The black man—Dalmatian—said, “The street’s covered,” as he withdrew to the door.
“Good,” Milo said over Alan’s shoulder. “We’ll have this cleaned up by midnight.”
Dalmatian left the apartment.
“Come on,” Milo said, pulling Alan into the room. “Sorry about the mess.” He cleared one of the chairs, then guided him to it. Alan felt like an automaton, having over the last twenty-four hours only made moves dictated by others. Milo said, “Drink?”
Alan nodded.
Milo got up and went to a cabinet—also covered with files—and opened it to reveal a row of glasses and a lush variety of alcohols. After a month in the forests of Guizhou, Alan felt guilty sitting in the same room as them. Milo took out a limited edition Macallan, blew out the insides of two tumblers, and soon they were each holding a finger of amber liquid, neat. “To . . .” Milo began, then shrugged. “To.” He tapped Alan’s glass and sipped at his own.
Alan drank his in one swallow. Against the far wall, wide windows framed the not-so-distant mountains.
“Okay,” Milo said, grabbing the bottle and refilling Alan’s glass. He set the bottle on the floor and shifted enough folders on the sofa to make room to sit. He settled down and said, “Don’t ask, Alan. Don’t ask anything. I’ll just tell you what I can, and by then you’ll be ready to ask your questions.”
Alan nodded, dumb.
“The only thing you really need to know is that he was ready for you. That was necessary. If he hadn’t been, you would be dead now. I hope that’s clear.”
“Who told him?”
“Wait,” Milo said, pointing. “What you did to me and my family was unforgivable, but Hoang has tried to argue your case. He’s been partly successful. I understand why you made your mistakes. Irwin, Collingwood, and Jackson kept you in the dark, and from your perspective, there was only one way to finish this. Listen and believe: You were wrong. Xin Zhu is in a worse place now than if you had killed him.”
“He looked all right to me.”
“He’s not,” Milo said, all signs of pleasure gone from his features. “He’s no longer in control of anything, least of all himself. And when the time comes, if it comes, he can be finished off with a simple leak of information. But it’s not time for that yet.”
Anger slipped into Alan’s stomach, mixing with the hot whisky. “People are
dead
, Milo. Dozens probably. Because you told him. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“No one’s going to be killed,” Milo said, shaking his head. “I have assurances.”
“Assurances?
Assurances?
Are you really so naïve?”
“Calm down, Alan.”
Alan had been calm for too long. He’d been shuttled from one end of the planet to the other; his dreams had been smashed, the dreams that had justified his betrayal of so many people; and the world as he knew it was gone. Now, he was faced with this smug man who believed that, because of all these files, he understood everything, but he was wrong. Milo Weaver couldn’t understand even a fraction of what he was feeling at this moment. “You don’t know what you’ve done! You say you can bring him down with information. What information? From all these files?” he said, scanning a pile on the table. One label read
AHMADINEJAD
,
MAHMOUD
.
“No, this is all old intelligence. I’m catching up.”
“Catching up to
what
? And why the excellent fucking mood?”
Milo shrugged in a way that only infuriated him more, then said, “Penelope’s in Paris.”
The anger subsided. Now, he only felt cold, the whisky barely even there. “What? Why?”
“I asked her to stay there.”
“Is she all right?”
“Of course,” Milo said. “She’s with Tina and Stephanie.”
Alan set his glass on Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and rubbed his face until stars appeared.
“Take it easy,” he heard Milo say. “They’re fine. Alex is with them.”
“Alex?” Alan said, then figured it out. “Alexandra.”
“We can go see them tomorrow,” Milo said. “Unless you don’t want to. I won’t pretend to know what’s on your mind, so it’s your decision. If you don’t want to see her, I’ll cover for you however you like.”
“Of course I want to see her.”
“Good.”
“But . . .
why
?” Alan asked, finally realizing the true source of his confusion. “Why are you helping me?”
“Aren’t we friends?”
Alan blinked at him. “I wasn’t sure.”
Milo took a breath and rocked his head. “I haven’t forgotten anything, if that’s what you’re wondering. I’ve got a lot of things going on now, and I don’t think I can do it alone. Your help would go a long way toward repairing some of what you’ve done.”
“Help?”
“Help,” Milo repeated. “The question is, are you in or are you out?”
Alan stared at him.
“Don’t be scared. It’s a simple question.”
“In or out of what?”
Milo smiled, his heavy eyes brightening for an instant. “I’m asking if you’d like a job.”
Despite the smile, Milo wasn’t joking. Alan leaned back in his chair and turned to look out at the mountains. Clouds were moving in. On the radio, a French girl was singing a hit from 1965. Christ, but he was tired.
Table of Contents
PART ONE: IN THE HOUSE OF SOCIALIST PHILOSOPHY
PART THREE: THE HOUSE OF GOOD DEEDS
PART FOUR: PERPETUAL REVOLUTION