The Nearest Exit

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The Nearest Exit Page 34

by Olen Steinhauer


  A pause. “Why?”

  “Because I’m heading to D.C. now, and I wanted to go over some departmental issues with you.”

  “Don’t think so,” said Irwin. “The Democrats are holding some so-called nonpartisan dinner; they’re insisting I come.”

  “You might want to skip it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I want to talk to you about Milo Weaver.”

  “Weaver-but you just said-”

  “It’s not the kind of thing we can discuss over the phone.” Irwin paused. “Okay, then. You come by my Georgetown place at eight.”

  “I’m going to need you to come to me. I’ll be at the Washington Plaza.”

  “You’re being very mysterious, Alan. I don’t think I like that at all.”

  “Sorry, sir. But I’ll need you to come to me. It’s the only way I’ll feel safe.”

  “Now I’m completely confused. Why wouldn’t you feel safe in my house?”

  “It’ll all make sense this evening. Eight o’clock, like you said, but at the Plaza. I’ll call you with the room number so you don’t have to ask the desk for it.”

  Image

  Milo reached Union Station by five, then took a taxi to Thomas Circle NW, where he met Klein and Jones in the Washington Plaza’s lounge, the International Bar, where From Russia with Love-the best of the cinematic Bonds-played on the flat-screen behind the bar. The film matched the sixties decor, but no one among the after-work business crowd was watching it. They took a leather U-shaped booth against the wall, and Milo ordered a round of coffees. Then he handed out cheap cell phones he’d picked up the day before. “Take apart your Company phones and use these.”

  “You don’t think that’s overkill?”

  “We’re not taking any chances. And we’ll maintain continual contact,” he told them. “These are answered on the first ring.”

  “He talks like we’re schoolkids,” muttered Klein.

  Jones smiled, her full lips spreading flatly over her teeth. “Hmm. A schoolmaster.”

  He wasn’t entirely sure they were taking this seriously enough, but Drummond had assured him that these were two of his best Tourists. They seemed to enjoy their roles-Klein, the grumpy dunce; Jones, the exotic seductress. “We’re going in order of suspicion, least to greatest.” Since there were only seven names, there was no need for note-taking. They knew who each was and where each lived, and all that was required of these Tourists was that they locate and follow each one, calling Milo if any strayed from his or her expected route.

  Once they’d gone through the sequence, Leticia Jones called over a waiter and asked for a gin martini. In answer to Milo’s look, she said, “I’m not staying up all night without at least one drink.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Milo countered.

  So Klein started waving for another waiter. “I’m having a beer, then.”

  Milo resisted the urge, even as he stared jealously at Jones’s drink. At seven, he got up to pay the bill, then told them to go. Jones touched his arm as she left, saying, “Chill out, baby. Mommy and Daddy will take care of you.”

  He watched her sashay around tables on her way out, garnering appreciative male gazes the whole way.

  Image

  Drummond left work early to take the Acela Express from Penn Station, which got him to D.C. by seven. Stuck on the crowded train, steamy from the heat of so many bodies, he kept wishing he’d taken his Jag. Even in light traffic, though, speeding whenever possible, it would have taken him nearly four hours. It wasn’t a day for chancing tardiness. So he endured the trip and waited in line for a taxi to Thomas Circle and checked into the Washington Plaza under his own name. On his way up to the room he called Irwin. “Room 620.”

  The senator sounded rushed and uncomfortable. “You going to give me a hint, Alan?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “This better be worth the inconvenience.”

  When he got to the room, Drummond removed a tiny Scotch from the refrigerator, and as he unscrewed it the room phone rang. Milo said, “Where?”

  “Six twenty.”

  The line went dead.

  Drummond threw back the Scotch, then unpacked his briefcase. There were some loose files and, beneath them, wrapped in a gray bath towel, his pistol.

  It was an M9 the service pistol the marines had handed him, which they’d switched to in the late eighties in order to create uniformity with NATO firearms. A good weapon, it had never jammed, though when he’d been issued it the etched metal grip had irritated him. That only took a month to adjust to, though, and when he picked it up it felt as natural as grabbing his other hand in prayer.

  Yet once he’d rechecked the full clip and cleared the breech, he went back for the second, and last, Scotch. With a background that included two miserable years in Afghanistan, the prospect of using the pistol didn’t disturb him; using it in a D.C. hotel room on a senator did. Particularly when the reasoning was based on a single agent’s epiphany.

  Yet the epiphany was too damaging to ignore, so he placed the M9 on the dresser, behind the television, and checked his watch. It was seven fifty-two.

  Image

  Downstairs, Milo had watched Drummond arrive, and, after asking the front desk to patch him through to his room and getting the room number, he took a position at the far end of the foyer with a bouquet of flowers he’d purchased at the gift shop. He checked his wristwatch continually so that the staff would imagine he was waiting on a late date and leave him alone.

  Irwin arrived focused on the space in front of himself, so Milo didn’t need to hide behind his flowers. Irwin, crossing to the elevators, looked like a man with an unpleasant but necessary task ahead of him, someone who wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

  Milo waited. No obvious shadows had preceded Irwin, and for the next five minutes no one else appeared. He got up and went to the elevators, but stepped back to let a family go up alone. He waited for the next one and took it to the sixth floor. He knocked on room 620 and heard voices-Drummond: “Can you get that, Nathan? Room service”-then the door opened. Senator Irwin, shocked, stared back. Behind him, Drummond was moving to the television.

  “What the hell?” said Irwin. “Alan? What the hell have you-” He stopped in midsentence, because he’d turned to find Drummond pointing a gun at him.

  Milo stepped inside and locked the door. He said to Drummond, “You didn’t tell him yet?”

  “Tell me what?” Irwin demanded.

  Alan Drummond looked uncomfortable, but he held the pistol like a pro, his hand steady. “Sit down, Nathan. We just want you to make a few phone calls.”

  9

  The first was Raymond Salamon. Despite the fifteen-minute fight the senator put up, threatening them both with things worse than expulsion, he finally called Salamon and put on his most authoritative voice. “Ray, you’d better get your ass down to Thomas Circle. Now. I’ve got some Company guys who need to talk to you.”

  “CIA? What-what’s this about?”

  “You tell me, Ray. What’ve you been doing that these thugs are looking for you?”

  “I-nothing, sir.”

  “Well, if that’s true, then there’s nothing to worry about. Just get down here five minutes ago, wait in front of the Washington Plaza, and we’ll get it all straightened out.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Ray? Don’t you dare tell anyone else about this. Not yet. We clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Salamon was true to his word. He arrived in a swift ten minutes, and Milo approached him in the drop-off area that was busy with taxis and bellboys. “Raymond Salamon?”

  “Uh, yes,” he said.

  “Right this way.”

  He led the frightened aide into the hotel, and in the elevator Salamon tried to ask questions. Milo answered with hard silence. When they finally made it to room 620, Salamon relaxed visibly at the sight of Irwin, and Irwin gave him a grudging wink. “I
knew you were a straight shooter, Ray.”

  “Your phone, please,” said Milo.

  “Go ahead, Ray. Give the man your phone. And settle down on the chair. We’re in for a long night.”

  Because Maximilian Grzybowski and Derek Abbott lived together, Klein was stationed outside their apartment waiting for one to leave. When Abbott stepped out, Klein called in, and Irwin dialed Abbott’s number. The same sternness, but with a few more fraternal quips-Abbott was clearly one of Irwin’s favorites. The same orders, though: Come immediately to the Washington Plaza to speak to the CIA. Tell no one.

  Fifteen minutes later, Milo was leading Abbott into the hotel, and Irwin was calling Grzybowski. While they waited, Abbott kept asking Salamon what he knew, and Salamon shrugged meekly. Abbott said, “What’s the deal?”

  “The deal,” Irwin snapped, “is that I’m being forced to do this, and I’m not going to believe the charges until these men have proved them to me. And if they don’t prove them, then their careers are in the toilet.”

  When Grzybowski joined them, though, he showed none of the patience the first two had been demonstrating. He, unlike them, had spent time in the Department of Tourism, and knew that the man holding the pistol was just another bureaucrat. “Didn’t I tell you, sir? Drummond couldn’t stand losing control of his department, and he was bound to get you back for the humiliation. Jesus. Like fucking high school.”

  It was eleven o’clock by the time Milo met William Howington at the opening of the hotel’s looped drive, behind a line of four taxis. He was the first not to immediately follow him into the hotel. “I don’t know who the hell you are.”

  “Irwin said to meet him here, right? I’m taking you to him.”

  Howington wouldn’t be convinced until he’d called to receive a direct order from Irwin. When they reached the room, his mouth hung open. “Is this a surprise party?”

  Milo had not expected any revelations by this point. Though anything was possible, these four men had nothing in their files to suggest they could be working for Zhu. Of the remaining three-Susan Jackson, Jane Chan, and David Pearson-all had had some sort of connection to China, but only the women still had emotional ties to that area: Jackson to mainland China, Chan to Hong Kong. Of those two, Milo’s suspicions rested more with Jackson, who could be used to keep her lover, Feng Liang, safe. Chan had family that could have been used as collateral, but Milo doubted a man with Zhu’s labyrinthine mind would choose an Asian to spy for him.

  So his preference was to call Jackson last, but there was a problem. According to Leticia Jones, Chan and Pearson were spending the evening in with some DVDs and delivery pizza. If they called Pearson, he would have to tell Chan where he was going, and Chan-if she were the mole-would be tipped off. Call Chan first, and the same would be true of Pearson.

  Klein, who had been watching Jackson’s apartment for the previous hour, told Milo that she had gone to bed alone. “Go ahead,” Milo told Irwin. “Call Jackson.”

  He woke her up. “Susan, you need to get down here right away.”

  “I just fell asleep. What is it?”

  “It’s your career. Now get dressed and meet me at Thomas Circle. The Plaza. The CIA needs to talk with you.”

  “CIA? Why?”

  “They think you’ve been a bad girl, Susan-and they’re doing a hell of a job convincing me. So get down here and start arguing your side, and don’t call anyone else about this until it’s been cleared up. Understood?”

  All the lights in the apartment came on. It took Jackson eleven minutes to dress in sweats and climb into a waiting taxi. Klein followed most of the way, until it let her off on the sidewalk outside the hotel. Milo was already waiting for her, talking with Klein on the phone. “Go join Jones. Once you’re in place we’ll finish this up.”

  Jackson, too, doubted Milo was who he said he was, so rather than manhandle her he waited for her to call Irwin. On their way inside, she said, “What do you think I did?”

  His phone was ringing. It was Jones. “Pearson is leaving. He looks nervous.”

  “Panicked?”

  “No, just nervous. He’s checking his watch.”

  “The woman’s still in there?”

  “Yes. But Klein won’t be here for another five or ten minutes.”

  “Stay with her,” Milo ordered. If they called Pearson while he was out, the legislative director would likely still call Chan, if only to explain why he wasn’t returning-they were lovers, after all. “We’ll call Chan next.”

  He hung up, and as they waited for the elevator, Jackson said, “Jane Chan?”

  He looked at her.

  “You’re going to call Jane Chan next? What kind of game is this?”

  They boarded the elevator. Milo said, “It’s not a game.”

  “It certainly isn’t. If you think Jane’s some kind of criminal, or terrorist, then you’re completely insane.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  Jackson was angry now. “You wake people up in the middle of the night to interrogate them? That’s Gestapo tactics. And the CIA doesn’t even have the authority to screw around with people inside the country. What the hell is going on?”

  He wasn’t sure why-perhaps because he’d suspected her so strongly, or because she had a history of clashing with the Chinese authorities-but he answered her. “We’re looking for a Chinese mole. It’s one of Irwin’s seven aides, which is why we called you.”

  She blinked as the doors opened on the sixth floor. “Jane?”

  “She and Pearson are our final suspects.”

  “Oh.”

  She said that with a strange, unexpected despair. “What?”

  “I called her.”

  “Chan?”

  She nodded. Milo grabbed her elbow and pulled her out of the elevator. “When?”

  “Just before I left. I told her-”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Just that the CIA was accusing me of something, and I had to go defend myself. I told her-well, it just made sense-I gave her the heads-up. If you were looking into me, then you might start asking her questions.”

  “Why?”

  “Haven’t you ever had a friend?”

  Milo opened the door to the room, and all eyes turned to Jackson, who was still stunned. Milo was already on the phone to Jones. “She knows. Go in now.”

  Drummond, in the corner, looked as if the pistol had become too heavy for him. “What?”

  Milo looked around the room. “Everyone, you’re free to go. Irwin, you come with me and Alan.”

  “Well, isn’t this fucking anticlimactic,” said Max Grzybowski.

  It was twelve fifteen when the three men reached Irwin’s long black Chrysler parked around the corner on M Street. Drummond got behind the wheel; Irwin took the backseat, Milo the passenger seat. As they left Thomas Circle, Milo’s phone rang. Again, it was Jones. “I’ve got some bad news for you, Milo.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The woman, Chan? She’s sitting on the sofa with two bullets in her chest. Stone cold.”

  10

  It took nearly twenty minutes to cross the Potomac, head down the Jefferson Davis Highway, and exit into the Del Ray neighborhood of Alexandria. They found Leticia Jones in Pearson’s apartment, standing over Chan’s body, shaking her head. Chan was small, eyes closed on her wide face. Her skin was brutally white, the blood having drained out of two small holes in her chest; one of the bullets had struck high and punctured her aorta. The floor around the sofa was black and sticky.

  “It’s no good,” said Jones.

  Milo stood beside her. “What’s that?”

  Leticia Jones didn’t feel up to explaining herself. She pointed at the window to the building’s courtyard. “That was already open, and here,” she said, crouching on the rug, “are the shells.” She pointed a long, red fingernail at a 9 mm casing moored in the blood, then another. “Super-close range.”

  “When did Pearson leave?”

&nbs
p; “Got to be forty minutes by now. I guess he wasn’t just picking up milk.”

  Drummond approached them from behind. “If I found this on my couch, I wouldn’t be back yet either.”

  Whether or not she was the mole, Milo hated to find her dead. He tried to work through how this had happened, avoiding the obvious answer: It had happened because Milo had decided to put his plan into action. Aloud, he said, “Jackson calls Chan to tell her about us. Chan panics and calls Zhu, or whoever her contact is. Zhu sends someone to get rid of her. All in-what? A half hour from Jackson’s call to when Pearson left?”

  No one answered at first. Irwin was standing in a far corner of the apartment, a handkerchief to his mouth, eyes red. Drummond coughed, then said, “They knew you were sniffing around, Milo. You made sure of that. Zhu kept someone on hand in case there needed to be some killing. I would.”

  Drummond’s phone rang, and he stepped away to answer it. Milo looked at Jones. “Clean, isn’t it?”

  “Sort of.”

  “The shooter got all the way from that window to here and put two bullets in her chest-and she didn’t even try to get up? She may have been asleep when he came in, but when she was shot she was sitting up.”

  “Like I said,” Jones reminded him, “it’s no good.”

  Klein wandered in from the kitchen, a pint of Häagen-Dazs in his large palm, eating. They both looked at him. “What?” he said.

  Drummond came back holding his phone aloft. “It’s Reagan National. They’ve got Pearson.”

  He had been picked up in Terminal B with a ticket for the six fifty-five Air Canada flight to Montreal. Klein drove alone; Milo joined Jones in her car; Drummond drove Irwin, who by now was showing real signs of shock. The ride with Leticia Jones was silent most of the way, until Milo said, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. No one should be dead.”

  Jones didn’t bother answering that.

  Reagan National Airport, like JFK, had its own series of back corridors that led to interrogation rooms. The one in which they’d placed Pearson had a table and chairs and a window reinforced with wire mesh. Before going in, they peered at him through the window. The man that Milo remembered from Drummond’s office, talking into his cell phone with the easy confidence of young power, was now a mess. Hair awry, clothes disheveled, and a blank, wet stare.

 

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