The Nearest Exit (26 page)

Though they’d exchanged no significant words since that three o’clock phone call, she had seen Oskar at the office. He came in after four looking exhausted and worked on his computer, filing nondescript vetting reports and running some of Erika’s errands. They had decided beforehand that nothing about Milo Weaver would pass between them in the office, no matter how safe they considered themselves. Which was why he stayed behind briefly when she left at seven thirty. While Erika visited Herr al-Akir, Oskar drove his own car into the Perlacher Forest and waited for her to pick him up.

He looked frigid by the side of the road, his Volkswagen parked out of sight, and once inside he fooled with the heater until it blew loudly. “You took your time,” he said.

“Had to pick up my Riesling.”

“I think you have a drinking problem, Erika.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Watching videos.”

“Nothing broken, I hope,” she said, because she had noticed the underlying hatred in Oskar once he had learned of Adriana Stanescu’s past. He was looking for someone to blame, and Milo Weaver was as good as anyone.

“Not yet. But we’ve still got time.”

He knew something was happening when Heinrich, after receiving a call, got up and turned off the television. Milo had watched and listened to Adriana Stanescu’s multilingual story for, he estimated, four hours. Four hours duct-taped to a chair facing the video loop. Even now, with the television black, he kept seeing the grainy family photos, the stunned father and screaming mother, and the bare branches that led to her final resting spot in the mountains of France.

Of course, with repetition everything dulls, and the panic he’d felt during the first and second viewing had waned so that by this
fourth (or was it fifth?) viewing he was more interested in his ability to predict the actual phrases and emotional outbursts. A memory game; a distraction.

The mustached man descended the stairs first, looking cold and perhaps ill. In his hand was a bottle of white wine. Then, much more slowly, a breathtakingly heavy woman followed him down. She gripped the wooden rail, making no effort to hurry herself, until she finally reached the concrete floor and looked around to get everything in focus. Her salt-and-pepper hair, thick and untidy, was chopped into a pageboy cut. When she got Milo into focus she started forward again and settled on the sofa, legs splayed, breathing heavily. “Mr. Weaver,” she said, producing something like a smile that could easily have been a sneer. Her accent was thick. “Welcome to Germany.”

The mustached man, no longer the authority in the room, began to open the wine bottle, using the Swiss Army knife that had been used to remove Milo’s cuffs.

The woman he assumed was Frau Schwartz said, “Heinrich, perhaps Mr. Weaver would like something to drink.”

“My name is Hall.”

“Perhaps Mr. Hall would like something to drink.”

Milo gestured with his chin at the coffee stains down his shirt. “I think I’ve had enough, Miss Schwartz.”

“Someone made a mess,” she observed. “Maybe we can get your hands free—it would be easier that way.”

“Yes,” said the mustached man, leaving the bottle. He clicked the corkscrew back into place and worked open a blade. He began to cut through the duct tape.

“Heinrich,” she said, nodding at the open bottle. “Why don’t you bring us two glasses from the kitchen?”

Heinrich headed up the stairs.

“Don’t cut him, Oskar,” she said, and Milo finally had a name for the mustached man.

For a while Schwartz just watched him, while Oskar worked on the duct tape. She produced that plastic smile again. “Mr. Weaver—no,
please. Let me use that name. I am Erika Schwartz—that’s my real name, too. Have you some knowledge of me?”

Now that he had the first name, he recalled a fragment of biography from his previous life in administration. An antagonistic BND director who, to the Company’s delight, was being slowly sidelined within German intelligence. “No. I sell insurance for a living—are you in the business, too?”

She placed her swollen hands together, as if praying. “Let’s step back a moment. Milo Weaver, thirty-seven years old. Employee of the Central Intelligence Agency.” She held up a hand when Milo started to protest. “Until last year, you were in administration, and your records were semipublic. So we know some things about you. You have an apartment in Newark, New Jersey. You have a family—a wife, Tina, and a daughter named Stephanie—who live in Brooklyn. But you haven’t seen them much recently because you’ve been traveling in Europe under the name Sebastian Hall. Except for one known instance, in December, when, under your real name, you went to Budapest.”

Budapest? Then Milo got it. She was slipping in a piece of fiction to see if he would refute it, thus proving that the rest of her story was true. She really was good. “I don’t know who this guy is, but yes, I’ve been traveling in Europe. It’s called establishing a client base, Miss Schwartz. It’s what you do when you want to sell health insurance to expats.”

“Of course. And in Budapest, you were a journalist for the Associated Press. You can go through all the stories you like, Mr. Weaver, but I do know who you are. So what’s the point? You could waste time—that’s always possible. You could live in the hope that if you stretch out your silence your people will finally come to collect you, or they’ll pressure my people to let you go. But listen to me, Mr. Weaver, because this is important: No one knows you’re here. Your people don’t know. My people don’t know. No one would imagine that I know anything about your whereabouts. They won’t even ask me. So this can last a few hours, a few days, or even months.” When she paused, her breaths came out loudly, as if speaking so long had
been an exertion. “It’s all the same to me. But it won’t be the same to you.”

As Heinrich returned with two glasses, Milo wondered again about Budapest. Was she really making it up? Heinrich filled the glasses with what Milo could now see was Riesling and gave one to Schwartz. She sipped it and made a pleasant expression. “It’s really very good. From Pfalz. Go ahead.”

Milo accepted the second glass. She was right. It was cold and crisp and soothed his sore throat. He drank slowly, watching Oskar, Heinrich, and Erika Schwartz. The third man was somewhere behind him.

Schwartz said, “I’m not unreasonable. You should know that. Though I believe you killed Adriana Stanescu, the method of her death is less interesting to me than the reason for it.”

“I’ve done a lot of questionable things in my life,” Milo told her, “but I never killed any girl.”

“You did kidnap her. Of that there’s no doubt.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Oskar, can you please show Mr. Weaver to Mr. Weaver?”

Oskar went to the television. He ejected the tape, then found another unlabeled one among a short stack and slipped it in.

There it was. With a date and a time code and—there—Milo himself, waiting for her. Looking at the camera, or—no. He was looking at the blue Opel tailing him. The Opel was in the foreground, while Milo . . .

She was tall and full of life, and seeing it from the outside filled him with self-disgust. There he was, the cretin who stepped out and said
Entschuldigung
, then showed off his fake ID. Then led her to her doom.

When Oskar stopped the tape, Milo was out of breath. He could hardly manage the words “That’s not me.”

“No?” she said, unfazed. “Oskar?”

Oskar reached into his jacket and removed a standard 10 by 15 cm photograph and held it up for Milo to examine. Milo in the doorway to that courtyard, talking animatedly with Adriana Stanescu. The image was cleaned up; it was undeniable.

Oskar waited until he’d had an eyeful, then put it away.

“Photoshop,” Milo said, his breath back now. “Special effects. I don’t know why, but you’re trying to frame me.”

“You’ve been busy. The week before kidnapping her, you robbed an art museum in Zürich. That, of course, is how we came across your work name.”

The gears turned in Milo’s head. Radovan Panić, who had lifted his passport. Goddamned Radovan and his family-centered morality.

“So we know who you are. We know of at least two of the crimes you’ve committed. We know you work for the CIA—or, at least, you did work for them until last summer, when you spent a couple of months in jail. I won’t even ask about that—that’s how unobtrusive I am. I only want to learn about Adriana Stanescu. I want to know why you were ordered to kill her.”

He slumped and looked at the glass in his hand. He could dig it into Oskar’s little eye, but by that point Heinrich would be on top of him, beating him senseless. Then it would all begin again, this time strapped into that cot.

Time—that was what he needed. Time to think through it all. Anything would do, just as long as it bought him another hour.

He said, “No one ordered a thing.”

“You did it for the fun of it?”

“I have a problem. I killed her for my own pleasure, but it didn’t feel like I thought it would feel. It was . . .” He dropped his glass, the shattering sound making everyone jump, then began to weep quietly into his hands.

Schwartz grunted, then smiled. She gripped the arms of her chair and pushed herself to her feet. “Oskar, let’s go upstairs. Mr. Weaver needs more time for reflection.”

Oskar stood up, but Milo didn’t drop his act. Once they were at the stairs again, Schwartz turned back. “Heinrich, Gustav—could you help Mr. Weaver with his thinking?”

“Jawohl,” said Heinrich, getting up to switch the videotapes back again. Milo heard the springs make an awkward noise as Gustav rose from the cot.

“What do you think?” Erika asked once they reached the second floor. The climb had winded her, so Oskar helped her to a sofa near the window. Neither of them turned on a lamp, and they sat in darkness.

“He’s a professional liar.”

“Well, that’s obvious, Oskar. He knows he’s not fooling us with that sad pervert act. We know too much. Did you see his face? The surveillance video threw him.”

“Do you have anything to eat?” he asked.

“Chicken in the refrigerator. Bread on top. Make two, will you?”

As Oskar made chicken sandwiches in the semidarkness of the kitchen, she stared into the middle distance, a few feet short of a Tawaraya Sōtatsu print of Japanese demons. She’d always hated the painting, but it had been a gift from the Japanese embassy, and it was important to display her few gifts. At this moment, she even appreciated having the Sōtatsu, because such an abysmal work couldn’t distract her from the problem of how to approach Milo Weaver.

Annoyingly, she again felt that vague familiarity. It was in his facial features, and in his resolute obstinancy. But from where? She wasted time on this, going back over the past twenty years, but she was sure: She’d never met this man before. So she set it aside and returned to the problem.

It was a classic interrogation conundrum: How much does the subject know of what you know? Is it better to feign more knowledge or less? Is it better to share more or less?

That Weaver came from an allied agency made it no easier. At some point she would let him go, and there would be repercussions. Though she wasn’t particularly concerned for her own position—she was, after all, already on the way out—there was no reason for this escapade to end Oskar’s career. There was also Wartmüller himself. A political animal, yes, but essentially a good man. She didn’t think her actions would taint him directly, but in Teddi’s eyes the future of their relationship with the Americans was of paramount concern. Sitting in front of the Sōtatsu, with an American in her basement, she could admit that, despite her apprehensions, it might be true.

Milo Weaver’s attempts to obfuscate had told her one crucial thing: He was working for someone. Either he was still a CIA asset, or he was an ex-Company man working with organized crime. Either way, he was protecting an organization of some sort by taking the blame upon himself.

But was he really, though? That head-in-the-hands routine had been just that: a routine. No one really could have believed it. So perhaps by confessing so poorly he was in fact professing the truth—that he, in fact, was a lone murderer—and supposed his obvious act would throw them off.

No. She didn’t get the sense that this man thought so far ahead, or so deeply.

Or—and this was the problem with thinking too hard about anything truly unknowable—was this all part of his act? Was Adriana perhaps beside the point, a diversion while he protected something else?