He walked through a grove of Ralph Lauren, then a thinner one of Hilfiger, to a balustrade overlooking the central atrium. Looking down, he saw Foley crossing from the direction of Boulevard Haussmann. Take off the cap, he thought. A professional would have done that, at least, and removed the black jacket as well.
When Foley reached almost the exact spot where Milgrim himself had paused to look up, he paused as well, just as Milgrim had, taking in the dome. Milgrim stepped back, knowing Foley would scan the balustrades next, which indeed he did.
You know I’m here, Milgrim thought, but you don’t know exactly where. He saw Foley speak. To Sleight, he imagined, via a headset.
A moment later, Milgrim was alone in an elevator, pressing the button for the top floor, his improv module kicking in. Open to opportunity.
The elevator stopped at the next floor. The door slid open, and was quickly held by a thick arm in charcoal gray, the arm of a large man.
“It’s a shame you no longer live here in the city,” said a tall blonde, in Russian, to another young woman beside her, equally tall, equally blond. The second blonde rolled a massive pram or stroller into the elevator, some sort of luxury baby-transporter on three bulbous wheels, a thing made apparently of carbon-fiber and sharkskin, everything a gray like the bodyguard’s suit.
“It’s shit in the suburbs,” replied the pram-driver, in Russian, setting the thing’s hand brake with a flick of her finger. “A villa. Two hours. Dogs. Guards. Shit.”
The bodyguard stepped in, eyeing Milgrim darkly. Milgrim backed up, as far as possible, a handrail digging painfully into his spine, and looked down at the floor. The door closed and the elevator began to rise. Milgrim stole a look at the two women, instantly regretting it for the attention it cost him from their looming guardian. He looked back down. The mega-stroller looked like something from the cabin of a very expensive airplane, perhaps the drinks trolley. Whatever infant it held was entirely concealed by a sharkskin cowl or fairing, probably bulletproof. “Surely he can’t have lost that much,” said the first blonde.
“It was all heavily leveraged,” said the pram-driver.
“What does that mean?”
“That we have no Paris apartment, and shop in Galeries Lafayette,” said the pram-driver, bitterly.
Milgrim, who hadn’t heard Russian since leaving Basel, felt a peculiar enchantment, in spite of the sullen presence of their guard, and the handrail in his back. The elevator stopped, the door opened, and a tall Parisian teenager stepped in. As the door closed, Milgrim noted the guard’s focus on the girl, no less sullen but absolute. Slender, brunette, she looked from Milgrim to the two Russian women with a sort of benign disdain, ignoring the guard.
When the elevator stopped again, and the door opened, Milgrim took the Neo from his jacket pocket and tucked it into a sharkskin pocket on the front of the super-pram, feeling it fall into the company of what he guessed were toys, tins of balm or perhaps caviar, or whatever else one needed for an infant oligarch. Doing it, as a pickpocket had once advised him, as if it were not only the expected but the only thing to do. He looked up at the guard, whose eyes were still locked on the brunette. Who turned, then, gazelle-like and justifiably bored, and stepped out, past the guard, as the pram-driver flicked the brake switch off and dragged the thing back out of the elevator like a parts cart in a tank factory.
The guard noticed Milgrim again, but stepped quickly out of the elevator, unwilling to lose sight of his charges.
Milgrim remained where he was as the door closed and the elevator rose again.
“Dogs,” he said, to Sleight, who could no longer hear him. “Guards.”
27. JAPANESE BASEBALL
How’s Paris?” The image that came up for Heidi’s call, on the iPhone, was a decade old, black-and-white, gritty. Jimmy’s white Fender bass, out of focus in the foreground.
“I don’t know,” Hollis said. She was in Sevres-Babylone, walking between platforms, her bag’s trick wheel ticking steadily, like a personal metronome. She had decided to give Milgrim’s worries the benefit of the doubt, taking a random course through the Metro, short hops, line changes, abrupt reversals. If anyone was following her, she hadn’t noticed them. But it was crowded now, tiring, and she’d just decided to head for Odeon, and the hotel, when Heidi called. “I think I’ve found something, but someone may have found me.”
“Meaning?”
“Milgrim thought he saw someone, here, who he’d seen in London. At Selfridges, when you were getting your hair cut.”
“You said he was bugfuck.”
“I said he seemed unfocused. Anyway, he seems more focused now. Though maybe bugfuck too.” At least her bag wasn’t too heavy, minus the copy of her book that she’d given Milgrim. And her Air, she remembered: He still had that.
“Does Bigend have people there for you?”
“I didn’t want that. I didn’t tell them where I was staying.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Latin Quarter.” She hesitated. “A hotel where I stayed with Garreth.”
Heidi pounced. “Really. And was that Garreth’s choice, then, or yours?”
“His.” As she reached her platform, and the waiting crowd.
“And which hand are you carrying this torch in?”
“I’m not.”
“My hairy ass you’re not.”
“You don’t. Have one.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Heidi said. “Marriage.”
“What about it?”
“Does things to you.”
“And how’s fuckstick?
“Out on bond now. Not that much media. Ponzi’s under a half a billion total. Current climate, they’re embarrassed to offer the story to the public. Petty sums. Like foreign serial killers.”
“What about them?” The train was pulling in.
“America’s the capital of serial murder. Foreign serial murder’s like Japanese baseball.”
“How are you, Heidi?”
“Found a gym. Hacky.”
“Hackney.”
The doors opened and the crowd moved forward, taking Hollis with it.
“Thought it was where they invented the sack.” Disappointed. “Kind of like Silverlake. Fixed-up. Creatives. But the gym’s old-school. MMA.”
The doors closed behind her, the embrace of the crowd, mildly personal smells, the roll-aboard against her leg. “What’s that?”
“Mixed martial arts,” said Heidi, as if pleased with a dessert menu.
“Don’t,” advised Hollis. “Remember the boxers.” The train began to move. “Gotta go.”
“Fine,” said Heidi, and was gone.
Six minutes on Line 10 and she was on another platform, Odeon, wheel ticking. Then telescoping the bag’s handle to carry it up the stairs, into slanting sunlight and the sound and smell of the traffic on St. Germain, all of this entirely too familiar, as though she’d never left, and now the fear surfacing, acknowledgement that Heidi was right, that she’d tricked herself into revisiting the scene of a perfect crime. Dreamlike reactivation of passion. The smell of his neck. His library of scars, hieroglyphic, waiting to be traced.
“Oh, please,” she said. Snapping out the bag’s handle, trundling it across wheel-eating cobbles, toward the hotel. Past the candyseller’s wagon. Then the window offering fancy dress. Satin capes, plague-doctor masks with penile noses. The smart little drugstore at the angle of two streets, offering hydraulic breast-massage devices and Swiss skin serums packaged like the latest in vaccines.
Into the hotel, where the man at the desk recognized but didn’t greet her. Discretion rather than a lack of friendliness. She gave her name, signed in, confirmed that Milgrim’s room was on her card, received her key on a heavy brass medallion cast with the head of a lion. Then into the elevator, smaller even than the one at Cabinet but more modern, like a pale bronze telephone booth. The feeling of being in a telephone booth almost forgotten now. How things went away.