Читать книгу The Tourist - Olen Steinhauer - Страница 18

5

Special Agent Janet Simmons gazed at Milo across the scratched white table in the Blackdale interview room. Despite his size, her partner, Special Agent George Orbach, was clearly the inferior in their relationship. He kept getting up to leave the room, awkwardly returning with Styrofoam cups of water and coffee and lemonade.

Simmons had a fluid, engaging interview style, which Milo supposed was part of Homeland’s new training. She leaned forward a lot, hands open except when she pulled a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Early thirties, Milo guessed. Sharp, attractive features marred only by a right eye that wandered. The ways she positioned her beauty were supposed to close the psychological distance between interviewer and interviewee, making it less adversarial. She even pretended not to notice his stink.

After sending George Orbach out again to find milk for her coffee, she turned to him. “Come on, Milo. We’re on the same side here. Right?”

“Of course we are, Janet.”

“Then tell me why the Company’s working out of its jurisdiction on this one. Tell me why you’re keeping secrets from us.”

Mrs. Wilcox’s delicious lemonade was starting to give Milo a sugar high. “I’ve explained it,” he said. “We’ve been after Roth for years. We learned he’d crossed the border in Dallas, so I went to Dallas.”

“And you never thought to call us?” She arched her brow. “We do have a Dallas office, you know.”

Milo wondered how to put it. “I decided—”

“I? Tom Grainger no longer makes decisions in New York?”

“I advised,” he corrected, “that if Homeland Security were brought in, you’d send in the cavalry. The Tiger would spot it in a second, and go underground. The only way to track him was with a single person.”

“You.”

“I’ve followed his case a long time. I know his modus operandi.”

“And look how well that worked out.” Simmons winked—winked. “Another successful day for Central Intelligence!”

He refused to meet her challenge. “I think I’m being very helpful, Janet. I’ve told you that he had a cap of cyanide in his mouth. He didn’t like the idea of living in Gitmo, so he bit. You could blame Sheriff Wilcox for not giving him a cavity search, but I don’t think that would be fair.”

“He talked to you.” Her tone became gentle; her wandering eye came back in line. “You had a conversation. That deputy with the girl’s name—”

“Leslie.”

“Right. He said you had twenty minutes alone with him.”

“More like fifteen.”

“So?”

“Yes?”

Admirably, Simmons didn’t raise her voice. “So, what did you talk about?”

“A man like that, a superstar assassin—he needs more than fifteen minutes to start talking.”

“So you just sat there? Staring at each other?”

“I asked him questions.”

“Did you touch him?”

Milo cocked his head.

“Did you try to beat the information out of him, Milo?”

“Certainly not,” he said. “That’s against the law.”

She looked as if she were going to smile at that, but changed her mind. “You know what I think? I think you and the whole Company—you’re desperate. You’ve lost whatever shred of credibility you had left, and you’ll do anything to keep hold of your pensions. You’ll even kill for that.”

“It sounds like you’ve put some real thought into this.”

She let the smile appear this time; perhaps she thought he was joking. “Tell me what the Tiger had on you that was so damaging. Tom wasn’t running him, was he? For your dirty little jobs? I don’t know what you guys do in your tower, but I suspect it’s pretty nasty.”

Milo was surprised by her vehemence, but he was more surprised by her superiority. “I suppose Homeland doesn’t have any secrets?”

“Sure, but we’re not the ones on public trial. It’s not our time yet.”

George Orbach pushed his way into the room, clutching a handful of paper packets. “No milk. Just this powder.”

Janet Simmons seemed disgusted by the news. “Doesn’t matter,” she said, crossing her arms. “Mr. Weaver is leaving now. He’s in need of a good shower. I think we’ll have to talk to Mr. Grainger instead.”

Milo rapped the table with his knuckles and got up. “Please don’t hesitate to get in touch.”

“Fat lot of good that’ll do me.”

The morning storm had left as soon as it had arrived, leaving behind damp roads and moist, clean air. As he drove, Milo lit a Davidoff from the pack he’d broken down and bought when he filled up the tank. The smoke felt good, but then it didn’t, and he coughed hard, but kept smoking. Anything to cut the edge off the stink of death.

He hadn’t had his cell phone long enough to figure out how to change the ring tone, so when it woke up somewhere along Route 18 to Jackson, it played a stupid corporate melody. He checked to see if it was his wife, but it was Grainger. “Yeah?”

“Is what that bitch from Homeland says true? He’s dead?”

“Yeah.”

A pause. “Will I see you at the office today?”

“No.”

“I’ll catch you at the airport, then. We’ve got things to discuss.”

Milo hung up and turned on the radio, flipping through staticky country stations until, inevitably, he gave up and pulled out his iPod, which he’d listened to half this trip. He slipped in the earbuds, clicked the French playlist, and skipped to track five.

His head was filled with the quick, swirling melody of “Poupée de cire, poupée de son,” sung by France Gall, Luxembourg’s 1965 Eurovision winner, penned by Serge Gainsbourg. The very tune he’d taught Stephanie for her talent show, the performance he was missing.

He dialed Tina. Her voice mail picked up, and he listened to her story about not being in and the promise of a call if he left a message. He knew she was already at the show, next to an empty chair, watching their daughter sing Gainsbourg’s phenomenal hit. He didn’t leave a message. He’d just wanted to hear her voice.