nice.”
Again, Milo waited.
After another medicinal sip, Roth said, “I thought it through again and decided to search for Jan Klausner instead. I did some research—I know people, you see. People who can help. Turns out that Jan Klausner is registered in Paris, but under the name Herbert Williams, American. I went to his address, which is of course fake, but this, I believe, is where I took my wrong turn. I must have been spotted. A week later, Jan—or Herbert—he contacted me. It’s February by then. He asked me to come to Milan again to collect the rest of my money. His master had realized the error of his ways.”
“So you went,” said Milo, interested despite himself.
“Money is money. Or, it used to be.” That grin, weary now. “It went smoothly. We met in a café—February fourteenth—and he handed me a shopping bag full of euros. He also handed me, as an apology, a file on Milo Weaver, once known as Charles Alexander. Your nemesis, he tells me. This man has been after you for half a decade.” Roth frowned. “Why would he do that, Milo? Why would he give me your file? Any idea?”
“I have no idea.”
Roth bobbed his eyebrows at this mystery. “Only later, in Switzerland, once they told me the approximate time I got infected, did I remember what happened. You see, there were metal chairs at that café. Aluminum wire. Very pretty, but at some point during our coffee, I felt a little pinch from the chair. Here.” He touched the underside of his right thigh. “Poked through my pants, right into my leg. I thought it was just a lousy factory job, a little sliver of metal. It drew blood. Klausner,” he said, shaking his head at the memory, almost amused, “he got the waitress over and started bawling her out. He said his friend—meaning me—would sue them. Of course, the waitress was pretty—all Milano waitresses are—and I had to calm things down.”
“That’s how you think you got it?”
Roth shrugged with some effort. “How else? I’m sure you know from your file that I’m celibate and that I don’t shoot drugs.”
Milo considered not replying, but finally admitted, “The file on you is pretty thin.”
“Oh!” That seemed to please the assassin.
All this time, Milo had remained standing in the center of the room. By now, the position felt awkward, so he settled on the foot of the cot, by Roth’s feet. On the assassin’s upper lip a thin trail of snot glimmered. “Who do you think Klausner’s master is?”
Roth stared at him, thinking it over. “It’s hard to know. The jobs I got from him, they were inconsistent, just like your personal history. I’d always wondered this—does Mr. Klausner-Williams represent one group, or many groups? I’ve gone back and forth, finally deciding that he represents one group.” He paused, perhaps for dramatic effect. “The global Islamic jihad.”
Milo opened his mouth, then shut it. Then: “Does this bother you?”
“I’m an artisan, Milo. The only thing that concerns me is the feasibility of the job.”
“So, terrorists paid you to get rid of Mullah Salih Ahmad, one of their own. That’s what you’re saying?”
Roth nodded. “Public killings and private killings serve different purposes. You of all people know that. You don’t think al-Qaeda’s only technique is to pack little boys with bombs and send them off to a heaven of virgins, do you? No. And the Sudan—at first, I couldn’t see it either. Then I started watching. Who’s winning now? Ignore Darfur for the moment. I’m talking about the capital. Khartoum. The Muslim extremist insurgency, that’s who’s winning. They have public support like never before. Ahmad’s killing was about the best gift those bastards ever got, and with a Chinese brand on his body it would’ve been even better—blame it on the Chinese investors who prop up the president.” He shook his head. “They’ll have an Islamic paradise in no time, thanks to me.”
Judging from his features, no one would have been able to tell how much this news excited Milo. He’d asked all his questions in the quiet way of the interrogator, as if no answer were more important than another. In that same way, he said, “There’s something I don’t understand, Roth. You learned that, five months ago, you caught HIV. You learned it in a Swiss clinic. Now, it’s nearly killed you. Why aren’t you on antiretrovirals? You could live well enough for decades.”
It was Roth’s turn to look passive as he studied Milo’s face. “Milo, your file on me must be very small indeed.” Finally, he explained: “The Science of Christianity makes pure the fountain, in order to purify the stream.”
“Who said that?”
“Are you a man of faith, Milo? I mean, beyond the limits of your family.”
“No.”
Roth seemed to take that seriously, as if wondering whose path was better. “It’s a tough thing. Faith talks you into doing things you might not want to do.”
“Who were you quoting?”
“Mary Baker Eddy. I’m a Christian Scientist.” He swallowed again, roughly.
“I’m surprised,” Milo admitted.
“Sure you are, but why? How many Catholic gangsters are there? How many Muslim killers? How many Torah-loving angels of death? Please. I may not have lived up to the Church’s tenets, but I’ll certainly die by them. God has seen fit to strike me down—and why wouldn’t He? If I were Him, I would’ve done it years ago.” He paused. “Of course, those Swiss doctors, they thought I was nuts. Nearly forced me to take the treatments. They kept finding me outside, under a tree, on my knees, praying. The power of prayer—it didn’t save my body, but it just might save my soul.”
“What does Mary Baker Eddy say about revenge?” asked Milo, irritated by this sudden fit of moral poetry. He supposed it was what happened to killers like the Tiger, shut-ins who avoided even the intimacy of sex. There was no one to bounce your thoughts off of, no one to remind you that what came from your mouth wasn’t necessarily wisdom. He pressed: “That’s why you’re here, right? You want me to take revenge on the person who’s killing you.”
Roth thought a moment, raised a finger (Milo noticed blood on his knuckle), and intoned: “To suppose that sin, lust, hatred, envy, hypocrisy, revenge, have life abiding in them, is a terrible mistake. Life and Life’s idea, Truth and Truth’s idea, never make men sick, sinful, or mortal.” He lowered his hand. “Revenge does not have a life of its own, but maybe justice does. You understand? I’ve given you all I have on him. It’s not much, but you’re a smart man. You’ve got resources. I think you can track him down.”
“What about the money?” said Milo. “How did Klausner pass it on to you? Always in a shopping bag?”
“Oh, no,” said Roth, pleased that Milo was asking. “Usually I’d be directed to a bank. Go in and empty an account. The banks changed, each account was opened under a different name, but I was always put down as a coholder. Under the Roth name.”
Milo stared at the man. Given all the bodies Samuel Roth had collected over the years, there was something inappropriate about this last wish. “Maybe he’s done me a service. He’s closed a few of my cases by killing you. Maybe this Klausner is my friend.”
“No.” Roth was insistent. “I did that for you. I could’ve died in obscurity in Zürich. It was certainly more picturesque. This way, I help you out. Maybe you’ll help me out. You’re a Tourist. You can catch him.”
“I’m not a Tourist anymore.”
“That’s like saying, I’m not a murderer anymore. You can change your name, change your job description—you can even become a bourgeois family man, Milo. But really, nothing changes.”
Without realizing it, the Tiger had voiced one of Milo Weaver’s greatest fears. Before his apprehension could show, he changed the subject. “Does it