Zero History

laundering angle there. What did I tell you his name was?”
“Gracie.”
“First name?”
“Peter.”
“I’ll give you a mnemonic: Elvis, Graceland.”
“ ‘Elvis, Graceland’?”
“Preston, Gracie. Presley, Graceland. What’s his name?”
“Preston Gracie. Mike.”
She smiled.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Tell Bigend.”
“But then he’ll know about you.”
“Only as much as you tell him. If we were back in the States, I’d play this another way.
But you’re my only resource here, and I’m out of time. Tell Bigend there’s this hard-ass
federal agent who wants him made aware of Gracie. Bigend has money, connections,
lawyers. If Gracie fucks with him, let’s make sure he knows who to fuck back at.”
“You’re doing what Bigend does,” Milgrim said, more accusingly than he intended.
“You’re just doing this to see what happens.”
“I’m doing it,” she said, “because I find myself in a position to. Maybe, somehow, it’ll
cause Michael Preston Gracie to fuck up. Or get fucked up. Sadly, it’s just a gesture. A
gesture in the face of the shitbird universe, on behalf of my ongoing frustration with its
inhabitants. But you need to tell Bigend, fast.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve got Gracie’s flight schedule on APIS, via CBP. He’s on his way here.
Atlanta by way of Geneva. Looks like he’s laying over for a meeting there, four hours on
the ground. Then he’s into Heathrow.”
“And you’re leaving?”
“It’s a piss-off, but yeah. And my kids and husband miss me. I’m homesick. I guess it’s
time.” She put down her spoon, switching to chopsticks. “Tell Bigend. Tonight.”