The Last Tourist--A Novel by Olen Steinhauer

Author:Olen Steinhauer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

32

“What?” Alan called, then shut off the noisy blender, opened it, and added two tablespoons of protein powder to his morning mix.

“Can you make it?” Penelope called from the living room.

“To what?”

“The Met.”

Right, the gala charity dinner, five hundred dollars a plate, all proceeds going to a legal fund for Honduran refugees stuck in southern-border cages run by private prison companies—it was boom time for the incarceration business. “Thursday, right?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Sure. Okay. But I can’t stay long.”

Penelope appeared in the doorway, her clothes looking slightly off. “You have to come.”

“Why?”

“Because we just got the best news—Gilbert Powell confirmed he’s coming.”

“The Gilbert Powell?”

“Is there any other?”

What were the chances? Gilbert Powell had only come to their attention in the last forty-eight hours, and now he was showing up at Penelope’s charity evening?

“See?” she said. “I deal with important people, too.”

He came close, eyeing her, then reached out and adjusted a shoulder strap on her complicated blouse—a mildly S&M mix of sheer fabric and dark straps. Half an inch to the right, and everything settled into place. “Very nice,” he said, then kissed her on the lips.

“You’re diverting,” she said. “I know you don’t like these people, but they’re no worse than UN diplomats.”

“That’s not a compliment,” he said, “but I’ll be there.”

Once she left, Alan drank his smoothie and looked through the news. It was all hell in a handbasket, but he was still optimistic. Despite insurgent patrons and a temporary headquarters move, the Library remained solid, and the fact that Washington hadn’t revived the Department of Tourism was stellar news after having lived the previous week looking over his shoulder, always expecting to find one of those dead-eyed monsters on his tail.

He had changed into sweats for a morning jog when the buzzer rang. A familiar woman’s voice said, “Mr. Drummond, may I come up?”

Beatriz Almeida was one of the less diplomatic diplomats he worked with, but she had never crossed the line by appearing at his home. Just as he would never consider heading over to the Portuguese complex of apartments on Madison. But he said, “Of course,” and buzzed her up.

He was waiting at his open door when she stepped out of the elevator and looked around hesitantly before finding him. Noting his old sweats, she gave him an awkward smile, and when he asked if she’d like some tea her wary expression suggested she’d never been offered a drink before.

“No, thank you. I’ll only be a minute.”

“Have a seat, then,” he said, motioning her to a chair.

As she settled in, Almeida crossed her hands on her knees and gave him a stiff smile. “Alan,” she said with finality. “I have come to ask you about Joseph Keller.”

He and Milo had never revealed that name to the patrons. “Who?”

“Please, Alan. We are not stupid. Milo Weaver gives us information, we compare notes, and we realize that he has found Egorov’s man in Algiers, and his name is Joseph Keller.”

Alan wondered how he should reply. Play dumb? He’d done that plenty of times, but in this case he sensed it would be self-defeating.

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