Zero History (26 page)

“Is it dangerous?”

“Average career’s all of two years. So she talked to Bigend. Wanted him to take me on at Blue Ant. Do something there. Instead, he decided to have his own courier.”

“That’s less dangerous?”

“Not really, but I tell her it is. She doesn’t know the extent of the job. She’s busy.”

“Good morning,” said Bigend, behind them.

Milgrim turned. Bigend was wearing his blue suit, over a black knit shirt, no tie.

“Do you like them?” Bigend asked Milgrim.

“Like what?”

“Our Festos,” said Bigend, raising his index finger to point straight up.

Milgrim looked up. The ceiling here, as white as the walls, was a good ten ten feet higher than it was in the adjacent space. Against it floated confusing shapes, silver, black. “Is that the penguin? From Paris?”

“It’s like the one in Paris,” she said.

“What’s the other?”

“Manta. Ray,” said Bigend. “Our first custom order. They’re ordinarily in the silver Mylar.”

“What do you do with them?” Though he already knew.

“Surveillance platforms,” Bigend said. He turned to Fiona. “How was it, in Paris?”

“Good,” she said, “except that he saw it. But that’s the silver, and daytime operation.” She shrugged.

“I thought I was hallucinating,” Milgrim said.

“Yes,” Bigend said, “people do. In Crouch End, though, when we first tried the penguin at night, we triggered a mini-wave of UFO reports. The
Times
suggested people were actually seeing Venus. Have a seat.” He drew out one of the chairs.

Milgrim sat. Held the tall cup of hot tea in his hands, its warmth comforting.

When Bigend and Fiona were seated as well, Bigend said, “Fiona’s told me what you told her last night. You said that you photographed the man who was following you, or perhaps following Hollis. Do you have the photographs?”

“Yes,” said Milgrim, bending to fish in his sock top. “But he was following me. Sleight was telling him where I was.” He put the camera card on the table, opened his bag, brought out the Air, found the card reader he’d bought from the Persian man in the camera shop, and put them together.

“But Sleight may simply have assumed you’d be with Hollis,” Bigend said as the first of the photographs of Foley came up.

“Foley,” Milgrim said.

“Why do you call him that?”

“Because he was wearing foliage green pants. That was what I first noticed about him.”

“Have you seen him?” Bigend asked Fiona.

“Yes,” Fiona said. “He was in and out of the old-clothes fair. Busy. I could see he was doing something. Or wanting to.”

“Was he alone?”

“He seemed to be. But talking to himself. You know: not to himself. An earpiece.”

“Sleight,” said Milgrim.

“Yes,” agreed Bigend. “We’ll call him Foley, then. We have no idea what he goes by at the moment. These people have access to quite a bit of documentation.”

“What people?” asked Milgrim.

“Foley,” said Bigend, “knows the man whose trousers you documented for us in South Carolina.”

“Is Foley … a spy?” asked Milgrim.

“Only to the extent that he’s a clothing designer, or wants to be,” said Bigend. “Though he’s probably a fantasist as well. When you slipped your phone into that Russian woman’s pram, what was your intention?”

“I knew that Sleight was tracking it, telling Foley where I was. Foley would follow the Russians instead. Out of town. They mentioned a suburb.”

Bigend nodded. “Just because a man wants to be a clothing designer,” Bigend said, “and is a fantasist, doesn’t mean that he isn’t dangerous. If you should see Mr. Foley again, you’ll want to stay well away from him.”

Milgrim nodded.

“I’ll need to know, immediately, if that happens.”

“What about Sleight?”

“Sleight,” said Bigend, “is behaving as though absolutely nothing has happened. He’s still very much at the center of things, as far as Blue Ant goes.”

“I thought he was in Toronto.”

“He’s in a post-geographical position,” said Bigend. “Where did you get this laptop?”

“Hollis gave it to me.”

“Do you know where she got it?”

“She said she bought it, to write on.”

“We’ll have Voytek give it a once-over.”

“Who?”

“He predates Sleight. Someone I’ve kept out of the loop, in case something like this should happen. My IT backup, you might say. Have you had breakfast?”

“A croissant. In Paris.”

“Fancy the full English? Fiona?”

“Could do. Saad’s looking at my carbs.”

They looked at Milgrim. He nodded. Then looked up at the silver penguin and the black ray, floating against the bright white ceiling. He tried to imagine the black ray above a Left Bank intersection. “What’s it like, flying those?”

“It’s like being one,” said Fiona, “when you get into it. The iPhone app’s made a huge difference. The one in Paris hasn’t had the upgrade yet.”

I
nchmale’s spirit-beast, the narcoleptic stuffed ferret, still frozen in nightmarish dream-waltz amid the game birds, was waiting near Cabinet’s grumbling lift.

Robert had said, on being asked just now, that “Miss Hyde” was in. He seemed to have entirely forgotten any discomfort experienced on Heidi’s arrival, and in fact showed every sign of having become an enthusiast. This, Hollis knew, was all too likely to happen. Men who didn’t permanently flee at the onset tended to become devotees.

She entered the familiar cage, pulled her bag in after her, shut the cage’s door, and pushed the button. Once and only briefly, so as not to confuse it.

In the hallway, upstairs, she avoided looking at the watercolors, opened the door to Number Four, entered, put her bag on the bed. Everything was as she remembered it, except for a few unfamiliar dust jackets in the birdcage. She opened her bag, took out the Blue Ant figurine, and went next door, to Heidi’s room.

She knocked.

“Who is it?” asked a male voice.

“Hollis,” she said.

It opened, a crack. “Let her in,” said Heidi.

The door was opened by a beautiful, supremely fit-looking young man, like a Bollywood dancer, whose translucently short haircut became a sort of short black waterfall on top. As if to balance this prettiness, though, it looked as though someone had struck the bridge of his nose with something hard and narrow, leaving the suggestion of a notch, pale at the center. He wore a bright blue tracksuit under Heidi’s faded leather tour jacket.

“That’s Ajay,” said Heidi as Hollis stepped in.

“Hullo,” said Ajay.

“Hello,” said Hollis. The room was confusingly tidy now, with almost no sign of Heidi’s characteristic luggage-explosion, though Hollis noted that the bed, where Heidi reclined in a Gold’s Gym tank top and kneeless jeans, was very thoroughly unmade. “What happened to your stuff?”

“They helped me sort it out, stored what I wanted to keep. They’re nice here.”

Hollis couldn’t remember ever having heard Heidi say that about any hotel staff anywhere. She suspected Inchmale in the mix, advising Cabinet on how best to deal with Heidi, distributing bribes, though in fact the Cabinet people actually were very good at what they did.

“What the fuck is that?” asked Heidi, much more in character, indicating the blue figurine.

“A Blue Ant marketing toy. It’s hollow”—she showed Heidi the bottom of its base—“and I think it might have some sort of tracking bug in it.”

“Really?” said Ajay.

“Really,” said Hollis, passing it to him.

“Why would you think that?” He held it to his ear, shook it, smiled.

“Long story.”

“The only way to tell would be to cut it open …” He’d padded to the window, moving like a cat, and was peering closely at the base. “But someone already has,” he said, looking up at her. “Been sliced off here, glued back on, then sanded out.”

“Ajay’s handy,” said Heidi.

“I’m not interrupting you, am I?” Hollis asked.

Ajay grinned.

“We were waiting for you,” Heidi said. “If you didn’t turn up, we were going to the gym. Ajay’s the one who told me about your boyfriend.”

“An absolutely blinding ’chutist,” said Ajay, solemnly, lowering the figurine. “Seen him twice, ’round the pubs. Regret to say I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Do you know where he is?” Hollis asked. “How he is? I’ve just learned about his accident. I’m terribly worried.”

“Neither, really, sorry,” said Ajay. “Though if there had been further bad news, we’d have heard something. He’s very well-thought-of, your man. Has his fan base.”

“Do you know any way that I might find out?”

“He’s private. Not at all clear what he does, aside from the odd jump. Do you want me to open this?” Holding up the ant. “Heidi’s got the perfect set of tools for it. Building her Breast Chaser.” He grinned.

“Your what?” Hollis asked Heidi.

“It’s therapy,” Heidi said, crossly. “My psychiatrist taught me.”

“What is?”

“Plastic models,” said Heidi. She sat up, put her feet on the floor, toenails freshly and glossily blackened.

“Your psychiatrist taught you to build models?”

“He’s Japanese,” Heidi said. “You can’t make a living as a psychiatrist in Japan. They don’t really believe in it. So he came to L.A. Office near fuckstick’s, Century City.”

Ajay had crossed to the intricately inlaid vanity, on which Hollis now saw small tools, plastic parts still attached to their molding-trees, miniature cans of spray paint, narrow-tipped brushes. All of this spread over a thick layering of newspaper. “This’ll do it,” he said, seating himself on the low stool, and raising a thin rod of aluminum, tipped with a small isosceles blade. Hollis peered over his shoulder. Saw a brightly colored box standing against the mirror, printed with a painting of a very militant-looking robot warrior in a sort of Aztec headdress, the words
BREAST CHASER
in sans serif caps. The rest of the writing was in Japanese.

“Why do they call it that?” Hollis asked.

“ ‘Engrish,’ ” said Heidi, with a shrug. “ ‘Beast,’ maybe? Or sometimes they just like the shape of the letters. It’s a beginner’s kit.” This last addressed to Ajay, accusingly. “I ask him to get me a kit by Bandai, something in their Gundam series, expert-grade. Gold standard of figure kits. He brings me fucking Breast Chaser Galvion. Thinks it’s funny. Not Bandai, not Gundam. A kid’s kit.”

“Sorry,” said Ajay, who’d obviously heard about this before.

“You build them?” Hollis asked.

“Helps me focus. Calms me down. Fujiwara says it’s the only thing that works, for some people. Only thing that works for him.”

“He does it himself?”

“He’s a master. Incredible airbrush technique. Scratch-built modifications.”

“Do you want me to open this?” Ajay jiggled the tip of the razor knife.

“Yes,” said Hollis.

“If it’s full of anthrax, we’ll all be sorry.” He winked.

Heidi got up from the bed and came over. “Hey. Don’t blunt that.”

“It’s vinyl,” said Ajay, laying the ant down, on its back, and deftly wielding the razor knife. Hollis watched the tip of the blade slide smoothly into the side of the round base. “Yes. Been cut, glued. Easy. There.” The bottom of the base lay flat on the newsprint, a round of blue a few millimeters thick. “Well,” said Ajay, peering into the twin small tunnels of the ant’s hollow legs, “what’s this, then?” He put down the knife, picked up a long, slender pair of tweezers, with canted tips, and inserted them into one leg. He looked up at Hollis. “Watch. I’m going to pull out … a rabbit!” He produced, gradually, a spongy sheet of thin yellow foam. Displayed it dangling limply from the tweezers’ sharp jaws, five inches square. “Rabbit,” he said, dropping it. “And for my next trick …” He inserted the tweezers again. Felt around with them. And slowly, carefully, drew out a two-inch length of narrow, transparent flexible tubing, plugged at either end with a tiny red cork. “Looks like very professional funny business to me.” There were various differently cylindrical bits of metal and plastic inside the tube, like a section of a hippie-techno necklace. He looked at it more closely, then looked up at Hollis, raising his eyebrows.

“Huh,” said Heidi, “ant’s been LoJacked. Bigend.”

“I’m not sure,” said Hollis. “Can they hear us?” she asked Ajay, suddenly afraid.

“No,” he said. “It was sealed in the doll. The foam was to keep it from rattling. You’d never set up an audio bug that way. You’d want a little needle mike, through the vinyl, for that. This is a transponder and a battery. What do you want to do with it?”

“I don’t know.”

“I can replace it. Reglue the base. I’ll bet Heidi can fix it so you’d never know we opened it.”

“I’m much more concerned with Garreth at the moment,” said Hollis.

“We’ve discussed that,” said Heidi. “You have to call that number. That’s all. If that doesn’t get him, plan B.”