The Tourist (36 page)

"Really?"

"Sold it to a Russian bigwig. So much money, you wouldn't believe."

"I probably wouldn't."

"The papers have to be signed in the next forty-eight hours, but in the meantime I'm entirely free." He considered his next words carefully. "Can I take you out to the theater?"

Tina slipped on the sunglasses again. Despite herself, she remembered Margaret's most insistent advice five months ago when Patrick first walked out:
He's a boy, Tina. A child. What you need is an older man. Someone with a sense of
responsibility.
Tina wasn't seriously considering anything like that, but there was always a certain logic to Margaret's unasked-for wisdom. Frank turned out to be a pleasant surprise. He left her alone until five, when he arrived in a tailored suit, carrying a pair of Teatro Malibran tickets and a single orange lily that smelled hallucinogenic.

She knew little about opera and had never considered herself a fan. Frank, despite having feigned ignorance, turned out to be something of an expert. He'd somehow gotten seats in the platea, the stalls on the floor of the opera, so they had an unencumbered view of the Prince, the King of Clubs, and Truffaldino in
The Love for Three Oranges.
He sometimes leaned in to whisper a plot point she might have missed--it was performed in French--but the plot hardly mattered. It was an absurdist opera about a cursed prince forced to go on a quest for three oranges, in each of which slept a princess. The audience laughed more often than Tina did, but the jokes she got she enjoyed.

Afterward, Frank treated her to dinner at a marginal trattoria and told her stories about his long years living in Europe. She found his description of the expatriate lifestyle particularly enticing. Then he insisted on buying her breakfast, which she first took as a rudely hopeful suggestion. She'd misjudged, though, and all he did was walk her back to the hotel, kiss her cheeks in the European manner, and wish her a good night. A real gentleman, unlike those Italian men lurking on every corner. She woke early on Tuesday and, after a quick wash, began to pack her things for the next morning's flight home. It was a shame-- now that she had finally recovered from her jet lag and met an interesting, cultured man, it was time to leave. She thought her last day might best be used taking a boat trip out to Murano to see the glassblowers.

She brought it up to Frank after he picked her up and they had reached the huge, pigeon-infested glory of St. Mark's Square. "This time it's my treat," she told him. "There's a boat leaving in an hour."

"I wish," he said earnestly, guiding her to an open-air cafe. "It's the damned job. The Ruskie can call for me at any moment, and if I'm not available it'll fall through."

It was during their continental breakfast that Frank went silent, staring past her shoulder, tense.

"What is it?" She followed his gaze, spotting a bald, thick-necked man in a black suit cutting through the crowds toward them.

"The palazzo." He bit his lower lip. "I hope they don't want to meet now."

"It's fine. We'll hook up later."

The tough-looking bald man reached the edge of their table. His head was shiny with sweat. "You," he said, his Russian accent thick. "It's ready." Frank patted his lips with a napkin. "Can't it wait until we're finished eating?"

"No."

Frank glanced, embarrassed, at Tina. He put the napkin on the table with shaking hands. Was that fear? Or just excitement over a huge commission? Then he smiled at her. "You want to see the place? It's really fabulous."

She looked at the remnants of her breakfast, then at the Russian.

"Maybe I shouldn't--"

"Nonsense," Frank cut in. To the Russian, he said, "Of course it's no problem, right?"

The man looked confused.

"Exactly." Frank helped Tina to her feet. "Not too fast," he told the Russian. "She's not built like you."

As soon as they passed the palazzo's front door and faced the steep, narrow steps leading up into the gloom, Tina regretted having come along. She should have known better. The bald Russian looked like the kind of Slavic thug that always populated action movies those days, and the steady walk from St. Mark's all the way up here had mauled her feet. Now, she was faced with this mountain to climb.

"Maybe I should wait down here," she said.

Frank's expression was almost horrified. "I know it looks tough, but you won't regret it. Trust me."

"But my--"

"Come"
the Russian said, already halfway up the first flight. Frank reached out a hand. "Let me help."

So she let him help. He had, after all, been a perfect gentleman so far. She used the memory of the previous night--the opera and the dinner--to distract her from the ache in her heels as Frank helped her up to the oak door at the top of the steps. She looked back, but only saw that bleak, indeterminate gloom of ancient buildings. Then the gloom disappeared as the Russian opened the door.

When she stepped inside, she realized Frank had been right. It really was worth it.

He took her across the hardwood floor to a modernist wooden sofa. The Russian went into another room. "You weren't kidding," she said, twisting to take everything in.

"What did I tell you?" He stared at the door that had been left open an inch. "Listen, let me go take care of the papers in private, then I'll see about a little tour."

"Really?" She felt much like a surprised child, cheeks flushed. "That'd be great."

"I'll be quick." He touched her shoulder, which was warm and damp from the effort of getting up here, and followed the Russian into the next room.

At MIT, she'd learned so much about overdesigned pieces of furniture from magazines--
Abitare, I.D., Wallpaper
--but had never seen them in reality. In the corner sat a Kilin lounge chair made of black leather and imbuia wood, designed by Sergio Rodrigues. A Straessle International chariot chaise, circa 1972, faced it. Tina herself was supported by a slatted rosewood couch designed by Joaquim Tenreiro. Banally, she wondered how much this room had cost.

She heard a sound and looked up to see a gorgeous girl--early teens--

step in from the terrace. She had straight brown hair to her waist, pearly skin, and bright eyes. She wore a pink summer dress that showed off the pubescence of her silhouetted body.

"Hi," said Tina, smiling.

The girl's eyes alighted on Tina's stomach. She said some excited German words and joined her on the couch. Hesitantly, she held a small hand over Tina's belly. "I can?"

Tina nodded, and the girl stroked her. It was soothing, and brought color to the girl's cheeks. Then she tapped her own stomach. "I have. Too." Tina's smile faded. "You're pregnant?"

The girl frowned, unsure, then nodded excitedly. "Ja. I have baby.
Will
have baby."

"Oh." Tina wondered how the girl's parents were reacting. "Ingrid." Tina took the small, dry hand. "I'm Tina. You live here?" Ingrid didn't seem to understand, but then the inner door opened and a tall older man with wavy gray hair and an immaculate suit stepped through, smiling, followed by a meek-looking Frank.

Ingrid clapped her hands over Tina's belly. "Schau mal, Roman!" Roman walked over, and Tina let him take her hand and kiss her knuckles. "Nothing more beautiful than an expectant woman. Pleased to meet you, Miss . . . ?"

"Crowe. Tina Crowe. Are you Ingrid's father?"

"A proud uncle. Roman Ugrimov."

"Well, Mr. Ugrimov, your place is really beautiful. Just amazing." Ugrimov nodded his thanks, then said, "Ingrid, meet Mr. Frank Dawdle." The girl stood and politely shook Frank's hand. Ugrimov, behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders and, looking directly at Frank, said,

"Ingrid here is everything to me, you see? She is my entire world." Ingrid smiled bashfully. Ugrimov had said this with a little too much conviction.

Frank said, "Tina, I think we should be going." She was disappointed--she actually had wanted to see the rest of the palazzo--but there was an unsettling tone in Frank's voice that made her think it might be better to leave. Besides, the collision of Ingrid's pregnancy and her uncle's attentions left her feeling uneasy.

So she got up--a little wobbly, and Ingrid came to steady her-- then took Frank's arm. He mouthed,
Sorry
--probably for the tour. It didn't matter.

The bald thug walked them back down, which was so much easier than coming up, and at the halfway point they heard Ingrid's voice from behind them--she was laughing, a loud, nasal
hee-haw,
like a mule. By the time the bald man opened the door to the square, she realized that something about this wasn't right, so once they'd paused in the shade of the stoop and the Russian had closed the door behind them, she said, "I don't get it, Frank. If he's just now signing the papers for that place, then why's he already moved in?"

Frank wasn't listening. Hands propped on his hips, he was staring off to the left, up the street. A woman about Tina's age stepped out of a doorway and began to run toward them. With a surprisingly menacing voice, she called,
"Frank!"

First thought:
Is that Franks wife?

From the right, a man also ran toward them. His jacket swished from side to side as he galloped across the stones, and in his hand--a
gun.
What was
he,
then? But she didn't have time to follow her thoughts because she heard Roman Ugrimov's voice shouting down at them from above--yes,
everything
was suddenly converging--
"And her I love, you bastard!"
Tina stepped forward, then back, because Frank was looking up at the sky. A punch of scream filled the air, then stretched out to a low wail that rose quickly in pitch, like a train speeding past.

The Doppler effect,
her brain reminded her for no discernible reason. Then she saw what was falling. Pink fluttering--brown hair--a body, a girl,
that
girl--Ingrid. And then--

At 10:27
A.M
. Ingrid Kohl landed three feet from Tina. A thump and crunch, ruptured bone and flesh. Blood. Silence.

She couldn't breathe. Her body seized up. She couldn't even scream yet, not until Frank produced a pistol, shot three times, and fled. The woman--wife? girlfriend? thief?--bolted after him. Tina tripped and fel backward, hard, on the cobblestones. All she could do now was scream.'

The other man, the one with the pistol, appeared at her side. He looked lost, staring at the mess of pink and red three feet from her. Then he noticed Tina, and briefly her screams ceased; she was afraid of him and his gun. But the screams came back of their own volition. "I'
m
in labor! I need a doctor!"

"I--" said the man. He looked in the direction where Frank and that woman had run; they were gone. He settled on the ground beside her, exhausted.

"Get a fucking doctor!" she shouted, and then they both heard three short cracks of a gun being fired.

The man looked at her again, as if she were a ghost fading away, then took out his cell phone. "It'll be all right," he said as he dialed. He spoke in Italian to someone. She recognized the word
ambulanza.
When he finally hung up--that's when she realized he'd been shot, somewhere in the chest. His shirt was almost black with shiny, fresh blood.

By then, though, a gush of maternal pragmatism had swept over her: It didn't matter that he'd been shot; he'd already called the ambulance. Her baby was as safe as it could be, given the circumstances. She calmed down, her contractions slowing, and the man, staring at her, gripped her hand tight, almost too tight, as if he hardly knew she was there. Down the street, the woman she'd later learn was named Angela Yates appeared again, crying. The man watched his accomplice sadly.

Tina said, "Who the hell are you?"

"What?"

She took a moment to regulate her breaths. "You've got a gun." As if this were shocking news, the man released the pistol; it clattered to the ground.

"What," she said, then exhaled the pain of contraction through pursed lips, blowing three times. "What the hell are you?"

"I--" He squeezed her hand tighter, nearly choking on his words. "I'm a tourist."

6

Six years later, Janet Simmons noticed how the memory could still make Tina choke. Weaver's wife stared, mouth hanging open, at the coffee table, so as not to look at the woman asking all these questions.

"That, then, was Milo?"

Tina nodded.

Hesitantly, Simmons prodded: "What do you think he meant? That he was a tourist. In a situation like that, it's about the last thing someone would say."

Tina wiped her eyes with the side of her thumb and finally looked up.

"The situation was that he had two bullets in his right lung and he was bleeding to death. In situations like that, probability goes out the window." Simmons conceded the point, but that one word told her two things. First, that in 2001 Milo really had been a wreck, so much so that he was ready to admit to a complete stranger his ultra-secret job title. Second: Milo had recovered quickly enough so that Tina had no idea that it
was
a job title.

"What was he doing there? In Venice. He told you, I guess. He had a gun, there was shooting, and the man you'd spent a day with had fled."

"Had been killed," Tina corrected. "Until that day, Milo was a field agent, and Frank--Frank Dawdle--he'd stolen three million dollars from the government."

"Our government?"

"Our government. That night, Milo put in his resignation. It wasn't about me, it wasn't about Frank. Not even about the Towers, which we learned about later. Milo's life had simply become unbearable."

"And there you were."

"There I was."

"Let's go back a second. You were both taken to an Italian hospital, and Stephanie was born. When did Milo show up again?"

"He never left."

"What do you mean?"

"When the doctors fixed him up, they put him in a room upstairs. As soon as he woke, he snuck into a nurse's station and found my room."