There was something familiar about it, but he couldn’t place it at first. It only came to him as he was taking shots of the parishioners again. The surprise, when it came, nearly made him drop the phone.

He looked up, but the Hyundai was gone. The driver had been one of the two in Berlin, the “Germans” who’d been shadowing him.

16

The existence of his shadow put a pall over the rest of the day’s surveillance. Had the Germans tracked him to London? Unlikely. More likely, they hadn’t been Germans in the first place, and it only proved that the file on him was more correct than Drummond knew: Milo wasn’t so clever after all.

He felt tense and exhausted by 4:00 P.M., when Ryan returned home for the evening. Still, he’d gotten his photographs, and in a pub, over a tepid plate of steak and kidney pie, he sent them to one of the phone numbers Drummond had given him-an analysis unit that had probably been pieced together from friends in the “war on drugs.”

By then, he had played and replayed his shadow’s face in his head, going over the previous months’ jobs, searching for some connection. Tourism, as Drummond had pointed out, is only as secure as its anonymity. The same is true for Tourists themselves. Their only real safety lies in their lack of identity, and when that disappears the world becomes far more dangerous.

Not just dangerous, but…

He stared at his plate, realizing that his shadow’s existence proved something larger than his own stupidity. He called Drummond. The voice mail answered. He said, “It’s no longer a theory,” then hung up. Within five minutes, his phone was ringing.

“What’s with the elusive messages, Hall? Is he or isn’t he selling secrets?”

“No sign yet. I mean the larger story. It’s not a theory.”

Drummond cleared his throat. “Some explanation, please.”

Milo tried. It was all about his shadow. Berlin, and now London. “Only the department knows my day-to-day location-correct?”

“Correct.”

“Well, if you really don’t have someone shadowing me-you don’t, do you?”

Drummond verified this with a grunt.

“Then someone inside the department is leaking my location, and has been doing so at least since Berlin.”

“Is the guy Chinese?”

“Don’t be simple, Alan. I just don’t see another way to explain it.”

He mused over that, humming. “Well, if you see him again…”

“I know. I will.”

The image analysts texted their reports on Ryan’s acquaintances. None raised any red flags, though one-the old woman the whole family helped to church-was unidentifiable. It was possible that Dzubenko had been mistaken about the day that information was transferred, or that the meeting time had been changed since his defection. Milo needed to be sure, though, so he returned to Hampstead Heath as the sun hung low, preparing to disappear, and rain began to fall. He checked the sodden ground along Ryan’s path and examined the two trees against which he’d stretched, but it was while he was crouched in the wet grass under the second of the three benches that he found it, and finding it surprised him almost as much as the German had.

It was a small USB flash drive, cleverly encased in two inches of wood, stuck with adhesive to the underside of the bench. A casual observer wouldn’t have noticed anything, and in the failing light Milo nearly missed it, too, but he was depending more on his hands than his eyes, and when he caught the edge of the wood he pulled and felt it break off easily into his palm.

He took out his phone, which contained a Company-installed standard USB port. As a light shower began, he copied the contents of the flash drive-three Word documents-then replaced it. He was soaking wet by the time he squatted among high shrubs farther down the incline.

The documents were encoded and unreadable, so Milo sent them to the analysts with a note for Drummond: From subject-no recipient yet. He pocketed the phone and made sure his view of the bench was unobstructed and clear (a lamppost illuminated the area), then checked the time. It was seven o’clock, cold and pouring rain, and he had no idea how long it would take for the drive to be picked up. It would be, he suspected, a very long night.

He was wrong. At a little after eight, a tall, elegant figure crossed the Heath, heading toward the bench. Milo brought the phone to his eye, zooming in. The figure paused by the bench and looked around. Milo lowered the phone and stood. “What the hell are you doing?”

Einner shook his head and walked down to him. “You must be freezing your ass off.”

“Get out of here.”

“Drummond thought you could use some help. You hadn’t moved for nearly an hour-he wanted to find out if you were dead.”

“He could’ve called.”

Einner didn’t answer. They both knew that Drummond just wanted to make sure Milo hadn’t abandoned his phone and walked.

“Did it pan out?” Milo asked.

“I found you, didn’t I?”

“I mean your angle. Did Marko’s story check out?”

“Yeah. And I assume that you sitting in the rain means yours is checking out, too.”

“Just waiting for the pickup.”

Einner grinned, then turned to look at the empty bench up the hill. He pointed at the nearby lamppost. “See that?”

“The lamp?”

“Yeah. Look at the top of it.”

When his eyes adjusted to the glare, he could make out three inconspicuous cameras atop the pole. He exhaled. “I think I see where you’re going with this.”

“Sure you do,” Einner said and took out his phone. After a moment, he said, “Can I get a visual on a surveillance camera? Exactly, baby. Just see where I am and there should be three to choose from. I need a bench.”

As he waited for the reply he shrugged at Milo.

“How’s it coming in? Great. Listen, we’re going to need IDs on anyone who sits there or fools around with it. Particularly the latter.” He covered the mouthpiece and said to Milo, “Underneath?”

“Yeah.”

“You heard it? That’s what we’re looking for. And you’ll be reporting it directly to Hall. You have the number? Thanks, you’re a doll.” Einner hung up and opened his arms. “Come praise your betters.”

Milo patted his pockets and came up with Nicorette, feeling inept next to this tech-savvy young man.

Einner said, “Let’s go find some girls.”

17

They left the park separately and took the tube back into town. Appearing in public together would have broken any number of Tourism rules, so they settled for an indoor party. Milo picked up a new suit, and, even though Einner had said he would bring “something fun,” Milo bought a bottle of Finlandia vodka and another of some very dry Noilly Prat vermouth. He had just showered and dressed again when there was a knock at his door. Einner swept past him and examined the room, then sniffed the steam in the bathroom.

“Where’s the party favors?” asked Milo.

“Am I not enough?” Einner stripped off his coat, which was dry despite the rain outside-he was probably staying in the same hotel. “You just take care of the drinks, old man.”

“Vodka martini?”

“I’d kill you for one.”

Milo mixed them up in glasses in the bathroom, and when he emerged found Einner by the window, the blinds pulled, leaning over the breakfast table. With a credit card he was cutting up sixteen lines of cocaine.

Einner looked up, squinting. “The nose? Will it work?”

“I’ll give it my best shot.”

They sat across from each other at the table and toasted their survival. Einner made a face after his first sip. “Ouch.”

“More vermouth?”

“An olive might help.”

“They were out.”

Einner took another sip, then handed over a rolled ten-pound note. “Try that on.”

Milo stuck to the one swollen nostril with an open passageway, then passed back the note. He wiped his sore nose unconsciously and drank and watched Einner inhale two lines as if this were his morning routine.