The Tourist. Olen Steinhauer
Instead of questioning that, Milo went for the door. He could at least squelch Roth’s one voiced desire by removing himself from the room.
“Where are you going?”
Good—he sounded worried. Milo tapped the door, and one of the deputies started working the lock.
“Wait!” called Roth. “I have information!”
Milo jerked the door open as Roth again called, “Wait!” He didn’t slow down. He left the room and kept moving as the deputy pushed the steel door shut.
The sultry noontime heat swallowed him as he fooled with the new Company-issue Nokia he was still learning to master, finally finding the number. Between a parked blue-and-white and the dead shrubs around the station, he watched as storm clouds began to fill the sky. Grainger answered with a sharp “What is it?”
Tom Grainger sounded the kind of irate people are when they’ve been abruptly woken, but it was nearly noon. “I’m verifying it, Tom. It’s him.”
“Good. I don’t suppose he’s talking, is he?”
“Not really. But he is trying to piss me off. He’s seen a file on me. Knows about Tina and Stef.”
“Jesus. How’d he get that?”
“There’s a girlfriend. She might know something. They’re bringing her in now.” He paused. “But he’s sick, Tom. Really sick. I’m not sure he could make a journey.”
“What’s he got?”
“Don’t know yet.”
When Grainger sighed, Milo imagined him kicking back in his Aeron chair, gazing out his window across the Manhattan skyline. Faced with the dusty pale-brick buildings along Blackdale’s main street—half of them out of business but covered with Independence Day flags—Milo was suddenly jealous. Grainger said, “Just so you know—you’ve got one hour to make him talk.”
“Don’t tell me.”
“I’m telling you. Some jackass at Langley sent an e-mail off the open server. I’ve spent the last half hour fending off Homeland with make-believe. If I hear the word ‘jurisdiction’ one more time, I’ll have a fit.”
Milo stepped back as a deputy got into the police car and started it up. He returned to the station’s glass double doors. “My hopes are with the girlfriend. Whatever game he’s playing, he won’t play by my rules until I have something on him. Or if he’s under duress.”
“Can you put it to him there?”
Milo considered this as the police car left and another parked in its place. The sheriff might turn a blind eye to rough treatment, but he wasn’t sure about the deputies. There was something wide-eyed about them. “I’ll see once the girl’s here.”
“If Homeland hadn’t been shouting at me all morning, I’d tell you to break him out and bundle him for shipment. But we don’t have a choice.”
“You don’t think they’ll share him?”
His chief grunted. “It’s me who doesn’t want to share. Be a good boy and let them have him, but whatever he says to you is only for us. Okay?”
“Sure.” Milo noticed that the mustached deputy getting out of the car was Leslie, the one who’d been sent to pick up Kathy Hendrickson. He was alone. “Call you back,” Milo said and hung up. “Where’s the girl?”
Leslie held his wide-brimmed hat in his hands, nervously rotating it. “Checked out, sir. Late last night, couple hours after we released her.”
“I see, Deputy. Thanks.”
On the way back inside, Milo called home, knowing that at this hour no one would be there to pick up. Tina would check the messages from work once she realized he was running late. He kept it short and concise. He was sorry to miss Stephanie’s performance, but didn’t overplay his guilt. Besides, next week they’d all be together in Disney World, and he’d have plenty of time to make it up to his daughter. He suggested she invite Stephanie’s biological father, Patrick. “And videotape it, will you? I want to see.”
He found Wilcox in the break room, having a fight with the soda machine. “I thought you kept to lemonade, Manny.”
Wilcox cleared his throat. “I’ve had it up to here with lemons.” He wagged a chunky finger. “You let that slip to my wife, and I’ll have your ass on a platter.”
“Let’s make a deal.” Milo came closer. “I’ll keep your wife in the dark if you give me an hour alone with your prisoner.”
Wilcox straightened, head back, and peered down at him. “You’re talking alone-alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you think that’s a good idea?”
“Why not?”
Sheriff Wilcox scratched the back of his flabby neck; his beige collar was brown from sweat. “Well, the papers are eating you guys up. Every day there’s another yokel shouting about CIA corruption. I mean, I know how to keep my mouth shut, but a small town like this …”
“Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”
The sheriff pursed his lips, deforming his big nose. “Matter of national security, is it?”
“The most national, Manny. And the most secure.”
When Milo returned to the cell, Samuel Roth sat up as if he’d been waiting for this chat, a sudden wellspring of energy at his disposal. “Hello again,” he said once the door had locked.
“Who showed you my file?”
“A friend. An ex-friend.” Roth paused. “Okay, my worst enemy. He’s seriously bad news.”
“Someone I know?”
“I don’t even know him. I never met him. Just his intermediary.”
“So he’s a client.”
Roth smiled, his dry lips cracking. “Exactly. He gave me some paperwork on you. A gift, he said, for some trouble he’d put me through. He said that you were the one who ruined the Amsterdam job. He also said you were running my case. That, of course, is why I’m here.”
“You’re here,” Milo said, reaching the center of the cell, “because you beat up a woman and thought she wouldn’t pay you back for it.”
“Is that what you really think?”
Milo didn’t answer—they both knew it was an unlikely scenario.
“I’m here,” Roth said, waving at the concrete walls, “because I wanted to talk to Milo Weaver, once known as Charles Alexander. Only you. You’re the only Company man who ever actually stopped me. You’ve got my respect.”
“In Amsterdam.”
“Yes.”
“That’s funny.”
“Is it?”
“Six years ago in Amsterdam, I was high on amphetamines. Completely strung out. I didn’t know half of what I was doing.”
Roth stared at him, then blinked. “Really?”
“I was suicidal. I tried to walk into your line of fire, just to finish myself off.”
“Well,” said Roth, considering the news. “Either I