The Tourist (20 page)

Tina thanked her for her concern.

"You think so?" said Stephanie.

"What, hon? I didn't hear you."

"I
said,
do you think we're really going into space?"

"Maybe," Tina answered as she again tried to get a look at Milo. The train lurched and clicked slowly forward into the dark tunnel ahead. Briefly, she forgot about the mystery of her husband's secret visitor. She was too distracted by the corny space-age music and the dated-looking asteroids and spaceships and light shows inside the huge dome. For once, Stephanie had no sarcastic quips, only happy squeals as they rose and plummeted wildly.

By the time they lurched to a stop and climbed out, Stephanie had regained her voice. "Let's do it again!"

"Let me get my breath first."

They waited by a steel fence for Milo to arrive.

"Why didn't he take our train?" said Stephanie.

"Maybe his friend was running late."

She pressed her chin against the railing, thinking about that, then raised her head. "There he is!"

Some family in bright orange shirts filled the first four seats, and in the fifth seat Milo was expressionless, in front of an old man who was probably in his seventies. Tina watched closely as they got out, noting the old man's softly wrinkled, wide-jawed face. He had deep-set, heavy eyes, not unlike Milo, and his thin white hair had been shaved down to a flattop, like her own father wore back in the seventies.

Despite his frail appearance, he needed no help climbing out of the train, and when he stood he was tall and imposing. Both men smiled as they came over, and the older man swiped at his cheek, as if scaring away a fly. Before Milo could say anything, he had stuck out the same hand and spoken in a voice flavored with a heavy Russian accent. "Very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Weaver."

He took her dry hand and kissed her knuckles.

"Yevgeny Primakov," Milo told her. "Yevgeny, that's Tina, and this one here," he said, picking up Stephanie, "is the finest chanson singer since Edith Piaf. Meet Stephanie."

Primakov's smile was huge as he kissed the hand she presented him, and he laughed when Stephanie wiped the kiss off on her pants.

"You're right to do that," said the Russian. "Very perceptive."

"You're an old friend of Milo's?" asked Tina.

"You could say that." A smile. "I've been trying for years to get him to work for me, but the man's stubborn. A patriot, I think."

"Want a drink?" Milo cut in. "I'm parched." Yevgeny Primakov shook his head. "I wish I could, but I need to find my own family. You go on. Maybe we'll find you later." He turned to Tina.

"Everything Milo ever said about your beauty was absolute modesty."

"Thank you," she muttered.

"Take care, Yevgeny," Milo said and took his family down the exit ramp.

It was a curious incident, and when pressed, Milo would only admit that Yevgeny was an old agent, retired, and that "he was one of the very best, in his day. He taught me a few tricks."

"A Russian agent taught you things?"

"Tradecraft knows no national borders, Tina. Besides, he's not a Russian agent anymore. He moved to the United Nations."

"What does a spy do at the UN?"

"He finds ways of making himself useful."

In the spaces between his words, she could tell the meeting had troubled him. Whatever they had discussed had thrown a wrench into his jolly mood. "Were you talking about Angela?"

"Mostly." He paused. "He knew her, wanted to find out what's going on."

"Did you have much to tell him?"

"Not enough," he said, then turned fully away from her and said to Stephanie, "Who's hungry?"

They dined in one of those characterless restaurants in the Caribbean Beach Resort, and Milo managed some light, happy chatter as Stephanie expounded on the relative merits of Space Mountain. They returned to the apartment by nine thirty. Everyone was exhausted, so they cleaned up, put Stephanie to bed, and went to bed themselves. Sex would have required too much energy, so they lay together looking out the glass terrace doors at the moon bouncing off the man-made lake.

"Having a good time?" Milo asked.

She nodded into his chest. "It's nice to be away from the library."

"Next year, let's see Switzerland. You've never been."

"If we can afford it."

"I'll knock over a bank."

She gave a polite, close-mouthed laugh. "Milo?"

"Yeah?"

She sat up so he'd know this was important. "I don't want you to get angry."

He sat up, too, the sheet falling from his chest. "Well, don't make me angry."

That wasn't the answer she'd hoped for. "Listen. I've got a bad feeling."

"You're sick?"

She shook her head. "Something's not right here. That much I know for sure. Then some old Russian pops up, and I don't believe anything you're telling me about him."

"You don't trust me," he said--a statement, not a question.

"It's not that."

"It's that exactly," said Milo, but he didn't get up or make any move to walk out, as he sometimes did during arguments. Instead, he looked past her at the windows.

"For example. How did you learn such good Russian?"

"What?"

"You're completely fluent. Tom says you speak it like a native."

"I studied. You know that. I'm good at languages. Even when I'm no good at anything else."

In Tina's exhale was a cluster of involuntary nonsense words. No reply made any sense to her. How could she put into words something that was only a gnawing anxiety in her bones?

They both jerked when Milo's phone lit up and vibrated a trail across the bedside table. His eyes, wide now, remained on her as he picked it up.

"Yeah?" Still staring at her, his features stiffened as he said, "And Adam's." Then:
"Now?
But I'm with--" She watched his face dissolve into some indefinable expression. "Okay."

Milo put the phone down but continued to stare at her. That's when she realized he hadn't been staring at her at all. He'd been staring
through
her, to somewhere else. Now, he got up, naked, and went to the terrace doors. He looked out, then turned to the drawers and began to dress as if the building were on fire.

"Milo?"

He put on his shirt. "Look, I can't explain everything. Not now. There's no time. If I had time, I'd explain everything. Absolutely everything." He moved to the closet, ripped open the door, and took out his suitcase. Squatting beside it, he turned to her. "You're right. I'm too secretive. I'm sorry. I really am. But right now, I have to leave." She got out of bed, also naked. "I'm coming."

"No."

Milo seldom spoke with such force. It was enough to push her back into bed, pulling up a sheet to cover herself.

He came to the edge of the bed. "Please. You have to stay here. In a little while, people will come looking for me. You answer their questions completely. Don't hold anything back. They'll know."

"Know
what}"
said Tina. "What have you done?" Again, he went blank. Then a vague smile appeared. "Truth is, I haven't done anything--nothing really wrong, at least. But listen to me. Are you listening? I want you to go to Austin. Stay with your parents a few days. A week, even."

"Why?"

"You'll want to rest up. That's it. Okay?" Stunned, she nodded.

"Good." He went back to the suitcase, removed a small, pressedflat knapsack, and filled it with little items he packed every time they went on a trip. To this, he added his iPod, then a wire clothes hanger from the closet. She wondered why. The packing took only a minute and a half, then he zipped up the knapsack, took his phone, slipped into his sneakers, and sat beside her on the bed. When he raised his hand, she flinched involuntarily. The dismay in his eyes made her feel terrible.

"Come here," she said and kissed him on the mouth. He whispered into her ear: "I don't want to do this. But it's necessary."

"I'm completely confused."

"I know."

"You're going to do what you used to do?" she whispered. "I think it's the only thing I can do."

He kissed her again, went to the door, then looked back. "Give Stef my love. Tell her it's business." He grunted. "She's used to it." Then he was gone.

She didn't know how long it took, though it couldn't have been more than seven or eight minutes, her staring at the empty bedroom doorway, numbed by everything she didn't understand. She heard noises outside--

faint footfalls on the unnaturally green Disney grass--then silence. She slipped into her robe. Then the sharp sound of a fist on the front door. She ran to get it before Stephanie woke. A woman stared back at her--sort of, because one eye seemed focused elsewhere--and held out an unfolded ID.

"Where is he?" the woman asked.

With remarkable fortitude, Tina grabbed the corner of the woman's ID

so she could read
DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY
and the name SIMMONS, JANET beside her photograph. She started to say something about how they better have some kind of a warrant, but it was too late. Janet Simmons and a large man who'd shown no papers at all were already in the apartment, opening doors.

That's when she heard Stephanie, sounding stone-cold awake: "Cut it out! I'm trying to sleep!"

2 5

He kissed his wife again, went to the door, then turned back. She looked tiny in that big Disney bed. "Give Stef my love. Tell her it's business." He realized how often he said this kind of thing. "She's used to it." He galloped down the outdoor stairs, heading for the parking lot. Through the cricket songs he heard them in the cool night air--two engines, approaching.

He hit the ground leaning low and padded over tended grass toward the parked cars. Headlights splayed across the resort. It was after ten by now, the vacationers either at nearby family-friendly clubs or dozing off the fatigue of standing in hot lines all day. Nothing would wake them up. Squeezing between a Subaru from Texas and a Florida Mazda, he heard the cars park, doors flung open, and voices. A woman's voice, familiar. He looked through the driver's side window of the Subaru and watched them cross the grass. Special Agent Janet Simmons, in one of her blue Homeland Security suits, took the lead, followed by three men clutching Homelandissue SIG Sauers. Simmons mounted the steps, George Orbach right behind her, while the other two men remained on the ground, spreading out to check escape paths.

Riverrun, past Eve.

And Adam's. Go, Milo.

Now?
But I'm with--

Simmons is coming to get you. She's nearly there. Go.
Milo looked up the height of the resort and spotted his bedroom terrace, where Tina had left the light on. As he watched, he took out his cell phone, popped out the battery, and removed the SIM card, then pocketed everything, thinking through his next steps.

The window to the right of their terrace brightened. That was the living room. Simmons had decided to knock first, which he appreciated. On the grass before him, one of the agents stepped back to get a better look at the terrace, to be sure no one was climbing out. Through the window, Milo saw silhouettes--Tina, Janet Simmons, and George Orbach. He waited, listening for any sign that his daughter had woken. All he caught was crickets, and the indistinct murmur of adult voices. Then the silhouettes moved through the apartment.

Still crouching, he padded farther away, weaving through cars until he had reached the edge of the lot. He unzipped his knapsack and unraveled the wire hanger as the figures on the grass moved, finally convinced he wasn't up in the apartment. With the hanger straightened, he formed a small hook at the end, then searched for an older-model car. It was difficult--this was the midrange resort, full of middle-class families who changed their cars every four years--but he finally spotted the one eyesore: a rusted lateeighties Toyota Tercel. He began to wedge the hanger down between the window and the door.

Fifteen minutes later, he was heading southwest on 1-4. If Janet Simmons was on the ball, she'd send men to nearby Orlando International to search for him, so he would instead leave from Tampa. He still didn't know where he was going, but he needed to get out of Florida. This state would not give him answers.

He pulled to the side of the road by a closed barbecue restaurant and put the phone together again. SIM card, battery, then he pressed the power button. It gave him a Nokia welcome, then started to ring--
PRIVATE

NUMBER
. He knew who that was. Milo pressed the hangup button; then, before Simmons could dial again, he typed 411. He asked an operator for the American Airlines desk at Orlando International. As she connected him, his phone beeped, signifying another incoming call. He ignored it, then asked the woman at the airport for their next flight to Dallas. "That leaves at 6:00
A.M
., sir."

"I'd like to reserve a seat."

"Do you have a credit card?"

He tugged out his wallet. "The name is Milo Weaver, and I'll be putting this on my MasterCard."

Five minutes later, he'd settled the reservation, and Simmons had tried three more times to get in touch. He disassembled the phone again and continued southwest, away from Orlando.

Outside Polk City, he found a mall with a few cars in the lot. It took two minutes for him to break into an annoying-looking Ford Tempo, then another two minutes to use a shirt from his knapsack to wipe down the Tercel.

He stopped again after Lakeland, took three hundred dollars from an ATM using the Dolan card, then used that money to fill up the tank at an all-night station. In the convenience mart, he bought cigarettes, a padded envelope, a book of stamps, a spiral notebook, and a black marker. Back in the car, he scribbled in the notebook:

Miguel & Hanna--Please Burn this Note

and Hold these for T & S in Safe Place

Very Important

No One Should Know

Thanks for your Trust--M.

He folded the page into the envelope, then went through his knapsack, coming up with three passports. He slipped Laura Dolan and Kelley Dolan into the envelope and put the Lionel Dolan passport into his own pocket. He sealed the envelope and addressed it to Tina's parents in Austin, Texas, pasting on more stamps than necessary.