An American Spy

15

Leticia woke him a little after noon with a kiss on the nose as more prayers floated through their open window, and after he showered, she presented him with clothes. On three hours of sleep, she’d spent the morning on Tahlia Street, where she’d found a light Ralph Lauren suit with a green silk tie. Once he was dressed, she used a hotel comb to pull at his hair. “We should get rid of that gray,” she said fussily.

“I like my gray.”

She stepped back, judging his appearance, then said, “You know how a little gray makes a man distinguished? Well, that’s only true for some men. On you, it just looks old.”

“I’m only thirty-eight, Leticia.”

“Making it all the more sad.”

She modeled her own purchase, a black sleeveless drop-waist dress from Prada, with a pair of leather boots that reached to just below her knees, leaving most of her thigh bare. He wondered where she was getting this money. Those bottomless Tourism credit cards were a thing of the past.

It didn’t matter, though. None of these people mattered anymore. He’d had a night to reflect on everything, to truly grasp his helplessness, and had come to a decision. As soon as he talked to the Germans, it would be settled, and Alan Drummond, Xin Zhu, Nathan Irwin, and even Leticia Jones could go to hell.

“So?” Leticia asked.

“Very nice.”

“You know, we’ve still got time.”

Milo briefly considered it, for what did any of those old rules mean now? If you cut yourself free, you’re free of everything, even selfishness. He gave her a wink and collected his cash. “I’ll be in the lobby.”

“No questions?” she asked. “Not interested in where we’re going next?”

“You’ll tell me eventually,” he said and left.

Though her partner didn’t appear, the tall German woman crossed the lobby soon after he arrived. She gave him a significant look, then headed to a counter lined with in-house telephones and lifted one. He followed, grabbing another phone two down from her. He put the receiver to his ear, listening to the beep-beep of the dial tone as she said, “Take the stairs to the first floor,” then hung up and walked away.

He followed her instructions, and in a long corridor of identical doors he waited until, halfway down, one opened but no one came out. He approached quickly, because Leticia would be in the lobby soon, and when he stepped inside, he found a small, mustached man sitting on the corner of the made bed, hands resting on his knees. It was Erika Schwartz’s assistant, whom Milo had only known as Oskar, a happy participant in Milo’s torture a few months ago. Milo closed the door behind himself. In German, Oskar said, “Tell me one reason I should be sitting right here, talking to you.”

“I don’t know, Oskar. You’re the one who’s sitting here.”

“That’s my boss’s decision. Strangely, she feels like she owes you.”

“For the cigarette burns?”

Oskar wiped at the corners of his mustache. “Something else, apparently.” He stood then, and though he tried, he couldn’t quite manage a threatening stance. “She helped your idiotic father, and we nearly got ourselves busted for the favor.”

“My father?”

Oskar just stared.

“When?”

Oskar shrugged. “He asked for help extracting your wife and daughter, and-guess what? No wife and daughter. Me, I’m of the opinion you killed your old man. So why don’t you try to convince me I’m wrong?”

Milo blinked at him, feeling as if a remarkable coincidence had occurred. His father had gone for help to, of all people, the woman he was now asking for help. But was it a coincidence? Not really. Erika Schwartz had already been looking at Milo because of the Sebastian Hall name, and would probably have discussed him with Yevgeny. Who else would Yevgeny have gone to? Milo rubbed his face and said, “The Chinese have them. My family. A colonel named Xin Zhu.”

“Why did he take them?”

“He warned me he would do it,” said Milo. “It was my mistake. I thought I could outsmart him.”

Oskar nodded, as if he saw some truth in this, but said, “Now that you’ve summoned me, I assume you have something to ask.”

“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. Buhrle in Zurich, 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.”