Poitevin smiled and opened his hands. “Right on the buzzer.”
“So you’re not just a pretty face.”
She dressed quickly, and they walked the half hour down the Yincheng Middle Road to reach Yanlord Garden. The midnight cold bit, and the streets were empty save for early-morning workers trickling out of busses. Poitevin was upbeat and eager, and she asked how much time he’d spent in China.
“I’ve only been here once for the Library,” he told her. “Courier job.”
“Is Milo afraid of China?”
“Just careful,” he said, then lowered his voice: “Guoanbu.”
Xin Zhu, Leticia thought. That’s who Milo was afraid of. “Was anyone following you?” she asked.
“What?”
“The Pole stood out, but so did you. Were you followed?”
“I don’t think so.”
It was as honest an answer as she could expect, and as they made their way across the enormous park reserved for Yanlord’s residents she thought she could hear in the cold stillness the aperture shift of surveillance cameras and the wet movement of eyes watching them.
Poitevin brought her to a high tower on the southern end of the estate. Once they reached the foyer, she told Poitevin to stand down. “We don’t need to both go up there.”
“What am I going to do?”
“You’re going to keep an eye out.”
He sighed, as if he weren’t getting the respect he deserved for all he’d done, but then he shrugged. “Milo told me to follow your lead.”
“He did?” she asked, surprised.
She left Poitevin in the foyer, and in the cramped elevator pressed 16. It was a long, slow ride, and Leticia wondered how many crappy elevators, in how many cities, she’d ridden. Sometimes, like now, she rode them to interrogate people; a handful of times she’d headed up to kill someone. Other times she rode aspirationally, to collect payment for work done.
As she passed the twelfth floor, her phone vibrated. She answered it and heard gasping, the sound of someone running. “What?” she said.
“It’s a trap,” said Poitevin. “Get out of there.”
Leticia slapped the emergency-stop button, but it was too late. She’d arrived at the sixteenth floor, and the elevator lurched to a halt with a loud bang. She took a breath as the doors opened, and she found herself looking into the face of a young Chinese man in a black turtleneck gripping an automatic pistol in both hands, pointing somewhere around her stomach. Behind him stood two more men, also in turtlenecks, as if they were members of a boy band, but one that only played death metal.
“Gàn,” Leticia said, which was as close to “fuck” as she knew in Mandarin.
31
Alexandra’s apartment smelled musty, and when she went to open the window she needed to bang on the frame to shake it loose. She’d lived there for nearly twenty years, having bought it with the bonus that had followed her work on the successful defense of a TransBank CEO for insider trading. “Ill begotten,” her father had called the place when he visited on a rainy afternoon and made the offer of a job. It was wrong, he told her, that a banker could walk for financial crimes, while a teenager from the estates could spend a year in jail for smoking a blunt. “Don’t you want to be on the right side of history?” he’d asked in his high-bred Russian.
“I want to be on the right side of my bank account,” she’d answered, but that was just her wanting to get one over on the old man.
A decade and a half later, she put on some tea to brew and opened up her computer on the kitchen counter. She closed a tab for the RSPCA, where she’d been looking at a particularly adorable Shiba Inu, and did a quick search for Conservative MP Catherine Booth, age thirty-nine, narrow-gauge glasses and severe dark bangs. She’d been representing Sheffield Hallam since 2015, when she’d run on bank deregulation and the review of the National Curriculum. After winning, she aligned herself closely with the Brexit camp. Her office, Alexandra found, was among the overflows in Portcullis House. And there was a telephone number.
It took her a while to get through the Westminster switchboard, but eventually she was speaking to a soft-sounding young man who took the MP’s calls. She caught a whiff of tension in his lower octaves when she said she was writing a series on the history of the Brexit campaign for The Guardian.
“Hasn’t that been beaten into the ground?” he asked.
“We’ve uncovered a fresh angle.”
“Yes?” he asked. “Not the Russians, I hope.”
“No,” she told him. “Worse.”
That earned her a respectful pause. Then: “What could be worse?”
“Many things. But I’d prefer to speak about it with the MP.”
“Guardian, you said?”
“Yes, but I’m freelance.”
“And what did you say your name was?”
She hadn’t, but she had a name ready. “Vivian Wall.” It was a legend that she had used now and then when they wanted to get information out to the public quickly. And when Booth’s soft-spoken gatekeeper Googled the name—which she guessed he was doing at that very moment—he would find two recent pieces, one in The Telegraph, the other in The Times of Israel.
There—a quick intake of breath. He now knew from the sensational bylines that Vivian Wall wasn’t someone to brush off. “Yes, well. I do have an opening tomorrow morning. Can you be at Portcullis by eight-thirty? Twenty minutes, then she needs to be in a meeting. Will that do?”
“Why, yes, it will. Thank you very much.”
She went out for sushi and had a nice chat with a Bolivian banker she would have taken home, were it not for her morning meeting. Instead she went for a half bottle of rioja in front of the telly, absorbing the news of the world. A far-right candidate was set to win the presidential election in Brazil. Nigerian pirates had kidnapped the crew of a Swiss cargo ship. In the States, a Supreme Court nominee was being accused of sexual assault, while over in Afghanistan a protest against Northwell International soldiers had turned violent; three Afghans had been killed.
She thought of wily Leticia Jones, whom she’d spent a few hours speaking with in that Zürich hospital. She still didn’t entirely trust the woman, but felt like she understood her a little better. Leticia was, as Milo used to be, an action-oriented human being, but unlike Milo, Leticia felt obligated to take responsibility for things that weren’t her fault, or even her business. Alexandra disagreed. The world was as it was, and to think she could change it was hubris—which was the perfect word to describe Leticia Jones, and, before life had knocked him down a few pegs, her brother, Milo.
In the morning, she disembarked from the bus in front of Portcullis House fifteen minutes early. Across busy Great George Street, Big Ben was covered in scaffolding, looking like a half-undressed monster. On the ground floor, she showed a clerk her Vivian Wall press papers, had her photo taken for security, and was asked to wait in the large glass-ceilinged atrium. She took a seat at one of the scattered tables, looking up at the muddy sky, then eyed young people sipping coffee and communing with their phones. She checked her own. Nothing from Milo. So in preparation for her conversation she started a recording app that ran in the background, then switched over to her email.
“Ms. Wall?” asked a thin voice. She looked up to find the bangs and narrow glasses of Catherine Booth. An unsure smile and an outstretched hand.
Alexandra rose and took the hand. “Ms. Booth, pleased to meet you.”
Though she’d assumed she’d be whisked upstairs to an office, she was wrong. Catherine Booth sank into a chair, touched her fingertips together, and looked into Alexandra’s eyes in the manner of a born politician: I’m hearing you. “Nigel mentioned something about the Brexit vote?”
“Yes,” Alexandra said, then touched her phone on the table. “Do you mind?”
“I’d rather not,” Booth said without hesitation.
“Of course.” Alexandra pushed the phone to the side but still near. “I’m actually not intere
sted in Brexit.”
“No?” A hint of surprise, but only a hint.
“I’m working on a story about Joseph Keller. A British accountant who worked at MirGaz in Moscow until he disappeared a month ago. An Interpol Red Notice was issued for him.”
Booth’s face, smooth from a lifetime of creams and shade, did not reveal a thing. “Yes?” she asked.
“My understanding,” Alexandra said, “is that the request for the Red Notice came from your office. From you, in fact.”
Finally, Booth’s face changed, but it was so well trained that Alexandra could find no irritation in it. “Your story,” she said. “It’s not about Brexit but about Joseph Keller.”
“Correct.”
“And what, specifically, about him?”
“The charge against him has to do with computer hacking. However, I can find no one in law enforcement who has any record of it. No complaints. No warrants. Nothing.”
There—a momentary hesitation, a decision being made. Booth nodded, pursing her lips, then spoke gently. “Well, there wouldn’t be. The intelligence on him didn’t come from the Met.”
“Who did it come from?”
“From the intelligence services.”
“Special Branch? MI6?”
“I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you, Ms. Wall. Official secrets and such.”
“Then perhaps you can explain why the notice was withdrawn only a couple of days later. I’m unable to track the original notice down, just a record that it existed. Was Keller found?”
“It was taken care of, Ms. Wall. That’s all I’m at liberty to say.”
“I understand,” Alexandra said. “But the notice was a public document, and as such it calls for some sort of explanation. Is there someone from the intelligence services I could speak to, who would be cleared to say something on the record?”
Catherine Booth drummed her nails on the edge of the table, just once, then nodded. “I’ll have my people check on that and get back to you. Do we have your number?”
“Nigel does.”
“And an address?”
Alexandra almost hesitated. “I’m staying at a friend’s now.”
Booth nodded again and rose, sticking out her hand. In the distance, Alexandra noticed, a young man with a sad mustache and an iPad was looking on expectantly—Nigel, she guessed. As they shook hands, Booth said, “A pleasure, Ms. Wall. I don’t suppose you’re one of my constituents, are you?”
“If I lived in Sheffield Hallam, I wouldn’t be getting up this early to chase leads.”
Booth let out a full, throaty laugh. “Well, fortune favors the bold. And if it weren’t for Oliver, I wouldn’t be able to live there either.”
“Oliver Booth?” Alexandra said, only now making the connection that she should have made long ago. “Of TransBank?”
“You know of him,” Booth said, then shrugged. “My husband has always been more recognizable than me, sadly.”
“He’s in London?”
Booth frowned. “Berlin, I’m afraid. Do take care.”
Alexandra watched Booth join Nigel, and as they walked away the assistant glanced warily back at Alexandra. He had the expression of someone who was being scolded for putting a nutter onto his boss’s busy schedule. But she didn’t care. She remembered Oliver Booth very well. The bonus she’d gotten from helping represent his business partner, Sir Edward Acton, had bought her a lovely old flat in Hampstead.
32
“What?” Alan called, then shut off the noisy blender, opened it, and added two tablespoons of protein powder to his morning mix.
“Can you make it?” Penelope called from the living room.
“To what?”
“The Met.”
Right, the gala charity dinner, five hundred dollars a plate, all proceeds going to a legal fund for Honduran refugees stuck in southern-border cages run by private prison companies—it was boom time for the incarceration business. “Thursday, right?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Sure. Okay. But I can’t stay long.”
Penelope appeared in the doorway, her clothes looking slightly off. “You have to come.”
“Why?”
“Because we just got the best news—Gilbert Powell confirmed he’s coming.”
“The Gilbert Powell?”
“Is there any other?”
What were the chances? Gilbert Powell had only come to their attention in the last forty-eight hours, and now he was showing up at Penelope’s charity evening?
“See?” she said. “I deal with important people, too.”
He came close, eyeing her, then reached out and adjusted a shoulder strap on her complicated blouse—a mildly S&M mix of sheer fabric and dark straps. Half an inch to the right, and everything settled into place. “Very nice,” he said, then kissed her on the lips.
“You’re diverting,” she said. “I know you don’t like these people, but they’re no worse than UN diplomats.”
“That’s not a compliment,” he said, “but I’ll be there.”
Once she left, Alan drank his smoothie and looked through the news. It was all hell in a handbasket, but he was still optimistic. Despite insurgent patrons and a temporary headquarters move, the Library remained solid, and the fact that Washington hadn’t revived the Department of Tourism was stellar news after having lived the previous week looking over his shoulder, always expecting to find one of those dead-eyed monsters on his tail.
He had changed into sweats for a morning jog when the buzzer rang. A familiar woman’s voice said, “Mr. Drummond, may I come up?”
Beatriz Almeida was one of the less diplomatic diplomats he worked with, but she had never crossed the line by appearing at his home. Just as he would never consider heading over to the Portuguese complex of apartments on Madison. But he said, “Of course,” and buzzed her up.
He was waiting at his open door when she stepped out of the elevator and looked around hesitantly before finding him. Noting his old sweats, she gave him an awkward smile, and when he asked if she’d like some tea her wary expression suggested she’d never been offered a drink before.
“No, thank you. I’ll only be a minute.”
“Have a seat, then,” he said, motioning her to a chair.
As she settled in, Almeida crossed her hands on her knees and gave him a stiff smile. “Alan,” she said with finality. “I have come to ask you about Joseph Keller.”
He and Milo had never revealed that name to the patrons. “Who?”
“Please, Alan. We are not stupid. Milo Weaver gives us information, we compare notes, and we realize that he has found Egorov’s man in Algiers, and his name is Joseph Keller.”
Alan wondered how he should reply. Play dumb? He’d done that plenty of times, but in this case he sensed it would be self-defeating. Milo had gotten Keller’s name from the Germans, and Almeida had probably gotten it from Katarina Heinold. So: “He’s being kept safe.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know,” he lied.
“Is he with Milo?”
“Like I said, I don’t know.”
“Then where is Milo?”
Alan blinked slowly at her. “There was an attempt on his life.”
“Yes,” she said, impatient, “but where is he?”
“In hiding.”
“And you don’t know where.”
“I don’t need to know,” he said, then switched gears. “But one thing I do know is that you have made our work far more difficult.”
She touched a hand to her chest, all innocence. “Me?”
Christ, but these people could be trying. “You picked up Diogo Moreira. We were very clear—none of those people should be taken into custody. You just raised the stakes unnecessarily. You’ve increased the danger to Milo, to myself, and the entire Library.”
The accusation didn’t have much of an effect. Almeida lowered her hand to her knee and said, “Are you sure about that?” When Alan didn’t reply, she went on. “Yes
, we took him. We were afraid of what NATO secrets he had given, and could still give, to Putin. We interrogated him. We searched his home and office. Brought in his wife and daughters. Went through every bank account associated with anyone in his family. And do you know what we found?” She didn’t wait for a guess. “Nothing.”
“These people are good,” Alan told her.
“Not that good. We left no stone unturned.” She sniffed. “Perhaps there was a mistake?”
It didn’t make sense to Alan. Certainly they would find evidence of payments to Diogo Moreira—you can’t just hide the three quarters of a million dollars Keller’s list documented. Sistema de Informações da República Portuguesa, or SIRP, knew its job. “I don’t know what to tell you,” he said, which was true enough.
“It turns out Mr. Moreira is actually very upstanding. He takes a strong stance against the tide of chaos spreading across the globe.”
“Then I suppose you made a mistake, didn’t you?”
She glared at him, then glanced down and picked something—lint?—off her knee and flicked it away. “How can Mr. Weaver run the Library if he’s in hiding?”
Alan tried for a nonchalant shrug. “It can be done.”
“But not well,” she said, as if she knew. “Shouldn’t you take over for him? As his deputy that would be natural.”
“When it becomes necessary, I will. But it’s not necessary yet.”
She nodded with satisfaction. Everything, apparently, was clear now. She raised her chin, looking down her broad nose at him, and stood. Another stiff smile, and then she headed back to the front door. He followed. She paused at the door and looked up at him. “The next time you speak to him, let Milo know that the patrons are worried for him. We offer all our resources to help. Do not hesitate to ask us.”
“We won’t,” he assured her.
He opened the door. After giving him one more stiff smile, she took the hint and left. Alan sighed. His morning run was now out of the question.
An hour later, he watched two high school groups, one from Harlem and another from Queens, fill the UN lobby with chatter and cell phone alerts. Four teachers tag-teamed, running around the students, pointing forcefully and demanding a silence they would never get. Alan grinned at the sight as he showed his ID to the guard and headed through to the elevators.
The Last Tourist Page 19
