The Tourist (43 page)

"I have some idea."

"How?"

"Because I fed her information whenever I had it to share." They watched each other a moment, then Primakov continued.

"Look. We didn't want the credit for catching the Tiger. We only wanted him stopped. His assassinations were disrupting European economies and causing unrest in Africa. Usually, she didn't know the information came from us. She considered herself extremely lucky. You can argue she was."

"What about Milo?"

"What about him?"

"Why didn't you feed him information? He was following the Tiger." Primakov thought about his answer before speaking: "Milo Weaver is my son. I can love him, yes. I can make sure my parentage doesn't ruin his career. But I also know that, as my son, he has my own limitations."

"Such as?"

"Such as not being as clever as Angela Yates. He caught the Tiger, yes, but only because the Tiger
wanted
to be caught." Primakov blinked at her.

"Don't get me wrong, Ms. Simmons. Milo's very clever. He's just not quite as smart as his old, now dead, friend."

Primakov took a bite of cold egg, and Simmons said, "You really are very well informed, Yevgeny."

He inclined his head. "Thank you."

"What do you know about Roman Ugrimov?"

Primakov dropped his fork; it clattered on the plate. "Excuse me, Ms. Simmons, but Roman Ugrimov is as much of a shit as Milo's grandfather. Another pedophile--did you know? Some years ago he killed his underaged
pregnant
girlfriend in Venice simply to make a point." He pushed away his plate, his appetite now completely ruined.

"You know him personally?"

"Not as well as you do."

She drew back. "Me?"

"The CIA, at least. The Company makes the strangest bedfellows."

"Wait," said Simmons. "He may have crossed paths with some employees, but the Company doesn't work with Roman Ugrimov."

"Please, don't pretend," the old man told her. "I've got photographs of him dining happily with one of your administrators."

"Which administrator?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, actually. It does. Who met with him?"

Primakov pursed his lips, thought, and shook his head. "I don't remember, but I can send over a copy of the pictures if you like. A year old. Geneva."

"Geneva," Simmons whispered, then straightened. "Can you have it sent over today?"

"Whenever you like."

She produced a pen and a notepad and began writing. "I'll be at the Metropolitan Correctional Center. Here's the address. Your people can just give it to security, with my name on it." She ripped off the sheet and handed it over.

Primakov read, squinting, then folded it in half. "It will take a few hours to track down. Will one o'clock suffice?"

"Perfect." She checked her watch--it was a quarter after ten. "Thank you very much, Yevgeny." They stood, and he held out his hand. She placed hers in his and waited as he brought her knuckles again to his lips and kissed them.

"The pleasure has been all mine," he told her, very seriously.

"Remember Foucault's pendulum, Ms. Simmons. My son may say he's guilty of murder, but despite years apart, I know him better than you do. He'd never kill his father."

15

The interview room at the MCC was much like the one in the Avenue of the Americas building, with one crucial difference: a window. It was small, high, and secured with bars, but it gave Milo his first glimpse of sunlight in three days. He hadn't realized how much he had missed it. Still in manacles, he had been secured to his chair by a polite guard named Gregg, and after five minutes they entered. While Simmons remained the consummate professional, Fitzhugh seemed off his game. There were fresh bags under his eyes, and he kept his arms crossed defensively over his chest. Something was up.

Milo continued with his story. Landing at JFK, the car rental, driving to Lake Hopatcong, parking a half mile away, and walking through the woods. As before, Simmons didn't let the narrative move too quickly, picking at details as they came.

The conversation with Grainger came out in summary. "He was scared. I could tell that right away. At first, he claimed he had nothing to do with Tripplehorn meeting Ugrimov and the Tiger. Then he admitted he knew something about it, but the orders hadn't come from him. They'd come from above him."

"From whom?"

He shook his head, glancing at Fitzhugh, who was chewing the inside of his mouth. "Wouldn't say," Milo told her. "He tried to make it into a conspiracy. High reaches of power, that sort of thing. He said that it was all part of a plan to disrupt China's oil supply."

"You believed him?"

He hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, I believed in the aims of what was happening. But I think the buck stopped with him. In fact, I know it. I already talked about how upset he was that Ascot had taken over the Company."

"Yes," said Simmons. "I read the transcript of that."

"Tom was terrified. At the time, I thought he was just worried about his section, that a lot of people would get the axe. Maybe he was, but it wasn't enough to upset him that much. He was afraid his little side project would become derailed. Who kept the Tiger's file from me? Tom. Who made sure Angela and I never worked together to catch him? Tom."

"Yes," Simmons admitted. "And who gave the Tiger your file, assuring that he'd come to you at some point?" When Milo didn't answer immediately, she answered the question herself: "Tom." Milo shook his head. "That backfired. He made sure the Tiger had my file, and hoped the Tiger would come and take care of me himself."

"Tom thought the Tiger would kill you."

"Yes."

"Go on."

Milo explained that Grainger was desperate to dig himself out of his hole. "What's the best way to do that? You shift the blame to those above you."

"People like Mr. Fitzhugh here?" Simmons suggested, smiling. At first, Fitzhugh didn't smile, then he did, forcefully, and leaned forward. "Yes, Milo. Did Grainger try to soil my good name?"

"Sure he did. But what else could he say? He accused everyone he could think of. Everyone except himself."

"And so you killed him," Fitzhugh said, urging the story on.

"Yes. I killed him."

Simmons crossed her arms over her breasts and stared at Milo
a
moment. Then: "Inside the house, just inside the front door, someone else died. Blood everywhere. Also, three windows were broken. In the stairs to the second floor we found seven slugs."

"Yes. That would be Tripplehorn."

"You killed this man?"

"I interrogated Tom for a few hours on Monday night. I don't know how he did it, but somehow he made contact. Maybe he'd already expected me and had prepared. But in the morning Tripplehorn arrived. He trapped me on the stairs, and I was lucky to get him."

"Where was Tom when this occurred?"

"In the kitchen. I guess he broke the windows, looking for a way out--

"

"Away out?" Simmons interrupted. "But the windows were broken from the outside."

Milo paused, looking uncomfortable, but he was glad Simmons had a clear memory for details. "Like I said, I don't know. All I know is, Tom got out. I was next to Tripplehorn's body when I saw him running past. I didn't even think. I was furious. I took Tripplehorn's rifle, aimed, and shot twice."

"Once in the forehead, once in the shoulder." Milo nodded.

"He was running away?"

"Yes."

"Yet he was shot from the front."

Milo blinked, trying not to show his pleasure. Primakov had been right about everything. "I shouted his name. He stopped and turned back." Her expression suggested she knew this already. "One thing's strange, though."

Milo, staring at the table, didn't bother asking what that strange thing was.

"You got rid of Tripplehorn's body, but not Grainger's. Why'd you do that, Milo?"

He shook his head, not meeting her eyes. "I thought that if I got rid of Tripplehorn, then ballistics would match the bullets to his gun. The hunt would shift from me to him. What I forgot was that he doesn't really exist. He was black ops."

"You mean, a Tourist?"

Milo raised his eyes to meet hers, while Fitzhugh shifted in his seat, saying, "What're you talking about, Janet?"

"Let's cut the bullshit, okay? We've known about your special field agents for years. Just answer the question."

Milo looked to Fitzhugh for guidance, and the older man, chewing his cheek, finally nodded.

"Yes," said Milo. "He was a Tourist."

"Thank you. Now that that's out of the way, can we go on?" He told them about disposing of Tripplehorn's corpse in the mountains near Lake Hopatcong, but claimed not to remember exactly where. Then he'd sent a coded e-mail to Tina from an Internet cafe.

"The barbecue party," Simmons said with a grin. "That was good. Only figured it out after Tina told us."

"Then you also know that it was a failure. She wouldn't leave with me."

"Don't take it personally," said Simmons. "Not many people would just drop everything and disappear."

"Either way, I was stuck. I didn't want to leave without my family, and my family wouldn't leave with me."

"So you drove to Albuquerque," Fitzhugh cut in. "Stayed at the Red Roof Inn."

"Yeah."

"This is verified?" asked Simmons.

Fitzhugh nodded, then looked up at the sound of someone knocking on the door. He opened it a crack. The voice of a guard wafted in: "This is for Special Agent Janet Simmons."

"Who's it from?" asked Fitzhugh, but Simmons was already on her feet, pulling the door open and taking the flat manila envelope from the guard.

"Just a sec, guys," she said, then stepped into the corridor. Fitzhugh looked at Milo, sighing heavily. "It's a hell of a thing."

"What is?"

"All this. Tom Grainger. Did you have any idea he could be so manipulative?"

"I hardly even believe it now."

Simmons returned with the envelope under her arm. Her cheeks, both men noticed, were nearly fuchsia.

"What's the news?" asked Fitzhugh, but she ignored him and returned to her chair.

She stared hard at Milo, thinking something over, then placed the envelope flat on the table, her hand on top of it. "Milo, I want you to explain the Russian passport."

He wanted to know what was in that envelope, but said, "Terence mentioned it. It's a forgery, or a trick. I'm not a Russian citizen."

"But your father is."

"My father's dead."

"Then how did he show up in Disney World two weeks ago to have a secret meeting with you?"

"
What?"
said Fitzhugh.

Simmons ignored him. "Answer me, Milo. Your wife might not be the kind of person to disappear with you, but she's just as human as the rest of us. You introduced her to Yevgeny Primakov without ever telling her that she was meeting her father-in-law. And two days ago, we went to see your grandfather on your mother's side. William Perkins. Ring any bells?" The air went out of Milo. His scalp buzzed. How had she done it?
Trust
me,
his father had said, but this couldn't have been part of any plan, exposing all this. He turned to Fitzhugh. "There's nothing to say about this. I'm devoted to this country and the Company. Don't listen to her."

"Talk to
me"
said Simmons.

"No," said Milo.

"Milo," Fitzhugh began, "I think you better--"

"No!" he shouted, and started jumping in his chair, the noise of rattling chains filling the small room. "No! Get out of here! This conversation is over!"

The guards were already inside, two of them, holding Milo's shoulders, kicking his feet off the floor and pressing him down. "Get rid of him?" one asked Fitzhugh.

"No," said Simmons, standing. "Keep him there. Terence, come with me."

They left, and Milo calmed beneath the guards' hands. This had not been part of any plan--his outburst had come from somewhere else. It was the nervous reaction to that secret place being cracked open. Now they knew. Not just them, though, but Tina.

He slumped until his forehead settled on the table. Tina knew. She knew now what her husband was and had always been. A liar. Did any of this even matter anymore? All he'd wanted was to go home again, and now, probably, that was one place he was no longer welcome. Without knowing it, he began to hum. A melody.

Je suis une poupee de cire,

Une poupee de son

He stopped himself before it broke him completely.

Through the closed door, he heard Fitzhugh shouting something indecipherable, then footsteps leading away. Simmons entered alone, the envelope under her arm, the flush in her cheeks fading. She spoke to the guards: "I want you to turn off the cameras and microphones. Got it? All of them. When you've done that, knock three times on the door but don't come in. Yes?"

The two men nodded, glancing down at the prisoner, then left. She took her seat across from Milo, placed the envelope on the table, and waited. She said nothing, and Milo said nothing, only shifted for a better position, the chains making a little noise. He decided not to speculate on what was going on--speculation was killing him. When, finally, they heard three clear knocks on the door, Simmons allowed herself a soft smile. She used the friendly voice she'd first used in Blackdale, Tennessee, the one she'd been taught in interrogation training, and leaned forward, the better to close the psychological distance.

She pulled out the photographs one by one until the three were beside each other on the table, facing Milo. "Do you recognize these men, Milo?" It was a restaurant, Chinese. Two men shaking hands. He gritted his teeth, finally understanding.

You'll know. You'll know when it's time for the Third Lie.
When he spoke, his voice was crackly from his shouting fit. "Light's not too good."

She considered this statement, as if it had basis in fact; it didn't. "Well, that one looks like Terence, doesn't it?"

Milo nodded.

"The other man--his friend--does that face look familiar?" Milo made a show of examining the face. He shook his head. "Hard to say. I don't think I know him."