“No,” Milo said. “Please don’t. Just watch him. And if you come across anything interesting, please pass it on to us.”
Almeida hesitated briefly before lighting up with a smile. “Of course, Milo. Of course.” Promises, after all, were only words.
23
It was turning out to be a pretty lousy week. Leticia had spent a long night on a dirty blanket in an abandoned abattoir in Cheung Sha Wan, near the Rambler Channel, that she’d rented from a weaselly meth addict for 120 Hong Kong dollars, about 15 US. The meth addict, with big, bloodshot eyes, told her the story of a water buffalo that had literally cried for its life upon arriving there for slaughter, disturbing the workers so deeply that they set it free to live with the monks at the Tsz Wan Kok temple. Since closing twenty years ago, the ugly building had fallen into decay, concrete cracking and water seeping through the roof.
But it had been a place. A place for her to sleep and heal from the bullet that had grazed her in that alley. She’d met the other abattoir residents—six in all, hooked on meth, heroin, or GBH, and one of them, maybe fifteen, kept a paper bag with him at all times for huffing glue. They smelled of urine and smoke. That first morning, she paid the huffer to go to the pharmacy and buy bandages and alcohol. After cleaning and wrapping her wound, she settled on a dirty blanket and went through the clues she’d taken from Mrs. Gary Young: a small bundle of cash, a credit card under the name Sharon Young, and a phone. She powered it up and found that there were no phone numbers in its contacts, and the only nonsystem app was Nexus Messenger—which, given its famous encryption, made sense. When she pulled it up, there was only one contact, labeled “DC.”
Ah, shit.
As she toyed with her options, the huffer, eyes alighting on the phone, asked if he could touch it. She said no and sent him on his way. She pressed the button to connect with “DC” and heard the tinny wah-wah ring of all Nexus calls. Then it was picked up, and a wary female voice said, “Hello?”
“Want to tell me why you’re trying to kill me?”
“Leticia,” the woman said, and Leticia felt a pang of familiarity. “You’re well?”
“I’ve been better. How’s Sharon Young?”
“She’s at Queen Mary, intensive care. They say she’ll pull through. But you did hurt her. Bad.”
Leticia closed her eyes, the familiarity of the voice suddenly coalescing: It was Joan, the recruiter for Tourism. From that drunk eternal night in Tromsø. Fuck. “Listen, Joan,” she said, “I’d like to know why you’ve targeted me.”
“Have I?”
“Yours is the only number in Sharon’s phone.”
“Yes,” Joan said. “I guess we have targeted you.”
“Why?”
“You must have stepped on someone’s toes.”
“Come on, Joan.”
“You remember how it used to be, don’t you? You get an order, you follow through. Doesn’t matter why. It’s just Tourism, Jake.”
Was she really making jokes? “Then let me talk to someone who does know.”
“Afraid I can’t do that,” Joan said, then went silent a moment. “Tell me: When did you start working for Milo Weaver again?”
“I’m not working for Milo Weaver. He tracked me down in Wakkanai. Wanted to talk to me. That’s it. A conversation.”
“About…?”
“None of your business.”
Silence again, and Leticia wondered what Joan was doing in DC. Was she in the bath? Sitting in a parking lot? It didn’t matter, did it?
“What I need,” Leticia said, “is for you to keep your hands off of me. We don’t have to be friends, but there’s no need to be enemies.”
Joan hummed reflectively. “Well, that’s not really up to me.” She cleared her throat. “How about this: How about I make some inquiries and see what’s possible?”
“How’s that going to help?”
“Well, I can make the argument that we tried to recruit you, and that what you did there in Hong Kong proves you’ve still got it.”
“So you’re offering me my life if I reconsider your offer.”
“Now you’re getting it.”
“Fuck you.”
Joan laughed. “I’ll do my research over here, you have a think, and then call me back in twenty-four. How does that sound?”
“Sounds like a shitty deal, Joan, but I’ll call.”
After hanging up, Leticia had a think, then called to the huffer. He grinned stupidly, showing off his missing teeth. “I’ve gotta go,” she told him.
“Okay.”
“I’m going to Macau,” she said. “Can you remember that?”
“Macau,” he answered, grinning.
To make sure he remembered, she asked the huffer for detailed directions, then got him to walk her all the way to the bus stop at Kwai Shing West Estate. She even followed the path, only deviating at Mei Foo Station, where she hailed a taxi to reach Hong Kong International. If it worked, when Gary Young reached the abattoir, the addicts would send him to Macau. The question was: How soon would they realize she’d flown out of Hong Kong with her last clean passport, Wanda Kumalu of South Africa?
It didn’t really matter—her course was set. She didn’t want to cross to the mainland; since limping out of China ten years ago, she’d successfully avoided returning to Xin Zhu’s domain. In Europe she could cross borders without anyone being the wiser, and that was something she needed now. She was able to get the last seat on a KLM flight, and she purchased a connecting flight from Amsterdam to Budapest just in case they decided, over the thirteen hours she was in the air, to plant someone at Wanda Kumalu’s destination.
Her seat was in the rear, where the engines were noisiest, but she didn’t mind. She changed her bandage in the bathroom, then curled up and fell quickly asleep.
In Amsterdam, she checked for shadows, though she didn’t know if she had it in her to discover them anymore. Hong Kong had nearly killed her, after all. Well, so be it. At the Enterprise counter she chose a Suzuki Vitara SUV for 150 euros a day, and only by the time she was on the road heading south toward Düsseldorf was she finally able to relax her aching shoulders. And that, of course, was when she realized it was time for her to make another call. Her twenty-four hours were up.
She powered up Sharon Young’s phone. Opened Nexus, tapped “DC,” and put it on speaker. The tinny wah-wah, and then:
“Leticia, so glad you called back.”
“Of course, Joan.”
“You’re not in Macau.”
“You’re just saying that to make me feel good,” Leticia told her, and listened to a full five seconds of silence until:
“I have good news.”
“Do tell.”
“First, I need to know something.”
“Shoot.”
“What were you doing in Wakkanai?”
Leticia hesitated. This was the question she had been waiting for, and there was only one right answer. But which was it? To know that, Leticia needed to know why they had latched on to her. Did it have to do with Wakkanai? If so, was it about the Chinese developer she’d never found, or was it about Milo Weaver? Had they known, before she did, that he would come recruiting? And if Milo was their real target, then why had they let him go? A chill went through her as she realized she didn’t actually know if they had let him go. She’d watched him leave the hotel from her third-floor window, but maybe they’d gotten him before he reached the airport.
So the question was: Which excuse for Wakkanai was the one they were looking for?
She said, “I told you already.”
“Milo Weaver, yes. But is that why you went to Wakkanai in the first place?”
“He wanted to talk, but I didn’t want us to be seen. Obviously I’m not as good as I thought, because you were already onto me.”
Silence. Not long, maybe four seconds, but enough to know that Joan didn’t believe her.
Motherfucker.
“Okay, Leticia. Thanks for that. Let me tel
l you the good news now.”
“I’m on the edge of my seat.”
“Well, we have decided that you should live.”
“That is good news, Joan.”
“Caveats, of course.”
“Of course.”
“We’d like you to reconsider joining. Did you have a think?”
“I did. And I have to admit I’m curious now.”
“Is that so?”
“But I’ll have to hear more.”
Another brief silence, then: “How about this: I’m flying to Zürich tomorrow. Can the department buy you dinner?”
“That sounds terrific, Joan. It’s a date.”
Once they’d settled the details of a seven o’clock dinner at the Kronenhalle restaurant, Leticia hung up and pulled over to the side of the road. She took a breath, trying to steady herself. Joan, and the Department of Tourism, hadn’t cared about Milo. His appearance had been interesting, sure, but for some reason it was her they’d been watching. Little Leticia Jones, who had come to Japan to track down a Chinese businessman connected to Boko Haram and hundreds of disappeared schoolgirls. And their date at the Kronenhalle, she felt sure, was nothing more than a way to get Leticia to a known place, so Joan could finally finish what she’d started.
Nothing was going her way this week. What the hell was she going to do?
Zürich, then. She powered down the phone and removed the SIM card. The fastest route lay straight ahead, through Düsseldorf, but Joan had already tracked her direction. So she took out the Enterprise atlas and charted a new route, westward through Eindhoven, just in case Joan had already sent someone to lie in wait for her.
24
Milo was seven miles above the Atlantic when the light above his head told him that it was safe to take off his seat belt. He left it on, though, unlike the woman beside him in coach, who unlatched hers and stretched her arms out in front of herself, tapping her fingernails against the entertainment screen. “Last leg,” she said.
“Where from?”
“Hawaii.”
“Hawaii to Zürich?”
“Vacation. When you already live in paradise, a European city sounds inviting.”
“Wait until the cold sets in.”
She laughed at that, a big throaty sound, then stuck out one of her manicured hands. “Jane.”
They shook. “Milo.”
He’d slept little in New York, Alan dragging him to a celebratory dinner after the patrons meeting, but it had been good to see Penelope, who was still the sharp-witted woman he had met many years ago, when both he and Alan were in the Department of Tourism. She was focused on raising money to help the legal challenges against the US administration’s draconian immigration policies, and the work seemed to have filled her with purpose. Still, they talked for too long, and Alan had to speed him to JFK to make his flight home.
While waiting at the gate, he’d called Zürich and learned that Joseph Keller was becoming problematic. He’d demanded internet access, and after they’d refused they’d discovered him trying to get into Kristin’s computer. Only the fingerprint recognition stopped him from getting to his Nexus account. “Confine him to his room,” Milo said. “I’ll talk to him when I get back.”
His new friend, Jane, made sleep impossible. At first it irritated him, but it turned out that Jane had excellent entertainment value. Her chatty nature belied her seriousness; she was an astute follower of politics and a seemingly devoted family doctor, volunteering regularly to help the poorer segments of Hawaii’s native population. Milo knew so little about Hawaii, as compared to more obscure parts of the world, that he even welcomed her history lessons, which chronicled the systematic abuse that typified colonialism. He imagined Martin Bishop would have liked Jane, and he even brought up his name to gauge her reaction.
“They’re the future, aren’t they? The Massive Brigade. The young people are going to set things straight.”
“You’ve seen what they did, right? People died.”
“Sure. But why? Ingrid Parker is smart, you can tell. You could argue that she’s the one who stopped the bloodshed once she took over. But either way, sometimes the ends do justify the means.”
“Well, that almost sounds optimistic,” he said.
“It’s not optimism. I just know that if I don’t believe it I’m going to slit my wrists, because what’s the point?”
When dinner came around, she asked the stewardess for a half bottle of red, then convinced Milo to share it with her. She served his elaborately, joking that if the doctoring didn’t work out, she could become a sommelier. The wine was a little off, but he drank it anyway.
By the time they were descending toward Zürich, he felt as if he knew everything about Jane: childhood in Alabama, a failed marriage, a brief youthful career fronting an emo band in Austin, and an even briefer stint in rehab when the touring lifestyle got out of control. Med school in Honolulu had been a way out of a lot of things, and a way into a new kind of balance.
“Balance,” Milo said. “It’s a good thing.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I hear medication’s pretty good, too.”
She laughed.
As enjoyable as it had been, he knew when he stood to join the exiting caravan that powering through his fatigue had been a bigger mistake than he’d imagined; he was dizzy. He held on to the seat, and Jane looked back at him, concerned. “You okay?”
“Fine,” he said. “Enjoy the vacation.”
“I will,” she told him, and flapped a hand above her head. “Swiss Alps, here I come!” Then she was gone among the shuffling passengers.
Milo let more people pass before joining the line, and by the time he reached passport control he was starting to feel better, and even cracked a smile at the border guard, who just handed back his stamped passport and sent him on. He worked his way through the crowded baggage claim and spotted Jane in the distance, waiting for her luggage, but she didn’t see him.
A crowd of expectant faces looked disappointed to see him exit to the main concourse, and that was when he felt a rush of heat to his face, as if all the blood in his body had surged to his head. He stumbled slightly, skirting around the waiting crowd, and made his way to a small shop, where he bought some water. The suspicious cashier pouted at him as he laid down a five-euro bill. “Are you all right?” she asked in German.
“I don’t know,” he said, then took the water out of the store, where he tried to open the bottle, but his hands were shaking too much. His heart pounded loudly in his ears, and his vision grew spotty. Pinpoints of light floated in the air, shifting and forming halos. He had no idea what was going on; he just knew that everything was wrong. And when he fell to the hard floor, he heard a shout in the distance. But he couldn’t see well enough to know where it had come from. The water bottle rolled away as a shadow came over him. A face—it was Jane.
“Milo? How are you—” She turned away and shouted at someone, “I’m a doctor!” Then she turned back to him, face twisted in something like concern. “Breathe. Okay? We’ll call—”
And then she was gone. Not disappeared, but thrown to the side. Someone had tackled her. Who the hell would do that? Jane was a doctor, and he needed her—
A new face entered his fading vision along with a wave of nausea.
Oh. It was Leticia Jones.
“She’s a doctor,” Milo whispered.
“No, fool. She’s the one who tried to recruit me for Tourism.”
She wasn’t making sense, but nothing, really, was making sense.
Leticia shook her head, a sly grin appearing. “Don’t die, handsome.” She looked up at something and began to rise. “I’ll find you.”
Then she was gone, and in the gathering darkness he saw two Swiss cops. One of them, a pale woman in a peaked cap, crouched, and as her face came closer the darkness enveloped him.
25
Josip Broz Tito Square was an uninspiring intersection southwest of the center with tower blocks
as far as the eye could see in the hazy morning light. Leonberger parked along Ulitsa Profsoyuznaya, then sauntered across the six lanes and grassy median of Nakhimovsky Prospekt to reach the pharmacy Sofia Marinov had mentioned. Yesterday, he’d run to an internet café in order to take a look at the contents of Anna Usurov’s flash drive and found himself utterly confused by the gibberish of what was clearly an encrypted file. So he headed over to the FedEx office on Ulitsa Shabolovka and mailed the drive to the Library’s post office box. Afterward, he’d driven up to Pokrovsky Hills to track down Joseph Keller’s family. Their neighborhood was gated, with a fat security guard he could’ve knocked out in no time at all … but that was the old Leonberger. The new one, the one who served the world—he knew better than to cause a scene. So, responsibly, he picked up a couple of bottles of Dobry Medved and some takeout minced-meat chebureki, and went home to refuel, smoke Anna Usurov’s Marlboros, and drink himself to sleep. He still felt a little fuzzy this morning.
Even standing in front of it, he might have missed the sign for La Bohème beside the pharmacy. It was a small watering hole with large windows obscured by blinds. He looked around out of instinct—anytime he entered an unfamiliar place it paid to take the temperature—but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He pushed through the door and found himself in a simple bistro. A black-haired woman was playing a game on her phone behind the corner counter, and two guys who looked like regulars—blunt features, maybe thirty, in faux-leather bomber jackets—slumped in the corner with beers in front of them. And no one else.
The bartender smiled, and he ordered a beer. She set down a glass and a can of Baltika 3, and after taking his money without comment returned to her game. He took the can over to the blinds and peered out as he drank, but he couldn’t focus. Two things were wrong with the men in the corner. First, they were utterly silent, just watching him from behind. Second, their glasses were full. Two Russian men can’t sit for more than a minute without at least one of them swallowing half his beer.
So Leonberger drank, sucking down most of the can, belched loudly, then gave it back to the bartender and thanked her. As he left, heading for the sidewalk, he realized how lucky he was that they didn’t know his face.
The Last Tourist Page 15