Alexandra walked Oskar out, and Milo called Kristin to ask for Gazala Mokrani’s phone number in Algiers. When he hung up, he found Alexandra in the doorway, arms crossed. “You’re not leaving me here again, are you? I do have a life elsewhere.”
“It’ll be fast. Either I get answers or I don’t.”
“Why not let the Germans look into this? If Oskar wants it, let him have it.”
Milo ran a hand through his hair. “They approached Egorov, and he rebuffed them. He didn’t trust his own people, and he didn’t trust the Germans. Maybe he had good reason to come to me.”
“Okay,” she said, resigned.
“And while I’m gone, can you get someone to follow up in Moscow? Background on Anna Usurov and Keller’s office at MirGaz.”
“Leonberger’s there,” Alexandra said, worry in her voice.
Milo sighed—he’d been planning to retire Leonberger as soon as they found a Moscow replacement. A holdover from his father’s days, the old man was no longer as dependable as he would have liked, and his drinking habits were growing worse. “He shouldn’t have to do much. Just ask some questions.”
“Remember last year?” Alexandra asked. “When I got him out of jail, the police told me he was suicidal.”
“How did he seem to you?”
“He seemed reckless.”
“Anyone else in Moscow?”
“No.”
Milo opened his hands. “Well, then. Leonberger in Moscow. Me to Algiers.”
“I believe there are some Russians in Algiers who want to get their hands on you.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Alexandra wasn’t convinced. “Don’t get yourself killed, okay? I don’t want to be left running this operation.”
“Who’s getting killed?” they heard, and turned to see Tina in the doorway, frowning.
Milo came over and kissed her. “No one. I have to take another trip in the morning. Be back before you know it.”
She looked him in the eyes. “What’s going on?” Then, to Alexandra: “One of you needs to tell me.”
Alexandra left Milo to deal with it alone, and he told Tina the whole story, which, seeing as he knew so little, wasn’t much at all. What he left out—the attempted kidnapping by the Russians and the successful kidnapping by the Algerians—would only have worried her.
“Fine,” she said, shaking her head. “If you’re not going to tell me everything, then don’t say a thing.” Then she turned on her heel and left.
He called Gazala Mokrani. The first time, she didn’t answer, so he waited a half hour, pouring himself a vodka, and tried again. When she answered, he spoke in French. “Ms. Mokrani, I am Milo Weaver. I was a friend of the late Kirill Egorov.”
She said nothing.
“I will be in Algiers tomorrow. May I buy you a coffee?”
“Why do you want to speak with me?” she asked, her French waxy with Algerian intonation.
“Because I’m sad he is dead, and because he spoke highly of you.”
“I don’t know anything,” she said.
“I’m not asking anything, just to speak with you about him. How he was.”
When she paused again, he wondered if he should have tried a different tactic. He could have told her that Egorov had left her money and that he was supposed to deliver it. But Bensoussan had described her as “worldly, a sophisticated woman,” and he worried that an implicit bribe would make her suspicious. So he’d chosen sentimentality.
“Do you know Algiers?” she finally asked.
“A little.”
“We can meet at his favorite café, El Kahwa El Zarka. It’s in Dar El Beïda.”
“I’ll find it,” Milo said. “Thank you.”
Before heading upstairs, Milo searched “Joseph Keller” on the Interpol site. As Oskar had told them, there were multiple listings that showed his name and date of birth, but no photo or list of crimes. He turned to Google to find a picture, but that, too, was limited. There was a shot of his stern face on his MirGaz employee page and the same shot on his profile Nexus page. Otherwise, there was nothing. No Facebook, no Twitter, no LinkedIn. While a couple of industry articles mentioned his move to MirGaz, none were accompanied by photos. All he had was a single shot of a plain-looking accountant smiling mildly at the camera.
He found Tina in bed, reading glasses low on her nose, scrolling through news on Facebook. She ignored him as he undressed, and he finally said, “I’m not hiding anything. I’m just trying to find out what an old friend of my father’s wanted help with before he died.”
“Not your friend. Yevgeny’s.”
“Yes.”
She looked up from the screen. “And what makes you think he was trustworthy? You’re handing your safety over to a stranger.”
Stripped down to his underwear, Milo sat on the bed and settled a hand on her uncovered ankle. “Because at some point you have no choice but to trust. Otherwise, you’re frozen in place. Every step is a risk.”
“Then send someone else.”
“The man asked for me.”
“And he’s dead.”
Milo squeezed her ankle. “No one’s going to kill me.”
“How do you know?”
“Because even killers are rational, and I’m too ignorant to be a threat. Certainly too ignorant to be worth the effort of killing.”
She set aside her computer, took off her glasses, and looked at him a long time. Finally, she said, “Come here, dummy.”