2
“PIÑA COLADA, doll,” said Francine, her loose jowls baking in the sun. “Coconut cream this time, okay? Those milk-coladas just don’t do it for me.”
“Sí.”
She watched the young waiter walk barefoot across the white sand back to the clubhouse, then turned to where Bill and Gina were huddled under an umbrella.
“What?” Francine asked them. “I’m too old to worry about my figure.”
From behind sunglasses and a novel, Gina said, “I didn’t say a thing,” because she hadn’t even been listening. Old age, it turned out, had robbed her cousin of the ability to shut up.
“What’s his name? José? Jesus? He is adorable.”
The ice in Bill’s whiskey had melted, and the colored water was now beach temperature. He wished he’d asked the waiter for another, since he wasn’t sure he could actually make the long walk to the bar. Eternal sunshine, which over that last nasty Jersey winter had sounded like God’s Own Cure, turned out to have its drawbacks. Daily baths of sunscreen that stank up their condo, perpetual sweat, and the unending prattle of Francine’s mildly racist banter.
“I bet he’s got nineteen adorable brothers out there somewhere picking oranges. He’s the lucky one.”
“His name is Juan,” Gina said.
“What?”
Bill had had his Times subscription rerouted south to him, and he was still making his way through yesterday’s copy. As bad as it was, the life they lived here—sleeping in, the lazy wash of surf, and the drinks delivered on small circular trays—was better than the rest of the country, which was why he’d agreed to extend their stay another month. Tuesday had seen some of the worst of the demonstrations, with downtown Chicago turning up four dead in clashes between anarchists and police. Spontaneous demonstrations had brought Tribeca to a standstill, so that no one could drive anywhere in downtown Manhattan, and last week armed members of the resurgent Massive Brigade had taken over a derelict factory in Oakland and proclaimed themselves the Republic of the Bay.
All of it, Bill knew, was doomed to fail, and when it did there would be more bloodshed.
David had called a couple of weeks ago; his apartment was one epicenter of the organizing, and he’d been swept up by his students’ enthusiasm. “What about Ingrid and Clare?” Bill had asked.
“I don’t know” was his reply, but in that answer Bill sensed that, more than the students, Ingrid was the reason he had taken to writing daily dispatches posted to radical websites, chronicling the acts of civil disobedience that had, over the last months, become fashionable. All you have to do is decide was David’s most-used catchphrase.
The waiter returned with Francine’s drink and asked if they needed anything else. Bill didn’t bother asking for the whiskey, because he’d become distracted by a second-page story of one of his ex-clients, a wildly popular actor who had expressed his solidarity with the Republic of the Bay. How many of his fans would now be swayed? How much would be destroyed before people came to their senses?
Francine took a sip and frowned. “I told Jesus to use the cream.” She craned her neck. “Adorable but dumb as a post. Where is he?”
“You know,” Bill said, unable to control himself, “when the Revolution arrives here, yours is the first neck adorable Juan is going to slit.”
For the first time in history, Francine was speechless. Gina, laughing, lowered her book and turned to give him a grand smile. Then she took off her sunglasses, squinting past him. “Is that…?”
He turned to see two figures, women, walking toward them along the shoreline. Initially, they were silhouettes, and then the sky’s lone cloud shifted and he could make out details. “How about that?” he said as he grunted, pushing himself to his feet. He walked toward the woman he’d realized was Ingrid, who was holding a baby covered in a sheet as protection from the sun. Her hair was tangled and sun-bleached, but she looked healthy. With her was a taller woman, brunette, gorgeous. “Good Lord,” Bill called. “Look at you!” Gina caught up to him and clapped her hands together.
“Who is that?” called Francine.
They walked together to meet Ingrid. After the kisses, Gina took Clare, and together they cooed at the baby. Mackenzie introduced herself and shook their hands; then Ingrid said, “Hey, you mind if we crash with you for a few days?”
“Thank Christ,” said Bill. “A change.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Middleman took five years from idea to final draft, while my previous novel took only a couple months. Perhaps this is because it was my first book in a very long time to be entirely written in the United States, where the political and cultural noise is, for me, the most distracting. Perhaps it’s because this was my first novel to focus entirely on American themes. Or—and this might be the most convincing—I simply didn’t know what I was doing. At book number eleven, I can say that anyone who claims novel writing becomes easier with time is either lying or not doing it right.
Whatever the reason, the first draft required a serious rethink. While it juggled the same characters and much of the same story line as the version you’re now reading, the tone was off by a mile, and the story was hobbled by poor choices. I was wrestling with subjects I knew well and cared about deeply but had never before fully committed myself to, and that inexperience showed.
My ever-patient editor, Kelley Ragland, who has shepherded every book of mine to publication, was sensitive to these problems, and, as always, was able to see the forest among the many misshapen trees. She saw that, for all its flaws, The Middleman had something to say about the world we were living in. She also knew that it would take time for me to draw that message out, and was perfectly willing to give me that time.
I stepped away from the novel in order to create a television show, Berlin Station, and by the time I returned to America the country had, on the surface at least, become a different place. The presidential election had exposed long-hidden fault lines, producing tectonic shifts not only in government but in how Americans spoke to and regarded one another. The Middleman was suddenly more timely that it had seemed a couple years before.
Upon receiving that first draft, a less perceptive editor would have said, “Hey, everyone writes a dud eventually. Why don’t you try something else?” But Kelley’s astute editorial eye saw what this book could be, and she had the wisdom to encourage me to continue.
After knowing her for fifteen years, both as an editor and a friend, none of this is a surprise to me, but it is no less appreciated.
ALSO BY OLEN STEINHAUER
All the Old Knives
The Cairo Affair
An American Spy
The Nearest Exit
The Tourist
Victory Square
Liberation Movements
36 Yalta Boulevard
The Confession
The Bridge of Sighs
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OLEN STEINHAUER, the New York Times bestselling author of ten previous novels, including The Tourist and All the Old Knives, is a two-time Edgar Award finalist. He is also the creator of TV’s Berlin Station. Raised in Virginia, he lives with his family in New York and Budapest, Hungary. You can sign up for email updates here.
Thank you for buying this
St. Martin’s Press ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
The Brigade
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
After the Party
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
The Age of No
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
The End of Analysis
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Circumnavigation
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Acknowledgments
Also by Olen Steinhauer
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE MIDDLEMAN. Copyright © 2018 by Third State, Inc. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Steinhauer, Olen, author.
Title: The middleman / Olen Steinhauer.
Description: First edition. | New York: Minotaur Books, 2018.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018004424 | ISBN 9781250036179 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250036162 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Undercover operations—Fiction. | Terrorists—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Thrillers. | FICTION / Suspense. | FICTION / Espionage. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3619.T4764 M53 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018004424
ISBN 978-1-250-19956-0 (signed edition)
eISBN 9781250036162
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: August 2018
The Middleman Page 31
