Zero history

54. AIR GLOW

Ferguson,” said Winnie Tung Whitaker, “the one with the mullet. He was on Gracie’s Heathrow flight, from Geneva.”

In the glow of the Air’s screen and backlit keyboard, Milgrim was huddled at the desk, cowled in the MontBell sleeping bag. He’d tried sleeping, but had kept getting up to check Twitter. On the sixth or seventh try, her response had been this number in the United States. On checking her card, he’d seen that it was her cell number. Some research in the paper telephone directory under the swatch books had provided the necessary dialing prefixes. “The one with the pants?” he asked, hoping he was wrong.

“Mike Ferguson. See? I told you.”

“When are you going back?”

“Actually, this story of yours might call for leave en route.”

“What’s that?”

“The one scam still permitted federal employees, we like to call it. I’m TDY now. Temporary duty, business travel. If I can get permission, I can take two days’ vacation. Sixteen hours of annual leave. When I saw your tweet, I e-mailed my boss. It’ll be on my own nickel, though.” She didn’t sound happy about that. “On the other hand, this is getting really interesting. Not that my boss would find it interesting enough to keep me here on per diem. That trick you played in Paris, though, I wouldn’t have expected that from you. What’s up?”

“I don’t know.” It was true.

“That was the Parsons grad, the designer, the wannabe SpecOps boy. And that dumbfuck attempt on your boss’s truck would be him too.”

“It was,” said Milgrim. “I saw him.”

“I mean it wasn’t Gracie or Ferguson. They were still going through immigration at Heathrow. Once they got through, though, they’d be apprised of what he’d done, and what had happened. The interesting thing, then, becomes how Gracie might react to that. If he were smart, he’d let it go, fire the designer. Who’s clearly worse than clueless. And it isn’t that Gracie’s not intelligent. He’s highly intelligent. Just not smart. Did you tell Bigend?”

“Yes,” said Milgrim. “I think I told him everything you wanted me to.”

“Did you tell him about me?”

“I showed him your card,” Milgrim said. It was on the desk now, in front of him.

“Describe his reaction.”

“He didn’t seem worried. But he never does. He said that he’d had some experience with U.S. federal agents.”

“He might have just a little under five hundred pounds of very highly trained Mike on his hands soon, between the two of them. You’ll need to keep me informed. Got a phone?”

“No,” said Milgrim, “I left it in Paris.”

“Tweet me. Or call this number.”

“I’m glad about your leave.”

“Not a done deal yet. Let’s hope it works out. Watch out for yourself.” She hung up.

Milgrim replaced the weightless plastic handset in its recess on top of the phone, causing a backlit white panel to go out.

He looked at the clock in the upper right corner of the screen. Jun was supposed to arrive in a few hours. It wouldn’t yet be light out now. Wrapped in the MontBell, he went back to the foam.