An American Spy

4

A little after eight, he found Dennis Chaudhury at a window table of the Twelfth Street Bar amp; Grill, a placement that struck him as sloppy. “Where’s your friend?” Milo asked as he sat down.

On Chaudhury’s plate lay the remnants of a burger and fries, and he tapped the corners of his mouth with a napkin as he spoke. “Prior engagements. You want something to drink?”

Milo gazed out the window at the busy evening street; there was no way to know if some other shadow had been brought in, and there was no point asking. He felt a strong desire for a vodka martini, wondering just how much damage it would really do to his insides. “Tonic water.”

“Straight?”

Milo shrugged.

They didn’t start their conversation until the waiter had collected Chaudhury’s plate and delivered tonic water and a Beck’s. Until then, Chaudhury asked about the neighborhood; he had never been to Park Slope before and was surprised by how genteel the place was. “Expensive, though, right?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Life in the brownstone jungle.”

Milo smiled.

“But you make ends meet.”

“My wife does well.”

“Lucky man.”

Though there was no real justification for it, Milo didn’t like Chaudhury. Perhaps it was just that he’d been the bearer of bad news, the same bad news he’d had to deliver to Tina right after their dinner, the same bad news he knew he would have to deliver to Penelope before this man got to her. Or perhaps it was only that, knowing the extent of Alan’s madness, he felt in everything around him the weight of omens. He felt as if the settled life he’d finally achieved was going to be ripped from him.

Once they were sipping their drinks, Chaudhury leaned forward. “We’re assuming his trip to London was connected to everything he’s been doing over the last month or so. Correct?”

“I don’t know. What’s he been doing over the last month?”

Chaudhury settled back again and regarded Milo. “You’re not really going to play that card, are you?”

“Alan didn’t share.”

“You were his only regular friend in town.”

“He knew better than to open his heart to friends.”

Again, Chaudhury examined him from a distance. “We’re talking about an unbalanced man trying to take revenge on the Chinese. Can you at least tell me about his feelings?”

Milo let those words sink in before saying, “How’s any of this Homeland’s business, Dennis? He disappeared in the U.K., and now you’re bringing up the Chinese. You walk and talk like a Company man.”

Chaudhury shook his head at Milo’s evident stupidity. “Do you really believe everything you read in congressional documents? Sure, this isn’t our main line of business, but in this case we’re helping out our friends.”

“Friends?”

“Your former employers.”

“Since when did Homeland and CIA become friends?”

Chaudhury raised his palms. “Since forever.” He joined his hands. “In this case, the Company thinks it’s not a terrific idea to appear to be investigating the disappearance of a man they buried so deep that it drove him nuts.”

It was a fair enough point, and well within the realm of possibility. Whether or not he liked Chaudhury, in the end they were both interested in finding out the same thing, so Milo relented. “Some people thrive outside the Company. Others fall apart. I think Alan’s been falling apart. To keep from blaming himself, he-and not without reason-blames the Chinese.”

“He blames Xin Zhu.”

That was a surprise. “Homeland knows about Xin Zhu?”

“Yes, we know about Xin Zhu. We know about Tourism. We know how the one killed the other.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Just your tax dollars at work-a lot of them.”

Milo smiled.

“How well do you know Gwendolyn Davis?” Chaudhury asked.

“I don’t. Who is she?”

Chaudhury reached inside his blazer, pulling out a stack of five or so photographs. Quickly, he shuffled through them and turned a passport shot around for Milo to see. A sensual-looking black woman gazed back at him.

“Gwendolyn? Really?”

“So you do know her,” Chaudhury said, putting the photos away. “Gwendolyn Davis is the name she used in London. Last month in China, she used a Sudanese passport with the name Rosa Mumu. She also goes by Leticia Jones.”

“Jones was her work name. Before.”

“Tourism?”

Milo shrugged a noncommittal answer. He still wasn’t comfortable speaking such things aloud.

“Well, we know Alan met with her in D.C. Then we find out she’s in the Rathbone Hotel at the same time he is. By the time the hotel staff realized Alan wasn’t around to pay his bill, though, she was out of the country.”

“You’re not blaming her for this, are you?”

“Like I say, Weaver, we don’t know anything.”

“What was she doing in China?”

Chaudhury exhaled, considering the limits of what he could share. “We don’t know much, but she was meeting with people. Talked with a consular official, talked with a known terrorist connected to the East Turkestan Islamic movement.”

“Really?”

“I’m not lying, if that’s what you mean.”

There was nothing hopeful in any of these details. Was Alan now using Leticia to support Uighur revolutionaries who wanted to kick China out of East Turkestan and establish an Islamic state? Last year, these people had shot up cars full of Chinese in Pakistan and sent the videotape to Beijing. In Dubai, one of their cells was caught planning to attack an entire mall that sold Chinese products. There were perpetual rumblings that they might commit atrocities during the Beijing Olympics-which, of course, had the Chinese terrified.

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