Threat management

The toilet in Bigend’s cube was like the coach toilet on a plane, but nicer: Scandinavian stainless, tiny round corner sink to match, bead-blasted faucet-handles. The plumbing under the sink reminded Milgrim of aquarium tubing.

He was brushing his teeth, after shaving. Fiona was with Benny, supervising the mounting of something on her bike. Periodically, above the buzz of his toothbrush, he could hear, from the garage, the brief but enthusiastic whoop of what he assumed was a hydraulic driver of some kind.

Something was happening. He didn’t know what, and didn’t want to ask Fiona, else he destabilize whatever it was that had allowed her thigh and calf to find themselves across his thighs. And not be, he checked his memory again, immediately withdrawn, upon her waking. And she hadn’t volunteered anything, other than that Bigend had delegated something to someone named Wilson, whose orders she now followed. She seemed quietly excited, though, and not unhappy to be. Focused.

There weren’t enough towels in Bigend’s toilet, though what there were were Swiss, and white, and very nice, and had probably never been used before. He finished brushing, rinsed, washed toothpaste from his mouth with cold water, and dried his face. The hydraulic driver whooped three times in rapid succession, as though recognizing one of its kind across a clearing.

He opened the bifold door, stepped out, closed it behind him. You could barely see where it was, at the edge of its white wall.

He put his toothbrush and shaving things away in his bag. Fiona had collected everything when she’d checked him out of the Holiday Inn. He tried to tidy the cube, straightening chairs around the table, spreading the sleeping bag on the foam in case Fiona felt like another nap, but it didn’t seem to help. The cube wasn’t very large, and now there were too many things in it. The weird-looking rectangular helicopter-drone on the table, his Air, the cartons and elaborate packing she’d removed the various segments of the drone from, his bag, her armored jacket and his tweed from Tanky amp; Tojo on the backs of chairs. The way this kind of space suddenly looked so much less special if you had to live in it, even for a few hours.

His eye went back to the Air. He sat down, logged on to Twitter. There was a message from Winnie: “Got my leave call me.”

“No phone,” he typed, then wondered how to describe where he was, what he was doing, “I think B has me on ice. Something’s happening.” It looked stupid, but he sent it anyway.

Refreshed twice. Then: “Get phone.”

“Okay.” Sent. Or tweeted, whatever it was. Still, he was glad she had leave. Was still here. He scratched his chest, stood up, put his shirt on, buttoned the front and a few of the cuff buttons on either sleeve, left it untucked, put on his new shoes. His old ones were more comfortable, but they wouldn’t go with whipcord. He went to the door, tried it. Not locked. He hadn’t thought it was. The driver whooped, twice.

He opened the door, stepped out, amazed to find the day gone. The filthiness of Benny’s garage, under bright fluorescent light, instantly made the cube seem surgically clean. Fiona and Benny were looking at Fiona’s bike, which now had a shiny white box with slightly inward-slanting sides fastened where Milgrim had sat, behind her. It looked solid, expensive, but sort of like a beer cooler. There was something on the side, in black, neatly lettered.

“Red crosses?” Fiona asked Benny.

Benny had a yellow power wrench in his hand, a red rubber hose trailing away from it. “Punters would be flagging you down for first aid. This is bog standard for hauling fresh eyeballs. Copied from one that does just that, by the look of it.”

“The name and numbers?”

“You see it as received. Truck was from a prop house, Soho.” He removed the cigarette tucked behind his ear, lit it. “Film and telly. That’s the plan, then? You’re doing telly?”

“Pornos,” said Fiona. “Saad’ll like that.”

“Won’t he just,” said Benny.

Fiona, noticing Milgrim, turned. “Hullo.”

“May I borrow your phone? Have to call someone.”

She fished in her slouchy armored pants, came up with an iPhone, not the one Milgrim had used with the Festo ray, and passed it to him. “Hungry? We can have doner sent in.”

“Dinner?”

“Doner. Kebab.”

“Ready for a curry, myself,” said Benny, studying the lit tip of his cigarette intently, as though it might suddenly offer curry reviews.

“I’ll just make this call-” He froze.

“Yes?”

“Is this… a Blue Ant phone?”

“No,” said Fiona. “Brand-new. So’s Benny’s. We’ve all been freshly resupplied, and the old ones taken away.”

“Thanks,” said Milgrim, and went back into the Vegas cube. He found Winnie’s card, on which he’d added the dialing prefixes, and dialed.

She answered on the second ring. “Yes?”

“It’s me,” said Milgrim.

“Where are you?”

“Suth-uk. Over the river.”

“Doing?”

“We had a nap.”

“Did you have story time first?”

“No.”

“You think something’s happening? You tweeted.”

The verb sounded off, the more particularly because he knew it wasn’t part of a nursery theme. “Something is. I don’t know what. He’s hired someone called Wilson, and delegated.” He was glad he’d remembered the word.

“Threat management,” she said. “He’s outsourcing. Shows he’s taking it seriously. Have you met Wilson?”

“No.”

“What’s Wilson telling them to do?”

“They put a box on the back of Fiona’s bike. The kind they haul eyeballs in.”

There was a perfect digital silence, then: “Who’s Fiona?”

“She drives. For Bigend. Motorcycles.”

“Okay,” said Winnie. “We’ll just start again. Tasking.”

“Tasking?”

“I want you to meet Wilson. I want to know about Wilson. Most importantly, the name of the firm he’s working for.”

“Isn’t he working for Bigend?”

“He works for one of the security firms. Bigend is the client. Don’t ask him. Just find out. Sneaky-ass, though. You can do sneaky-ass. Instinct tells me. Whose phone are you using?”

“Fiona’s.”

“I just e-mailed the number to someone, and they’re telling me the GPS is very amusing. Unless you’ve taken up marathon randomized teleportation.”

“It’s new. She just got it from Bigend.”

“That might be Wilson, the threat management consultant. Earning his keep, if that’s the case. Okay. You’re tasked. Go for it. Call, tweet.” She was gone.

The room filled with that weird chicken-scratch sub-Hendrix chord. He rushed out the door, tripped on part of an engine, and nearly fell, but managed to thrust the phone into Fiona’s hand. As he did so, he wondered whether or not it might be Winnie.

“Hullo? Yes. It’s on. Very convincing. Having my dampers replaced next. They’re a bit rough. You would? Certainly. I’ll borrow a bike. Fast? My pleasure.” She smiled. “What he was wearing yesterday?” She looked at Milgrim. “I’ll tell him.” She put the phone in her pants pocket.

Milgrim raised his eyebrows.

“Wilson,” Fiona said. “You’re required soonest, over the river. Wants to meet you. And you’re to bring what you were wearing yesterday.”

“Why?”

“Thinks kit from Tanky amp; Tojo doesn’t suit you.”

Milgrim winced.

“Taking the piss,” she said, bumping his arm with her fist. “You’re very smart. I’m borrowing a fast bike for the job while Saad does my dampers. Benny’s.”

“Feck,” said Benny softly, a small sound but filled with resignation, as to immemorial hardship. “Don’t bugger it again, can you?”

Дата добавления: 2015-08-03