After parking in the garage, Milo found a demonstration outside the Rätia shopping center, about a hundred people in caps and heavy coats, puffs of fog rolling from their mouths as they chanted in German and held signs in English. A banner said SYSTEM CHANGE NOT CLIMATE CHANGE; another: ““LET THEM EAT MONEY,” with the A in “eat” a scrawled anarchy symbol. Some were wordy—IF WAR IS AN INDUSTRY HOW CAN THERE BE PEACE IN A CAPITALIST WORLD?—while others were succinct—NOT WELCOME printed under the faces of Benjamin Netanyahu and Jair Bolsonaro. On the wall of the Rätia, in large characters, someone had spray-painted M3.
But he didn’t linger. He pushed through, walking up the Promenade before turning off onto a side street and continuing to fortified Davos Park at the center of town. The soldiers in black eyed him as he approached the press center, where more guards waited with metal detectors and an X-ray conveyor. They checked the press pass Oskar had supplied carefully enough that he grew worried; then they rifled through his bag, where he’d stashed notebooks, a voice recorder, a camera, and a couple of energy bars. It was as boring as he could make it, and they let him in.
The closing performance, a musical program by the Sphinx Virtuosi chamber orchestra with images of Earth from space, was about to wrap up, so the park was scattered with milling journalists catching smokes and waiting to get a final word from attendees. By a snowbank along the ring of trees, he eventually spotted Leticia talking with Poitevin. Poitevin saw him first, but all they did was meet eyes. Conversation would have to wait.
To the left, Alexandra and Dalmatian pretended to work on their phones, standing a good five yards apart. And up ahead, to the right, near the Congress Center’s Talstrasse entrance, he saw Vetrov smoking with Francis, while Li Fan and Oskar, still wearing his sling, conferred. Not far away, four bodyguards stood listlessly.
“Milo Weaver,” he heard, and turned to see a pale woman with intense, businesslike eyes catching up to him. She was clearly American, and he wasn’t sure what to do.
“Do I know you?”
“Sally,” she said with a sudden, beautiful smile.
“We spoke on the phone,” he said.
“Yes. I wanted to show you something.”
She held out her hand, and in it was a photograph printed on paper. He took it. Oskar, walking with a young woman. “What’s this?”
“We know who Oskar Leintz is,” she said. “The problem is the other one. Abdul saw her in Klosters, made up to look like Ingrid Parker.”
Yes—it had been months, but he remembered the woman. It was Lana, Oskar’s lavender-lipped associate from Tegel Airport.
Sally flashed another smile. “They’re trying very hard to convince everyone that Ingrid Parker is here, when we know she’s not. She’s in Florida.”
Milo examined the photo again. He didn’t trust Sally. She was, he had decided, only interested in keeping a tight grip on Nexus and its intelligence riches. “Does this have to be nefarious?” he asked.
“Abdul thinks it is. He’s the one who convinced us to share this with you.”
That was something. “How is he?”
The question seemed to surprise her. “He’s fine. He’ll be on a plane home by tonight. He’s disappointed he couldn’t get us to work together.”
“Me, too,” he said, which was at least partially true. He nodded toward the Congress Center and his waiting co-conspirators. “You’re not planning to interfere?”
She shook her head. “You do what you have to do. Make your deals. We will do what we have to do.”
“You understand what you’re dealing with, right? If you think you can control Northwell, or use them, then you’re playing with fire.”
“We’ll see,” she said and, with another smile, turned and walked away, back toward the press center. When he looked around, all four of his people were staring at him with anxious curiosity, but he didn’t bother with that. He continued toward the Congress Center, and behind him the others began to follow.
When he reached the entrance, none of the intelligence officers made an attempt to shake his hand. He said to them, “Five minutes. They know we’re unarmed. There shouldn’t be trouble.”
Vetrov grunted, “If you are wrong, I do think this will not be the first time.”
Milo gave him a wry grin, then turned to Oskar. “Can we walk?”
Once they were out of range of the others, Milo handed him the photo. Oskar squinted at it. “Who is this from?”
“CIA.”
“Scheisse,” Oskar muttered, then began ripping up the picture.
“What is it?”
He shook his head, not speaking.
“Oskar. Ingrid Parker isn’t in Europe, is she?”
But the German turned around and began walking slowly back to the others, not even looking at Milo. Finally, he said, “This was a group decision.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This is the best way. Even Erika agrees.”
Milo stopped short and grabbed Oskar by the lapels, his face very close. From nowhere, Kurt appeared and clutched Milo’s shoulders from behind, pulling him off.
“It’s okay,” Oskar told Kurt, and Milo was released. Oskar brushed at his coat, as if getting Milo’s dirt off it. “It’s fine, Milo. Everything is going to be fine.” Then he left and joined the others. Together, they spoke quietly, occasionally glancing back at him.
Leticia joined Milo, watching Kurt join the other bodyguards. “What’s going on?”
“You and Alex were right. They’re up to something.”
“Then let’s call it off.”
What was she thinking? This moment, right now, was why he’d waited months in the desert. “This is our only chance,” he said.
“Not if we end up dead, it isn’t.”
He didn’t want to get into an argument with her, so he walked away and stood alone, looking down the park at its milling journalists, then over to the intelligence officers talking among themselves. What were they up to? He remembered Erika telling him, very seriously, that Ingrid Parker was a variable he would have to take into consideration—but no, Parker was in America, and she’d been there all along. Erika had only been planting the story so that it would grow in his mind, and the minds of other intelligence agencies. For what purpose? Why drag a story of the Massive Brigade to Davos?
What had been Erika’s concern? He thought back to that stuffy house in the Black Forest, and it came to him: If you cannot convince the Americans to join your crusade, then I do not expect the others to commit. She’d spent a lot of time explaining why that was crucial, and yet, even without American support, they had committed. China, the UK, Russia, and Germany. All had come together. Even in that meeting, with the video of the Second Bureau’s slaughter, he’d been surprised that it had worked. Yet he hadn’t seen it. The others had. Alexandra, Leticia, and even Dalmatian had known that something was off.
His stomach twisted as he realized that their final meeting in the restaurant had been a charade, because they had already committed themselves—not to Milo’s plan, but to Erika and Oskar’s. He’d never had to set up the Second Bureau. No one had had to die.
What were they planning? Did Oskar think that he could make a better speech? Fine—if he wanted to make a more convincing threat, then let him. But if that was all he wanted to do, why keep it secret from Milo? No. It was something else, something that Oskar knew Milo would fight against.
What now? Do as Leticia suggested, and call the whole thing off? How would they survive the next twelve months, looking over their shoulders as Northwell’s Tourists homed in on them?
He checked the time on his phone and saw that it was too late. He caught Leticia’s eye—she, too, was lost in thought, but she noticed him looking and nodded seriously. He nodded back. Leticia turned to the others and called for them to follow. Milo walked over to the Talstrasse entrance and said to the waiting intelligence officers, “It’s time.”