The Nearest Exit (34 page)

“You paid for it,” she said, then collected her discarded clothes and walked naked out through the curtain.

He found Parkhall up against the stage, grinning wildly at a pair of blondes gyrating across one another like Greek wrestlers, sharing a bottle of baby oil. To Milo, he said, “Fantastic, isn’t she?”

“Which one?”

“Zsuzsa, you idiot. My God. How a loser like Henry Gray got on with her . . . it’s a mystery for the ages.”

“I’m heading out,” Milo said, but he didn’t leave. Parkhall convinced him to buy a ludicrously priced bottle of Törley champagne, which they shared with a girl named Agí, who turned out to have an in-depth knowledge of European economics. Parkhall went into interview mode, as if she were a government finance minister, and Milo had a suspicion that Agí was going to show up in one of his
Times
pieces as a “parliament member speaking under condition of anonymity.”

The champagne went down weakly, so Milo ordered a gimlet. A gaggle of loud English hooligans in the front got on his nerves, and the sight of so much flesh left him with a vague but lasting impression of skin covered in fingerprints, like overused shot glasses.

The American-run 4Play Club, he learned from Parkhall, marketed itself to non-Hungarians for the simple reason that Hungarians wouldn’t pay as much for what they had to offer. There were other clubs in town, but most were dark and potentially dangerous
fleshpots run by the Russian mafia, where you would receive an outrageous bill, and then big men would walk you all the way to the cash machine. The majority of the customers were young Englishmen, part of the weekend vacationer boom made possible by cut-rate European airlines. Since it was often cheaper to fly to and get loaded in Eastern Europe than to spend a weekend drinking at London pubs, some cities had become flooded with these kids bursting with beer and itching for fights. They had done so much damage to Prague that laws had been passed to keep them out. Now the hooligans had discovered Budapest.

James Einner, he thought. Of course they’d sent James to get rid of Henry Gray. He was the only living Tourist, besides Milo, who knew anything about the Sudanese operation.

James had only been following orders, just as Milo had only been following orders when he mailed a package to Theodor Wartmüller that resulted in the death of Adriana Stanescu. When James returned in December to finish the job, he’d remembered the letter—
only trust Milo Weaver
—and used that name. Knowing all this did nothing to curb Milo’s anger. He drank and watched the endless parade of flesh and, though he would soon leave it, hated everything to do with his lousy business.

At twelve thirty, Zsuzsa appeared onstage to the unbridled joy of the MC, who referred to her as a “shining example of Hungary’s national product” before mixing in Bow Wow Wow’s “I Want Candy.” The English boys seemed to agree.

He watched the entire performance, about halfway through realizing he was hypnotized by it. She moved to the off-beats rather than the drums, and it created the illusion of a movie that’s gone slightly out of sync. By the time she was down to her heels and thong, his eyes were red and tired, and he closed them. As he faded, an unexpected memory came to him: his and Tina’s first visit with Dr. Bipasha Ray, back in September.

It had been during a downpour, and he’d had to run from the train, coat over his head, to make it on time. Tina’s car was parked outside the therapist’s Long Island residence, and when the doctor opened her door Milo saw Tina sitting dry and composed on the
couch, watching him closely. Examining him. He wasn’t sure why until he looked into Dr. Ray’s face.

He didn’t know what he had expected. Some elderly Indian specialist, perhaps, or some awkward social outcast. Bipasha Ray, who was actually Bengali, looked like a Bollywood film star, breathtakingly gorgeous. Rounded chin, blue eyes between her impossibly dark lashes, a summer dress. Her toenails—later, they would refer to her as “the barefoot therapist”—were painted bright red. He shook her hand and came inside, apologizing for dripping on the hardwood floor, and for the rest of the visit felt as if Tina were inspecting his every interaction with her.

The next day when they met for lunch, Tina seemed almost outraged by Dr. Ray’s beauty. “I wonder how many marriages she’s ended. I mean, couples come in, their relationship fragile, and I’ll lay odds half the men fall in love with her by the third session.”

“Erotic transference?” he’d asked and wondered if he might have a problem with that. He never did. How could he? The therapist’s beauty, and Tina’s close, continual watch, kept him guarded at all times. He didn’t have the time or energy to fall in love with Dr. Ray.

A change in music woke him, and he drowsily paid his tab, realizing that Parkhall had put all his drinks on it. He reached the door before Parkhall caught up with him. “Hey, man. Where you going?”

“Hotel. I’m beat.”

“Well, you did something right. Zsuzsa wants a word with you.”

Milo didn’t feel up to that mix of seduction and scorn. “She can find me at the Ibis.”

Parkhall looped an arm over his shoulder. “You don’t get it, do you? She wants a word with you in the
private
booth. You lucky cunt.”

It took another fifty euros—he was nearly broke now—but soon he was in the same place where they’d talked before, and Zsuzsa was already waiting. She was dressed for home, the makeup cleaned off, her hair up, and a fur-lined coat hanging from the back of the chair, where she sat. “All right, Mr. Weaver,” she said, her arms crossed tightly. “Now you.”

“Now me what?”

“The clothes. Off with them.”

“For this I pay fifty euros?”

He did as she asked, thinking of mothers who tell their children to always leave the house wearing clean underwear. He paused when he was down to his T-shirt and underwear, but she flicked a long, painted nail and waited until he was completely naked. He felt cold, and wondered how the girls took to the iffy heating here, if they complained, or if the exertion of dancing made it bearable. He thought of a lot of things to avoid speculating on how he looked.

“Why is your arm bandaged?”

“I burned myself cooking.”

“Okay,” she said. “Put them back on.”

“What was that?” he asked as he stepped into his underwear.

“Checking for a gun. Or a wire.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I don’t know who you are, Mr. Weaver. I do remember your name from that letter, and I remember a man who used your name. But you? Maybe you’re James Einner.”

Milo had gotten one leg into his pants. “If you don’t trust me, then why are we here?”

“One thing I’ve learned is that I’ll never find Henry on my own.”

Milo buttoned his shirt.

“When I was dancing, it occurred to me that I’m going to have to trust someone. Why not you? I like your face.”

“Thanks.”

“Your body’s a joke, but your face is almost believable.”

“Oh,” he said.

“This is hard for me,” she said philosophically. “I’m shaking. See?”

She showed a slender hand, but in the dim light it looked perfectly still.

“And I lied.”

“You lied?”

“Yes,” she said. “I don’t trust you at all.”

“Then why—”

She raised her hand in a silencing motion. “
He
said to trust you. He called me. Just now, just after I danced.”

“Who’s he?”

“Who do you think, Mr. Weaver? Henry.”

He stared at her. “You’ve been in contact with him all this time?”

She shook her head but didn’t say anything. Briefly, she focused on some point between them, thinking. She said, “I was starting to believe he was dead—and then he calls.”

“Now? Why now?”

She snapped out of it and shrugged. “It’s a coincidence, isn’t it? The other time you showed up just after he’d woken. Now, he calls the same night you’re here. Remarkable.”

Remarkable, yes, but Milo didn’t believe in a coincidence like this. James Einner had arrived in town because he had learned that Gray had woken. That was cause and effect. It was explainable. But Henry calling while Milo was in town? “What did Henry say?”

“He said he’s done.”

“Done with what?”

“His work. It’s done.”

“The story? He’s done with that?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I’m just happy he’s alive.” She didn’t sound happy, though.

“It’s good news.”

She looked at him, the corner of her lip rising slightly. “Don’t patronize me.”

“Sorry. But it is good news, for us both.”

“What do you have planned?”

“I just want to talk to him.”

“And then?”

“And then leave. I’ve got a family I want to return to.”

She smiled and said, “That’s charming.”

“Now you’re patronizing me,” Milo said as he kneeled to tie his shoes. “Can I meet him?”

She considered that. Henry had told her to trust him, but Zsuzsa was the one with the power now, and she seemed to be toying with it, estimating its weight. “I’d like to see him first.”

“Why don’t we go together?”

She shook her head, then grabbed her coat. “Tomorrow at Moskva tér. You know where it is?”

Milo had passed through Moscow Square on his way to St. John’s Hospital. “Yes.”

“Go there at two o’clock, and he’ll come to you.”

“How will he find me?”

“Unlike me, he knows what the real Milo Weaver looks like.”

It was a kind of answer. Milo stood. “Thank you.”

With awkward formality, he shook her hand and thanked her again. He gave her a few minutes so she wouldn’t suspect he was following, then left the club by keeping close to the wall, far from Parkhall, who was laughing uncontrollably with two girls, both his hands occupied under the table.

He woke with a mild hangover and a sore arm but left the hotel quickly. He was down to less than a hundred euros, which he changed into forints and used to buy breakfast from a bakery on Batthany Square, on the Buda side of the river. He considered writing an e-mail to Alan Drummond, to assure him that he would return soon, and to ask for a meeting with James Einner, but decided against it. He could think of no reason for putting Drummond’s mind at ease. Then, as he was finishing his coffee, he noticed, out on the street, a man in his fifties, thinning on top, wearing a heavy overcoat and smoking beside a closed travel agent’s office with sun-bleached posters of Egypt and Rome.

With the Gray meeting just a few hours away, it was easy to forget that there were more things going on. The shadows from Berlin and London, whom he’d never identified. Perhaps they were working for the Chinese, perhaps for the Germans. Or maybe Drummond was a liar, and they were working for him. Whoever they were, he didn’t want them around when he met with Gray.

He paid his tab and descended into the subway without looking back. He took a train to Deák Ferenc tér, then switched to the Millennium Railway—the world’s second-oldest subway—that took him back to Oktogon. Again, he joined the crowds on that busy square and worked his way around to Szondi, but continued past number 10,
keeping an eye on the scaffoldings with the curtains of plastic netting. It was Sunday, and the construction workers were still gone. There—on the right side of the street was a particularly messy site, with loose steel bars that had yet to be pieced together. He parted the netting and went inside, grabbing a heavy, meter-length of pipe, and stepped into the cavernous, dirty foyer. He waited.

He didn’t know how long it would take, but he was willing to wait as long as necessary. In the end, it took a half hour. During that time, two residents left the building, and each time he took out his battery-less cell phone and spoke German into it, pretending to be an investor wondering where his workers were. Then, a little after twelve thirty, his shadow entered the building.

There was a moment—less than a second—when he had to examine the face from his squatting position. He didn’t want to brutalize some innocent Hungarian. In that moment the shadow, too, recognized him. Milo was prepared, the pipe already drawn back, and as soon as he registered the heavy jowls and deep-set eyes, he put all his effort into the swing. The hollow end of the pipe made a faint whistling sound as it arced along the low path, just below the knee. A muted thump and crunch as the shin cracked.

There was no dramatic pause. Milo followed through with his swing, only briefly slowing on impact; then gravity took over, dropping the man to the ground, the tails of his trench coat catching on the pipe as the screaming began, filling the old Habsburg entryway.

At first, there was nothing intelligible from the screams, and Milo straightened and held the pipe like a shotgun aimed at the man’s head. He waited. Certainly some residents would be waking to the sound, suddenly interrupting their lunches, but he ignored that. He stared at the man’s twisted, screaming face.

He knew, of course, that this was just a man hired for a job. A simple job that Milo himself had done many times. Milo felt nothing. This was just collateral damage.