MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, TO
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 2001
Four hours after his failed suicide attempt, he descended toward
Aerodrom Ljubljana. A tone sounded, and above his head the seat
belt sign glowed. Beside him, a Swiss businesswoman buckled her
belt and gazed out the window at the clear Slovenian skyallit
had taken was one initial rebuff to convince her that the twitching
American shed been seated next to had no interest in conversation.
The American closed his eyes, thinking about the mornings
failure in Amsterdamgunfire, shattering glass and splintered wood,
If suicide is sin, he thought, then what is it to someone who doesnt believe in sin? What is it then? An abomination of nature? Probably, because the one immutable law of nature is to continue existing. Witness: weeds, cockroaches, ants, and pigeons. All of natures creatures work to a single, unified purpose: to stay alive. Its the one indisputable theory of everything.
Hed dwelled on suicide so much over the last months, had examined the act from so many angles, that it had lost its punch. The infinitive clause to commit suicide was no more tragic than to eat breakfast or to sit, and the desire to snuff himself was often as strong as his desire to sleep.
Sometimes it was a passive urge drive recklessly without a seat belt; walk blindly into a busy street though more frequently these days he was urged to take responsibility for his own death. The Bigger Voice, his mother would have called it: Theres the knife; you know what to do. Open the window and try to fly. At four thirty that morning, while he lay on top of a woman in Amsterdam, pressing her to the floor as her bedroom window exploded from automatic gunfire, the urge had suggested he stand straight and proud and face the hail of bullets like a man.
Hed spent the whole week in Holland, watching over a sixtyyear- old U.S.- supported politician whose comments on immigration had put a contract on her head. The hired assassin, a killer who in certain circles was known only as the Tiger, had that morning made a third attempt on her life. Had he succeeded, he would have derailed that days Dutch House of Representatives vote on her conservative immigration bill.
How the continued existence of one politicianin this case, a woman who had made a career of catering to the whims of frightened farmers and bitter racistsplayed into the hands of his own country was unknown to him. Keeping an empire, Grainger liked to tell him, is ten times more difficult than gaining one. Rationales, in his trade, didnt matter. Action was its own reason. But, covered in glass shards, the woman under him screaming over the crackling sound, like a deep fryer, of the window frame splintering, hed thought, What am I doing here? He even placed a hand flat on the wood- chip- covered carpet and began to push himself up again, to face this assassin head- on. Then, in the midst of all that noise, he heard the happy music of his cell phone. He removed his hand from the floor, saw that it was Grainger calling, and shouted into it, What?
Riverrun, past Eve, Tom Grainger said.
Learned Grainger had created go-codes out of the first lines of novels. His own Joycean code told him he was needed someplace new. But nothing was new anymore. The unrelenting roll call of cities and hotel rooms and suspicious faces that had constituted his life for too many years was stupefying in its tedium. Would it never stop?
So he hung up on his boss, told the screaming woman to stay where she was, and climbed to his feet . . . but didnt die. The bullets had ceased, replaced by the whining sirens of Amsterdams finest. Slovenia, Grainger told him later, as he drove the politician safely to the Tweede Kamer. Portoro, on the coast. Weve got a vanished suitcase of taxpayer money and a missing station chief. Frank Dawdle.
Excerpted from The Tourist by Olen Steinhauer. Copyright © 2009 by Olen Steinhauer. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Minotaur, a division of Macmillan, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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