Dead

Milo 's legs tingled and threatened to give out. He moved to the bed, settled down, and rubbed his face. "What're you talking about?"

Again, Einner hesitated, lifted his pen, but decided he could tell this without giving much away. "You left last night. You gave me the thumbs-up, so I powered it all up again."

"Okay. And?"

"She was just climbing into bed. Out like a light.”

“Sleeping pills," said Milo. "She took them when I was still there."

"Right. So there she goes. Off to sleep. After an hour, I left to get some food. Bill took over. I got back an hour after that. That's when I noticed-she hadn't moved. Not at all. She-" He paused, looking at the paper and pen, considering, but again changed his mind. He leaned to whisper in Milo 's ear. "For something like an hour, she hadn't moved an inch. She didn't even snore. Another hour passed-same damned thing."

"Verified?" Milo whispered back.

"Forty minutes ago. I went in and checked her pulse. Nothing. I made sure to take the flash drive.”

“But…" Milo began. "But how?"

"Bill thinks it was something in her pizza, but he's like that. I'm for those sleeping pills you mentioned."

Milo 's stomach cramped. He had been right there, watching her commit unintended suicide. He regulated his breaths. "Did you tell the police?"

"Really, Weaver. You must be convinced I'm an idiot."

Milo didn't feel like disputing that. He didn't feel anything beyond an acute hollowness. He knew it was the shock before the storm. He took the remote from Einner and muted the television, where Palestinian children were jumping in a street, celebrating something. "I'm taking a shower."

Einner took the remote to the bed, flipped to MTV Europe, and raised the volume. The room filled with French rap.

Milo crossed to the window and lowered the blinds, feeling numb all over except for the phenomenally loud pulse in his head.

"What's that for?"

Milo didn't know. He'd closed the blinds on instinct.

"Paranoia," said Einner. "You've got a touch of paranoia. I saw that before, but I didn't know why-not until last night. I checked on it. You-" He returned to his whisper: "You used to be a Tourist."

"It was a long time ago."

"What was your legend?"

"I've forgotten."

"Come on."

"Last one was Charles Alexander."

The room went silent-Einner had muted the television. "You're jerking my chain.”

“Why would I?"

"Because," Einner began, sitting up on the bed. He had a moment of thought, then raised the volume again. "They still talk about Charles Alexander."

"Do they?"

"Really." Einner nodded vigorously, and Milo was unnerved by this sudden flush of respect. "You left a few friends and a lot of enemies scattered across the continent. Berlin, Rome, Vienna, even Belgrade. They all remember you well."

"You keep delivering such good news, James."

Milo 's phone rang-it was Tina. He took it to the bathroom to escape the thumping music. "Hi, hon."

" Milo? Are you at a club?"

"It's the TV," he said, pushing the bathroom door shut. "What's up?"

"When're you getting home?" She didn't sound scared, just… "Are you drunk?" She laughed-yes, she was. "Pat brought over a bottle of bubbly."

"What a prince." Milo wasn't jealous of Patrick; her ex was just a mildly annoying fact of life. "What's the problem?"

She hesitated. "Nothing, nothing. Pat's gone, Stef's in bed. Just wanted to hear your voice."

"Listen, I've got to run. There's been some bad news here."

"Angela?"

"Yeah."

"She isn't… I mean…" Tina trailed off. "She in any trouble?”

“It's worse than that."

He listened to her silence, as she tried to figure out what was worse than being caught for treason. Then, somehow, she got it. "Oh Christ." She began to hiccup, as she often did when drunk, or nervous.

An Italian man Milo once knew liked to say, "There's something banal about grief. All that kitsch just turns my stomach." The Italian was an assassin, so his philosophy served to protect him from the emotional impact of his jobs. As he showered, though, Milo found himself feeling the same way about Angela. It turned his stomach the way he kept evoking her features and her tone of voice, her bright, pretty face and the way she had taken to Parisian fashions. He remembered her funnily seductive Grrowl. Unlike the emptiness of shock, he now felt as if he were full to overflowing with the kitsch of death.

When he came out of the bathroom, the towel around his waist, Einner was drinking room-service coffee from a tray, staring at the television, where two hundred or more Arab protesters shouted, fists raised, pressing forward against a high steel fence.

"Where?" said Milo.

" Baghdad. Looks like Iran, 1979, doesn't it?"

Milo slipped into a striped shirt. Einner again raised the volume-a move that had by now grown into an omen of important subjects-but he just watched Milo dress; he seemed to be thinking. As Milo pulled on his slacks, Einner said in his stage whisper, "You ever come across the Black Book? Or is that just one of those Tourism myths?"

In the young man's face, Milo saw a moment of naive expectation. For various reasons-in particular because he wanted Einner to quit second-guessing him-he decided to lie. The Tiger, strangely enough, had provoked honesty from him. "It's real enough," he said. "I tracked down a copy in the late nineties."

Einner leaned closer, blinking. "Now you're really jerking my chain."

"No, James. I'm not."

"Where, then? I've looked, but never got close.”

“Then maybe you're not meant to find it.”

“Give me a break."

Milo gave him the line he'd heard so many times when he was younger. It was the line that gave the Black Book of Tourism, whether or not it existed, more of an aura than it probably deserved. "The book finds you, James. If you're worthy, you'll find a way to put yourself in its path. The book doesn't waste time with amateurs."

Einner's cheeks flushed and his breathing became shallow. Then, perhaps remembering who he was, he smiled and lowered the television's volume to a bearable level. "Know what?"

"What?"

"You're a Class-A bullshitter, Milo Weaver.”

“You've got me figured out."

Einner started to laugh, then changed his mind. He had no idea what to believe.

On Milo 's suggestion, they left the hotel by the rear stairwell and slipped out through the service entrance. Einner insisted on driving, and as they sped along the Al toward Charles de Gaulle, Milo filled him in on what Angela had told him the previous night.

"You were supposed to call me, Weaver. Wasn't that our deal?"

"I thought you'd at least leave the microphones on."

Einner shook his head, frustrated. "We made a deal. I stick to my deals."

"You cleared it with Tom, didn't you?"

A pause. "At first he said no, but he called back and told me to do as you asked. But still, Weaver. You should've called."

"Sorry, James." He continued with Angela's tale of the young Sudanese radical convinced his mullah had been killed by the West.

"So he saw a European face," said Einner. "What's that mean?"

"It means the Tiger wasn't lying. He did kill Salih Ahmad. And probably not for the president. If I believe Angela's story- and I do-then I don't think she was ever in contact with Herbert Williams. I think Williams was spying on her. Maybe he worried she was looking into his identity-who knows? If she was tracking Rolf Vinterberg in Zurich, and if Vinterberg is connected to Williams…" Anything, really, was possible. "All I know is that Angela started collecting evidence, then she ended up dead."

"What about Colonel Yi Lien?" Einner asked. "You can weave whatever complicated story you want, but the fact remains that he got hold of information that she had access to. This Williams character was photographed with Lien. You're not seeing this straight, Weaver."