The Tourist

by Robert Dickinson

  “This is rare.” He sits in the same chair as the native who called him, who, I now realise, must have been wearing one of Ivan’s old jackets from home, probably what he wore for the translation. Ivan’s clothes are native now: a dull burgundy jacket over a checked blue shirt. His skin is lightly tanned. Seated, with his arms out of sight, you could almost mistake him for a local. “What brings you to the anterior?”

  Li responds. “What brought you here?”

  “I just found I was happier here, you know?” He holds out his hands in an expansive gesture. “It’s my kind of period.” He grins. “Why the interest in me?” The grin broadens. “Are you still trying to find your runaway?”

  I answer: “We’re interested in the people she’s talking to.”

  “She’s quite a personality.” Ivan looks around the room again. “I’m a fan.”

  “You’ve met her?”

  “You don’t need to meet someone to recognise their quality.”

  “Do you know anybody who has met her? Do you know Picon Delrosso?”

  “Picon?” He looks sly, and suddenly very old. It’s the exposure to sunlight. Ivan is ageing at the same rate as the natives. “I know a thing or two about Facilitator Delrosso.”

  “Such as?”

  “It all comes down to tonin.”

  “It always does,” Li says. “With you.”

  “Not in the way you might think. I going to make a confession to you. I’m not a heavy user.”

  “Is that why you’re always asking for it? Come on, Ivan, you’re notorious.”

  “See? You’ve misunderstood. I ask for it because it’s my only source of income.”

  “Don’t you get credit from Geneva?”

  “I left too soon for that arrangement. And there were special circumstances.” Typical Ivan: dark hints, not much information, almost certainly bogus. “I used to scrape it from reps and sell it to fellow members of the extemp community.”

  “Not locals?”

  “I still have some principles. I could have made more, true, but my needs are simple. A lot simpler than Facilitator Delrosso’s. Have you seen how he lives?”

  “We’ve seen,” Li says.

  “You’ve seen only the surface. About a year ago Facilitator Delrosso started receiving a direct supply.” He grins at me. “Every month or so, another one of your clients. I don’t know how he arranges it. I suspect he has a contact in Two West. You might want to look into that when you go home. But your clients come here and they know how to find him—”

  I interrupt him. “We know this part.”

  “But do you know the full story? He probably told you he gives the stuff away.”

  “A favour for a favour.”

  “So he’s still making the speech.” He nods, looks around the pub again, is content nothing has changed. “If people can get it for nothing from him then they’re not going to buy from me. Suddenly I have no money. How am I supposed to live? Meanwhile, Facilitator Delrosso hasn’t just destroyed my livelihood, he is selling to locals.”

  “So he’s not just giving it to his women?”

  “You didn’t know?” Ivan overplays the surprise. “The locals—some of them—have started using it. It’s probably not on your Archive because the people selling it are careful. You see, tonin isn’t a street drug. It’s sold to a very particular social segment. High-status, well-connected. Of course, they call it something else and don’t know where it comes from. Well, it comes from Facilitator Delrosso. He sells it to local distributors, and they tell their customers it’s a local thing that’s still being tested. That way if they blab about it you don’t get to hear. It avoids complications.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “What can I say?” He shows his teeth. “I’ve been here for a while. People trust me. I hear things.” For a second or two he smiles happily, as if accepting silent applause.

  “And my client was a courier.”

  “That’s what everybody thought. Another tourist after a free holiday, doing something a little bit daring but not illegal. They deliver to Facilitator Delrosso and he sells it for local money to his contacts, and they sell it for even more to theirs. It was good business. Until the money attracted some other people.”

  Like Gurley and Knight. “How did they find out?”

  He shrugs. “Don’t know. Probably through one of Picon’s contacts. The people he sells to, they manage the distribution. They’re breaking the law, but then they’re people who break the law for a living. Naturally they know other people who also break the law. Somebody must have talked. And that’s where I became involved.” Another tease.

  “Ivan,” Li says in This English. “Stop pissing around and tell us what happened.” She sounds like she’s ready to get up and walk away.

  Ivan grins to show he’s not offended. He’d sooner be insulted than ignored. “This group”—he pauses, searching for the right word—“decided to intercept your client before she could make her delivery. They knew she would be in a certain place so they made sure they got there first.”

  “How did they know?”

  “Easy. Picon’s women. He thinks they’re stupid. And, between us, most of them are. But one of them understood Modern. They paid her to listen to his calls. She heard Facilitator Delrosso talking to your client and it sounded like there was a delivery on the way. She sent them a message about it while he was in the room. He never noticed. They worked out the courier was on a Tri-Millennium mall excursion with an accident on the way back. They knew the route and the approximate time. All they had to do was get there first, and wait.”

  “How did they know about the route?”

  “That’s why they involved me.” Ivan looks—it’s hard to say what his expression is: smug but nervous, pleased with himself but ashamed. I’m glad his forearms are covered: those snakes would be a distraction. “I know a lot of reps. It’s not hard to get schedules of planned excursions. They knew the courier had been told to get off where the accident would be. They wanted me to tell them the spot. You know what they’re like: they think we know everything. I told them that accidents don’t just happen. Somebody has to go out and make them happen, and they should pick the spot that suited them. That’s why they used two cars: one to stop your coach; one to take her away. It should have been simple. Have her hand over the tonin, and put her back on the coach thinking she’d made the delivery. The tonin would have been in London before Facilitator Delrosso knew what had happened. And this is where it gets interesting.”

  “Finally,” Li says.

  Ivan smirks as if she’s kissed him. He leans across the table and, even though he’s speaking Modern, lowers his voice. “You ought to know your client isn’t just a tourist. She’s something else.”

  “Just tell the story, Ivan.”

  “She wouldn’t cooperate. Kept saying she could only deliver to Picon. Very stubborn. They had to take the delivery off her. And then there was another problem.”

  “You’re spinning this out.”

  “It was complicated.” Ivan shows a flash of irritation. “I’m just trying to make you see. Firstly, they can’t let her go in case she contacts a Safety Team. And then there’s a problem with a box.”

  “You mean like a Dolman box?”

  “Exactly. Whatever that is. The point is, they locked her in a room—”

  “And she escaped.” Li is deadpan. “And now she’s missing.”

  Ivan glares at her. “Yes.” He rallies. “But before she escaped she beat up the local who was supposed to be guarding her. Badly.”

  “How badly?” I remember the newspaper fragment. The first casualty in a vicious struggle for territory. “Did he die?”

  “Does it matter? The point is, she did it as if she knew what she was doing. Like she had training. She escapes from a locked room, beats him up and disappears. And she’s still missing, isn’t she? You wouldn’t be here if she was back at the resort. Does that sound like an ordinary tourist? These locals
are after her because they need her to open the box. If they find her, they’ll make her open it. But she’s gone, vanished. So she either knows where to go or has somebody helping. And that’s not like a tourist.”

  “Maybe Picon helped her,” I say. He’d claimed to have contacts. His version of events seemed to fit with Ivan’s. “If this story is true.”

  “It’s true. I was there, in the car when they picked her up. They needed a translator.”

  “You agreed to it?” Li has a low opinion of Ivan but this surprises her. “You needed money so badly?”

  “I wasn’t given a choice. Yes, they were going to pay me if things worked out, but if I didn’t help them—let’s say I can’t rely on a Safety Team. Besides, this was supposed to be easy money, as they say. Nobody was supposed to get hurt. But there’s something wrong with your client.” He leans back again. “She’s not a tourist. She’s dangerous. You have to respect that.”

  Outside there’s the blare of an alarm, then another from a different direction. Ivan starts.

  Li stays calm. “Have you heard anything about her since?”

  “I think I’ve said enough.”

  A third alarm starts. It sounds as if it’s in the street outside. Ivan is ready to run. “It’s been a pleasure,” he says, and glances at the door.

  I have an obvious question. “Why have you told us this?”

  “Why do you think? Because I want you to tell the authorities what Facilitator Delrosso is doing. I want my business back.”

  “And my client?”

  He’s half out of his chair. “She’s your problem.”

  And that’s when the trouble starts.

  What I see is the door suddenly open and two native men walking quickly towards us, with three others following them. One of them has an arm round Ivan’s head before he can stand up. They don’t say anything, as if they can’t talk and run at the same time. I’m on my feet before the second one gets into range. His range, that is: he’s already in mine. I put my hand against his chest and push him into the men behind him. Li jumps to her feet. The first man is struggling to keep Ivan down. I don’t intervene. This is Ivan’s local, his problem. He can solve it himself. The man I’d pushed recovers his balance and throws himself towards me again. I use a Level Three palm strike and feel his collarbone give way. He stops, staggers backwards a few steps and turns to vomit into one of their gambling machines. Ivan, meanwhile, has finally managed to stand up. He shoulders his man away and shouts something in This English I don’t catch. Li is stuck behind the table. She looks terrified, probably having a flashback to that gig in 1976 when somebody punched her in the face. The four remaining men try to box us in. They’re warier now. There’s a native phrase: mob-handed. I wonder what kind of mob this is: angry crowd or organised crime? Are Gurley and Knight going to walk through the door? Is this the gang-related activity that ends with Knight dead? For the moment there’s a pause, a stand-off. Perhaps five against three looked good to them. Now they’re down to four they seem less certain. They don’t know that Li isn’t a fighter. The pub’s customers have backed away. Some have left. The ones who stay watch from the other side of the bar: this is an entertainment. Two more natives appear at the door talking animatedly. They see the man leaning against the gambling machine and retreat. The other four hold their position.

  It’s a moment when I wish I’d brought Edda. I have a feeling she’d be useful in a situation like this.

  There’s a crash from directly outside, like a crate of iron nails dropped from a third-storey window. The sound encourages them to charge. I say to Li, “Stay behind me.” Ivan tries to say something as well but doesn’t get a chance. The man who’d held him by the neck throws a punch. From the way Ivan recoils it’s clear he’s no more of a fighter than Li. I run at the door, swinging my elbows when necessary and clear a path through them and out to the street, Li following, and then Ivan, who’s finally realised that affability isn’t going to work with this audience.

  They stay in the pub.

  Outside is confusing. There are too many people, mostly younger men, running in too many directions. They’re even running along the parts reserved for vehicles. Alarms sound from all sides. At the north end of the street a plastic bin is on fire. There are sirens in the distance.

  “Station,” Li says. I know what she means. From the main station we should be able to get a bus to a resort, any resort. We start walking, Li beside me, Ivan trailing as if he’d rather not be with us. We don’t talk, in case it attracts attention from anyone who hasn’t noticed our appearance. Fortunately the natives are more interested in running away or breaking windows than attacking strangers. From time to time I look back: the men at the pub haven’t come out. It takes only a minute or two to reach the edge of the disturbance, a residential street blocked by a police vehicle parked halfway along, lights flashing. There are three native police in their lurid jackets. One of them, male, makes a move to stop us. Another, female, says “Let them go” in a voice that suggests stopping us would give them more trouble than they need. Other natives have gathered behind the police car. They’re peering along the street, as if waiting for a parade. We keep walking. The sirens are still coming from every direction. The few people on foot seem to be moving more quickly than usual, but no more than if they were late for a meeting. Ivan pulls out a native communication device and pokes at its screen. “That was fun,” he tells us with relish.

  Li isn’t amused. “Those people who attacked us, who were they?”

  “Let’s just say it’s a misunderstanding.” We’ve reached a junction: broad streets, high, old buildings, empty sandwich shops. It’s quieter here: the buildings are offices, with nothing the rioters seem to want. Ivan stops walking. “Well, it’s been an interesting evening, but I have to be elsewhere.”

  Li is surprised. “You’re not coming with us?”

  “Why would I go to a resort?” He looks around casually, as if the danger is past. “I live out here.”

  “Because a resort is safer,” Li suggests. “Those people looked like they were after you. If it hadn’t been for Spens you would have been in trouble.”

  Ivan holds up his arms in mock surrender. “Your logic. If it hadn’t been for Spens I wouldn’t have been there.”

  “They might still be after you.”

  “Then that’s a situation I’d have to do something about it, isn’t it? And I can’t do that from a resort. You never know who’s listening. Who might draw the wrong conclusions.” He’s already walking away. “I’m freer out here than in the resort. That’s why I came here in the first place.”

  Li doesn’t give up. “What about when his client finds you?”

  “I’m not worried about that. She’s already found me.”

  “Ivan…”

  But he only waves and keeps walking.

  It’s not she

  The first meeting with Riemann begins with a parcel arriving at the safe house with a charger for your phone, a change of clothes, another bracelet like the one that controls your signature and a pin gun. The charger works; the clothes fit. When the phone is charged it rings. It’s the woman who called you after you escaped from the shop. How did she know you’d taken the local’s phone? She didn’t say. You wondered if it had been a test after all: the local would have given you his phone if you’d asked; you’d hurt him for no reason… In her first call she told you not to worry about the box or Picon Delrosso. A taxi would come for you, she said, and it came, the driver also carrying a key for a flat on the outskirts of the city, the safe house. You remember the disposition of the rooms and the view of the street. Later that evening food was delivered. The woman seemed to have thought of everything.

  Now she tells you to be at an address at 4.15. A taxi has already been arranged. “Take the gun. If you meet a man called Riemann Aldis do what he tells you.”

  “Is he with us?”

  “It’s important you do what he says and listen carefully to what he tells you.
When he asks what you mean to do next, you must tell him you’re going home. Today.”

  You wonder why: you’re supposed to be here for another two weeks.

  The taxi arrives. In your memories all the taxis are driven by the same man: dark-skinned as if from the far south, bald and bad-tempered, with a soft roll of flesh at his neck. The address is for a row of little shops like the one where you were imprisoned: one sells raw food, another cooked food, the next two are empty and the one after that, the one you want, is closed, metal shutters drawn.

  A man steps out of the door of the nearest empty shop. He’s dressed in a shabby coat, like a transient. Fifty, perhaps, white-haired with weathered skin. At first glance you’d think he was a local. Those are the only details you remember. “Adorna,” he says, as if he knows you. “Are you still calling yourself Adorna?” It’s the Number City language.

  “Riemann Aldis,” you say.

  He’s not surprised you know him. “I didn’t expect to see you here after the airport. Have you thought about what I told you?” You look at him blankly. He’s disappointed. “You should. Do you know who’s in there?” He nods at the drawn blinds. “I thought they were following you. It seems you’re following them.”

  You don’t understand the reference to the airport. You start to walk away.

  He takes your arm. “I used to wonder what you were like when you were younger.” The grip is casual but firm. You could twist free if you chose. You don’t. You’ve been told to listen. “The childhood of the monster, that kind of thing. Not that I believe in monsters. You weren’t what I expected.”