11

By Friday, his anxiety had nothing to do with Adriana Stanescu, a possible mole in Tourism, the art extortion that was now complete (AP reported that a clinic employee had noticed the two paintings in the backseat of an abandoned car), nor even the fact that Alan Drummond would be fuming because he’d gone offline. Those were nothing beside this interminable wait in the Manhattan rain while students with knapsacks and cell phones passed him in pairs and solo. Those old worries meant nothing compared to this.

For the first time in months, he knew exactly why he was here. “Here” was the grounds of Columbia University, across from the high, majestic columns of the Avery Architectural and Fine Arts Library on a drizzling but unseasonably warm afternoon. The trench coat he’d picked up at Macy’s that morning kept his body dry, but he was still shivering. He had resisted the urge for more Dexedrine; a clouded head was the last thing he wanted.

One thing that might have helped him now was self-righteousness, an emotion common to men who’ve been rejected by their wives. In some men it leads to harassing calls or intrusions at four in the morning, or even haunting a loved one’s place of work, as Milo was doing now. Self-righteousness had never been part of Milo Weaver’s repertoire, though, and if Tina came out now and told him to leave, he would do so without argument-he felt sure of this. Self-righteousness is born of the conviction that you deserve something from someone; Milo, on the other hand, didn’t believe anyone owed him a thing.

His crime had been secrecy.

Among other things, he had hidden the identities of his parents-his real parents-from her. Yevgeny Aleksandrovich Primakov and Ellen Perkins. One a Soviet spy Milo briefly lived with in Moscow during his teenaged years; the other, his mother, a 1979 suicide in a German prison, someone described, alternately, as a Marxist terrorist, a mentally disturbed nomad, or-as he thought of her-a ghost.

Milo’s lies (or, generously: omissions) might have been bearable had he confessed them on his own, but he hadn’t. Tina had learned the truth from strangers, and the humiliation had been too much for her.

Therefore, the fault was his, and reconciliation was something he did not deserve. He hadn’t needed a marriage counselor to tell him that.

Yet when, a little after five thirty, he spotted her trotting down those few front steps, phone to her ear, he had to stop himself from rushing forward to kidnap her. That was his Tourist side, demanding what he desired. He followed her around the corner to the car, where she hung up and got behind the wheel. He broke into a jog and appeared at her window. She was starting the engine, not looking at him, so he tapped the glass by her head. She turned and let out an involuntary shout.

Neither moved. The engine rumbled, and she stared at him, her green eyes comically widened in shock, her soft lips separated, one hand over her heart as if pledging allegiance. He wondered if he looked different to her, if the last three months had altered his features. He knew he’d lost weight, and in a rush of vanity he hoped it made him more attractive. He hoped-and the thought later struck him as ludicrous-that the man she saw through her window aroused her desire. The woman he saw aroused his.

She didn’t open the door, just rolled down the window-she wasn’t giving in yet. “Oh, shit. Milo.”

“Hey.”

“Well, what,” she said. “You’re in town?”

“Not really. Just a few hours. To see you.” When she didn’t answer, he thought that maybe he was taking too much control, being too forceful, so he added, “If that’s all right with you.”

“Well. Sure.”

“Are you picking up Stef?”

“Mom’s in town-she’s taking care of that.” She paused. “Were you wanting to see her?”

There was nothing he wanted more than to see his daughter, that single spark of Technicolor in his grayscale existence, but he shook his head. “Probably not a good idea. I have to leave again pretty quickly. I don’t want to upset her.”

He hoped she noticed how considerate he was being now. Not like last year when he’d demanded that they disappear with him.

He said, “Look, I don’t want to keep you.”

“Get in.” She pressed a button to unlock the doors. “I can drop you off on the way.”

He ran around to the passenger side before she could change her mind.

In the old days, he always drove. This was her seat, and behind them Stephanie would sit, asking inopportune questions. He realized that he had seldom watched her drive, and was impressed by how smoothly she pulled out of her parallel parking situation. She seemed to be doing just fine without him.

“How’s Little Miss?”

“She’s all right,” Tina began, then shook her head. “Not entirely. She’s been cracking her knuckles.”

“Who’d she pick that up from?”

“She doesn’t even know she’s doing it. It’s a nervous tic.”

Six-year-olds weren’t supposed to have nervous tics, Milo thought as he felt the desire for a pill. “She feels anxiety in the house,” he said.

“Because you’re not there? Maybe. The counselor says it’s common in divorced families.”

“We’re not divorced.”

“Maybe it’s something else. She’s been having nightmares.”

“Oh.”

Tina nodded at the road. “Did you hear about that kid in Germany? Adriana Something? Just another kidnapped girl, but it’s all over the news here. She had a nightmare about it last night. About being kidnapped.”

Milo really wanted that Dexedrine.

“She’ll get over it. Besides, it’s being replaced with Olympic fever,” she said to the road. “They’ve been talking it up at school, learning about the Greeks and Beijing. Stef’s crazy for the javelin throw-it’s really fired her imagination. Dana Pounds is her hero.”

“Dana Pounds?”

“One of our javelin throwers-or whatever you call them. Stef’s anxious about her upcoming trials.” She grinned. “Patrick keeps threatening to take us.”

“To Beijing?” he said, terrified of the image that provoked.

“That’s what he says,” she said, shrugging into a turn, “but you know him. When you’ve got him in front of you, he’ll do anything. Once he’s out the door, he’s really out the door.”

He said nothing at first, because he didn’t want to speak too quickly, too unthinkingly. He reassessed his terror. Though Patrick, Stephanie’s biological father, was hardly an ideal role model, the fact was that Milo couldn’t take her to the Olympics. Patrick was her only chance. And the Chinese themselves? The mole? According to Dzubenko, they knew about Milo Weaver’s family and could easily pick them out of a crowd of thousands, but that didn’t mean they would be in danger. Families were neutral ground in their trade. “I hope he follows through,” he admitted finally. “It’s something she’d never forget. Hell, you’d never forget it. You should call his bluff, let him catch you boning up on Mandarin.”

She laughed. “I just might do that.”

“Yevgeny said he’s come by a few times. Is that right?”

She nodded at the traffic ahead. “I think he does it just to see Stef. He’s nuts about her. Says she reminds him of his daughters. When they were little, at least.”

“And you? You like him?”

“He’s very… European, isn’t he?”

“I suppose so.”

“And he’s crazy about you. Reminds me of Tom, always making excuses for your shortcomings.”

He scratched at an itch on the back of his head. She seemed to be turning the conversation in a bleak direction. “Does he need to?”

“Sometimes, yeah. Sometimes I get pretty pissed off.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to get into that argument again, okay?”

“Okay.”

“We’ve been through all of it,” she continued, as if she actually did want to get into it again. “I still get angry sometimes, but it’s not because I don’t understand. I get it. You made it clear with Dr. Ray. You’d been living all your life with this secret side, and it never really occurred to you to share it with me.”