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.”
“Where is she meeting us?”
“Smithfield.”
›››
This time, removing the hairspray helmet, which he was starting to accept as an inherent and not entirely unfair cost of riding with Fiona-and almost, possibly, to enjoy-Milgrim found himself beneath a sort of deep, glassy, probably plastic awning, slung horizontally from above, running the seeming length of a very long building, apparently the only one on this very long block, ornate to American eyes but probably leanly functional to its Victorian builders. Sections of brick alternated with narrower sections of gray cement. A pair of obvious couriers sat their bikes, the big Hondas Fiona called maggots, about twenty feet away, smoking cigarettes and drinking from tall cans.
“Stay on the bike,” Fiona said, removing her own helmet. “We may have to leave quickly. If we do, get the helmet on and hold on.”
Milgrim lowered the helmet to his side.
Opposite the Market was what looked to him like fairly generic London, some thoroughfare curving past, relatively light traffic, and currently none whatever on this lane immediately adjacent the Market, but now he heard an engine approaching. He and Fiona turned in unison. One of those anonymous, usually Japanese two-door sedans that seemed to Milgrim to comprise the bulk of London traffic. It didn’t slow when it passed them, but Milgrim saw the driver’s glance.
Then it did slow, after passing the two couriers, pulling in several car-lengths beyond them. The couriers looked at it, looked at one another, set their tall cans down, put on their helmets, started their engines, and rode away. Then the car’s passenger-side door opened and Winnie emerged, wearing a beige raincoat over a black pantsuit. She closed the door and walked toward them. It was the first time Milgrim had seen her out of a South Carolina souvenir sweatshirt, and she wasn’t carrying a bag full of toys. Instead, she had a businesslike black leather purse, matching shoes. Milgrim watched her shoes click past the two cans.
“Special Agent Whitaker,” she said to Fiona, when she reached them.
“Right,” said Fiona.
The driver emerged from the car. An older man, he wore what Milgrim supposed might be called a fedora, a raincoat roughly the color of Winnie’s, dark slacks, large brown shoes. He closed the car door and stood, looking back at them.
“Milgrim and I will talk in the car,” Winnie said. “He’ll be behind the wheel. My driver will wait at a distance, where you can see him. Fair enough?”
Fiona nodded.
“Come on, then,” Winnie said to Milgrim.
He got off the bike, feeling clumsy in the armored nylon oversuit, put the hairspray helmet on the seat. She walked him to the car. Past the cans, which Milgrim saw had contained some sort of boldly labeled cider, the London couriers apparently being health-minded in spite of smoking. “Your friend doesn’t have any trouble making her terms known,” Winnie said.
“I heard. But she has orders not to let me out of her sight. And she did agree to bring me here, on very short notice.”
She opened the driver’s-side door for him.
Milgrim, who hadn’t driven a car for a decade or more, got in behind the wheel. The car smelled of air-freshener, and had a large St. Christopher medal affixed to the dash. Winnie walked quickly around the back, opened the door, got into the passenger seat, closed the door.
“Nice suit,” Milgrim said as she crossed her legs.
“It’s perverse of me.”
“It is?”
“Navy or charcoal being the norm. Fed shows up wearing a wedding dress, it’ll be described as a black suit. A black suit and she shoved her badge in your face. She was wearing charcoal gray from Brooks Brothers, the credentials were presented slowly, respectfully, at midtorso level. But then it’s a black suit, and she shoved the badge in their face. Know what’s weird about that?”
“No,” said Milgrim.
“You don’t present the credentials, you don’t get that. That’s why cards are so much better. The badge is like something out of a role-playing game, some seal of elder doom. When your job’s building relationships and establishing rapport, the credentials are murder.”
Milgrim considered her. “That’s your job?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
He thought about it. “I see what you mean. Who’s that man?” he asked, to change the subject.
“I’m renting his spare bedroom. Really, the suit’s for him. If he’s going to drive me around, I figure I can look like his idea of a professional.”
The man had strolled a little farther, stopped, and now stood with hands in raincoat pockets, staring out in what Milgrim thought might be the direction of the City. Milgrim twisted in his seat, saw Fiona watching them, astride the Yamaha, her helmet-hair a tousled dandelion.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Gracie and Foley have kidnapped someone who works for Bigend-”
“ ‘Kidnapped’? That has a very specific meaning, for me. That’s a crime. Kidnapped who?”
“Shombo. Chombo, I mean. He works for Bigend. They went to the home of the man Chombo was staying with, hit the man, threatened him, his wife and child as well, and took Chombo away.”