William Gibson - Zero history

“I know,” she said, “but also because you can. Isn’t that true?”

“Yes. It is. Though after this, it won’t be true in the same way. That’s obvious to me, and was obvious before you called me. I’d already seen it, on hospital ceilings. Same for the old man. I knew when he told me about this.” He tapped the black square. “This is a big one. Probably the biggest he had. I’d no inkling about this. The potential, for one grand exploit, is fabulous. But he’s given it to me to make it easier to get my girlfriend, and her freak of an employer, out of trouble.”

She noticed the Blue Ant figurine on the bedside table, beside the phone. “Where’s that GPS thing? I don’t want to lose track of it.”

He looked at his watch. “It should be headed up the Amazon by now. By boat.”

“The Amazon?”

He shrugged, put his arm around her. “By courier. Slowly. If Mr. Big End is tracking it, he’ll know we’ve played a joke. If it’s someone else, they may think you’re headed up the Amazon.”

“Someone put it in my bag when I went to Paris.”

“Staff.”

“Here?”

“Of course.”

“That’s scary.”

“But I’ve thought of it. And I’m always here, which simplifies things.”

“Who was here, earlier?”

“Charlie.”

“Graying, Asian, plaid tam?”

“Charlie.”

“He’s almost as wide as he’s tall.”

“Ghurka. Tapers toward the waist. Jewel, Charlie. How do you ever manage to do anything intimate in here, with all of these heads and things staring?”

“I have absolutely no idea. Never having tried.”

“Really,” he said.

Milgrim made his way back from Benny’s shower wearing a ragged, piebald terry robe, vertically striped in what must originally have been rust and a very lively green, and his Tanky amp; Tojo brogues, unlaced, over wet bare feet. Fiona followed, draped in the MontBell sleeping bag, in a pair of oversized rubber flip-flops. Milgrim hoped she wouldn’t get athlete’s foot. He hoped neither of them would. The concrete floor of Benny’s shower had felt scarily slimy, the water scalding hot until it suddenly ran cold. Not a stall, just a length of slanted concrete floor against a wall. And had in fact been dark, which he’d actually been glad of. He didn’t like thinking, now, how he must look from behind, in the bright beam of her tiny flashlight, in this robe and the brogues. There hadn’t been any towels.

They picked their way through the minefield of foam cups and engine parts on the floor of Benny’s workshop.

Back in the cube, Milgrim took his clothes into the micro-washroom and closed the door. Banged his elbow toweling off with the robe, which smelled faintly of gasoline. “Here’s the robe,” he said. “It’s not that wet.” He opened the door partially and held it out. She took it.

He used one of Bigend’s Swiss towels for a touch-up, then struggled into his clothes. The softly scrabbling Saharan ghost of Jimi Hendrix filled the cube and the washroom. “Hullo?” he heard her say. “Yes. Just a moment.” Her pale bare arm passed her iPhone in. “For you.”

He took it. “Hello?”

“The tasking,” said Winnie.

Milgrim, who hadn’t been expecting this at all, could think of nothing to say.

“I haven’t heard from you,” she said.

“I did meet him.”

“And?”

“I don’t think he’s working for one of those companies you described. I think he’s Hollis’s boyfriend.”

“Why would he hire Hollis’s boyfriend?”

“He’s that way,” said Milgrim, more confidently. “He prefers to hire amateurs. It’s something he talks about.” It still amazed Milgrim, slightly, to be telling anyone the truth, about anything. “He doesn’t like”-and Milgrim strained his memory-“ strategic business intelligence types .”

“Hiring an amateur, in his present situation, could be suicidal. Are you sure?”

“How could I be sure? Garreth doesn’t feel like someone from a company, to me. Not like an amateur either. Knows what he’s doing, but I don’t know what that is. But I think he’s sleeping with Hollis. I mean, there’s only the one bed there.” Which made him think of the foam, and Fiona.

“What does he look like?”

“Thirties? Brown hair.”

“That’s you. Try harder.”

“British. And like a cop. But not. Military? But not exactly. Athletic? But he’s been in an accident.”

“What kind?”

“He jumped off the tallest building in the world. Then a car ran over him.”

Silence. “This is why it’s good we’ve had face time,” she said.

“Hollis told me. One of his legs doesn’t work very well. He has a cane. And one of those electric scooter things.”

“We need more face time. Now.”

Milgrim looked at the phone, seeing, superimposed on it, the government seal on her card. “When?”

“I just told you.”

“I’ll have to ask Fiona.”

“Do that,” she said, and hung up. He put the iPhone on the edge of the sink and finished dressing.

He emerged with the phone in one hand, his shoes and socks in the other.

Fiona was seated at the table, back in her armored pants and Rudge T-shirt, toweling her hair with the bathrobe. “Who was that?” she asked, lowering the bathrobe, hair sticking out in every direction.

“Winnie.”

“American.”

“Yes,” said Milgrim. He sat down and began to put on his socks and shoes.

“I couldn’t help overhearing,” Fiona said.

Milgrim looked up.

“What is it that you have to ask me?”

“Hold on.” Milgrim finished tying his shoes. He pulled his bag toward him, across the table, opened it, dug through it, found Winnie’s card. He handed it to Fiona.

She read it. Frowned. “The Department of Defense ?”

“Dee-sis,” said Milgrim, nodding, then spelled out the acronym.

“Never heard of it.”

“She says almost nobody has.”

“Bigend know about this?”

“Yes. Well, not about that call. Or the previous one.”

Fiona put the card down on the table, looked at him. “Are you?”

“What?”

“Dee-sis.”

“Seriously?”

“Then how are you hooked up with her?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Have you done something? A crime?”

“Not lately. Nothing she’d be interested in. Much. She’s after Gracie.”

“Who’s that?”

“He has Shombo. Gracie was watching Bigend. Thought he was a competitor. In a way, he is. So she started watching me. Now I need to meet with her.”

“ ‘Chombo,’ ” she corrected, “not ‘Shombo.’ Where?”

“I think we decide. Not here.”

“That’s for sure.”

“Do you have to tell Hubertus?” he asked.

She put the tip of her index finger on Winnie’s card, moved it slightly, like a little Ouija board, divining something. “My relationship with Bigend isn’t strictly business,” she said. “My mother worked for him when I was a kid.”

Milgrim nodded, but really just because it seemed to fit.

“Is she going to try to stop whatever it is that Garreth is doing for Bigend?”

“She wants to fuck Gracie over,” said Milgrim, “any way she can. She’s hoping Bigend will do it for her, because she can’t do it herself.”

Fiona tilted her head. “You sounded like a different person just then. Different kind of person.”

“She might explain it that way herself,” he said. “But if it were just a matter of my going out and meeting her, I’d do it, and tell Bigend when I could.”

“Okay,” said Fiona. “I’ve got the keys to the Yamaha. Call her. I’ll need to explain where she’s meeting us.”