Zero History

Milgrim lowered the helmet to his side.
Opposite the Market was what looked to him like fairly generic London, some
thoroughfare curving past, relatively light traffic, and currently none whatever on this
lane immediately adjacent the Market, but now he heard an engine approaching. He and
Fiona turned in unison. One of those anonymous, usually Japanese two-door sedans that
seemed to Milgrim to comprise the bulk of London traffic. It didn’t slow when it passed
them, but Milgrim saw the driver’s glance.
Then it did slow, after passing the two couriers, pulling in several car-lengths beyond
them. The couriers looked at it, looked at one another, set their tall cans down, put on
their helmets, started their engines, and rode away. Then the car’s passenger-side door
opened and Winnie emerged, wearing a beige raincoat over a black pantsuit. She closed
the door and walked toward them. It was the first time Milgrim had seen her out of a
South Carolina souvenir sweatshirt, and she wasn’t carrying a bag full of toys. Instead,
she had a businesslike black leather purse, matching shoes. Milgrim watched her shoes
click past the two cans.
“Special Agent Whitaker,” she said to Fiona, when she reached them.
“Right,” said Fiona.
The driver emerged from the car. An older man, he wore what Milgrim supposed might
be called a fedora, a raincoat roughly the color of Winnie’s, dark slacks, large brown
shoes. He closed the car door and stood, looking back at them.
“Milgrim and I will talk in the car,” Winnie said. “He’ll be behind the wheel. My driver
will wait at a distance, where you can see him. Fair enough?”
Fiona nodded.
“Come on, then,” Winnie said to Milgrim.
He got off the bike, feeling clumsy in the armored nylon oversuit, put the hairspray
helmet on the seat. She walked him to the car. Past the cans, which Milgrim saw had
contained some sort of boldly labeled cider, the London couriers apparently being healthminded
in spite of smoking. “Your friend doesn’t have any trouble making her terms
known,” Winnie said.
“I heard. But she has orders not to let me out of her sight. And she did agree to bring
me here, on very short notice.”
She opened the driver’s-side door for him.
Milgrim, who hadn’t driven a car for a decade or more, got in behind the wheel. The
car smelled of air-freshener, and had a large St. Christopher medal affixed to the dash.
Winnie walked quickly around the back, opened the door, got into the passenger seat,
closed the door.
“Nice suit,” Milgrim said as she crossed her legs.
“It’s perverse of me.”
“It is?”
“Navy or charcoal being the norm. Fed shows up wearing a wedding dress, it’ll be