Haroun was at the front, and he stood stiffly about ten yards away. He put a hand on his jacket, at the hip, but then dropped it. Instinct had made him reach for a gun that wasn’t there.
“Leticia,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement or panic—she couldn’t be sure which. “You really did a job on Lance.”
“Sorry,” she said as the others emerged from the stairwell behind her.
Haroun looked them over, frowning. “So what brings you here?”
Milo appeared at her side and kept walking forward, so she stayed with him until they were both facing Haroun. The other Tourists crept closer. Milo said, “I need to talk with Grace Foster.”
“That’s not happening.”
“We don’t want to fight,” Milo said, “but we will. Please tell her we’re here.”
Haroun looked back to his colleagues, who formed a shallow arc of tense figures ready to attack. They didn’t need guns to do serious damage. Joseph Keller’s expression tensed when he met Milo’s gaze, but Milo maintained his self-control—admirably, Leticia thought. His features betrayed none of the fury that she knew was bubbling inside of him.
“This is just a conversation,” Milo said. “Like you, we’re not armed.” He spread out his arms. “Check, if you like.”
Haroun looked back and forth between the two of them, then raised his head to peer at the others again. It struck Leticia that Abdul’s brother was out of his depth. He was a man who had been trained for action and little else. Conversation was uncomfortable to him. Back in Nigeria, Karim Saleem’s act as a Literacy Across the World humanitarian had been forced and awkward, which was why she’d dug deeper. Northwell might have used the Tourist playbook, but they’d picked up only what they really wanted: the hierarchy, methods, and fighting skills. They’d ignored the most important part: the twisted logical skills of the Tourist that made for the perfect storyteller. The misdirection and the instinctual camouflage. No, what they had here was bargain-basement Tourism.
“Hold on,” Haroun finally said, then turned to head inside, telling his colleagues to keep an eye on them. He opened a door and slipped inside the two rooms they’d reserved, the Parsenn and the Pischa.
“What do you think?” Milo asked.
“I think he’s confused.”
“Me, too.” Milo glanced back at the intelligence officers and spoke without moving his lips. “They’re going to try something serious in there.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, but if they don’t think CIA will take care of Northwell, they’ll do it themselves.”
Alexandra approached and said, “So?”
“Your brother thinks there’s going to be trouble.”
“So what do we do?” Alexandra asked.
Milo looked back again, and Leticia did too. Francis checked his watch and chewed the inside of his mouth. Oskar’s frowning face was deep with lines as Vetrov glanced distractedly at his phone. Only Li Fan seemed relaxed, her eyes shifting to look right back at them, as if trying to decide which of them to eat first.
Milo said, “What do they want?”
“The same damned things we want,” Leticia said.
The far door opened. Haroun held it open, and out came the bitch. Grace Foster hesitated at first, as if only now believing what Haroun had told her inside, then collected herself and walked over, her high heels clicking rapidly. She eyed Leticia, a disappointed look, then approached Milo. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“We’re here to talk to your group.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Get out of here while you still can.”
The half-circle of cut-rate Tourists tightened, and Leticia planted her feet wide, preparing to fight.
Milo sighed, trying to look merely put-out. “You see the people behind me? Do you know who they are?”
She looked past him, recognizing them all.
“They’re on board. It’s settled. I’m offering you a way out. No one gets killed. No one even gets arrested.”
Again she looked past him. “I don’t see the Agency.”
“That’s between you and them. But this, right now, is the only way you get out of Davos with your freedom and your lives intact.”
Leticia couldn’t tell how Foster was taking all of this. Her white cheeks didn’t flush, and she held on to Milo’s gaze. God, she was cool. “What,” she asked, “do you intend to say?”
“We’ll explain that it’s over. Everyone’s done well, everyone’s profited from their investment. But now it ends. They rip up their Northwell contracts, and all is forgotten.” He opened his hands. “If not, or if you don’t let us inside, each of your clients ends up in prison when they return home.”
Finally, a smile reached Foster’s face. “You think they’ll scare that easily?”
“If they’re smart they will.”
She raised her chin to look down at him condescendingly. “You don’t know these kinds of people, do you? They live on a different planet from you. From me, too. Prisons, laws—they’ll tie your friends up in court for years while ripping them to pieces in public. No one scares them.”
Leticia’s optimism, low as it was, sank even further. The bitch was right. And Milo wasn’t getting it. Despite all the things he had done and seen over the years, Milo Weaver was naïve. He still thought shame existed in the world. He still had faith in process. Had she really hooked her cart to this man?
After thinking a moment, Grace Foster shrugged. What did she have to lose? “Okay, then. Make your pitch. But she,” Foster said, pointing at Leticia, “stays out here.”
Smart girl, Leticia thought.
It took a moment, Haroun and his colleagues patting down everyone except Li Fan, who slapped Haroun’s hand and simply said, “No.” Haroun didn’t try again, and Foster didn’t press the issue. While they bickered, Francis scratched at his forehead, looking embarrassed. Oskar kept checking his phone, and Vetrov pulled on white gloves, which didn’t seem very GRU to her. Then the bitch led Milo, Alexandra, and the four intelligence officers inside. This time she got a view of the space, of chairs and backs lined up in front of a podium by a glass wall. Behind the podium, Anthony Halliwell, against a backdrop of the Northwell logo on a projector screen, said, “twenty percent growth,” then noticed the visitors and paused. What struck her was the number of people in the audience. She’d expected a dozen. But there were so many more.
As the door shut, she turned to find Haroun staring at her with an expression she couldn’t interpret. So she walked slowly over to Poitevin and Dalmatian and the four bodyguards whose names she didn’t know. They stood together, facing the others, who, she hoped without hope, would be the last Tourists she would ever have to face.
21
The crowd that had surprised Leticia shocked Alexandra, and that was when she first wondered if they were out of their depth. They had known of four or five companies that used Northwell’s services, but here were—she did a quick estimate—over sixty men and women in suits, filling the seats to overflowing, all focused on Anthony Halliwell at his podium, and then turning to look at the unexpected half-dozen visitors. They were multitudes, these Northwell clients—Africans and Asians and Arabs and Europeans. There was a face she recognized as part of Jair Bolsonaro’s entourage, and in the front was the unmistakable face of Gilbert Powell, his head swiveling to take them in. In the second row, Sergei Stepanov was sitting with his English banker, Oliver Booth. The lamps in the low ceiling were dark, but plenty of light came in from the floor-to-ceiling windows and glass door that led to the small, snow-covered courtyard between the Congress Center and the Congress Hotel.
“What is this?” Halliwell asked through his mic.
“Sorry, Tony,” Foster said, sounding entirely casual. “Something unavoidable came up. But it won’t take long.”
She led them up to the front, while Halliwell looked like he wanted to shout—he wasn’t a man who liked surprises. On the screen besid
e him a color-coded pie chart chronicled the expansion of operations into each of the continents. How simple a chart could make all this look.
At the mic now, Foster took Halliwell aside and whispered. His flushing face did a poor job hiding his shock and anger. Foster then turned to the mic and said to everyone, “This man over here is Milo Weaver. You’ll know the name because of the numerous Interpol Red Notices out for him. He is a known criminal, but one with powerful friends. Which is why we’re letting him have five minutes of our time. Once he’s had his say, the meeting will continue.”
She stepped back and offered the podium to Milo, who suddenly looked unsure of himself. Though she felt a flash of frustration, Alexandra could understand. This wasn’t the kind of crowd they thought they would have to win over. A dozen, maybe twenty, but this? The others—Francis, Li Fan, Oskar, and Vetrov—looked equally surprised, and Li Fan leaned in to whisper to Oskar, who nodded.
Milo cleared his throat and said, “The people I’ve brought with me represent the intelligence communities of the UK, Germany, Russia, and China. All four countries are aware of your relationship to Northwell, and the criminal acts you’ve hired them to commit. Each of you, in the next week, will have warrants out for your arrest. Unless you hereby sever your relationship with Northwell.”
God, he was bad. Alexandra had never seen Milo before a crowd, because he’d never needed to talk to any group larger than the twelve patrons. His stilted speech was like trying to heat a large room with a single match. As she watched, Li Fan whispered to Oskar again, showing him her wristwatch, and Oskar approached Milo from the side. Li Fan also moved, getting closer to wide-eyed, scarlet-faced Anthony Halliwell. Francis and Vetrov, watching all this, fidgeted with what was plainly secret anticipation. Whatever they were planning, it was happening now.
“The fact of the matter,” Milo went on, “is that no country can afford this kind of lawlessness, and so you have a choice. If you choose to not act, then in a week you will be imprisoned and your companies will be taken away. Many of them will collapse. A deal is being offered. I suggest you take it.”
Oskar whispered to Milo, who nodded and stepped back. Oskar moved to the mic and said, “My friend states the facts plainly. Let me put it more simply: This ends today. Each of you will play along, or you will share the fate of these two leaders of Northwell.”
Halliwell shook his head and barked, “Really?” He sounded ready to laugh.
That was when a low, staccato series of booms sounded. They came from out in the courtyard. The glass trembled slightly, and all heads turned to see smoke fuming from holes in the snowy ground, rising to obscure the hotel. The noise and smoke surprised everyone, except, she noticed, the four intelligence officers. As if on cue, Li Fan reached into her coat, took out a pair of blue latex gloves, and slipped them on.
22
“Two hours until your car comes,” Samuel said from behind me, scrolling through his phone, legs stretched out on the bed.
I was staring down at the white solar-paneled roof of the Congress Center, hardly hearing him.
Samuel said, “This time tomorrow, you’ll be ordering Starbucks ventis.”
I turned back to him. The bruise on the side of his face had purpled, a reminder of Haroun’s strength, and despite the pleasure his words should have evoked, I just couldn’t picture myself in America. Not at Starbucks, and not at home with Laura and Rashid. It was a dream I’d held on to over the past ten days, something to keep me going, but now it wouldn’t come. Why?
I suspected it was because, unlike Haroun, I’d always only been an analyst. It was what I did. It gave my life meaning. But I’d been unable to analyze this situation to my satisfaction. There were too many loose ends. Too much chaos in the data.
I was sure the Germans were using Milo, but to what end? Weren’t they getting what they needed from him? He had revealed a globe-spanning secret army and had brought them to the convergence point of that conspiracy. He had handed them everything. Yet they were lying to him about the Massive Brigade. Why?
The door opened, and Sally and Mel filed in. I hadn’t seen Paul in a day, but I also hadn’t bothered to ask after him. I supposed his presence was no longer necessary, and so he’d been sent home. Samuel scrambled to his feet, but neither woman seemed to care if he was doing his job or not. Mel just ordered him to step outside, and he did so.
“Did you tell him?” I asked.
Sally nodded and settled on the desk chair. She, too, seemed deep in thought.
“And?”
“And he listened,” she said. “I suppose he’s adding it to his calculations.”
Mel settled on the corner of the bed. “We should be down there.”
Sally glared at her. “If there’s an international incident brewing, we are not taking part.”
“There isn’t,” I said, and they looked at me. “At least, Milo’s not planning one. He’ll want to get this done entirely under the radar.”
“He’s not the only player,” Sally said.
“Which is why we should—” Mel began, but Sally cut her off with:
“Enough, okay?”
The tension between them was distracting, and I didn’t want to be distracted. So I returned to the window. Why would the Germans peddle lies about the Massive Brigade right here in Davos? Why sell that to us and, presumably, to other intelligence agencies?
Along Talstrasse, just south of the park, I saw that sniper on his rooftop, keeping an eye on pedestrians. This was perhaps the most secure city in the world at that moment. What could really go wrong?
“Distraction,” I said aloud, and though I continued staring out the window I knew they had turned to me. “They’re distracting us from something.”
“From what?” asked Sally.
I didn’t answer, because I didn’t have an answer, and that was when I looked down at the Congress Center roof and realized it was empty. The two snipers I’d grown used to seeing down there, pacing with military regularity, were nowhere to be seen.
“What do the Germans want?” Mel asked behind me, but I was absorbed by the empty rooftop—where had they gone? When two figures emerged from the rooftop access door, I relaxed. Just late for their shift. They—
No. Not snipers. They wore red and blue hooded overcoats, and one carried a heavy duffel bag. They hurried around the solar panels to my end of the roof.
“To stick it to us,” Sally said, answering Mel. “That’s what they want.”
“But why?” Mel asked, sounding unsure. “What the fuck have we done to them?”
“You have to ask that?”
The two figures crouched at the edge of the roof, over the courtyard between our buildings, and opened the duffel bag. Together, they removed a dozen or so metal balls and what looked like an aerosol can. What were they—
“Oh, shit,” I said as the pieces came to me, the way a problem left to fester in the back of the mind will suddenly present its solution when the final piece is witnessed. And there I was, witnessing it.
“What?” I don’t know which of them said that.
“The Germans know you want to absorb Northwell,” I said. “And they can’t allow that.”
The figures were dropping the balls into the courtyard, where they poked holes in the snowbank. One of them—the one in blue—took something out of his pocket, extended an antenna from it, and pressed a button.
Boom-boom-boom-boom.
“What the fuck?” Mel said, standing.
Sally said nothing, but she was suddenly at my shoulder. Together we looked down at the courtyard, where the balls were exploding, spitting out streams of smoke that quickly began to fill the space between the hotel and the Congress Center.
As the blue-clad figure ran off to the access door, the one in red shook his aerosol can and, on one of the solar panels, raggedly scrawled two shapes in red spray paint: M3.
23
Through the windows, the back of the hotel had been replaced by the milky white
of smoke as Northwell’s clients were on their feet, some gasping, most silently stunned.
Unlike Alexandra, Milo hadn’t noticed Li Fan putting on her latex gloves, but he had seen Vetrov’s white ones. Now he turned to see that Vetrov had moved to join Li Fan, who reached into her coat and handed the Russian something small and white. And that was when he knew. That was when he remembered Whippet’s long-ago report on Chinese technology. He knew what would happen, and how.
Oskar, at the microphone, said, “No need to worry. Please. You are all very safe.”
“No!” Milo shouted, but Li Fan was already taking three long steps toward Halliwell, who stood gaping at the window. Li Fan raised her arm and pointed her own white object at the back of Halliwell’s head. She pulled the lever, and the 3D-printed plastic gun fired, popping loudly in a bright flash. She tossed the wasted gun aside, but by then it had served its purpose, shooting a single plastic bullet into the back of Halliwell’s skull. The front of his forehead exploded, a burst of bone and brain spraying across the window, and he dropped to his knees, then onto his face.
There were screams. There was panic.
“Please,” Oskar said in his calmest voice. “Settle down.”
That was when Foster, shaken and stunned, realized Vetrov was approaching her, raising his own plastic gun.
Milo began to run.
Foster turned to flee just as Vetrov pulled the lever, shattering the gun and blowing out a piece of her skull. She fell. Vetrov tossed the weapon aside and approached, but Milo got there first and shoved him away. He crouched to take a look at her. Foster was still conscious, gasping. It had been a bad shot, leaving her skull open and the mangled brain visible. She was going to have to live through all of it until she bled out.
Lips trembling, she told Milo, “I don’t feel it.”
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