An American Spy (26 page)

“Milo! It’s Billy. I’ve got some good news for you.”

“Billy?”

“Billy Morales. Redman Transcontinental.”

He didn’t know if laughing would be appropriate, so he just said, “Right. Hello, Billy.”

“Now you’ve got it. Listen, if you’re still on the market, we’ve got an attractive offer on the table for you. It may require a little more travel than you were interested in, but if you take a look—”

“Billy,” Milo said. “Do you mind if I call you back tomorrow? I’m kind of busy now.”

“Well, sure,” Morales said, sounding vaguely confused. “Listen, if you’re getting offers elsewhere you can be up front about it with me. You know that. Redman knows how to negotiate.”

“That’s not it, Billy. Trust me. Tomorrow?”

“Roger,” Morales said, and Milo hung up.

Milo reached Penn Station at six forty-five. He took the subway to Park Slope, rocking monotonously with other passengers-of-many-nations, thinking of Gabi’s excitement over the international face of this city. She was right to love it.

At Garfield Place, he checked the street for watchers, found none, then climbed the stairs. Though he heard the quiet murmur of a television from Raymond’s door, at his own he heard silence. No television, no talking, no walking. The door was unlocked. He shut it behind himself and said, “Girls?” There was no answer. It was twenty minutes before eight o’clock.

He took a breath, leaning against the door as he locked the bolt. This was what he had wanted, what he had planned for, but there was no satisfaction. No matter that they knew their captor, and that they knew Milo had arranged their abduction, they had to be scared. That was normal; it was
human.
Now, he could move forward. He could be open with the senators. He could—and this seemed the only option—play a double game against Zhu.

It was during this momentary rush of optimism that he smelled it in the air. Mixed into the fragrance of soy sauce and his kung pao chicken, a vague odor of shit and, beneath it, sulfur. He let go of the front door and stepped slowly forward. As he left the foyer, the living room opened up, coming into view. Everything was correct—the television, the tables, the chairs—but in the middle of the room, lying with his head turned to the side in a pool of blood soaking into the gray rug, was his father, a look of surprise on the visible half of his face.

His throat closed, hardening, and he couldn’t swallow. He waited, forcing the air into his lungs, holding onto the wall. Closed his eyes; opened them. The old man was still there.

Before approaching the body, Milo ran without noise to the bedrooms and bathroom, checking behind doors and under beds until, sure that the place was empty, he returned to the living room and gingerly touched Yevgeny’s neck. Ignoring the stink from his postdeath bowel movement, he slid his hand down the back of Yevgeny’s shirt to check his temperature; there was still a trace of warmth. The Tourist part of him thought,
This happened minutes ago.
The human part of him was back in a claustrophobic Moscow living room, at the beginning of his stay, listening to a KGB colonel laugh at a joke his teenaged son had just butchered in his grammar-school Russian.

Compartmentalization was failing him; he could feel it. He got to his feet and stepped back and stood straight against a door frame, as if the building could support him, and wiped away the tears. He didn’t want to sit because he feared he would never be able to rise again. He took out his cell phone and looked at it through blurred vision, then put it away again. There was no one to call. If Janet Simmons had collected his family, then she would call when they were safe. Was waiting the only option?

No. He could assemble facts. That’s what you did in situations like this—you gathered facts from witnesses.

He carefully stepped out into the corridor and went to Raymond’s door. The television was still on. He knocked three times, then did it again, louder. He listened, wondering if his neighbor was passed out drunk again, then checked the door—it was locked. Milo withdrew. Even if Raymond had heard something, he wouldn’t have heard enough to tell Milo who had them.

He shoved two pieces of Nicorette into his mouth and returned to his apartment, chewing vigorously. He skirted past Yevgeny’s body and went into the kitchen. There was vodka, but he limited himself to a single shot to take the edge off. By the time he set the empty glass down, his eyes were drenched again. He wiped at them, trying to remember his training, thinking that if he had to try to remember it, then it was of no use to him anymore.

Yevgeny had come to take them away. That much he understood. Had he gathered them, only to be attacked by Zhu’s men? Or had he come late, after Simmons had removed them, and stumbled upon Zhu’s men picking over the place, wondering what had happened?

He dialed Tina’s number. A melody cut through the silence, and he found her Nokia on an arm of the sofa. Then, unsure why, he called Penelope Drummond. Her phone, he was told, either was outside the network range or turned off.

That’s when he heard another phone ring, and at first he thought it was Yevgeny’s. He took two steps toward the corpse before realizing it was coming from his own pocket. He took out the iPhone and, without checking the display, answered it. “Where are they?”

A pause, then Xin Zhu’s voice said, “Out of the way.”

“Do you have them?”

“They’re not with me right now, if that’s what you mean.”

Milo opened his mouth, but forced himself not to say the words that had formed in the back of his throat:
You’re a dead man now.
Xin Zhu seemed to understand his position, for he said, “Now, please don’t engage in outrage, or threats, or anything you’ll later regret. You’ve only brought this upon yourself, Mr. Weaver.”

Dizziness set in, and the sickness he’d been holding back spread through his body. “This wasn’t necessary.”

“It was, and you know it. Mr. Drummond proved that. All you need to know now is that the orders I give you are to be followed without hesitation. Are we clear?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Xin Zhu said. “Now get rid of the phone and go do your job.”

12

He arrived at JFK’s Terminal Three, with its distinctive flying saucer roof, just before eight in the morning. He was a blank slate. He’d left behind all his papers, his wallet, his phone, and cut the tags out of his navy suit. All he carried was a folded stack of cash and two blister packs of Nicorette. When he climbed out of the taxi, he had to pause to avoid getting hit by porters, uniformed police, and fellow travelers. It took him a moment to get his bearings because airports, where he had once felt at home, were now anathema to him. Leticia Jones was already approaching with a sultry smile.

“Hey, baby,” she said, kissing his cheeks. She looked perky in her striped business skirt as she led him by the elbow through the initial security check and into the airy but crowded terminal.

“Where to?” he asked, though he had trouble finding the breath to speak.

She walked him to one of the departure screens, full of the world’s cities. “You choose.”

“What?”

“How about Vegas?” she said, noting a nine thirty flight.

He turned to stare at her. He knew how he looked—knew that his eyes were a mess—but didn’t give a damn.

“Boston, then?” she suggested. “Cancún?”

“What the hell’s going on?”

“No,” she said after a moment. “I think Mexico City will do quite nicely.”

They stood in line at the Delta counter. Behind them, a family chatted merrily about terrorists, while ahead of them a trio of Mexican businessmen exchanged occasional words in Spanish, but Milo and Leticia said nothing to one another. Milo watched faces. It didn’t take long to spot Chaudhury, clutching a newspaper beside a family camped around their luggage. There might have been more, but his vision wasn’t cooperating; it blurred over every few seconds. The same was true of his thoughts, and he found himself thinking that, had he known then what he knew now, he would have killed Chaudhury in D.C.

When they reached the counter, Leticia opened her small purse and took out two well-thumbed passports. “Two for the nine thirty-five to Mexico City.”

“You have reservations?” asked the clerk, a diminutive brunette with olive skin.

“It’s under Frederickson,” she said and nodded at Milo. “That’s him.” She leaned across the counter, and in a high whisper added, “
He’s in a mood today.
”

Like you wouldn’t believe
, he thought.

The clerk suppressed a grin, then checked their passports—Gwendolyn Davis and Sam Frederickson—and printed out boarding passes. “Any luggage to check?”

“Just us,” said Leticia, then grabbed Milo’s arm. “Come on, honey.”

While they waited in the winding line for security, he saw Chaudhury with a cell phone to his ear, calling in their status. Leticia seemed to notice him staring, so he said, “You reserved the tickets.”

“You gotta reserve,” she said. “This plane’s always full.”

“What if I’d said Cancún?”

She smiled. “Mr. Frederickson made a lot of reservations for this morning.”

They made it smoothly through security, and as they were slipping their shoes back on Milo said, “Should I be confused?”

“Well, I hope so.”

They reached Gate 5 a little before nine, but there was no space for them to sit, so they leaned against a column. Milo’s damaged intestine was speaking to him in the coagulated voice of despair, and he was sure he couldn’t pull this off. He couldn’t sit in a plane with Leticia Jones and fly to Mexico. The only thing he could conceivably do was lie on the hard floor, close his eyes, and die. Would that save them? He didn’t know, but he suspected it might. Then Leticia said, “Chill out, baby. You act like you’ve never been on a plane before.”

“I’d just like to know what’s going on.”

“So you can report it to your masters in Beijing?”

It was a sign of his utter incompetence that he stared at her hard for a whole second, shocked, and he read in her face the slight turn in mood that told him it had been a joke that, perhaps, was no longer a joke. She was wondering if she was going to have to kill him. He said, “What are you talking about?”

“Lighten up and just play along,” she said, then again looked down the busy corridor.

“You’re waiting for someone.”

“Maybe someone will come, maybe not.”

When boarding began, they joined the cattle-rush of passengers, stuck somewhere in the middle of the sweating horde, and once they were a couple of passengers from the front Leticia tugged his sleeve and said, “Time to go.” Docilely, he followed her out of the crowd and to the other side of the terminal, where they stood in another line at Dunkin’ Donuts and bought coffees and croissant sandwiches. He picked at his food, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to keep it down, for it just reminded him of the scent of Chinese food in the apartment, and then everything else.

They sat at Gate 12, which was mostly empty, and ignored the announcement calls for their passport names. Finally, the Mexico City flight took off, and they left through security. There was no sign of Chaudhury. They waited at a taxi stand, and when they got into a cab Leticia asked for Union Square Park. The driver, a light-skinned North African, turned on the meter and called in the ride, but when they reached Queens Boulevard Leticia handed him a fifty and asked him to take them instead to Port Morris, in the Bronx, but to keep it quiet from the dispatch. It took him two seconds of reflection to accept her proposal.

Though buses were the obvious next mode of transportation from Port Morris, it turned out that Leticia had left a hybrid Ford Escape a couple of streets inland. It was just after eleven.

Only once they were driving did she decide to relieve the tension. “We’re not flying out until after seven, so don’t worry yourself, but I hope you saw those shadows in the airport. You did, didn’t you?”

“An Indian guy,” said Milo.

“And . . . ?”

He blinked at her. “Is this a test?”

“There was a white chick with him. I doubt I lost them—at least, I hope not—but I think we’re being pretty convincing.”

“Who are they?”

“Chinese, probably, but maybe Homeland’s gotten wind of something.” She sniffed, and he wondered if that was a pointed remark. Had his call to Janet Simmons been heard by everyone? But she only said, “It’s best we assume the Chinese.”

“Leticia?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Where the hell are we going?”

“We’re going for a bite and a drink. Couldn’t you use one?”

She drove up the Major Deegan Expressway and then across the Hamilton and Washington bridges to reach New Jersey, where she took Bergen Boulevard down to North Bergen, full of heavy redbrick buildings and shops. She turned off the main drag beside the park and finally pulled up at a corner Mexican restaurant called Puerto Vallarta, which was busy with a lunchtime crowd. She’d called ahead and reserved a seat under the name Jenny.

As they were seated, Leticia asked for a pitcher of margaritas. “Smile, baby,” she told Milo, but he thought he might explode. He thought that if she made another joke he would smash his head against the table until he bled. Maybe that would cut through the black, dizzying funk that had invaded him as he sat beside his father’s body in his living room. He drank two more shots of vodka from the bottle, looking at the old man’s matted hair and the loose skin on his fingers, trying to escape his memories and regrets and focus on what this meant, and what it required of him.

When the pitcher came, she filled his glass and said, “Drink up now. It’s gonna be dry as hell where we’re going.”

He raised his head at that. It was a hint, but he didn’t bother speculating aloud. He sipped his margarita, then, like a man just out of the desert, poured it down his throat until it was nearly empty. Either it would help him or it would kill him. That was how he was starting to see the world.

“I think your doctor would frown on that,” she said, slipping a straw into her glass.