Zero History

66. ZIP
Benny’s civilian bike, Milgrim now knew, was a 2006 Yamaha FZR1000, black and red.
It was lowered, Fiona said, whatever that meant, and had something called a Spondon
swing arm, allowing the wheelbase to be lengthened at the drag strip. “Quick off a light,”
she said approvingly.
She was fully armored again, zipped and Velcro’d, the yellow helmet under her arm.
Milgrim was armored too, in borrowed nylon and Kevlar, stiff and unfamiliar, over tweed
and whipcord. The toes of Jun’s bright brown brogues looked wrong, below the black
Cordura overpants. His bag, containing his laptop and the clothing he’d worn the night
before, was strapped atop the Yahama’s tank, which looked as though it had been
gathered to spring from between a rider’s thighs. A striking image, now, with those thighs
about to be Fiona’s.
“Voytek is here, to fuck penguin.”
They turned, at the sound of his voice. He was walking toward them through the
deserted bike yard. He carried a black Pelican case in either hand, and these, Milgrim saw,
unlike his screening cases, looked heavy.
“ ‘With,’ ” corrected Fiona, “ ‘fuck with.’ ”
“ ‘I the pity poor immigrant.’ You do not. Is Bob Dylan.”
“Why are you bothering, then?” demanded Fiona. “The one in Paris was fine, and
we’ve just gotten this one on the iPhone.”
“Order of Wilson. Commissar of all fuckings with.”
He brushed past them, into the Vegas cube, closing the door behind him.
“Is there another helmet?” asked Milgrim, eyeing Mrs. Benny’s black one, which sat on
the Yamaha’s pillion seat.
“Sorry,” said Fiona, “no. And I’ll have to adjust the chinstrap. Had a safety lecture.”
“You did?”
“Wilson.” She put the black helmet on Milgrim’s head, adroitly adjusted and fastened
his chinstrap. The hairspray seemed even stronger now, as if Mrs. Benny had been
wearing it in the meantime. He wondered if he was developing an allergy.
Fiona pulled on gauntlets, straddled the shiny Yamaha. Milgrim got on behind her. The
engine came to life. She walked them off Benny’s yard, and then the bike seemed to take
over, a very different creature than Fiona’s big gray one. A tight but intricate circuit of
Southwark streets, feeling, Milgrim assumed, for possible followers, and then over
Blackfriars in a surge, working the gears, the red and white railings strobing past. He
immediately lost track of direction, once they were on the other side, and when she finally
stopped and parked, he hadn’t expected it.
He fumbled with the fastenings under his chin, got Mrs. Benny’s helmet off as quickly