William Gibson: Zero history

What would Winnie and Garreth be talking about? he wondered as Fiona drove out of the courtyard and down the lane to Farringdon Road.

Watching Garreth as he listened to his headset, she wondered what the American agent was saying.

She’d watched him free a phone she hadn’t seen before, from a vacuum-sealed plastic bag, then install a card selected from a black nylon wallet containing a few dozen more, like the duplicates folder in a very dull stamp collection. He’d connected the new phone to a power unit, and then, with another cable, to something black, and smaller. When the new phone rang, the tone was a variant on Old Phone, her own most frequent choice.

Now he listened, occasionally nodding slightly, eyes on the screen of his laptop, forefinger poking, as if of its own accord, at keys and mouse-patch. He was down his darknets again, she knew, communicating with the old man, or unspecified third parties. There seemed to be no advertising on Garreth’s darknets, and relatively little color, though she supposed that was because he tended mainly to read documents.

Now a color photograph of a woman appeared, Chinese, thirtyish, her hair center-parted, expressionless, in the style of a biometric passport photograph. Garreth leaned forward slightly, as if for a better look, and wrote something in his notebook. “That wouldn’t actually be of much help,” he said. “I have better numbers than that myself.” He fell silent again, listening, opening screens on his desktop, making notes. “No. I have that. I don’t think you can really do much for me. Which is a pity, considering your willingness. What I could really use would be something heavier. Massive, really. And the goods will be there. Worth massive’s time, amply. Massive’ll come along, I imagine. But massive immediately would be the business.” He listened again. “Yes. Certainly. Do. Good night.” He touched the keyboard, the photograph vanishing. He looked at Hollis. “That was well queer.”

“That was her, the photograph?”

“Probably.”

“What did she want?”

“She was offering something. Didn’t really have what I’d most like, but may be able to get it.”

“You won’t tell me?”

“Only because you’d be less safe knowing at this point.” He stroked her hair back from her face, on one side. “Do you know what you’d take with you, if you were going away forever? No more than you can carry at a brisk run.”

“Forever?”

“Probably not. But best to assume you wouldn’t come back here.”

“Not the author’s copies,” indicating the boxes.

“No. But seriously. Pack.”

“I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“That’s the plan. But pack now, please.”

“Is this too big?” indicating her roll-aboard.

“Perfect, but keep it light.”

“Is it about something she told you?”

“No,” he said, “it’s because I doubt we have much more time. Pack.”

She set the empty roll-aboard on the nearest armchair, unzipped it, and began to select things from the drawers in the wardrobe. She added the Hounds designer’s jersey tube. Went into the bathroom, gathering things from the counter.

“How’s Frank?” she asked, emerging.

“Complaining, but he has to get used to it.”

She noticed the Blue Ant figurine on the bedside table. Picked it up. You’re in, she thought, surprising herself, and carried it, with bottles and tubes of product, to the roll-aboard. “Won’t you need some sort of follow-up for neural surgery?”

“Woman in Harley Street,” he said, “as soon as I can.”

“How soon is that?”

“When this is over.” A phone began to ring. Yet another variant on Old Phone. Not hers. He took a phone from his pocket, looked at it. After the third ring he answered. “Yes? From now? Venue? No? Crucial.” He thumbed a key.

“Who?”

“Big End.”

“What?”

“We’re on. Ninety minutes.”

“What’s crucial?”

“We don’t know where. Venue matters. We need exterior, need privacy. But so do they. You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Get a pullover. Back of the van’s unheated.” He’d brought out a second phone. “Message all,” he said, tapping a few tiny keys. The phone beeped.

She glanced around Number Four. The insect-parts wallpaper, the shelves with their busts and heads. Would she see this again? “Are you taking the scooter?”

“No further than the door,” he said, rising from the bed with the aid of his cane. “It’s Frank’s turn.” He winced.

She’d just pulled a sweater on. “Are you all right?”

“Actually,” he said, “I am. Be a dear and get the ugly T-shirt from the bedside hutch. And the other package, the smaller one.”

“What’s that?”

“Almost nothing. And a world of woe, for someone. Quick. There’s a vegan van waiting for us.”

“What the fuck is up?” demanded Heidi, from the other side of Number Four’s door.

Hollis opened the door.

Heidi stood, glaring, majorette jacket open over Israeli army bra. “Ajay just got a text, hauled ass down the hall, said he had to see his cousin.” She saw Garreth. “Was that you?”

“Yes,” said Garreth, “but you’re coming with us.”

“Whatever the fuck this is,” Heidi said, “I’m coming with-”

“Us,” interrupted Garreth, “but not if you make us late. And put a shirt on. Trainers, not boots. In case there’s running.”

Heidi opened her mouth, closed it.

“Time to go,” said Hollis, zipping her bag shut.

“Not without the party favors,” said Garreth.

Milgrim stood, feeling lost, remembering the sound of Fiona’s Kawasaki fading to nothing at all.

She’d gotten a message from Garreth and was gone, leaving her chicken and bacon sandwich uneaten on the table in the Vegas cube, but not before she’d snapped a short length of transparent nylon line to tiny eyebolts, front and rear, on the paint-dazzled penguin. He’d helped her steer it through the door, and she’d anchored it, atop Benny’s huge red tool kit, by placing a hammer on the fishing line. Then she’d quickly returned to the cube, where she’d given him the penguin’s iPhone. “That little van I brought you here in,” she said, “will be here shortly. Wait in the yard, with the penguin. It’ll fit in the back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Don’t know.” Zipping up her jacket.

“Am I going to the same place?”

“Depends on Garreth,” she’d said, and for a moment he’d imagined she might be about to kiss him, maybe just on the cheek, but she hadn’t. “Take care of yourself,” she said.

“You too.”

Then she was out the door, and gone.

He’d carefully rewrapped her sandwich, tucking it into one of the huge side pockets of the nylon jacket, which he’d kept on. He’d give it to her if he saw her later. Then he noticed Mrs. Benny’s black helmet on the table, and took it to mean he wouldn’t be riding with Fiona tonight. He picked it up and sniffed the interior, hoping for hairspray, but couldn’t find it now.

He put his bag, with the Air, over his shoulder, dialed the Italian umbrella down, and went out, closing the door behind him. If there was a way to lock it, he didn’t know it.

He went to Benny’s toolbox, freed the penguin, and walked out into the yard, the line through his left fist, which he held upright, as though he were holding a subway strap.

“Going out?” asked Benny. He held one of the fiberglass cowlings.

Milgrim had had no idea that he was there. How late did Benny work? Or was he another cog, now, in Garreth’s plan? “They’re picking me up,” said Milgrim.