An American Spy (17 page)

All this just to hit back at Xin Zhu? It was beyond stupid, beyond crazy.

Chaudhury said, “If you know how to get in touch with Jones—”

“I don’t,” Milo lied.

“Well, I’d love to have a chat with her sometime.”

“I would, too.” Milo felt a wave of despair at the dismal knowledge that was growing inside of him. The knowledge of what this was leading to, and what he would have to do as soon as he left this restaurant. Then he said, “Look, Dennis, I don’t know what Alan’s plan was, or why he was in London with Leticia. That he was doing
something
is not a surprise. But this is . . . well, it’s a bit much.”

“Maybe you’d like to help us figure it out.”

“You don’t need my help.”

“Don’t overestimate us, and don’t underestimate yourself. You knew the department better than most people. If he was using old resources, you’d be familiar with them. You might even be able to track them down. Someone like Gwendolyn—Leticia, I mean. I don’t think she’d open the door if I came asking questions. If you did, then maybe.”

Milo sipped at his tonic. He had the uncomfortable feeling that this man was reading his mind. “How many people do you have working on this?”

“Not many. I’m liaising with someone from Five, and we’ve each got a small staff. At this point, we’ve just got questions, and no one’s going to sign off on a full-blown op just to figure out why someone walked on his hotel bill. So I really could use your help.”

Milo thought about that, wondering how modest Chaudhury was being. Or maybe it was the reverse, and Chaudhury was stumbling around on his own, exaggerating his resources. “I can make some calls, but that’s it.”

“It’s a start.”

“And an end. I’m too busy here.”

“Trying to find a job,” Chaudhury said, smiling, “to afford this wonderful lifestyle.”

Milo was sure not to mirror that smile. “No, Dennis. I’m too busy keeping my family out of Alan’s mess, and you’re just making it harder.”

Despite the truth of this, once he left Chaudhury with the bill and was walking down Seventh, he did call the Manhattan-area number Leticia Jones had given him a week after the massacre. She’d slipped it into his pocket and whispered, “Baby, for a good time just call.” He wasn’t sure it was still in use until, after five rings, there was a click and a computerized female voice said, “Please leave your message at the sound of the tone.” Even then, he still wasn’t sure.

Milo said, “Hi, this is Milo Weaver calling for Alan Drummond. I’m not sure if I’ve got the right number, but if I do please ask him to call me.” Then he hung up and checked the time on his phone. It was 10:07.

The message itself was irrelevant to the contact procedure; only the time and the phone he called from mattered.

He had an hour to kill, so he walked over to Flatbush, down toward Grand Army Plaza, and took an outdoor table at the Burrito Bar & Kitchen. He felt out of place among the mixed crowd of young professionals trying to decide if they really wanted to get drunk on a Tuesday night, and sipped at the Coke the pretty-but-cool waitress brought him. It burned his throat.

Though he knew what he was doing, he found it agonizingly difficult to predict much further than this moment, for he was acting on obligation, not desire. Yes, he was calling on Leticia, and, yes, he would sit down with Penelope to break the news—such as it was—to her. Anything else was speculation. He did not want to help Alan and Leticia with their plans, because Alan was ruled by his pride now, which—if he was still alive—made him unpredictable and dangerous. That he boldly used Milo’s own work name in London, a name with a criminal investigation attached to it, proved that he had believed he could coerce Milo into his elaborate web.

How far would he help Chaudhury? That was something he didn’t know. He might not like the man, but if Homeland and CIA were simply trying to find out what Alan was up to, it was a legitimate aim. What he wanted was a reason not to help, and the only justification for washing his hands of it would be if Alan’s operation had crashed and was now finished. There was only one person who could tell him if it was over, and she was just one more step away.

It was as he was finishing his Coke that he noticed, across the street, Chaudhury’s denim friend outside a Duane Reade, keeping watch over him. It didn’t matter.

He paid, then continued up the busy street toward Grand Army. He didn’t look back, just waited at the curb for the light to change, then walked down the west side of the oval and crossed beneath it to reach a grassy triangular island between the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Arch and the Brooklyn Public Library. Again, he checked his phone—11:04—and pressed it to his ear, faking a conversation. Around him, cars continued their loud, congested parade as he waited the required three minutes, trying to think of nothing.

He gave it an extra minute, and at 11:08 returned to the sidewalk. Somewhere above his head, he knew, was the public webcam he’d been unable to spot, and if Leticia checked her phone messages as frequently as she had told him, she would be on a computer or smart phone somewhere in the world watching him leave its frame. It was all she needed to know—he wanted to talk.

At home, Tina was on the couch reading an enormous novel; he saw she hadn’t gotten far. “So?” she asked.

He settled next to her and placed a hand on her thigh. “They don’t know anything.”

“Of course they know something.”

He leaned close and kissed her. “You’re wise beyond your years.”

“So?”

“I told them I’d make some calls, see what I could find, but that’s it. I’m not doing their job for them.”

She didn’t reply, only stared at him, the paperback shut around her index finger.

“What?” he asked.

“Do you think he’s dead?”

“No idea.”

“But you have a feeling?”

“I seriously doubt it.”

She finally put the novel on the coffee table, and he saw that it was
Infinite Jest
, by David Foster Wallace. “I wonder how we’re going to break it to Penelope.”

“There’s no news to break. Not yet.”

“Well, we’re not leaving her in the dark.”

“Why not?” he asked, because on the walk home he’d wondered this. Why talk to Penelope when, for all they knew, Alan could show up at her door tomorrow, clutching flowers?

“Because I’ve been there before,” Tina said, “and I’m not going to let it happen to her.”

She was serious, and it was a detail he should have predicted. Only last year, she had learned a lot of things he’d kept her in the dark about, and the realization of his dishonesty had nearly killed the marriage. Of course she’d insist on keeping Penelope informed. “Okay, I’ll take care of it.”

She shook her head. “No. She doesn’t trust you.”

“She doesn’t?”

“Don’t take it personally. She just trusts me more.”

“Then you tell her.”

“
Christ,
” she said to no one in particular.

Milo looked in on Stephanie, who was snoring with her PlayStation aglow beside her pillow, then he showered and joined his wife in bed. She’d turned off the lights, and once he was under the covers she wrapped a bare leg around him. “Maybe you should,” she said finally.

“Tell Penelope?”

“Help them figure this out. Alan was a friend.”

“
Is
a friend. And he’s off his rocker.” He turned to look at her, but her face was hard to make out in the darkness. “The man’s trying to take on the Guoanbu—China’s entire foreign intelligence service. Does that sound balanced to you? I don’t know what he did in London, but it’s possible he provoked the wrong people and got himself killed. You really want me to follow his trail?”

“When you put it that way,” she said, but he knew her too well to believe that he’d convinced her of anything.

5

The next morning, Tina called Penelope and insisted she come for dinner, then asked Sarah Lawton’s mother if Stephanie could stay the night. The previous year, Stephanie and Sarah had been archenemies, but as with many children’s relationships it only existed in the extremes, and when things warmed between them they became—despite occasional mentions of divorce—best-friends-forever.

Milo’s only responsibility was to take care of the food, which he mistakenly chose to cook himself. Chicken fajitas with fresh salsa, guacamole, and sour cream. When Tina returned home from work, she snuck a bite of the meat and made a face. “Did you taste these?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You forgot the salt.”

It was true, and his impressive-looking meal had little flavor. He powdered everything with salt after the fact, but it wasn’t the same, and he could see the measured surprise in Penelope Drummond’s face when she took her first eager bite. She and her husband were well-known foodies, spending large chunks of their income on new restaurants and following specific chefs’ careers. Still, Penelope ate, as they all did, until she frowned at them both and said, “Is something going on?”

“What?” Tina said.

“There’s something weird here.” A pause. “You’re not planning a ménage à trois, are you? Because I may be single, but I’m still a decent girl at heart.”

They laughed at that, a little too loudly, and Milo wondered how Tina was going to do this. She had insisted on breaking the news herself, but how does anyone pass on the news that a husband has gone missing? Probably not in the middle of a meal. Before dessert? he wondered, then realized with frustration that he’d forgotten to pick up ice cream.

“No, really,” said Penelope, holding a guacamole-smeared fork above her plate. “Something’s going on.”

That’s when Tina’s eyes, despite the innocent smile on her face, glazed with tears, and Milo knew that whatever she’d planned was history now. Penelope put down her fork and stroked Tina’s wrist. “If it means that much to you, then, sure, I’ll sleep with you.”

Tina laughed again, pitifully, and shook her head. Milo said, “It’s nothing like that.”

Not letting go of Tina, Penelope raised her eyes to him. “Well, then, Milo. Maybe you should tell me.”

She’d said it very coolly, and Milo answered, “In a sec.” He mopped his lips with his napkin and went to the kitchen for another bottle of wine.

As he worked on the cork, he heard whispers from the living room, then a loud, “
What?
” That was Penelope. By the time he returned, Tina had dried her tears and was holding on to Penelope’s wrist, though she wasn’t crying either; she was staring at her flavorless food. Then she glared at Milo. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know much,” Milo said, clutching the bottle and staying well away from the table. “London, the Rathbone Hotel. If he’d just disappeared, that would be one thing, but someone shut off the hotel cameras. Anything’s possible.”

“Anything?”

“Kidnapping is the theory.”

“Or murder?”

He hesitated.

“Well?”

“It’s possible, but there’s no sign of that.”

She held onto his eyes. “Who?”

“No one knows yet. People are working on it.”

“You?”

“I’m looking into it.”

She stood then, and Tina, still leaning forward, watched her. Penelope seemed to want to say something as her cheeks flushed, but nothing came out. She walked to the foyer, hesitated, then continued and, after collecting her purse and figuring out the complicated locks on the door, walked out of their apartment.

She returned an hour later. By then, Milo had packed the dishes into the dishwasher and the leftovers into the refrigerator, while Tina remained at the table drinking half the bottle of wine. She kept saying, “I did it all wrong,” and each time Milo said, “There’s no right way to do it.”

Penelope buzzed from the street, saying only, “It’s me,” and when she arrived with her blond hair cowlicked on one side, it was obvious that she’d been drinking. “Can I come in?” she asked but was already walking past Tina into the living room. When she saw Milo, she said, “Hi,” and dropped onto the couch. She took a long, loud breath. “I don’t have any other friends I can talk to about this.”

She didn’t talk about it at first, though. She threw her purse onto the floor and stretched out, putting her feet up, her soiled heels resting on a pillow.

“I like this neighborhood,” she told the ceiling lamp. “There’s a terrific bar down the street. I forget the name. You know it?”

“It’s great,” Milo said as he went to one of the chairs.

Penelope remained fixated on the lamp. “I could sell our place and get something here. How much would a one-bedroom cost?”

“A lot.”

“I should be able to get that much for ours.”

“You know,” Milo said, “he could be all right. Could be just fine.”

“He might be,” she agreed, “but he wouldn’t come back to me, would he? I kicked him out.”

“He told me he thought he could patch things up.”

“You said that before.”

In the silence that followed, Tina found fresh glasses and poured wine for everyone, forgetting that Milo wasn’t drinking. Penelope placed hers on the floor beside her purse. “Milo,” she said. “I forgot to ask why.”

“Why?”

“Why did someone kidnap my husband from a London hotel room?”

“When we find out who, we’ll know why. And vice versa.”

“It’s the Chinese, isn’t it?”

“Maybe. No one knows.”

She slowly sat up, looking groggy, muttering, “The Yellow Peril. Is that racist, Tina?”

Tina sat next to her without bothering to reply.

Penelope tried to fix Milo with her gaze, but she seemed to have trouble focusing. “You’re going to London?”

Milo shook his head. “Better people are working on it.”

“Alan said you were the best.”

That didn’t sound like Alan Drummond. “He was exaggerating.”

Penelope chewed on her lower lip, then looked over at Tina as if she’d only just noticed her. She gave a small smile and turned back to Milo. “You do have some idea. I can see that. I can’t see much, but I can see that.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, because what he could see was that he had a small window of opportunity. She’d gotten over her shock, and she was at least tipsy. “You can help, though.”