Zero History

“That’s less dangerous?”
“Not really, but I tell her it is. She doesn’t know the extent of the job. She’s busy.”
“Good morning,” said Bigend, behind them.
Milgrim turned. Bigend was wearing his blue suit, over a black knit shirt, no tie.
“Do you like them?” Bigend asked Milgrim.
“Like what?”
“Our Festos,” said Bigend, raising his index finger to point straight up.
Milgrim looked up. The ceiling here, as white as the walls, was a good ten ten feet
higher than it was in the adjacent space. Against it floated confusing shapes, silver, black.
“Is that the penguin? From Paris?”
“It’s like the one in Paris,” she said.
“What’s the other?”
“Manta. Ray,” said Bigend. “Our first custom order. They’re ordinarily in the silver
Mylar.”
“What do you do with them?” Though he already knew.
“Surveillance platforms,” Bigend said. He turned to Fiona. “How was it, in Paris?”
“Good,” she said, “except that he saw it. But that’s the silver, and daytime operation.”
She shrugged.
“I thought I was hallucinating,” Milgrim said.
“Yes,” Bigend said, “people do. In Crouch End, though, when we first tried the penguin
at night, we triggered a mini-wave of UFO reports. The Times suggested people were
actually seeing Venus. Have a seat.” He drew out one of the chairs.
Milgrim sat. Held the tall cup of hot tea in his hands, its warmth comforting.
When Bigend and Fiona were seated as well, Bigend said, “Fiona’s told me what you
told her last night. You said that you photographed the man who was following you, or
perhaps following Hollis. Do you have the photographs?”
“Yes,” said Milgrim, bending to fish in his sock top. “But he was following me. Sleight
was telling him where I was.” He put the camera card on the table, opened his bag,
brought out the Air, found the card reader he’d bought from the Persian man in the
camera shop, and put them together.
“But Sleight may simply have assumed you’d be with Hollis,” Bigend said as the first of
the photographs of Foley came up.
“Foley,” Milgrim said.
“Why do you call him that?”
“Because he was wearing foliage green pants. That was what I first noticed about him.”
“Have you seen him?” Bigend asked Fiona.
“Yes,” Fiona said. “He was in and out of the old-clothes fair. Busy. I could see he was
doing something. Or wanting to.”
“Was he alone?”
“He seemed to be. But talking to himself. You know: not to himself. An earpiece.”