Free The Nearest Exit by Olen Steinhauer

never invest in long-term double agents.”
    “I know this,” he said, “but don’t be so quick to doubt it.”
    Milo peered out at the blackness again, then looked at Drummond. “I’m getting a sick feeling of déjà vu. Last year a friend of mine was accused of sharing secrets with the Chinese. It wasn’t true, and maybe if I’d known that from the start she wouldn’t be dead now.”
    “This was Angela Yates?”
    Milo nodded.
    After a moment’s reflection, Drummond said, “Listen to what he has to say. I don’t want to believe it either, but if his story checks out, then I’m going to have to clean the department. It’s not the way a new director wants to spend his opening weeks, but I won’t have a choice.”
    Milo’s hand twitched; he was catching Drummond’s itchy agitation. “Well, then? Who is it? Don’t tell me he held that back.”
    “He has no idea. From his story, it could only be in administration. A Travel Agent, most likely. Not a Tourist.”
    Milo rubbed his knees. Travel Agents collected and sorted intelligence from Tourists and tracked their positions. A mole among their ranks could pass on anything. “Who else have you called in?”
    “Just Tourists. Our driver, and some extra help—I got them from the war on drugs. I’ve also collected some folks from other departments for analysis and background checks. I’ll get you their phone numbers before sending you off again.”
    “Am I going somewhere?”
    “You’re always going somewhere, Sebastian. If your chat with him works out, you’ll be checking on some of the Ukrainian intel Marko’s been giving me. It might not be outstanding stuff, but it’s another way to vet him, and if it isn’t legitimate it’ll give me extra reason to doubt the mole story.”
    “I’m not much of an interrogator,” Milo admitted. “You should call in John. He’s rough, but he gets results.”
    Drummond stared at him a moment, as if shocked by the suggestion. “This guy came to us. I’m not going to have John fit those electrodes to his tits just to hear him scream.” He sniffed. “Really, what was the department like before I came along?”
    “You don’t want to know,” Milo said, then took a box from his pocket and dry-swallowed two more Dexedrine.

8

    Despite a broad stomach and thinning black hair, Marko Dzubenko was a young-looking forty-six. He wore a faux-silk shirt with rolled-up sleeves, the collar open to expose an Orthodox cross buried in chest hair, watching the German edition of
Big Brother
as he chain-smoked. The only sign of age lay in the gray stubble that ran along his jaw-line.
    Milo stuck out a hand as he approached. “Good evening. I’m here to ask some questions.”
    His handshake was hot and dry. Instead of returning the greeting, Dzubenko shook a smoldering Marlboro at the television. “Great show, no?”
    The television camera was angled high in a corner of a kitchen, and two pretty twentysomethings were arguing. “Never got around to watching it.”
    “Great show,” he repeated. “I am for the Melly. I would easily do her.”
    “Marko?”
    “Yeah?” he said to the television.
    Milo picked up the remote and turned it off. Dzubenko rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Motherfucker. I am already answer you fuckers’ questions, okay? Twenty fucking times!”
    Suppressing the urge to strike him, Milo switched to Russian.“And you’ll continue to answer the questions, or we’ll beat you, sodomize you, then dump you naked in the bad part of Mogadishu.”
    Marko’s head jerked back as if he’d been slapped; then he smiled and put out his cigarette. “Finally. Someone who speaks Russian with balls. Want a cigarette?” He lifted the pack.
    Milo preferred his Davidoffs but knew how sharing cigarettes created an instant bond between Slavs. He produced his lighter and lit Marko’s first, then his own.
    He settled on a chair that he recognized from old trips with Tina through IKEA. Then he recognized