She had no real plan other than to take it all in, to get the scent of a place she’d never visited before. A sleepy town that, for one week a year, became the epicenter of the world’s wealth, all under the theory that the collision of ideas and money could make the world a better place. Which was, she knew, a bit of a joke, even to the attendees who paid, at a minimum, $75,000 for an invitation. Many paid it not because they thought they could build a future utopia—few even attended the endless forums where earnest humanitarians prescribed solutions to the world’s ills—but because in the space of a few days they could meet more powerful people than they could in a year of flights in their private jets. And here they were, all around her, shoulder to shoulder.
Or, no. Not really here—for up ahead, in front of the Congress Hotel, which was part of the Congress Center where the Forum took place, was a line of black-clad Swiss soldiers toting submachine guns. There, behind that line, was where the world’s most powerful had wrapped up the Forum’s first day and were sipping short drinks and glad-handing one another and discussing the maximization of profit. Among them, but kept at a distance, were invited guests like the environmentalists—sixteen-year-old Greta Thunberg and ninety-two-year-old David Attenborough. What did these idealists do among the financial elite? They guilted and cajoled, and the businesspeople smiled and told them what great work they were doing, then passed them off to others so they could get back to the real work of the Forum: mergers and acquisitions.
Or was she being too cynical? Probably. But a lifetime of ups and downs had taught Leticia Jones that cynicism was the only way to see the world for what it was. As an added benefit, cynicism left little room for disappointment, and quite often you could even be pleasantly surprised.
She was turning to leave when she noticed a face among the crowd, off to the left. Chinese woman. Xin Zhu’s agent, who had saved her in Shanghai. A little shorter than she remembered, but just as stern faced. Standing under the flags of the Migros supermarket, hands deep in her pockets, watching. Leticia approached slowly, the way you approach a potentially feral dog, and looked out for her inevitable colleagues. She only spotted one, a man with a phone to his ear eyeing them from across the street.
“I had no expectation of ever seeing you again,” Xin Zhu’s agent said.
Leticia stuck out a hand. “You never told me your name.”
Without hesitation, the woman took it with a firm grip. “Li Fan.”
“How did you find me?”
“We knew you would come here,” Li Fan said, her voice as sharp as it had been in Shanghai. “You and Milo Weaver and Alexandra Primakov. And whoever else is still alive. So we joined Vice President Wang Qishan’s entourage and sent everyone out to wait. You were not hiding, were you?”
Leticia shook her head and began to walk back toward Dorfseeli Park; Li Fan joined her. “You know I’m supposed to meet with your people tomorrow, right?”
“Second Bureau,” she said. “Not my people.”
“Should I be worried about it?”
“You should always be worried,” she said, and that was when Leticia decided she liked this woman. “We in the Sixth Bureau have to be careful. Why? Because of Milo Weaver’s stupidity.”
That surprised Leticia. Had Xin Zhu actually told his underling that Northwell held evidence that, if decrypted, would get him killed? “I hear Xin Zhu has disappeared,” Leticia said diplomatically.
Li Fan shook her head. “He has stepped back, yes, but he is still very much involved.”
It was a kind of answer, so Leticia focused on the matter at hand. “You told me before that Northwell’s friends in the Central Committee hold a lot of influence over the Second Bureau.”
“That is correct.”
“Does that mean I’ll be killed tomorrow?”
Li Fan shook her head. “You are not important; Milo Weaver is not important. His files are important.”
“Northwell has his files. So, I expect, does the Second Bureau.”
“They are unable to read them.”
Ah, there it was—the answer to the most urgent question. And it was the first piece of good luck she’d heard in a very long time. “Are you telling me that after three months they still haven’t decrypted them?”
“That is what we understand,” Li Fan said, almost gliding by her side, her head tilted up to look at Leticia, small eyes very still. “Milo Weaver has very good hackers.”
“Do you know the deal Milo’s offering?”
“The files for help taking down Northwell.” She frowned. “All of the files?”
“All but a very few exceptions,” Leticia said.
“What kind of exceptions?”
“The kind Xin Zhu would appreciate.”
Li Fan did nothing to suggest she understood what Leticia was getting at, but her sudden lack of curiosity seemed to speak volumes. She said, “You do not have to talk us into it. Did you look at the map as I asked?”
“I did,” Leticia said. “They’re trying to disrupt the Niger Chad pipeline before it’s even built.”
“We cannot let that stand.”
“Then I shouldn’t bother meeting with the Second Bureau at all.”
Li Fan shook her head. “If you don’t go, they will warn Northwell. Northwell will take precautions. And you will lose your chance.”
Leticia nodded, appreciating her point, then told her where they would assemble everyone, and when.
“Who else is joining this?” Li Fan asked.
“We’ll find out when we all meet.”
“CIA?”
Leticia gave her a lopsided grin. “We’ll know when we know.”
“Okay,” she said. “Just don’t be stupid this time. I cannot save you here.”
“I’m betting on the crowds to protect me.”
“I do not gamble,” Li Fan said, nodding, then turned and headed back into town, her colleague across the street abruptly turning around to follow. Leticia continued to Dorfseeli Park, and after the bus ride back to Lake Davos drove back to Küblis. In one of the long tunnels, where the lights flashed by in an endless sequence and she felt as if the world outside this futuristic tube had vanished, she called Milo. He agreed with Li Fan’s assessment that there was nothing to do but to go through with tomorrow’s meeting, but Leticia didn’t like it. She’d risked her neck quite enough for the Library; she’d suffered months of grueling solitude with Milo in Laayoune, preparing for this day. And at the last minute she’d been thrown a curveball.
The tunnel ended, and she was back in the world again, and it was unfortunately the same as it had been before.
What to do? Stick to the plan as Milo wanted? Because no matter how it looked to others, she was certainly not a librarian, and she would make her own decisions, particularly when those decisions could decide how long she remained alive.
Back at the Terminus, Dalmatian was poring over maps of Davos, and when she told him what had happened he sighed heavily and said, “Well, we should have expected this.”
Once again, she wondered why she didn’t just abandon ship. It was a rule she’d maintained her whole life, to always know where the exit was. Without that option, she couldn’t function. The same was true now. In her pocket were car keys; in the lot there was a car. She knew how to get her hands on money. Leaving was always an option.
5
After a night’s sleep in Erika Schwartz’s too-soft guest bed, Alexandra climbed into a Mercedes that the Germans had confiscated from Montenegrin smugglers. It stank of cheap cigarettes, so she cracked the windows, letting in cold mountain air during her three-and-a-half-hour drive that cut through the pristine, tiny kingdom of Liechtenstein on her way south.
She stopped short of Davos, in Serneus, and checked into a bed-and-breakfast as Vivian Wall. In her room she opened her laptop and streamed the World Economic Forum’s pre-event: the International Monetary Fund’s World Economic Outlook—and it was a gloomy one. The world economy was slowing, leading to higher volat
ility and heightened risks of sharper decline in global growth. One ripple effect was geopolitical: If vulnerabilities weren’t addressed, the world could see an increase in the advance of authoritarian regimes. Milo, who was still reconsummating his marriage in the Black Forest, had been onto something after all.
She didn’t leave until eight o’clock, about the same time Li Fan found Leticia on the Promenade, and before getting into the car she checked in with Poitevin, who was renting a room south of Davos. He was already in town, he told her, and was ready.
She parked near the Davos Platz train station on the southern end of town, and from there she walked up the lower Promenade, where some stores had been taken over by countries eager to show off their investment possibilities. Benetton had become a display for Saudi Arabia, which, only three months after they had butchered Washington Post columnist Jamal Khashoggi in their Istanbul consulate, was probably a tough sell. She passed camera crews for Deutsche Welle and Russia Today, and even spotted a man with a microphone speaking American English to a pedestrian—his clip-on name tag identified him as working for NPR. And when she looked up, she caught a glimpse of movement on the rooftops: white-clad snipers with long rifles.
The Chämi Bar looked like the front of a traditional village house that had been slammed against a modern apartment building, but Alexandra recognized it by its sign: a ladder and a top hat. She didn’t go inside immediately, though. Instead, she continued on, peering into its unhelpfully curtained windows as she passed, then waited by the window of a clothing store called Blue Lemon.
Only now did she see Poitevin, on the other side of the Promenade, almost parallel to her. He looked tired, which she imagined he was. After trading boats with Milo, he’d piloted the old fishing boat north along the African coast to Ben Khlil, where he’d waited in vain for Griffon to pick him up. The next morning, he’d caught a half-day bus to Agadir, then waited a day in Al Massira Airport, sleeping outside on the curb, until a Lufthansa flight brought him to Frankfurt at about the same moment Alexandra picked up Milo, Leticia, and Abdul Ghali in Spain.
They met eyes, but only briefly, and once the pedestrians around her had moved on she entered the Chämi Bar, with its sloped ceiling, red walls, Christmas lights, and exposed beams. It was busy and loud with multilingual chatter and rock music. To the right, on one side of the bar, a three-piece band was setting up, and on the other side of the bar was the man Erika had told her was named Francis, identified by the copy of The Daily Mail on his table—probably the only person in Davos who would dare to be seen with a copy.
As she approached, she noticed he was eating a hamburger and drinking from a tall glass of pilsner, so she stopped to order an eighteen-year-old Chivas Regal on the rocks. By the time she reached his table, Francis was cleaning his face with a napkin, half rising, holding out a hand. “Hello, hello,” he said. “Ms. Primakov?”
Friendly. Maybe a Home Office clerk giddy to be handed a plane ticket. But they wouldn’t have sent someone like that, would they? He pumped her hand, then settled down. “Have you tried the burgers here?”
“No,” she said, and sipped her Scotch. “How much have you been read in on?”
“Oh,” he said, sounding disappointed they wouldn’t discuss mountain cuisine. “Well, there was nothing on paper, understand. But this little mustached German came by the embassy in Berlin.”
“Oskar Leintz.”
“Yes, exactly. BND. Talked us through it.” Francis hesitated, chewing the inside of his lower lip. “Hard to swallow, to be honest. Still, I did my due diligence, and everything he reported was confirmed. But my colleagues asked, did these facts really add up to his conclusions?”
“What about Oliver Booth?”
He raised his brows, rocked his head. “That was interesting, wasn’t it? Nasty bit of insider trading. The feeling at home is that this is a case that can be pursued, and will be in due time.”
“Due time?”
“Years, I’m afraid,” he said, smiling with his eyes. “Have to separate the wheat from the chaff.”
“And Tourism?” Alexandra asked.
He cleared his throat, his smiling eyes shifting to take in the people around them, then leaned closer. “Very interesting. Now, this was news to me, the American department. Not to the higher-ups, of course, and when the file was shared with me I frankly found it all hard to believe.” He raised a finger. “At first. Again, our people were able to verify a lot of what Mr. Leintz reported.”
“So you believe it,” she suggested.
He leaned back again, opening his body with spread arms. “What’s belief? The evidence does suggest, yes, that what he says is true. And so follows the question: What now? And why should the Home Office be bothered?”
“Mr. Leintz didn’t tell you why?”
A short shake of the head. “He did not.”
Now she was the one who pushed her Scotch to the side and leaned in. He followed suit. Their faces were close, and his breath smelled of overcooked beef. “For its bother, the Home Office would receive fifteen years of secret intelligence reports from all around the world.”
“From this Library?” he asked in a high whisper.
“Exactly.”
“And what, might I ask, must we do for this treasure?”
“Help us bring down these new Tourists.”
He pursed his lips, as if preparing to kiss her, then sipped his beer. He began to count on his fingers. “Britain. Germany. And…?”
“We’re meeting with China and Russia.”
“The United States?” he asked, his speech quick, as if it were a question he’d arrived ready to ask. She remembered Erika’s warning.
“We are in discussions with them now.”
“How are they leaning, if you know?”
“Oh, they are in,” she lied. “We’re just settling details.”
He nodded approvingly. “Well, I can certainly put this to my people. How shall I get in touch with you? Through Mr. Leintz?”
She shook her head. “If you can help, then join us. Thursday night. A restaurant outside of town. I’ll give you the address.”
“Thursday?” he asked, frowning. “The Forum ends on Friday. Isn’t that … cutting it short?”
“We want everyone to have enough time to consider the offer. The consortium’s annual meeting will occur on Friday.”
“Where?”
“We’ll know by Thursday.”
“Hmm,” he hummed, then chewed his lip. “So this is an intervention, yes?”
“Something like that.”
Out in the street again, Alexandra worked her way back down to the train station, and on quieter Tobelmühlestrasse Poitevin caught up with her. “Good to see you,” she told him, which, after Griffon’s unexpected death, was even truer than usual. A month after the Library disbanded, she’d posted the recall message at the IP address that each librarian had learned upon joining, but which had never been recorded in the files. It was a simple advertisement, the kind you would find in small, local papers, asking for volunteers for a study of transcontinental library classification systems. Sixteen librarians had replied, but in order to avoid exposing them all over again, she’d only brought in Poitevin, who, along with Dalmatian and Leticia, would suffice for now. The other fifteen had been useful in other ways, gathering intelligence and redistributing the Library’s physical assets to safe spots all over Europe.
Poitevin, sounding a little out of breath, said, “How did it go?”
“I don’t know,” she told him. “I really don’t.”
6
When I left the gate at Madrid Airport, all I had in my wallet was a few Moroccan dirhams and about two hundred dollars. I had credit cards but wanted to wait before using them. I changed the dollars into euros at a counter, then took a taxi into Madrid, wishing that I had Laura there to translate for me. In broken Spanish I asked the driver for a cheap place to stay, and he took me to the Room007 Ventura Hostel, a place for travelers a decade
younger than me—eclectic art on the wall, a communal bathroom, and a bedroom I had to share with a surly French backpacker. But it was only thirty dollars a night, and the Frenchman left me alone throughout the day.
For forty-eight hours, I wrote with my thumbs, directly into my phone. Everything I had seen, everything I had heard, and everything that I believed the Agency should follow up on. I even wrote about Haroun, because they knew about him already. And I told them that the only course of action was to send a team to Davos to assist Milo Weaver and his librarians. Which sounded like the name of a band, but I didn’t mention that.
When I finished, having missed meals in my obsession, my thumbs cramped into claws, I passed out with the phone hidden under my stomach, and when I woke on the second morning I reread it, making few changes to the text file that ran over ten thousand words. I used the hostel’s computer to attach it and four big audio files to a message addressed to Paul’s Agency email:
Paul, I don’t know what you’re going to do with this, or what the others will say. But if the Agency doesn’t act on the information, I will be forced to release copies. See you in Davos.
I didn’t know who I would release the report to, so I didn’t say. Paul would fill in that blank with whatever the worst option was. After pressing SEND, I took a taxi to the train station, where I scanned the departures board. I was presented with so many possible choices, all over Europe. But my destination was no longer up to me. I took out my credit card.
It was after midnight when I powered up my phone again and made the call. “Hey,” I said when she picked up.
“Abdul—oh, God, are you all right? Where are you?”
For some reason the emotion in Laura’s voice startled me. “I’m fine. Sorry I couldn’t call before now.”
The Last Tourist Page 27
