The Nearest Exit (43 page)

“She asleep?” she asked when he came out.

“Not yet. She wants to Skype with some friend in Botswana. Did you know she had a friend in Botswana?”

“That’s Unity Khama. It’s a class project. We used to do pen pals, but these days they don’t even know what a pen is.”

He snorted a laugh and heated up the dinner.

“So I guess you’ve got some talking to do,” she said.

“Can you wait a sec?”

He left as the microwave bleeped, and when he returned again he was carrying both of their coats. “Here,” he said, handing hers over. “Put this on. We’ll go upstairs.”

“What about Stef?”

“I told her we’d be out a few minutes, and not to unlock the door for anyone. Come on. She’ll be fine.”

“Why can’t we talk here?”

“Can you just indulge me?”

She wasn’t entirely sure, but she was willing to try. Dr. Ray had said that mistrust breeds more mistrust, and that the danger of this was that it spiraled out of control, particularly when it remained
locked inside you. So she said, “Milo, right now I’m not feeling very indulgent.”

“I wouldn’t either,” he admitted, “but please.”

She put on her coat and went back to check on Stephanie, who was talking via video link to Unity, a bright-eyed black girl in Gaborone. They were both laughing, so she left them to their jokes and withdrew.

When they left the apartment, Milo made a show of locking the door from the outside, then led her upstairs to the rooftop-access door, which took a heavy key. A cold evening breeze scattered their hair. She said, “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of bugs.”

“Then I won’t tell you. But I’m trying not to hide things from you anymore. You don’t deserve it.”

“I think I’ve heard that before.”

“A few weeks ago, when I saw Yevgeny in Berlin, he told me that I didn’t give people enough credit, least of all you. He was right. You don’t deserve that. Come here,” Milo said and led her to the edge of the roof. Beyond it rooftops led toward Prospect Park; to the left lights twinkled in the distance, heading toward Manhattan. Milo was pointing directly down, though, to the right, at Garfield Street. “See that Chevy? The blue one.”

“Yeah?”

“The guy in it, he’s following me. I can’t be sure how long, but probably ever since I returned home.”

“It’s probably just a neighbor,” she pointed out. “Neighbors don’t spend the night in their cars.”

“Why’s he following you?”

“I’m guessing he’s working with some people who were following me in Europe. They’re working for a senator.”

The word “senator” didn’t belong in that sentence. “Wh—” she began. “What senator?”

“Nathan Irwin, a Minnesota Republican.”

“Fucking Republicans,” she muttered.

“It’s nothing to be worried about,” he assured her. “I’m just trying to explain why we’re talking up here. They probably didn’t bug our apartment, but I’m not taking chances.”

She looked at him, at the Chevy, and then back. The wind was making her eyes water, and she hoped he wasn’t going to misinterpret it as weeping. She waited.

“About Dr. Ray’s. I’m sorry, really sorry. But when we were talking my mind just switched into autopilot, and I realized something very important. About the department.”

“The department you don’t work for anymore.”

“Yes. But I . . . look. I’m trying to tell you without actually telling you. Not because I’m trying to hide anything, but because it’s not the kind of thing you should know. Maybe it wouldn’t put you in danger, but maybe it would. I’m not willing to take the chance.”

“Then try to make some kind of sense, Milo. Figure it out.”

He seemed to accept the gentle scolding; he nodded. “I had to go talk to the new director about it, because if I’m right, then the department is in serious trouble. It could be destroyed.”

She could see he was trying, and she appreciated that. “Didn’t you tell me the other night that it didn’t deserve to exist? What changed your mind?”

“It’s easy to say that, but the department’s made up of people. You start worrying about all the people who’re going to lose their jobs, and some other people who are now in real danger.”

“Are you talking about a mole?”

His face went slack, and she knew her stab in the dark had been right. A brief elation filled her, then slid away—did this mean she and Stephanie were in danger now? Milo said, “I’m trying not to lie to you.”

“Go ahead. Lie.”

“Then, no. Nothing like a mole. Nothing that serious.”

She grinned, which gave him license to do the same. She said, “What does this mean?”

He ran his fingers through his hair and gazed across the rooftops. “It means I’m going to have to disappear for a few days. Through the weekend, maybe. But I’ll certainly be back by next week.”

“Can you at least call?”

“Sure.”

“Some good-night calls for Stef might be appropriate. I think she’d appreciate it.”

“How do you think she’s doing?”

“What? With you back?”

“Yeah,” he said, sounding very vulnerable.

The truth was that Tina had noticed how much quieter Stef was when Milo was around, and when he was gone she’d return to her loud, rambling self. It was, Tina had decided, fear—Stef’s fear that if she said the wrong thing her dad might pick up and leave again on one of his vague “jobs.” Seeing his expression, though, she couldn’t tell him this. So she lied. “You know Little Miss. She’s beside herself with joy having you back.”

“You think so?” Hope slid into his voice.

“Absolutely. But let’s not say you’re heading out on a job. Let’s say you’re going somewhere to interview for work. Capice?”

“Capice.”

They remained on the roof a minute more in silence; then he gave her a kiss, and they descended again to find Stephanie still at the computer. Tina told her to say good-bye to Unity, then stepped over to her window and pulled back the blinds. She didn’t see the man inside the Chevy, but from this slightly lower angle she did see the window roll down and the quick flash of hand—white, long-fingered—as it tossed out a cigarette that streamed smoke in the middle of the street.

That Thursday morning, Alan Drummond raised the window between himself and Jake, and as they struggled through midtown traffic he called Stuart Fossum at Federal Plaza. They’d known each other in the marines, and each had followed a slightly different route into intelligence, Drummond into the CIA, Fossum into the FBI. When he heard Drummond’s voice, Fossum laughed aloud. “Alan! Whenever something’s about to fall on my head, it’s always preceded by the sound of your voice.”

“Am I really that predictable?”

“Come be a G-man,” Fossum told him. “Leave those back-stabbers to their games.”

Though they hadn’t spoken since Drummond had taken over Tourism, Fossum acted as if they were still lunching once a week. “Listen, Stu. I need a favor. And I need it quiet.”

“What kind of favor are we talking about?”

“Background files on seven people.”

“Heavy clearance?”

“Shouldn’t be. They’re the aides to a senator.”

Fossum paused, considering this. “Sounds too easy. Makes me wonder why a man as important as yourself can’t just ask his secretary to do a Google search.”

“Let’s just say it’s not as secure as we’d like it to be. If the senator in question finds out I’m looking into his people . . .”

“Gotcha,” Fossum said, cutting him off. “You got the names for me?”

After he recited them from the list in his head, Fossum demanded an expensive meal as repayment, and they settled on Le Bernardin on Fifty-first. Then Fossum sighed. “I don’t suppose you’re ever going to tell me what office you work in, are you?”

“For the price of lunch at Bernardin, I don’t need to tell you anything.”

“Not even what this is about?”

Drummond had that story ready. “Somebody’s been sticking his hand in the campaign cookie jar. We found out about it before the senator, and we’d like to clean it up before he even knows it’s happened.”

“Sounds like the CIA wants to keep the senator sweet.”

“Now you’re with the program, Stu.”

When he got out of the elevator on the twenty-second floor, he first gazed at the far wall to see that Irwin and his sidekicks weren’t around—they seldom arrived before noon, their mornings filled with legislative conference calls—then wound his way slowly through the cubicles, fielding occasional requests along the way. Sally Hein wanted an ergonomic keyboard; she feared carpal tunnel syndrome was encroaching. Manuel Gomez wanted the Company to reimburse him for an expensive lunch he’d had with a source over at the NSA to compare notes on an Iranian mufti. Only Saeed Atassi, a Syria specialist he’d stolen from Defense, had a work-related request. He’d received disturbing intel from a Tourist in Damascus about a Syrian general liaising with an Israeli colonel to derail secret peace talks between the two countries. He’d worked up a Tour Guide on the issue but requested that, because of time constraints, a version be leaked to both governments, thereby skipping the usual route to the Senate committee that took forever to decide what to do with such things. Drummond promised an answer by day’s end.

His secretary, a heavyset brunette with a telescopic eye for detail, brought a stack of mail and a coffee to his large oak desk. He
thanked her and opened his laptop, starting up a program called Tracker, which was exactly what the name suggested. It tracked the cell phones and shoulder chips of all his Tourists on a world map, giving him a God’s-eye view of the breadth of his influence. Red spots peppered the planet, most remaining still while others, on planes or high-speed trains, moved incrementally. When he dragged his cursor over a dot, a simple heads-up display gave him the work name and any recent notes attached to it. A counter along the bottom gave him the total number: thirty-seven.

He’d finished going through his mail and fielding fresh intelligence reports and delivering orders when Irwin breezed into his office. He’d been doing this more often recently, walking through the door without knocking, even when Drummond was on the telephone. The senator approached the windows overlooking Manhattan. To the city, he said, “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Do what, Nathan?”

“This. Working a mile up above the city. A bubble.” He stepped back and frowned at Drummond. “It’s not healthy. If you’re not mixing with the rabble, then how can you even protect the rabble’s interests? You can say a lot of bad things about politicians, but we never forget who we’re representing. They have our e-mail addresses, know our names and faces, know where we live. Everything—well, most of the things we do are there for public display. Step out of line, and someone’s standing nearby with a sledgehammer.”

Drummond pushed back from his desk and examined the senator. Despite the premature whitening of his hair, the man was full of the kind of nervous energy Drummond had seen a lot of in the military. He had youth in his mannerisms, perhaps a result of mixing with the rabble. “You might be right,” Drummond admitted. “Instead, we mix with people like you, and trust that you’re reporting back on what the rabble really want.”

“Not just what they want. What they need.”

“Of course. You here about Hang Seng?”

“Later,” Irwin said, waving that away. “You seen Milo Weaver recently?”

The question was ill placed because Irwin wanted to see its
effect. Drummond understood this. He’d been expecting the question, though, and it proved that Weaver had at least been right about Irwin’s goons following him. “As a matter of fact, he came by last night. Looking for a job.”

“He wants back in?”

“Not in a million years. Wanted advice on where to look. I’m sending a recommendation over to Cy Gallagher over at Global Security. You know him?”

“Think we’ve crossed paths before.”

“Well, it’s just a recommendation. I have no idea what he’s looking for these days.”

“I’m sure that even Cy could find a use for Weaver’s skill set,” Irwin said, then gave him a nod of greeting and wandered out again.

Later, walking to the lunch he’d promised Stuart Fossum, he used his personal phone to call two Tourists. Practicing bad security, he’d scribbled their six-digit go-codes on scrap paper before leaving the office, and read them off. One Tourist he recalled from Bolivia, the other from Mauritania.

He paid for the lunch—Fossum’s insistence on seared Kobe beef with a truffled herb salad made the expensive meal ludicrous—with his own credit card. His guest handed over the folder of seven files without a word, then launched into an extended harangue about the CIA. Drummond played along with it, but cut the meal short when his phone rang and he was called back to the office. In fact, it was Milo who called. Sticking to their prearranged signal, Milo said, “Did you talk to your friend Gallagher yet?”

“Not yet. Later in the afternoon.”

“Look, I put together a CV last night that I think you should show him. Little more fleshed out. Can I bring it by now?”

“I’m not in the office.”

“Can we meet at the Staples in Herald Square? I’m heading there to do up a copy. Then I’m off to Jersey.”