Zero history

“Please do,” said Meredith, smiling, then taking a first sip of her wine.

›››

“That was very good,” Milgrim said to Hollis, after saying good night to Meredith and George outside the restaurant. “The timing. When you told them about Bigend.”

“What choice did I have? If I’d told them otherwise, I’d already have been lying to them. The hotel’s this way.”

“I was never good at that sort of timing,” said Milgrim, then remembered the penguin, and glanced up.

“What was that about UFOs, when you first walked in?”

“I don’t know,” said Milgrim. “I thought I’d seen something. It’s been a long day. I have your computer. Would you mind if I kept it overnight? I have to check something.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Hollis. “I only have it for a book I haven’t started writing. I have my iPhone. What did you think you saw?”

“It looked like a penguin.”

Hollis stopped. “A penguin? Where?”

“In the street. That way.” He pointed.

“In the street?”

“Flying.”

“They can’t fly, Milgrim.”

“Swimming. Through the air. Level with the second-story windows. Using its flippers to propel itself. But it looked more like a penguin-shaped blob of mercury. It reflected the lights. Distorted them. It may have been a hallucination.”

“Do you get those?”

“P-A-W-S,” said Milgrim, spelling it out.

“Paws?”

“Post-acute withdrawal syndrome.” He shrugged, started for the hotel again, Hollis following. “They were worried about that.”

“Who were?”

“The doctors. In the clinic. In Basel.”

“What about the man at the Salon? The one in the pants? The one you thought you’d seen in Selfridges? Did he follow you?”

“Yes. Sleight was telling him where I was.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“I left the Neo with someone else. He followed them.” He needed to clean his teeth. There was pear galette between his upper rear molars. It still tasted good.

“It’s been a long day,” said Hollis as they reached what he took to be their hotel. “I spoke with Hubertus. He wants you to call him. Sleight thinks you’ve run away.”

“I feel like I have.” He held the door for her.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Monsieur Milgrim?” A man, behind a vaguely pulpit-like counter.

“Mister Milgrim’s room is on my card,” said Hollis.

“Yes,” said the clerk, “but he must still register.” He produced a printed white card and a pen. “Your passport, please.”

Milgrim brought out his Faraday pouch, then his passport.

“I’ll call you in the morning, in time for breakfast here, then the train,” said Hollis. “Good night.” And she was gone, around a corner.

“I will photocopy this,” said the clerk, “and return it to you when you are finished in the lobby.” He gestured with his head, to Milgrim’s right.

“The lobby?”

“Where the young lady is waiting.”

“Young lady?”

But the clerk had vanished, through a narrow doorway behind the counter.

The lights were out in the small lobby. Folding wooden panels partially screened it from the reception area. Streetlight reflected on china, set out for breakfast service. And on the yellow curve of the helmet, from the low oval of a glass coffee table. A small figure rose smoothly to its feet, in a complex rustle of waterproof membranes and cycle-armor. “I’m Fiona,” she said sternly, her jawline delicate above the stiff buckled collar. She stuck out her hand. Milgrim shook it automatically. It was small, warm, strong, and callused.

“Milgrim.”

“I know that.” She didn’t sound British.

“Are you American?”

“Technically. You too. We both work for Bigend.”

“He told Hollis he wasn’t sending anybody.”

“Blue Ant didn’t send anybody. I work for him. So do you.”

“How do I know you really work for Bigend?”

She tapped the face of a phone like Hollis’s, listened, handed it to him.

“Hello?” said Bigend. “Milgrim?”

“Yes?”

“How are you?”

Milgrim considered. “It’s been a long day.”

“Run it past Fiona after we’ve spoken. She’ll relay it to me.”

“Did you have Sleight tracking me with the Neo?”

“It’s part of what he does. He called from Toronto, said you’d left Paris.”

“I slipped someone the phone.”

“Sleight’s wrong,” Bigend said.

“Not about the phone leaving Paris.”

“That’s not what I mean. He’s wrong.”

“Okay,” said Milgrim. “Who’s right?”

“Pamela,” said Bigend. “Fiona, whom you’ve just met. We’ll be keeping it at that until the situation sorts itself out.”

“Is Hollis?”

“Hollis is unaware of any of this.”

“Am I?”

There was a silence. “Interesting question,” said Bigend, finally. “What do you think?”

“I don’t like Sleight. Don’t like the man he had following me.”

“You’re doing well. More proactive than I asked for, but that’s interesting.”

“I saw a penguin. Penguin-shaped. Something. I may need to go back to the clinic.”

“That’s our Festo air penguin,” Bigend said, after a pause. “We’re experimenting with it as an urban video surveillance platform.”

“Festive?”

“Festo. They’re German.”

“What’s going on? Please?”

“Something that happens periodically. It has to do with the kind of talent Blue Ant requires. If they’re any good at what I hire them for, they tend to have an innate tendency to go rogue. That or sell out to someone who already has. I expect this to happen. It can actually be quite productive. Fiona was on the train with you, this morning. She’ll be on the train back, tomorrow. Put Hollis in a cab to Cabinet.”

“What’s that?”

“Where she’s staying. Then wait near the cab rank. Fiona will bring you to me. Give her a rundown of your day now, then get some sleep.”

“Okay,” Milgrim said, then realized Bigend was gone. He handed the phone back to Fiona, noticing that she wore something on her left wrist, about six inches long, that looked like a doll’s computer keyboard. “What’s that?”

“Controls the penguin,” she said. “But we’re switching over to iPhones for that.”