As Milo watched, Keller reached for his tea, but then changed his mind and took his hand back.
“There it is, you see? Anna asked me about Diogo Moreira, and now she’s dead. Every inch of the Ritz-Carlton was covered by security cameras, which meant that all anyone had to do was look through the footage to find that Anna had been speaking to me, and for a long time. Why else would the head of security be sitting in my driveway? And right next to me, on the passenger seat, was a stack of payments with Moreira’s name on it.”
He exhaled loudly and shook his head. “This story—it’s a story of stupidity. Me making the wrong choices, one after the other. I’m a numbers guy. Give me spreadsheets and I’m happy. Give me people and my calculations crumble. That’s why I’ve always depended on Emily. And really, I didn’t understand any of it. What I had was a terrible ache in my gut and this ominous feeling. Frankly, I was terrified. And sick. Which was when I looked ahead and saw a road sign pointing in the direction of the airport.”
Milo leaned back, nodding. “You ran.”
“Straight to the airport. First flight out of the country.”
“Düsseldorf,” Milo said.
Keller sighed, nodding. “Once I was on the plane I sent a message to Emily. I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Keller rubbed his face, and Milo wasn’t surprised to see that tears were slipping down his cheek. Could he understand what Keller had done? Maybe, in some loose, abstracted way, but he couldn’t imagine abandoning Tina and Stephanie when some kind of forces—underworld or governmental—were moving in on them. But he wasn’t Keller, was he? Milo had had self-preservation trained out of himself during his Tourism years. Keller had never had that aspect of his humanity scrubbed clean.
Keller sniffed loudly, and a manic, hysterical laugh popped out. He clamped a hand over his mouth and shook his head. As if reading Milo’s thoughts, he said, “It hit me, you know. Once the plane took off, it hit me right in the face. What I’d done. I was sick. I wanted out. I cried—made a scene, actually. And then…” He shook his head again. “Hours later I was landing in Düsseldorf. It was enough time for me to collect my thoughts. Running hadn’t helped anything. Sergei, I knew, had government friends, and I fully expected guys from the embassy to be waiting for me at arrivals. And if they weren’t waiting there, they would track my credit cards and any tickets I bought. I know how easy it is to track money. I wouldn’t last long before someone showed up to drag me back home.”
“There was an Interpol warrant out for you. Did you know that?”
Keller frowned. “Then why wasn’t I arrested?”
“Because the Germans didn’t want to hand you over to the Russians. They wanted to watch you instead.”
“They were watching me?”
“Of course. They saw you go to an exchange office and buy about six thousand euros, then take a taxi to the train station. Did you know where you were heading?”
Keller, stunned, shook his head. “I just got on the first train out.”
“Cologne.”
He nodded. “But I thought I should get out of Germany. So I went to Brussels and then Paris.”
“Where you stayed in a hotel.”
“Hostel. The Saint Christopher. I needed to make my money last long enough to figure out what I was going to do.”
Milo considered telling him that his roommate in that hostel had been a German agent but decided against it. No reason to sharpen his paranoia.
A wry grin crossed his face. “Then I made another stupid mistake. I called the office. Spoke to Grigory, and he—you have to understand, I was desperate. He told me I was a hero for uncovering these payments. He said I’d uncovered thievery.”
“You told him where you were staying?”
Keller nodded. “He told me they would come get me. I believed—I wanted to believe. But then, a couple of hours later, out on the street, two guys threw me into a van.” He shook his head. “No, I wasn’t a hero.”
“That was Kirill Egorov’s team.”
He just blinked.
“What about the list?”
“I’d kept it on me. Under my shirt. It was uncomfortable, but Grigory had told me not to let it out of my sight.”
“And you gave it to Egorov.”
“Immediately. I was scared.”
“Why didn’t he send you back to Moscow?”
“I don’t know. They took me to some warehouse, somewhere out of Paris, and Kirill sat with me, alone. He asked me to tell him everything. Asked me to explain all the numbers to him. I didn’t have the guts to lie about anything.”
“How long did this go on?”
“Two days? Something like that. Then he left me alone, under guard, for another day. When he came back, he explained that I was coming with him to Algeria. I didn’t want to go to Algeria. He said, Do you want to live? Then go to Algeria.”
“So you went.”
“So I went.”
“How?”
Keller frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, by boat, plane, car and ferry? How did you get through customs?”
He shook his head and raised his hands. “I don’t know. There was a car. There was a boat, and then another car. And then I was here.”
They all looked up as Gazala entered, but she wasn’t carrying food. Instead, she held a clear plastic folder filled with bent and soiled sheets of paper full of names and numbers, which she handed to Keller. “Go,” she said. “Give me back my peace.”
21
Leonberger stood in front of a narrow old apartment building in upscale Zamoskvarechye, looking up to the third floor, where, a month ago, Anna Usurov had either put her head in her oven or had it forced in. He’d already made some calls and learned that Usurov’s place hadn’t changed hands after her death—a distant brother was trying to get ownership, and it was going to court. Sofia Marinov still hadn’t called him back, so all he had to go on was this apartment. Afterward, he would drive out to Pokrovsky Hills to check on Joseph Keller’s family.
Getting inside the building wasn’t hard. The front door’s lock was broken, and as he walked up the concrete stairs, keeping an eye out for the old women who always guarded buildings like this, he wondered if the lock had been broken the same night Anna Usurov fell asleep in her oven. At the third floor, he passed a heavy woman in a smock carrying a mop bucket downstairs, and when he greeted her with a smiling “Zdrávstvujte,” she rolled her eyes at him.
“You’re heading upstairs, I guess,” she said.
“Am I?”
“That’s where the whores are. Fifth floor.”
“Then I guess I am. Thank you, darling.”
She grunted, shook her head, and continued down the stairs. A small-time prostitution ring wouldn’t stay hidden in a building like this with that old battle-axe on the prowl. Leonberger gave it a week, maybe two, before the cops arrived to demand their cut.
Once she was out of sight, he knocked on Usurov’s door and waited. Nothing. He took his tools out of his jacket and unwrapped them. He knocked again, waited, then crouched and got to work on the lock. It was an old Soviet model he knew well, because it secured most of the doors in this neighborhood, barely. In a minute and a half he was inside.
He had to fight the urge to air out the place; it was humid and stank of something putrid. In the kitchen, all signs of death had been cleaned away, and the oven was closed. So he got to work in the other rooms, opening drawers and rifling through papers. Her computer, unsurprisingly, wasn’t here. Nor were any phones.
He tried not to rush, but so much here was junk—bills and ticket stubs and an unopened pack of Marlboros that he pocketed—and when he reached the bathroom he discovered the source of the smell. A cat had been trapped inside and died of starvation. The rats had taken pieces away, but enough remained for him to make a positive ID.
He started at the sound of a ringing phone before realizing it was his own. He cursed himself for
not putting it on silent, then answered with a whisper. “Allô?”
“You called me,” said a woman’s voice.
It was Sofia Marinov, he realized. “Yes, thank you for returning my call. I’m interested in speaking with you about Anna Usurov—she was a colleague of yours.”
“Why?”
“I’m writing an article on journalists who have … well, you know.”
She was silent for a moment, then: “Let’s meet.”
Her acquiescence surprised him. He’d expected to have to talk her into opening up to him, and the hope of a face-to-face conversation had been beyond his expectations. “That would be great,” he said.
“Do you know La Bohème? It’s a café on Tito Square.”
“If there’s only one, I’ll find it.”
“It’s next to the pharmacy. Can you be there tomorrow morning?”
“Sure. Nine o’clock?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice sounding pinched and strained.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’m fine. How will I know you?”
“Big, old, and ugly. I saw your picture on your website, so I’ll find you. Thank you for your help on this. I appreciate it.”
“Okay,” she said, and hung up. He took a moment to stare at the phone, wondering about Sofia Marinov, the young journalist who was willing to meet a complete stranger. She was either brave or incredibly stupid. Or perhaps she had something that she really needed to share—one could hope.
He searched in vain for a couple of hours before starting to tidy up, and that was when he saw that the power outlet under the desk had slipped half a centimeter out of the wall, as if it had been removed and put back poorly. He got on his knees under the desk, his back aching, and gave it a tug. It came out smoothly, leaving a rectangular hole in the wall. Though his hand was big, he was able to squeeze it inside and feel along the inside of the wall, touching wood frame, wires, rat turds, screw heads, and … what felt like a flash drive. He caught it between his index and middle fingers and withdrew it. He blew off dust and turned it over in his hand. Red, with a single white stripe down the side. In marker, someone had written the letter P. Whether it was a Latin P or a Cyrillic R he didn’t know. What he did know was that it was important.
He slipped it into his pocket, checked to be sure the place looked untouched, and out of morbid curiosity looked inside the oven. Other than a few spots of old, burned sauce, it was clean. Only as he was closing it did he register the most striking detail: It was an electric oven, not gas.
22
They were back in the Abdul Rahman Pazhwak conference room, and as they settled in Milo wondered if the patrons understood how many miles he’d traveled for them. With Whippet and Keller, he’d reached Mallorca by way of night boat, taken a private plane to Barcelona, and then a train to Lyon, where Alexandra had waited to drive him and Keller home, while Whippet returned to Paris. By the time they got to Zürich, Kristin and Noah had spent hours scouring photos of Keller’s list and trying to understand it. Office workers, bureaucrats, and political figures paid through Sergei Stepanov’s company. Half of them made a sort of sense—NATO suboffices, intelligence contractors, energy-industry specialists—but others didn’t. Why would Stepanov pay a lump fifty thousand to a waste collection official in Bangladesh? Or a hundred grand to a Lebanese dock manager?
Joseph Keller didn’t have answers. They had put him in the office bedroom, where he’d looked around and asked if he was a prisoner.
“You’re doing it again,” Alexandra told Milo.
“What?”
“It’s Martin Bishop all over again.”
He waved her away and went to sit with the reference librarians.
“Each of these names could make sense on its own,” Kristin explained. “A Russian company wants to bid on Bangladeshi waste, or they’re trying to smuggle something—weapons, maybe—in and out of Lebanon and need someone to destroy the paperwork.”
“But all of these things on the same accounting document?” Alexandra countered. “What’s Sergei Stepanov up to?”
Noah sighed loudly enough to get everyone’s attention, then said, “Maybe nothing. Maybe none of this is real.”
“False flag?” Milo asked doubtfully.
“Sure. The Russians plant a document hoping that some dope will dig it out. I mean, he did make it to the airport, didn’t he? No one was waiting for him in Düsseldorf—though they would’ve had time to put that together.”
“It’s a stretch,” said Kristin. “Besides, Egorov’s team was sent to find him.”
“And Egorov decided to change plans. Maybe he knew the list was nonsense.” When no one replied, he said, “We’re looking at a list that as a whole makes no sense. Which suggests that this avenue of payment is a catchall for different Russian operations—private companies, government ministries, intelligence. But who does that? Who runs a whole country’s clandestine monies through a single stream? It’s unheard of.”
“And therefore,” Milo said, “none of it is real.”
Noah raised his hands. “It’s something to consider. Okay?”
“We need to know what Anna Usurov was investigating before she died,” Kristin said. “Why was Diogo Moreira so interesting for her?”
“Let’s hope Leonberger comes up with something,” Milo said, but no one looked hopeful.
Then it was the next day, and Milo, exhausted, was faced again with his patrons.
From his shoulder bag, he took out twelve sealed envelopes, each labeled with the name of a country, and passed it to his left to Aku Ollennu, from Ghana. “Take yours and pass it on, please.”
Like good schoolchildren, they did as they were asked, a couple even waiting to rip theirs open. Most, though, got into it immediately, the tearing sound filling the room as they unfolded their single sheets to find one or two names typed there, along with an account number and a dollar amount. No one understood anything, which was how he liked it.
He said, “Each of you has one or two names that come from an accounts list taken from MirGaz records. I’ve given you the names we’ve identified as being one of your nationals.”
Sanjida Thakur wrinkled her nose at the Bangladeshi waste official on her page. “Where did you get this?”
“New source. As far as we know, Stepanov doesn’t know the list is in anyone’s hands, and we don’t want him to know until we have a better handle on what he’s doing. So it’s imperative that no one pick up any of these individuals.”
“He’s trying to expand internationally,” said Pak Eun-ju, who had only one name to deal with. “He’s been trying that for years.”
“It may be more complicated than that,” Milo told her. “Which is why we would appreciate it if your governments would surveil these people. As you know, we don’t keep staff in your countries, as a courtesy, so we depend on you.”
Said Bensoussan, who was one of the few with two names before him, scratched his lip. “But you have a theory, yes? An idea?”
“Nothing worth sharing yet,” Milo said. “Maybe it is simply an attempt to expand MirGaz’s reach, though we don’t yet understand the logic behind it all. Few of these make sense for the energy sector. What we do know is that this is a major expense for Stepanov, or whoever is using his pipeline—in the billions.”
Exhales all around. Katarina Heinold said, “It’s Putin’s money. Stepanov is one of his deputies.”
“Maybe. But it’s early. We’re following up in Moscow and elsewhere, and when I know more I’ll share.”
Bensoussan raised a finger. “Does this have to do with your escapade in Algiers?”
Milo hesitated, considering a bald lie, but reconsidered. He suspected Bensoussan knew the answer already, and perhaps he’d shared his concerns with the others. “Kirill Egorov was protecting this new source from his own government. We think he was killed when he tried to pass the source off to me.”
“So the Russians already kn
ow you have this,” said Beatriz Almeida, whose memo listed only Diogo Moreira, of the Serviço de Informações de Segurança.
“Not necessarily,” Alan cut in. “All they know is that Milo was in town at Egorov’s request. Anything beyond that is speculation.”
“And they won’t,” Milo added, “unless someone in this room tells them. Or if any of these people are picked up. So, please: surveillance only.”
Silence fell, and Milo’s eyes found Alfred Njenga, representing Kenya, who was still staring at his paper. Two names faced him, but they were both known politicians, and their payments were exceptionally large. His expression was bleak. Milo said, “Is there any other business we should discuss? I know we left off in an awkward place a few days ago, and if anything needs to be settled we can take care of it while we’re all together.”
Hilmar Jonsson, who had been so angry last time, looked off balance now. He glanced over to Gaston Majerus, who cleared his throat and said, “Milo, I think you know what kind of a position you put us in. On the other hand, we know what kind of position we put you in. So we feel that it’s best to table any changes in procedure for another three months. Hopefully you understand our position better, as we understand yours. Let’s try to build toward a compromise that we can settle on by the end of the year. Is that agreeable?”
“Extremely,” Milo said.
After the meeting broke up, Milo found Beatriz Almeida in the corridor, waiting for him. She peered at him as he approached, then waved her envelope. “This is not good, Milo.”
“Agreed,” he said. “But your name in particular—Moreira—we want to look more closely at him.”
“Why?”
“A Russian journalist was investigating him specifically. And now she’s dead.”
Almeida frowned at this. “Then come to Lisbon with me. You and I can interrogate him together.”
The Last Tourist Page 14