“How is the family, Milo?”
“In good health.”
“Still in Zürich, on Hadlaubstrasse?”
Oskar still knew how to irritate him; anyone who pinpointed his family’s whereabouts could pull it off. “Yes,” Milo said, then twisted himself to look into the pinched face. “And your health? Not drinking yourself to an early grave, like Erika?”
Oskar was devoted to Schwartz, even now that she was living in the Black Forest, having faked her death. But Milo hadn’t poked at him for fun; he’d done it to see if the driver knew Schwartz was still alive. Apparently not, for Oskar’s mouth twitched uncomfortably, and he directed his next words to the driver: “You remember Milo, Lana? I told you about him. This man was once part of the infamous Department of Tourism. A man to be feared. A man to be reckoned with. But now? A minor UNESCO official. I wonder what he wants from us.”
Lana took a left turn, looping back toward the airport, but seemed pretty entertained. She said, “Maybe Mr. Weaver is back to his old tricks.”
“Terrifying,” Oskar judged. “Lana, I think the fear has made me weak.”
“You’re a comedy duo,” Milo said, but the funny thing was that while Oskar knew about the Library, and that Katarina Heinold was a patron, he was still making a show of ignorance. Which twisted the situation on its head. Lana thought she and Oskar were teasing Milo, when in fact Oskar was making Milo complicit in fooling his assistant. Not funny, no, but it had the feel of something like a joke, one that was in bad taste.
Finally, Oskar’s smile vanished, the fun over. “Milo,” he said, “please do tell us what’s going on. Your time is running out.”
Perhaps, if this had been someone other than Oskar Leintz, he would have told them that the Department of Tourism had been resurrected. That kind of information wasn’t really his to share, but it was an alarming development that should be known. But it was Oskar Leintz, so he just said, “You heard about Kirill Egorov?”
“You went to Algiers to meet with him.”
“You have ears everywhere.”
Oskar nodded slowly. “I do, Milo. I do.”
Milo told him of Egorov’s request, and what few details the old man had shared during their one conversation: His ward was connected to the death of Anna Usurov and had fled Moscow last month for Germany but must have continued to Paris, “because that’s where Egorov found him.”
Oskar leaned back, pursing his lips, looking very interested. Then he caught Lana’s eye in the rearview mirror. Something unspoken passed between them. To Milo, he said, “There was an uptick of activity in Budapest.”
“Budapest?”
“The GRU’s unofficial European headquarters. Viktor Orbán will let the Russians do as they like in his town. Just before Egorov was reported dead we picked up a lot of coded communication between Algiers and their listening posts in Buda, another burst when you were taken into custody by the Algerians. We could not decrypt the messages.”
“But you can guess.”
“We don’t like to guess. You know that.”
Lana drove past the spot where they’d picked up Milo and kept going. She said, “Maybe you have a guess.”
Both looked at him expectantly.
“My guess is that it has to do with Egorov and his mystery guest. Which is why I’m sharing this with you—I suspect you know who the mystery guest is. He or she came through your territory.”
Lana looked at Oskar in the rearview again. It was clear they both knew who Egorov had been protecting, but with his hard frown Oskar removed any possibility that they would share this information with Milo.
“If we do find out,” he said finally, “we will be sure to get in touch with you.”
Despite the ache in his twisted neck, Milo pressed on. “I assume you knew Egorov when he was consul in Berlin?”
“Erika knew him well. Long time, from the old days. They watched each other from across the Iron Curtain. Like she did with your father.”
“I’m told Egorov was on his way out with the Kremlin. Do you know why?”
Oskar cocked his head. “Egorov grew up in Ukraine, near Crimea, and some of his family was killed in the fighting four years ago. In an interview with Stern magazine he called Russian involvement another step toward the end of Russian greatness.”
“That would do it.”
In his pocket, one of Milo’s three phones vibrated. He checked it, saw Tina’s name, and disconnected it.
“Don’t let us stop you,” Lana said.
“I’ll be home in a few hours anyway.”
“So soon, Milo?” Oskar asked, sounding hurt. “What is the hurry? UNESCO business?”
Milo finally turned to look forward again, giving his neck a rest. “A parent-teacher conference.”
“Ah, children,” said Oskar. “Lana, did you not tell me they are delightful?”
“Never,” Lana said.
14
Frau Pappan, whose bony, frown-prone face never quite fit her Stevie Nicks–inspired wardrobe, shook everyone’s hands when they came in. The children weren’t to be part of the conversation—they were waiting in the anteroom—and Milo and Tina were introduced to Mustafa and Tazeen Abi, whose accents Milo found soothing until Mustafa began to shout at them.
“Halifa came home in tears! This is not why we left Lebanon, to have our child bullied by an American princess!”
“Who’s bullying who?” Tina demanded. “Maybe Halifa has a problem with Americans—a problem she learned from her parents?”
“Now, please,” Frau Pappan cut in, trying her best to sound gentle. “We’re here to solve problems, not create new ones.”
Unlike her husband’s, Tazeen Abi’s eyes remained on Milo and Tina throughout the meeting. She said little, but her gaze felt like a lengthy, accusing lecture. Milo tried to appear nonchalant, because nonchalance seemed like the right play here, and when his phone began vibrating in his pocket he crossed his legs and tried to ignore it. Trying—that’s what he spent the conference doing, though never quite successfully.
He also hadn’t caught up on his sleep yet. When he’d returned her call in Berlin, Tina had informed him that she’d moved the meeting to seven o’clock, so he’d taken a taxi home and sat with Alexandra in the living room to get a rundown of intelligence that had trickled in during his absence, and then listened to her complaints about Kristin and Noah. “I don’t know how you work with them.”
“They get the job done.”
They discussed the patrons’ discontent, Leticia’s refusal to join the Library (which Alexandra, like Alan, considered good news), and Oskar Leintz’s reticence. “He knows who Egorov was hiding, I’m sure of it. But he’s not going to tell me.”
“Then we let it go,” Alexandra said.
She was right. There were too many other things to keep track of to halt Library business for one little mystery. “I’d just really like to know what the Russians are up to.”
Over dinner, Tina explained what their strategy would be at the conference: Milo would have to take the lead, because she was sure that if she did she would let her anger take over. Sullenly, Stephanie picked at her chicken and sent Nexus messages to school friends, likely complaining about her parents. “What do you think?” Milo finally asked her, and she shrugged.
“Whatever.”
“No—I mean really. What do you think?”
Stephanie sighed. “You guys are doing this to make yourselves feel good. Fine. Do what you like.”
And then he was here, faced with a couple who had probably also worked out a strategy that, like theirs, had immediately fallen apart.
“Your daughter,” Mustafa said, “called Halifa an anti-Semite. Perhaps you do not realize how cutting those words are.”
“It was a judgment call,” Tina replied.
“I believe,” Milo said, “your daughter called ours a cunt. That, in America, is pretty cutting as well.”
Tazeen finally spoke up. “She certainly did not say t
hat.”
“What we have,” Frau Pappan said, “is a she-said-she-said conflict. Neither can be proven beyond doubt. In essence, they nullify each other.”
Tina turned on her suddenly. “This isn’t math. We’re discussing two young women, not formulas.”
“Yes,” Mustafa said, his temper rising again. “What are you talking about?”
And that was how it happened. In her effort to mollify two pairs of outraged parents, Frau Pappan had succeeded in becoming the focus of everyone’s rage. That, in its own way, solved the problem, uniting the parents against her, and when Mustafa shook his head and stood, saying, “This is no help,” Tina stood as well.
“You’re right,” she said.
With an apologetic look at Frau Pappan, Milo stood, followed by Tazeen. By then, Mustafa had opened the door, allowing them all a view directly into the anteroom. All four parents froze. On the bench, Halifa and Stephanie sat close to each other, their phones out, sending Nexus emojis, laughing together.
“You were useless,” Tina said as she drove them home through the darkness.
“Well, it worked out anyway,” he said, then yawned into the back of his hand. He glanced into the rearview, where he could see Stephanie focused on her phone, typing. “What do you think, Little Miss?”
She shrugged.
“Who are you on with?”
“Halifa.”
Milo and Tina looked at each other but said nothing. Then Milo’s phone hummed again in his pocket. He took it out and saw a Berlin number—the same number that had called during the conference. “Hello.”
“Weaver,” said a familiar male voice, thick with ostdeutscher contempt.
Milo sighed. “Lovely to hear from you, Oskar.”
“Are you back home safely?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“But not at home.”
“How do you know?”
“Are you heading home?”
“What’s this about, Oskar?”
At that point, Tina turned onto their leafy street, and he saw exactly what it was about. Parked across the street from their apartment building, just outside the ring of streetlamp illumination, was a black BMW with Berlin plates. Oskar Leintz leaned against it, phone to his ear, saying, “Let’s have a talk.”
15
Milo didn’t want Oskar anywhere near his family, but there was nothing to do about it now. When they parked, Oskar raised his hand to them, and Tina immediately crossed the street to meet him. “Mrs. Weaver,” he said, offering a hand, “I am so happy to finally meet you. Oskar Leintz.”
“You’ve known Milo a long time?”
“We are old friends.”
“He’s not a friend,” Milo cut in, hurrying to join them. “Professional acquaintance. Sort of.”
With a sudden expression of mawkish sadness, Oskar said, “Milo, that hurts.”
Stephanie showed no interest in any of this, only focused on her Nexus chat with Halifa.
“We’ll go to a café,” Milo said.
Tina shook her head. “Do you like Totenbeinli, Mr. Leintz?”
“Who does not?” he answered with a smile. “And please: Oskar.”
“Then come in, Oskar,” she said, and led him to their building. After a moment to collect himself, Milo followed.
Totenbeinli, or “legs of the dead,” were hard almond cookies that went well with coffee, and Oskar praised the batch that Tina had baked the week before. “You should open a restaurant,” he said.
“I like your acquaintance,” Tina told Milo.
As Oskar ate, Milo climbed upstairs to find Alexandra in the guest bedroom and told her of their visitor. Together, they came down to the kitchen and hovered, waiting for Oskar to finish flirting with Tina. Eventually, the three of them ended up in the living room. Stephanie was already up in her room, and Tina stayed behind in the kitchen as Oskar settled on the sofa, cradling his second cup of coffee.
“You live well here, Milo.”
“I do.”
“Better than you deserve.”
Milo sat in a chair across from him as Alexandra kept sentry at the wall. “Why are you here?”
Oskar sniffed and set down his cup. “Erika always had a soft spot for you. I do not know why.”
“She still does,” Milo said.
Oskar’s expression stiffened, and his eyes shot over to Alexandra.
“She knows,” Milo said.
Oskar shook his head, disgusted. “We had a deal, Weaver.”
Indeed, they had made a deal. The year 2015 had been a busy one in the West, with Brexit and the American presidential election looming, the continuing Ukrainian crisis, and Syrian refugees pouring into Europe and changing the political landscape. The Library had found itself at the intersection of all those power struggles. The BND had, too, and in a series of moves that soon passed beyond anyone’s control, Erika’s office had been responsible for the murder of three Russian agents. The Kremlin demanded her extradition, threatening to cut off Germany’s natural gas, and as under-siege politicians inched toward giving her up, Milo had helped to stage Schwartz’s quiet death in her suburban house in Pullach. The “deal” Oskar referred to had been a pact of silence that protected Schwartz’s continued existence and quiet retirement in the Black Forest, as well as maintaining the secret of the Library, which in 2015 was nearly revealed to the general public.
“Only three of us know,” Milo told him. “I couldn’t keep it from Alexandra or Alan.”
“Typisch,” Oskar muttered, then raised his head. “Anyway, Erika asked me to tell you about Joseph Keller.”
“Who?”
“The man Kirill Egorov was protecting in Algiers.”
Interested, Alexandra moved to a chair and sat down.
“He is a bookkeeper,” Oskar said. “British. Worked for Sergei Stepanov.”
“The head of MirGaz?” Alexandra asked.
Oskar nodded. “Two years ago, MirGaz absorbed its two largest competitors to become the world’s largest natural gas producer. Joseph Keller moved from London to Moscow, and he helped make Stepanov richer than he already was. Certainly richer than he needed to be. Arguably richer than he deserved to be.”
“But it didn’t work out,” Milo said.
“Oh, it did. He was there for a year, with a wife and two little boys, in a gated community outside Moscow. Living well, by all accounts. Until a month ago, when he boarded a plane and flew to Düsseldorf. It is a three-and-a-half-hour flight, and two and a half hours into the flight the Russians requested an Interpol Red Notice on him. Capture and send back home. We noticed it and called the Russian embassy. Asked what was going on. No one knew, and they said they would call us back. A half hour later, the Russians changed it to a Blue Notice. Just locate and get information on him.”
“Weird,” said Alexandra.
“We thought so, too. We suspect someone panicked and sent the Red Notice, then realized it was drawing too much attention and changed it. The story was that Keller had embezzled government accounts. But why were they afraid of the attention?” He opened his hands in an expression of ignorance. “So we used some Interpol contacts to slow approval of the notice, just by another half hour, so Joseph could make it through passport control. Then we put a team on him. We watched him max out his card to buy as many euros as he was allowed—about six thousand. Then he took a taxi to the train station and boarded the very next train, as if he didn’t care where it was going.”
“Where was it going?” asked Milo.
“South, to Cologne. From there he changed trains to reach Brussels, then Paris. We put one of our irregulars on it. He shared a hostel room with him, then took him out to a club. That is where it went wrong. Quite unexpectedly, two men threw him into a van and drove off. It was the last anyone saw of him.”
“What do the French say?”
Oskar scratched at his cheek, uncomfortable. “Well, we did not inform them of our presence.”
“Really?” That was Alexan
dra, surprised.
Oskar glared at her. “In the heat of the moment, we sometimes do lose track of protocol.”
Alexandra nodded, understanding, and Milo closed his eyes, trying to picture the sequence of events. “Luggage?” he asked.
Oskar cleared his throat, now looking even more uncomfortable. “Apparently, yes. Not luggage, but a plastic bag with documents.”
“What documents?”
“Pages. Our agent didn’t know what they were.”
Again, Alexandra let her surprise show. “You’re saying he didn’t look?”
Oskar shook his head sadly. “As I said, he was an irregular.”
Though it was disappointing, Milo wasn’t surprised. As much intelligence is gained as lost by stupidity. “So how does this connect to Kirill Egorov?” he asked.
“At that time, Egorov was in Paris for a conference on African security. Though no one saw Keller again, one of the two kidnappers was later spotted with Egorov. They were his people.”
“Did anyone follow up with Egorov?”
“We had someone approach him in Algiers, but he claimed ignorance.”
Alexandra settled deeper into her chair, frowning.
“What did the Russians do after that?” asked Milo. “Is the Blue Notice still active?”
Oskar smiled. “No—but it was followed, within hours, by Red Notices from the UK, USA, China, and Israel.”
“Why?”
“Different reasons. America connected the accountant to the Massive Brigade. Britain to computer hacking. China to money laundering. Israel to something else.” He waved a hand. “I forget.”
“All that for Joseph Keller?”
“Unlikely, isn’t it?” Oskar said. “But even more unlikely is this: Within two or three days, all the Interpol notices were canceled. Until you told me about Egorov’s request, I had assumed the Russians had just killed Keller in Paris. That, I think, is what everyone believed. But if Egorov was being straight with you, everybody was wrong.”
Milo nodded, seeing it now. “Egorov cheated his bosses. He let Keller live.”
“That is our working assumption,” Oskar agreed.
The Last Tourist Page 11
