“You’re an idealist,” I told him, the realization just then dawning on me. “To you, what’s not perfect is a complete failure. But that’s not the world. Those reports I read? They show me how messy everything is. Ironically, that makes me optimistic.”
“See?” Haroun said, as if I’d proven his point for him. “In the face of the impending disaster you’re optimistic. Face it, Abdul: The CIA will never make a difference.”
“And you?” I demanded. “Are you going to make a difference?”
“Of course not. But I’m not the one fooling myself.”
He’d pissed me off, but for days I couldn’t shake the argument. I’d go to the office, read reports, and send analyses up the ladder, and I started wondering what the point of it all was. Later, after Haroun died and Rashid was born, this question became more imperative. I had a son now, one who would have to survive in the world I was leaving him. It was no use telling myself that the world wasn’t my responsibility, the way Milo Weaver had done. And after the 2016 election, I thought that Haroun, had he lived, would have seen that moment as a milestone in the dissolution of the West. In newspapers and the blogosphere, pundits questioned the foundation of American democracy. It was one reason the Massive Brigade had been able to gain so many followers so quickly, and why its members felt that setting off bombs in shopping malls was a valid way to express themselves. They were expressing the hopelessness that Haroun had predicted. Idealists like Haroun and Ingrid Parker couldn’t stomach the imperfections that defined us as human beings.
And what was I doing about it? Reading reports and writing analyses that vanished into the bureaucratic abyss, while Rashid grew older and his mother and I grew further apart. Haroun’s vision of the world was coming to fruition. For me personally, for my country, and even for this organization that called itself the Library.
2
Our nearness to the Spanish coast was an illusion, revealed by the hour and a half it took to reach Huelva as the sun disappeared behind the Atlantic off to our left. Along the harbor were crowds, some waiting for arrivals, others waiting to board outgoing liners. I stood with Milo and Leticia, and together we looked down at hundreds of faces. Who were we looking for? Grace Foster, or the Tourists themselves, like the relentless Gary Young who had come at Leticia in Hong Kong, and after all three of us in Laayoune, then helped the fake Joseph Keller kill their colleagues? I didn’t know those faces; the only face I’d seen was the second man in Laayoune, who had walked calmly, pistol outstretched, and fired with the steady rhythm of an automaton. The memory still chilled me.
But would I have even recognized that face in the crowd? I doubted it. Disorientation had crippled me, making me useless. Milo Weaver’s story, the threat to my life, the sudden shift in my understanding of how the world worked. All of that, mixed with the sound of Laura’s voice and the prospect of surviving long enough to be with her again—these things undermined me entirely. My joints tingled; my vision kept going spotty. I was weak and strong and tired; I was exultant to return to solid earth. And my thoughts were a mess, but I would have time to sort through them on the long flight back to DC. For now, I allowed myself to walk down the gangplank with my protectors and not think about anything. I had given myself over to them and was free to let myself be pulled through the crowd. Women, young and old. Grizzled fishermen and sharp businessmen from Barcelona. Traders and tourists in so many shades. The throb and hum of humanity and life.
“Come on,” Weaver said.
I followed him to where a slender black man stood next to an Audi SUV, speaking with Leticia. He shook Weaver’s hand and then mine. “Dalmatian,” he said.
From the other side of the SUV a woman appeared, and seeing her hard dark eyes and the look on her face I tensed, imagining that this was Mrs. Gary Young or Grace Foster—but, no. Milo hugged her tightly, then introduced her to me. “Abdul, this is my sister, Alexandra.”
She shook my hand and looked me up and down, her judgment quite apparent, then turned to Leticia. “Thanks for keeping them alive.”
Leticia shrugged. “Griffon’s family?”
Milo Weaver’s sister nodded seriously. “Safe.”
Weaver, Alexandra, and I rode in the back, Leticia in the passenger seat, and Dalmatian drove us through the evening crowds and traffic out of Huelva and down the autopista through dark farmland, deeper into Europe. I had the strange desire to be back on that ferry, where all I had to focus on was the sound of Milo Weaver’s voice. Here, on land, everything moved and vibrated, and I had the nasty feeling my senses were lying to me.
An eye on the speedometer, Dalmatian said, “Papers in the glove compartment,” and Leticia took out an envelope and passed it back to Milo, who passed it to me. Inside was a plane ticket in my name from Madrid-Barajas to Dulles, direct, departing at 11:15 a.m.
“It’ll take us six hours,” Dalmatian said.
“All of us?” I asked, which provoked a laugh from Leticia.
Milo said, “Abdul, you’re our messenger. We’re not leaving you alone until you’re safely inside that airport.”
In coded language that was just beyond my understanding, Alexandra updated Milo on his family, who were apparently secure somewhere in Europe. Then she gave a rundown of the most recent Davos confirmations. “Oliver Booth just reserved his room at the Intercontinental. For Thursday.”
“At the end of the Forum,” Leticia said. “Which means we were right—they are meeting on Friday. We just need to find out what time, and where.”
By the time we passed Seville and turned north toward the rugged heart of Spain, low shrubs flashing in our headlights, it occurred to me to return to the most obvious question: “What exactly are you going to do there?” They all looked at me, maybe irritated, but I didn’t care. “You don’t have authority to arrest anyone. I don’t think you’re planning to kill them—you aren’t, are you?”
“I consider that an option,” Leticia interjected.
“No,” Milo said. “It’s not being considered.”
“Then what? You pull up to the meeting, and those people, those Tourists, cut you down. You die for nothing.”
“That’s why you’re important,” he said. “I don’t know why the Agency chose you, but I’m glad they did. You know how to listen.”
Was that my magical ability, the one that made me perfect for this particular job? What a sad superpower.
Alexandra focused on my face in the darkness and spoke to me for the first time. “What’s the alternative, Abdul? Let them do what they like? Say that this is just the way the world is, but at least we’ve got full refrigerators and nice cars?”
She was trying to shame me, and I let her do it because she was right.
“Once Keller returned to them,” Milo said, “they knew how much we’d put together. They’re never going to leave us alone.”
“Hello,” Dalmatian said, and the tenseness in his voice made us all look. He was squeezing the wheel and looking straight ahead along the dark country road to where two pale pickup trucks were parked, forming a V that blocked any passage. Dalmatian brought us to a stop fifty yards short. Leticia, Milo, and Alexandra already had pistols in their hands. I suddenly remembered I had one as well. I floundered, tugging it out of my jacket pocket.
“I don’t see anyone,” Leticia said, squinting through the windshield.
“They’ll be in the fields,” Milo said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Dalmatian was already switching to reverse, and we roared backward down the road until a pair of headlights switched on behind us, another pickup truck rolling forward.
Leticia pressed the button to lower her window and said, “Put me on that side.”
Dalmatian spun the SUV and screeched to a halt as Leticia turned and, with both hands, aimed her pistol out the window. She only fired twice, two ear-piercing booms, straight into the truck’s windshield. Glass cracked, and then from the rocky landscape there was a cacophony of pops and little flashes in the night as
hidden people began shooting at us. I ducked to the floor. Dalmatian punched the gas. We sped away, past the single pickup, and back into darkness. We’d left our attackers behind, but the car shook violently. I raised my head. Everyone seemed to be all right.
“Tire?” Leticia asked.
“Front, right,” Dalmatian said.
Calmly, he pulled to the side of the road and parked as Milo, Alexandra, and Leticia got out and watched behind us. I finally climbed out as well, but my knees were rubbery, and I felt nauseous. I went to help Dalmatian with the spare tire, but all I could manage was to crouch with him in the cold, balancing the replacement tire and holding the flashlight. From our side I couldn’t see the road, could only hear the other three pushing through underbrush. They were taking positions silently, like people who have known one another all their lives and no longer need to speak.
“Pass it,” Dalmatian whispered, and he traded my tire for his blown one. He was incredibly fast, setting the fresh one in place and picking up nuts, spinning the wrench like a professional. Which, I supposed, he was.
As he finished we heard a truck engine approaching.
“You wait here,” he told me, looking straight into my face. “Don’t move. Okay?”
I nodded.
He took the flashlight from me and walked around the front of the SUV to the road, the flashlight above his head. I was confused—was he signaling to the people who had just shot at us? Did this mean … was he betraying Milo? Then Dalmatian shouted in Spanish, some long stream of what sounded like angry abuse. The truck was so close. I heard it come to a stop and idle.
A new voice—female—asked him something in Spanish. He answered. Then a door opened and closed. I guessed the woman, or someone else, had exited the truck.
I saw movement in my periphery, off to the left. Leticia Jones rose from a shrub and fired twice into the road. Other shots rang out—a battle suddenly raged as Dalmatian appeared, running full speed back around the front of the SUV to me. He threw himself into the dirt and fumbled at his side, breathing so loudly that I could hear him above the gunfire. I saw what it was—a bullet had gone through his side, and blood, black in the night, streamed onto the dirt.
The firing stopped, but I wasn’t thinking about that anymore. I ripped open his jacket and found the hole gushing blood. I pressed on it. Blood spilled between my fingers, making them slick, and I had trouble holding on. Dalmatian moaned deeply and miserably. From somewhere, I heard Milo Weaver shout, “Keep driving and we’ll let you live!”
Who the fuck was he talking to? I shouted, “Dalmatian’s been hit!” Off to my left, Leticia looked over, but she didn’t come to join me. I supposed she had more important things to deal with.
“Milo Weaver!” a male voice called. “You have got to finally die.”
Who joked at a time like this? Psychopaths and Tourists. I pressed harder, but I didn’t think I was doing any good. Dalmatian’s hand came around and pressed on top of mine.
“Move on, Gary!” Leticia shouted.
“Is that Leticia Jones?”
“Five seconds and we open fire,” Milo called.
“He’s dying over here!” I shouted.
“Four seconds!” Milo called.
“You never made a difference, Weaver!” the man called back, and that was when I realized it was a voice I knew. I would have known it immediately if he hadn’t been shouting. If he’d been speaking in a cool, measured tone. But he hadn’t been. He’d been trying to make himself heard.
Beneath my hand, Dalmatian jerked violently. I couldn’t leave him. I couldn’t go and look. Was I right? No, I couldn’t be. The man finally put his truck into drive, and I heard it rolling forward, crunching rocks. I looked up to see it emerge, very slowly, from around the front of the SUV. The driver was hunched over the wheel, his head turned in my direction, maybe wanting to get a good look at whoever was dying. His face was lit by the dashboard lights. Our eyes met. And I was shocked beyond measure. From the way his eyes grew and his mouth fell open I was sure that he was, too.
Then my dead brother, Haroun, drove on, deeper into the no-man’s-land of Spanish countryside.
Shook.
My son’s favorite word felt right.
I was shook when Milo and I pulled Dalmatian into the SUV, and when Leticia took the wheel and we sped off. I was shook when Alexandra and Milo tried to get everything out of me. I was shook when Milo announced to the vehicle that of course this was why the Agency had sent me. They had noticed these new Tourists—had come across some leads—and one of those leads had been Haroun Ghali, a dead man who was not dead, a man whose own brother worked for CIA. Who else could they send?
“But it tells you they’re shooting in the dark,” Leticia said as she drove. “If they knew anything, they wouldn’t have sent him. They sent him on the off chance that the brothers would cross paths and Abdul would recognize him.”
“Desperation,” Milo said. “They’re running blind. Which means they’re going to want what we’re giving them.” He turned to me. “That story they told you about us supporting the Massive Brigade? They knew it was bullshit. That was just a way to frame it for you. They’re interested in the same thing we’re interested in.”
I had nothing to say because I was shook.
Leticia found a late-night clinic in Monesterio, and I used its bathroom to clean most of Dalmatian’s blood off me, though my clothes would never be clean again. The nurse on duty was horrified until Leticia took her aside for a conversation that somehow mollified her. I joined Alexandra and Milo outside in the cool night while Spanish doctors worked on their friend.
“I don’t understand,” I finally said.
Milo heard the wobble in my voice and spoke softly. He said, “A Tourist is an identity, and in order to be untraceable, in the old days we would often stage a death so they could be reborn under a fresh identity. That’s what happened to your brother. He didn’t die in 2009. He got a job. A job that required he drop contact with everyone he knew.”
“But … why?”
“Why did he take the job? There’s never only one reason.”
That wasn’t the question my why referred to, but not even I knew what I was asking. Why was Haroun chasing us? Why was this happening to me? Why had my brother become a monster? My why was all questions and none.
Leticia came out after an hour to tell us that Dalmatian had been sewn up but that they wouldn’t let him leave until he’d had at least six hours in their bed. “What about the police?” Milo asked.
“We have a deal,” she said, rubbing her thumb and index finger together. Then she looked me over critically. “Get him changed before his flight. But don’t come back here. Dalmatian and I will meet you there.”
I nearly passed out during the four hours it took to reach Madrid. We stayed on the outskirts, in Carabanchel, and Milo checked the size of my clothes and went into a men’s outlet that had just opened, eventually coming out with a complete suit. It was a good fit, but my shoes, beaten by their trek out of the Sahara, were permanently scuffed; once I got home I would have to throw them out.
We arrived at the airport with time to spare. In the car, Milo gave me my phone back. “It’s Saturday now. I’ll call your number on Wednesday. That should be enough time for them to make up their minds.”
“Okay,” I said, then handed him Collins’s gun. Not because of airport security but because I wanted nothing to do with it. I wanted nothing to do with anything, because I was shook.
Neither got out of the car with me, but when I entered through the automatic doors and looked back they were still in the idling car, both Milo and his sister watching me.
At check-in, the woman behind the counter gave me a bright smile and pointed me to the security check. After a long wait, I put my phone and filthy shoes into a plastic box, and on the other side of the X-ray machine took them back. I took a seat at the gate, surrounded by tired travelers. I was still so fucking shook.
Yes, I wo
uld have time on the plane to figure it out, to assemble my thoughts and outline what I would tell Paul, but I desperately wanted to understand it right then and couldn’t. Nothing quite connected. I had been filled with a story from the dark side of capitalism. Yet it still didn’t make sense to me, and making sense of things was what had given my life value. I was faced with a convoluted tale of excess that had suddenly become a ghost story that could only be cleared up by speaking directly with the ghost.
I heard my name over the PA system and saw that all the seats around me were empty. The stewardess at the Lufthansa gate was asking where Abdul Ghali was, because my flight was about to leave. She looked across the empty seats to catch my eye and turned off the mic. “Abdul Ghali?” she asked me.
I shook my head. “No, sorry,” I said, then got up and left.
3
After Madrid Airport, Milo and Alexandra drove north, diagonally through France, and all the way to the Black Forest. In total, it took eighteen hours, the two of them taking turns behind the wheel, stopping only to buy gas with euro bills and eat a long lunch in Bordeaux, where they spoke haltingly of the days ahead. When that conversation began to feel hopeless, Alexandra told him how well Tina and Stephanie were doing, which was encouraging, but eventually they wound their way back to failures.
“Where did we go wrong?” Milo asked, and Alexandra smiled wryly.
The Last Tourist Page 25
