and then Leticia brought him into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Quietly, she asked him to explain himself one more time, which he did. Why did he remember this man’s face? “He was suspicious.” Did he think this man was connected to the murder of his father? “I strongly suspect it,” Milo said coldly, not bothering to mention that the man’s name was He Qiang and that he had kidnapped his family, the family that Leticia had told him was safe. Instead, “Are you planning to kill Alan?”

She took a breath, and the moisture from the shower made her skin glisten. She said, “A few days ago, he was spotted in upstate New York. Got away, but he’s definitely up to something. It’s our job to find out what, and for whom.”

“No suspicions?”

“Well, his wife’s disappeared, too.”

“We were looking for Penelope before I left.”

“By we, you mean you and your wife.”

“Yeah. Collingwood can ask Tina herself.”

She nodded at that, then bit her lower lip—that was a sign of . . . of what? What did she really know about Tina and Stephanie?

“And while you’re at it,” he added, “remind her to let me talk to them.”

“You might want to get some rest,” Leticia said after a moment. “I’ve got to go see a guy about a thing. We’ll be having a guest soon.”

“Who?”

She turned off the shower and used a towel to pat her face dry.

Seven minutes after she left, a phone rang; it was the one he’d received in the airport.

“Yeah?”

Xin Zhu said, “What are you two doing in Hong Kong?”

“I’ve already made it clear that I want to speak to Tina. Is she with you?”

“I remember your demands, but I won’t be pushed into anything, least of all that. You’ll have to take my word that they’re in good health, but if you don’t work with me, they won’t remain that way.”

“A photo, then.”

“Mr. Weaver, they’ve only been gone three days—for you, four, because of time zones. There’s no need to crumble yet. Imagine that they’ve gone on a trip to see their family in . . . Austin, Texas, right?”

Milo didn’t answer.

“It’ll make you feel better. Trust me.”

It didn’t, but there was no point arguing. “We’re here to see Alan Drummond.”

“To what end?”

“To get him out of here.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s gone rogue.”

“You actually use words like that, don’t you?”

“It’s accurate,” Milo said.

“Do they know that he was once my agent?”

“I wouldn’t call him your agent, any more than I’d call myself your agent.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“No, I don’t think they know about that.”

“Why is Alan in Hong Kong?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Milo said. “His wife is missing. If you don’t have her, then he’s put her somewhere safe. I suspect he’s here to kill you.”

“That would be a feat,” Zhu said.

“So is evading both the Guoanbu and CIA for two full weeks, while skipping around the world.”

“Point taken, Mr. Weaver. Please get rid of the phone, and I’ll be in touch again. Your friend is returning to the room.”

Dutifully, Milo took apart the phone and put the pieces under the mattress. He’d just lain down again and closed his eyes when the door opened. He sat up. Leticia walked in, not smiling, followed by a man in his early thirties, Latino, with a thin mustache on his long, dark face. His eyes were hidden by sunglasses. Before Leticia could speak, the man said, “Not much of a badass, is he?”

“Excuse me?” said Milo.

“The famous Charles Alexander.”

This wasn’t the only Tourist to mistake his checkered history for something glorious. There was no point arguing with the man, so he just said, “Hector Garza. Also known as José Santiago.”

“At your service.”

“Now all we need is Tran Hoang to round out the group. Is he still missing?”

“There’s a joke,” Leticia said, sounding impatient, “about two idiots with bad security in Hong Kong, but I can’t remember the punch line. Oh, that’s right! They end up
dead.
” She turned and walked out of the room.

“I think we’re in the doghouse,” Garza said, then followed her. Milo grabbed his shoes and hurried to catch up.

Together, they left the hotel and walked up Nathan Road and crossed Salisbury to reach the trees in front of the Space Museum, opposite the Peninsula. Cars swept along between them and the hotel, and as they eyed the height of its tower, Leticia said, “What’s he doing?”