An American Spy (30 page)

“Find my wife and daughter. And if you can’t find them, I want you to have me killed.”

After a momentary frown, Oskar laughed. “Kill you?” He covered his mouth with a hand, then waved. “Please! Is it my birthday?”

“I’m serious.”

Oskar shook his head, his smile still large. “Absolutely not, Weaver. As much as I’d be happy to pull the trigger, you’re not going to convince us to enter the assassination business. Talk to Mossad. Hell, talk to the CIA.”

“She owes me this.”

“I don’t think she owes you
that
much, Weaver.”

“She has her job because of me.”

Oskar’s smile faded. While Milo had stolen the four paintings from the E. G. Bührle in Zürich, he had given two to Erika Schwartz, which she then planted in her predecessor’s apartment. Of course, a three-hundred-pound woman would have had trouble sneaking into an apartment with two large canvases—she would have needed help—someone small, about Oskar’s size.

Oskar said, “Here’s something you might not know, Weaver. The same evening your family was taken, your next-door neighbor was attacked in his apartment. He was knocked out with drugs, then tied and gagged. He didn’t see anything that we know of, but . . .”

Milo stepped back involuntarily as those words sank in. He ran into the dresser. Raymond Lister, the drunk. “They were there.”

“Yeah, Milo. While you were crying over your father, your wife and daughter were right next door. In your defense, they probably weren’t calling for help—they would’ve been drugged, too. But, still.”

Milo flashed on that night with his father’s body, and his imagination, in a vain attempt to change history, walked him out his door and to Raymond’s, where he kicked hard, shattering wood, and found . . .

“And now,” said Oskar, “the surprise.”

“You’ve got something else?” Milo whispered.

Oskar walked past him to the bathroom door. He opened it and looked inside, saying to someone, “Your turn now,” then stepped back.

A woman walked out. Not Erika Schwartz, not Janet Simmons, not Tina Weaver. She was tall, long in the nose, with dark hair that hung past her shoulders. Everything about her was long, but unlike when she was a girl, all elbows and knees, none of this was awkward on her. Like Milo, and like Yevgeny, she had heavy eyes, the flesh around them bruised and serious.

“Alexandra?” he asked, letting the shocked smile come into his face.

His sister didn’t smile. She walked up to him, standing a couple of inches taller, and said, “You’d better talk, Milo. Or I swear I’ll kill you myself.”

PART THREE

THE HOUSE OF GOOD DEEDS

SATURDAY, JUNE 14 TO

SUNDAY, JUNE 29, 2008

1

Alexandra was too tired and, she felt, too old to be dealing with this, though she was only thirty-two. It was three thirty on a Saturday morning, she’d left Freddy, a man she’d only met two days before, in her bed, and the night’s ridiculously priced cognacs at Zebrano’s were still washing through her scattered thoughts. Bloody family.

She climbed out of a taxi at Goodge Street, then took the Charlotte Place pedestrian lane past shuttered stores to the elbow of Rathbone Street. To her right, the Duke of York was closed, but its smell remained from the sidewalk littered with cigarette butts and spilled beer; to her left, smoky lights glowed from inside the lobby of the Rathbone. She wore a gray hoodie pulled down over her forehead, so that from a distance she looked like a chav at the end of a rowdy night—it was a useful illusion, particularly for the CCTV cameras.

Room 306
, he’d said.
Go see if your brother’s in.

Half brother, Milo, the one who’d grown up American and never answered her e-mails. Last Christmas, though, his wife had sent a “hello, you might not know me but” letter, which Alexandra hadn’t bothered to reply to.

Francisco was straight ahead, waiting just past the hotel and making no move to approach her. She guessed he was in a blind spot, so she went to him. His hands were stuffed deep into his jacket pockets, and his Spanish face, beneath a black baseball cap, looked muddled and sleepy, making her think of his code name, Hound. Her father named his agents after dog breeds, as if by this he could assure canine loyalty. Once they were close, she said, “He woke you, too?”

“Your father thinks no one sleeps.”

“How much time do you need?”

“Five minutes. I’ll send you a message.”

“What am I supposed to do for five minutes?”

“Don’t fall asleep,” he said and left her on the sidewalk. He ducked into an open garage on the side of the hotel and, after a moment’s pause to work with his tools, opened the locked service entrance and went inside.

It was too chilly to stand still, so she continued down Rathbone Street, past the Newman Arms, to where it bent to turn into Percy Street, then walked back, thinking all the time of the world of opportunities that could be her’s, if she would only quit working for family. For two years now, he’d called her his “assistant.” She still wasn’t sure what that meant. A certain amount of communications, of keeping track of her father’s agents and appointments, of going into the field when he couldn’t make it or when, like now, the worries were personal in nature. Her job description read like a secretary’s.

Sasha, all I know is that someone using his old work papers checked in Thursday night. I didn’t know about it until I got a call from a German associate.

Erika Schwartz?

He didn’t answer.

Openness, Nana. Remember our agreement?

Yes. Erika Schwartz.

The one who tortured Milo.

A pause.
She believed at the time that she had reason.

She thought he had killed a little girl, Nana. I would’ve done the same thing. I’m just wondering why she’s telling you about this.

Because we’re old adversaries, Little One. It’s the same thing as old
friends.

Then call the room, Nana. Ask who’s there.

I did. No one answered. The only people we have in London now are Hound . . . and you.

Her phone vibrated. She took it out and read,
M’LADY
—Francisco’s sense of humor.

She hurried her pace, rounded the corner across from the Duke of York, then ducked through the Rathbone Hotel’s entrance. In the empty lobby there were no rock gardens—her father’s term for teams of sedentary watchers—and the front desk was empty. She pulled back her hood to show how harmless she was and nodded pleasantly to a bellboy as she continued to the elevator. She stepped inside, pressed number 4, and watched as the doors closed—there was no sign of anyone, rock gardens or otherwise.

The fourth floor was empty, and, thanks to Francisco, the camera at the end of the corridor was dead, so she found the stairwell and trotted down to the third floor, where she found another dead camera. Room 306 was halfway down.

Though she had one in her apartment, she hadn’t brought a gun, because she fully expected to find her brother dozing in the room, and even if it wasn’t him she could cover easily enough. She would just be another woman with alcohol on her breath, knocking on the wrong door in the wee hours. London was full of girls like her.

She knocked three times, loudly, and waited. “Charlie!” she said, putting on a Yorkshire accent that, despite a youth in Russia, she’d mastered pretty quickly. “Charlie, I know you’re in there!”

There was movement on the other side of the door, and she knocked again. “Charlie, I can hear you! I’m not leaving until you let me in.”

More movement, then the door opened. A haggard-looking face stared back at her. Tall man, late thirties, handsome in a military sort of way, wearing boxer shorts and a T-shirt that showed off a well-muscled body.

“Oh. You’re not Charlie.”

“No,” he said, his accent acutely American. “I’m not Charlie.”

He looked innocent enough, but he was using one of Milo’s names, which meant that innocence wasn’t the right word to describe him. She leaned closer, one hand on the door frame, and dropped the Yorkshire. “You’re not Sebastian Hall, either, are you?”

He blinked, stifling a yawn as he covered his mouth with a hand that was flushed and red. She picked up on a paler ring of flesh where a wedding band no longer resided. He said, “Who are you?”

She lowered her voice now, letting the Russian accent come through. “All I’m interested in is knowing why Milo Weaver didn’t open this door.”

There was movement to her right, and both of them looked to see Francisco standing in the corridor, hands in his jacket. He would have a gun. Her father would have insisted.

“Who’s he?” asked the man.

“Friendly. May I come in?”

He stepped back, pulling the door further open to reveal a tidy room. He walked to the television and opened the minifridge beneath it. Francisco was next to her now, and she asked, “How long do we have?”

“Seven, eight minutes, more if I go back down.”

“Wait here five minutes, then go down.”

He nodded, and she went inside, then pushed the door until it was almost closed.

“Is he staying outside?” the man asked.

“Shall we start with your name?”

He handed over a tiny bottle of cognac—he’d identified her scent—and took whisky for himself. “I’m not going to be an open book, lady. Let’s start with your interest in Milo Weaver.”

She didn’t see the point in being coy with only a few minutes available. “He’s my brother.”

He raised his brows, legitimately surprised. “I knew he had two sisters, but . . .” He unscrewed his bottle. “Natalia?”

“She knows better than to get involved. I’m Alexandra.”

“Are you here as your father’s emissary?”

She shrugged.

“I’m Milo’s . . . well, I was his boss. Now we’re just friends.”

“Alan Drummond, then,” she said. “And this is what Milo’s friends do? Stir up international interest by traveling on a passport that ties him to an art robbery?”

“Christ, you’re well informed.” He threw back the whisky.

Alexandra unscrewed her cognac and drank it down as well. It delivered a pleasant punch. She said, “Except I don’t know the
why.
Are you trying to get him arrested?”

Confusion flickered over his features—confusion, or pain, or guilt. She’d never been particularly good at reading faces; body language was what she picked up on. He said, “I don’t have a choice. Other people are pulling strings.”

“They’re watching you?”

“Yeah.”

“No one’s in the lobby.”

“There are cameras throughout the hotel.”

“We’ve shut them down—for the next few minutes, at least. If you want to walk, now’s the time.”

“It’s not that simple,” he said, but she could see from his hands that he was considering it.

“You’d be surprised how simple most things are, Mr. Drummond.”

“Alan, please.”

“We can get to know each other later. Right now, you can walk. That’s good for me—after all, if you disappear, all the authorities have is a name. I suspect it would be good for you as well. If you want, we can make it look like a kidnapping.”

He stepped back, set down his empty bottle, and turned back to her. She was losing him.

She said, “Who are they?”

“It’s complicated.”

“One they? Two theys?”

“You make three,” he said, smiling. “Listen, I can protect Milo’s family. His wife and daughter, I mean. I’ve already planned for that.”

“Who’s protecting your family, Mr. Drummond?”

She’d grown used to these conversations, ones in which central subjects were left vague or entirely anonymous. First, as a litigator, she’d sat with the guilty talking circles around actual crimes, and later, working for her father, she’d engaged in conversations in which nothing, it seemed, was even said. This was nothing new. However, it irritated her when half-empty sentences led to radical decisions, for without the details she couldn’t be sure what she was talking Alan Drummond into. Now, he was falling into embarrassed silence. She said, “You have to give me a crumb, so I know how to help you.”