Zero History

ut the manta, merely a black, devilishly dynamic-looking blot, seemed considerably
more realistic. “Try them,” Bigend said. “Delightful, really. Relaxing. The only other
people in the building, at the moment, are employees of mine.”
Heidi craned up at the balloons, if that was what they were, then looked at the iPhone,
which she now held in much the way Bigend had been holding it. Her thumbs began to
move. “Damn,” she said appreciatively.
“This way,” said Bigend. “I’ve leased two floors of offices here, but they’re very busy
now. We can sit here …” He led them to an L-shaped bench of dull aluminum mesh, in
the shadow of a hanging stairway, the sort of place that would have been a smoking-nest,
when people smoked in office buildings. “You recall the Amsterdam dealer we bought
your jacket from? His mysterious picker?”
“Vaguely.”
“We’ve gone back to that. Or, rather, a strategic business intelligence unit I’ve hired in
the Hague has. An example of Sleight pushing me out of my comfort zone. I’ve never
trusted private security firms, private investigators, private intelligence firms, at all. In this
case, though, they have no idea who they’re working for.”
“And?” Hollis, seated now, Milgrim beside her, was watching Bigend closely.
“I’m sending you both to Chicago. We think the Hounds designer is there.”
“Why?”
“Our dealer has had subsequent dealings with the picker who brought him the jacket.
Both picker and jacket came from Chicago.”
“Are you certain?”
He shrugged.
“Who is the designer?”
“I’m sending you to find that out,” said Bigend.
“Milgrim,” said Hollis, “has something he needs to tell you.” It was the only thing she
could think of that might change the subject, give her time to think.
“Do you, Milgrim?” Bigend asked.
Milgrim made a brief, strange, high-pitched sound, like something burning out. Closed
his eyes. Opened them. “The cop,” he said, “in Seven Dials. The one who took my
picture. The one from Myrtle Beach.”
Bigend nodded.
“She’s an agent. From,” and he closed his eyes again, “the Defense Criminal
Investigative Service.” Milgrim opened his eyes, tentatively discovering himself not dead.
“Who are, I confess,” said Bigend, after a pause, “entirely new to me. American, I take
it?”
“It was the pants,” said Milgrim. “She was watching the pants. Then we showed up,
and she thought we might be involved with Foley, and Gracie.”
“Which we are, of course, courtesy of Oliver.”
Hollis hadn’t heard Bigend use Sleight’s first name for a while.