Zero History

His therapist had suspected that his inability with Romance languages was too
thorough, too tidily complete, thus somehow emotionally based, but they had been unable
get to the bottom of it.
Obtaining the password (“dutemple”) from the counterman, he logged on to Twitter,
his password there a transliteration of the Russian for “gay dolphin,” the Cyrillic loosely
rendered in approximation on the Roman keyboard.
Her “Whr R U now?” had been sent “about 2 hours ago from TweetDeck.”
“Paris,” typed Milgrim, “man following us, seen yesterday in London. Is he yours?” He
clicked the update button. Sipped at his espresso. Refreshed the window.
“Describe,” this less than five seconds ago via TweetDeck.
“White, very short hair, sunglasses, twenties, medium height, athletic.” He updated.
Watched people passing, through the window.
Refreshed the window. Nothing but a short URL, sent forty seconds before from
TweetDeck, whatever that was. He clicked on it. And there was Foley, wearing what
might be the olive-drab version of the black jacket, with a black knit skullcap rather than
the forage cap. Oddly, his eyes were concealed by a black Photoshopped rectangle, as in
antique porn.
Milgrim glanced at the page’s header and the image’s caption, something about “elite
operator’s equipment.” He concentrated on the photograph, assuring himself that this was
in fact his man. “Yes,” he wrote, “who is he?” and updated.
When he refreshed, her reply was thirty seconds old. “Never mind & try not 2 let hm
no ur on hm,” she’d written.
Know, he thought, then typed “Bigend?”
“When U back”
“Hollis thinks we’re back tomorrow.”
“Ur lucky ur in paris out”
“Over,” he wrote, though he wasn’t sure that was right. Her telegraphese was
infectious. He saved the URL of the elite operator’s page to bookmarks, then logged out
of Twitter, out of his webmail, and closed the computer. His Neo began to ring, its
archaic dial-phone tone filling the tobacco shop. The man behind the counter was
frowning.
“Yes?”
“You’re lucky to be in Paris.” It was Pamela Mainwaring. “Not ours.”
His first thought was that she’d somehow been watching his Twitter exchange with
Winnie. “Not?”
“She rang us. Definitely not. Be lovely to have a snap from Paris.”
Hollis. Pamela’s call constrained now by Bigend’s suspicion of Sleight and the Neo.
“I’ll try,” Milgrim said.
“Enjoy,” she said, and hung up.
Milgrim hoisted his bag to the zinc counter, unzipped it, found his camera. He loaded it