Zero history

29. SHIVER

Sleight,” Bigend said, as though the name tired him, “is asking about Milgrim. Is he with you?”

“No,” Hollis said, stretched on the bed, post-shower, partially wrapped in several of the hotel’s not-so-large white towels. “Isn’t he in New York? Sleight, I mean.”

“Toronto,” said Bigend. “He keeps track of Milgrim.”

“He does?” She looked at the iPhone. She had no iconic image for Bigend. Maybe a blank rectangle of Klein Blue?

“Milgrim initially required quite a lot of keeping track of. That fell to Sleight, for the most part.”

“Does he keep track of me?” She looked over at the blue figurine.

“Would you like him to?”

“No. It would be, in fact, a deal-breaker. For you and me.”

“That was my understanding, of course. Where did you buy your phone?”

“The Apple Store. SoHo. New York SoHo. Why?”

“I’d like to give you another one.”

“Why do you care where I bought this one?”

“Making certain you bought it yourself.”

“The last phone you gave me let you keep track of where I was, Hubertus.”

“I won’t do that again.”

“Not with a phone, anyway.”

“I don’t understand.”

She gave the figurine a flick with her finger. It wobbled on its round base.

“You know my concerns with integrity of communication,” he said.

“I don’t know where Milgrim is,” she said. “Is that all you wanted?”

“Sleight’s suggesting he’s left Paris. Done a runner, perhaps. Do you think that likely?”

“He’s not that easy to read. Not for me.”

“He’s changing,” Bigend said. “That’s the interesting thing, about someone in his situation. There’s always more of him arriving, coming online.”

“Maybe something’s arrived that doesn’t want Sleight knowing where it is.”

“If you see him,” Bigend said, “would you ask him to ring me, please?”

“Yes,” she said, “goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Hollis.”

She picked up the figurine. It weighed no more than she recalled it having weighed before, which was very little. It was hollow, and apparently seamless. There was no way to see what might be inside it.

She sat up on the bed, wrapped in slightly damp towels, as her phone rang again. The black-and-white photo of Heidi. “Heidi?”

“I’m at the gym. Hackney.”

“Yes?”

“One of my sparring partners here, he says he knows about your guy.”

The gold squiggles of bullshit faux-Chinese calligraphy on the wall opposite seemed to shimmer and detach, drifting toward her. She blinked. “He does?”

“You never told me his last name.”

“No,” said Hollis.

“Begins with W, ends with s?

“Yes.”

An uncharacteristic pause. Heidi never thought about what she was going to say. “When did you last hear from him?”

“Around the time of my U.K. book launch. Why?”

“When are you back here?”

“Tomorrow. What’s this about?”

“Making sure Ajay and I are talking about the same guy.”

“Ajay?”

“He’s Indian. Well, English. I’ll find out what I can, then you and I will talk.” And she hung up.

Hollis wiped her eyes with the corner of one of the towels, restoring the golden brushwork to its place on the blood-colored wallpaper, and shivered.