Zero History

Which was Japanese, minute, and appeared to have been fathered by a Citroën Deux
Chevaux, its mother of less distinctive lineage but obviously having attended design
school. It had virtually no rear seat, so Hollis was folded in sideways now, behind
Meredith and Clammy, watching a determined little rear wiper squeegee rain. Nothing
could have been less like the Hilux. A tiny retro-wagon, devoid of armor. Everything, in
traffic, was larger than they were, including motorcycles. Clammy had bought it used,
through a broker in Japan, and imported it, the only way to get one here. It was the dark
glossy gray of an old-fashioned electric fan, a shade Inchmale liked to refer to as “a
crushed mouse,” which meant a gray with some red in it. She hoped other drivers could
see them. Though not if they were Foley’s crew, whom she’d started to worry about
when Clammy was turning into Oxford Street. Garreth’s instruction to not leave the hotel
had suddenly made a different sort of sense. She hadn’t been taking all that very
seriously. She’d felt like an observer, a helper, or a woefully unskilled nurse. But now,
she realized, in this new economy of kidnapping, she herself could probably be quite
valuable. If they had her, they’d have Garreth. Though they didn’t, as far as she knew,
know about Garreth. Though that depended, she imagined, on everyone in Bigend’s tiny
immediate crew remaining loyal. Who was Fiona? She knew nothing about Fiona, really.
Except that she kept an eye on Milgrim, an oddly personal one, Hollis thought. Actually,
now that Hollis thought about it, as though she fancied him.
“Is it much further?” she asked.