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her hand, she squeezed back with unexpected strength. Over her heaving belly, he looked at the dead girl in pink. In the distance, Angela reappeared as a small form, hunched, walking like a drunk.
    "Who the hell are you?" the pregnant woman finally managed.
    "What?"
    She took a moment to regulate her breaths, gritted her teeth. "You've got a gun."
    The Walther was still in his other hand. He released it; it clattered to the ground as a red haze filled his vision.
    "What," she said, then exhaled through pursed lips, blowing three times. "What the hell are you?"
    He choked on his words, so he paused and squeezed her hand tighter. He tried again. "I'm a Tourist," he said, though as he blacked out on the cobblestones he knew that he no longer was.

Part One
    Problems of the

INTERNATIONAL
    TOURIST TRADE
    W E D N E S D A Y , J U L Y 4 T O
    T H U R S D A Y , J U L Y 1 9 , 2 0 0 7
    1
    The Tiger. It was the kind of moniker that worked wel in Southeast Asia, or India, which was why the Company long assumed the assassin was Asian. Only after 2003, when those few photos trickled in and were verified, did everyone realize he was of European descent. Which raised the question: Why "the Tiger"?
    Company psychologists, unsurprisingly, disagreed. The one remaining Freudian claimed there was a sexual dysfunction the assassin was trying to hide. Another felt it referenced the Chinese "tiger boys" myth, concerning boys who morphed into tigers when they entered the forest. A New Mexico analyst put forth her own theory that it came from the Native American tiger-symbol, meaning "confidence, spontaneity, and strength." To which the Freudian asked in a terse memo, "When did the tiger become indigenous to North America?"
    Milo Weaver didn't care. The Tiger, who was now traveling under the name Samuel Roth (Israeli passport #6173882, b. 6/19/66), had arrived in the United States from Mexico City, landing in Dallas, and Milo had spent the last three nights on his trail, camped in a rental Chevy picked up from Dallas International. Little clues, mere nuances, had kept him moving eastward and south to the fringes of battered New Orleans, then winding north through Mississippi until late last night, near Fayette, when Tom Grainger called
    from New York. "Just came over the wire, buddy. They've got a Samuel Roth in Blackdale, Tennessee--domestic abuse arrest."
    "Domestic abuse? Can't be him."
    "Description fits."
    "Okay." Milo searched the cola-stained map flopping in the warm evening wind. He found Blackdale, a tiny speck. "Let them know I'm coming. Tell them to put him in solitary. If they've got solitary." By the time he rolled into Blackdale that Independence Day morning, his travel companions were three days' worth of crumpled McDonald's cups and bags, highway toll receipts, candy wrappers, and two empty Smirnoff bottles--but no cigarette butts; he'd at least kept that promise to his wife. In his overstuffed wallet he'd collected more receipts that charted his path: dinner at a Dallasarea Fuddruckers, Louisiana barbecue, motels in Sulphur, LA, and Brookhaven, MS, and a stack of gas station receipts charged to his Company card.
    Milo shouldn't have liked Blackdale. It was outside his comfortable beat of early twenty-first-century metropolises. Lost in the flag-draped kudzu wasteland of Hardeman County, between the Elvisology of Memphis and the Tennessee River's tri-border intersection with Mississippi and Alabama, Blackdale didn't look promising. Worse, it was as he drove into town that he realized there was no way he could make his daughter's July Fourth talent show that afternoon back in Brooklyn.
    Yet he did like Blackdale and its sheriff, Manny Wilcox. The sweating, overweight officer of the law showed surprising hospitality to someone from the most-despised profession, and didn't ask a thing about jurisdiction or whose business their prisoner really was. That helped Milo's mood. The too-sweet lemonade brought in by a mustached deputy named Leslie