Leopard skin in miniature

She stood on Cabinet’s steps, looking at unexpected lights, beyond trees, in the privacy of Portman Square, Robert hovering watchfully behind her, after the tall Slow Foods van pulled away, driven by a young blonde with a cap worryingly like Foley’s.

Sounds of tennis. There was a court in there. Someone had decided to play a night game. She thought the court would be too wet.

When she went back in, Inchmale and Heidi were in the lobby, Inchmale strapping himself into his Japanese Gore-Tex. “We’re going to the studio to listen to some mixes. Come with us.”

“Thanks, but I’m needed.”

“Either offer stands, Tucson or Hampstead. You could stay with Angelina.”

“I appreciate it, Reg. I do.”

“Quietly stubborn,” he said, then looked at Heidi. “Beats violently obstreperous.” Back to her. “Consistent, anyway. Keep in touch.”

“I will.” She headed for the elevator. For the ferret, in its vitrine. Silently offering prayer: that Garreth’s scheme, whatever it was, be as ferrety as it needed to be, or that whatever had happened to this particular ferret, to earn it its timeless somnambulistic residence here, not happen to Garreth, to Milgrim, or to anyone else she cared for.

Its teeth looked bigger, though she knew that couldn’t be possible. She pressed the button, heard distant clanks from above, sounds from the Tesla machinery.

She hadn’t been aware of caring for Milgrim, really, until it became apparent that Bigend would so easily feed him to Foley and company, if that meant getting Bobby Chombo back. And it wouldn’t be Chombo Bigend needed, she knew, but something Chombo knew, or knew how to do. That was what bothered her, that and the fact of Milgrim having been reborn, or perhaps born, on a whim of Bigend’s, simply to see whether or not it was possible. To do that, and then to trade the resulting person, possibly to trade his life, for something you wanted, no matter how badly, was wrong.

When the lift arrived, she hauled the gate aside, opened the door, stepped in. Ascended.

On her way through the corridors to Number Four, she noticed that one of the landscapes now contained two follies, identical, one further back, on a distant hillside. Surely it had always been there, the second folly, unnoticed. She’d give it no further thought, she decided firmly.

She knocked, in case Garreth and Pep were still deep into stays. “It’s me.”

“Come in,” he called.

He was propped up in the Piblokto Madness bed, the black bandage of the cold-pumping machine around his leg again, the black laptop open on his stomach, headset on.

“Busy?”

“No. Just got off a call with Big End.” He looked tired.

“How was that?”

“He’s had the call. Gracie. They wanted Milgrim tonight.”

“You aren’t ready, are you?”

“No, but I knew I wouldn’t be. I’d rehearsed it with him. Milgrim’s done a runner, he told them, but it’s fortunately now been sorted. Going to collect him. Careful not to say where, exactly, but still in the U.K. In case Gracie has a way of checking U.S. passport movement. I think it went well, but your Big End…” He shook his head.

“What?”

“There’s something he wants. Needs. But that’s not it, exactly… It feels to me like he’s been winning, forever, and now, suddenly, there’s a chance he might lose, really lose. If he can’t get Chombo back, in working condition. And that makes Big End really very dangerous.” He looked at her.

“What do you think he might do?”

“Anything. Literally. To get Chombo back. I’ve never done this before.”

“Done what?”

“Exploit on behalf of a client. Concerned I’ve drawn the client from hell.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, put her hand on the leg that was like they both had been, before Dubai.

“The old man says he’s got a very peculiar smell about him now, Big End. Says it’s different, recently, stronger. Can’t get a handle on it.”

“Reg says the same. He’s been hearing it from his wife, who’s in public relations here. Says it’s like dogs before an earthquake. They don’t know what it is, but it’s him, somehow. But I’m worried about you. You look exhausted.” He did, now. The lines deeper in his cheeks. “Those five neurosurgeons didn’t expect you to be doing this, did they?”

He pointed at the sweating black wrap. “Frank’s chilling. You should too.”

“I’d say I wish I hadn’t called you, but it would be a lie. But I’m worried about you. Not just Frank.” She touched his face. “Sorry I left like that.”

He kissed her hand. Smiled. “I was glad you did. Didn’t like the way Pep was looking at you.”

“Neither did I. Didn’t like Pep.”

“Did me a good one in the Barrio Gotico once, Pep. Saved my bacon. Didn’t have to.”

“Pep is good, then.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. But if it has wheels and locked doors, he can open it faster than the owner ever did, and close and lock it as quickly. How’s my grocery van?”

“Upscale vegan. Shiny new.”

“Rental through a specialist agency in Shepperton, vehicles for film and television. Slow Foods haven’t taken delivery yet. Happy to let it for an art shoot, for a very handsome hourly fee.”

There was something on the bedside table. Part of the fuselage of a model plane: curved, streamlined, its upper surface yellow, dotted with brown. She bent for a closer look, saw a miniature leopard print, on plastic.

“Don’t touch. Stings.”

“What is it?”

“Taser.”

“A Taser?”

“Heidi’s. Brought it from Los Angeles by accident, in her bag of Airfix parts. Swept it blindly up with her model-building bumf, when she was well pissed.”

“TSA didn’t notice it?”

“I hate to break this to you,” he said, feigning grave seriousness, “but that’s actually been known to happen. TSA not noticing the odd thing. Shocking, I know…”

“But where would she even get it?”

“America? But contrary to the saying, what happens in Vegas evidently doesn’t always stay there. Someone in Las Vegas gave this to her husband. As a present for her, actually. Hence the leopard print. Lady’s model, you see. TSA didn’t spot it, Her Majesty’s Customs didn’t, but Ajay certainly did, this morning. She had no idea she had it. Packed it by mistake when drunk. Which is no defense, but has been known to get the odd thing handily across a border, now and again.”

“What do you want with it?”

“Not sure yet. ‘Follow the accident. Fear the set plan.’ ”

“I thought you loved plans.”

“Love planning. That’s different. But the right bit of improv makes the piece.”

“It shocks people?”

“Capacitor inside, enough juice to knock you on your handsome. Two barbed darts, from that, on fifteen feet of fine insulated cable. Propelled by captive gas.”

“Horrible.”

“Prefer it to being shot, any evening at all. Not that it’s nice.” He leaned over, picked the thing up, sat back against the pillows. Held it up between thumb and forefinger.

“Put it down. I don’t like it. I think you need to sleep.”

“Milgrim’s on his way. And a makeup artist hairdresser person. We’re getting together with Ajay. Makeover party.”

“Makeover?”

“Whiteface.” He flew the Taser behind the screen of his laptop. Up again. Pause at apogee. “We don’t want to leave Milgrim in Big End’s hands, once this starts.” He looked at her. “We want him with us, regardless of what Big End wants. I’ll need something for him to do, some excuse for keeping him with us.”

“Why?”

“If my scheme should fuck up, as you say in your country, and that’s always a possibility, your man will very badly want to pass Milgrim to Gracie, posthaste. Very badly. Excuses for our behavior. Impossibility of getting decent help these days. But here’s Milgrim, so we’ll take Chombo, thank you, and sorry again for the trouble. Or if Gracie should fuck up, for that matter…” The Taser swept down slowly, over the keyboard, in a silent strafing run.

“Fuck up how?”

“My little op’s bodged together with off-the-shelf parts. Basically I’ve had to build it as though Gracie’s going to play nice, do the prisoner exchange, then take Milgrim off for a nice waterboarding or toe-subtraction-”

“Don’t say that!”

“Sorry. But that would be playing by the rules as far as Big End is concerned. We know that nobody’s getting Milgrim, but Gracie doesn’t, yet. If things go according to my play, Gracie and company will have sufficient weight on them to not bother anyone. But if Gracie should decide not to play by the rules, I haven’t much in the way of extra fun to throw at him.” He held the Taser up again, squinted. “Wish she’d brought a few more, actually.”

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 as possible. Looking up at this unfamiliar building. “Where are we?”

She removed the yellow helmet. “Cabinet. The rear.”

They were in a cobble-paved garden drive, behind a stone wall. She dismounted, Milgrim intrigued as always by the smooth flexibility this demonstrated. He got off as well, with no particular demonstration of grace, and watched as she hauled thick, snakelike anchor chains from the Yahama’s panniers, to secure it.

He followed her up the tidy cobbles to a porte cochere. Pinstripes was waiting, behind a very modern glass door. He admitted them without Fiona having to buzz.

“This way, please,” he said, and led them to a brushed stainless elevator door. Milgrim found that the armored oversuit made him feel strangely solid, larger. In the elevator, he felt he took up more space. Stood up straighter, holding Mrs. Benny’s helmet in front of him with a certain formality.

“Follow me, please.” Pinstripes leading them through one self-closing, very heavy door after another. Dark green walls, brief corridors, gloomy watercolor landscapes in ornate gilt frames. Until they reached one particular door, painted a darker green even than the walls, nearly black. A large, italic brass numeral 4, secured with two brass slot-head screws. Pinstripes used a brass knocker on the door frame: a woman’s hand, holding an oblate spheroid of brass. A single respectful tap.

“Yes?” Hollis’s voice.

“Robert, Miss Henry. They’re here.”

Milgrim heard a chain rattle. Hollis opened the door. “Hello, Milgrim, Fiona. Come in. Thank you, Robert.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Henry. Good night.”

They stepped in, Fiona’s ungauntleted hand brushing his.

Milgrim blinked. Hollis was chaining the door behind them. He’d never seen a hotel room like this, and Hollis wasn’t alone in it. There was a man on the bed (the very strange bed) with short but unkempt dark hair, and he was looking at Milgrim with a seriousness, a sort of quiet focus, that almost triggered the cop-sensing mechanisms Winnie had last touched off in Seven Dials. Almost.

“You’re Milgrim, then. Been hearing a lot about you. I’m Garreth. Wilson. Forgive my not getting up. Leg’s buggered. Keeping it elevated.” He was propped against pillows and the wall, between what Milgrim at first took to be the tusks of a mammoth, twin weathered gray church-window parentheses. An open laptop beside him. One of his black-trousered legs up on three additional pillows. Above him, suspended, the largest birdcage Milgrim had ever seen, filled, it seemed, with stacked books and fairy floodlights.

“This is Fiona, Garreth,” Hollis said. “She rescued me from the City.”

“Good job,” said the man. “And our drone pilot as well.”

Fiona smiled. “Hullo.”

“I’ve just sent Voytek over to mod one of them.”

“We saw him,” Fiona said.

“He wouldn’t have gotten the Taser, but he’ll have it now.”

“Taser?”

“Arming the balloon.” He shrugged, grinned. “Had one handy.”

“How much weight?”

“Seven ounces.”

“I think that will affect elevation,” Fiona said.

“Almost certainly. Speed as well. But the penguin’s maker tells me it will still fly. Though not as high. It’s silver, is it? Mylar?”

“Yes.”

“I think a bit of dazzle paint’s in order. Do you know what I mean?”

“I do,” said Fiona, though Milgrim didn’t. “But you know I’m to fly a different sort of drone?”

“I do indeed.”

“The box is on the bike?”

“It is. And I should have new dampers by now.”

“What are dampers?” Milgrim asked.

“Shock absorbers,” Fiona said.

“Let me take your coats,” Hollis said, taking Mrs. Benny’s helmet, then Fiona’s. “I like your jacket,” she said, noticing Milgrim’s tweed, when he’d shucked out of the stiff nylon coat.

“Thank you.”

“Please,” Hollis said, “take a seat.”

There were two tall, striped armchairs, arranged to face the man on the bed. Milgrim took one, Fiona the other, and Hollis sat on the bed. Milgrim saw her take the man’s hand. He remembered their morning in Paris. “You jumped off the tallest building in the world,” he said.

“I did. Though unfortunately not from the very top.”

“I’m glad you’re okay,” said Milgrim, and saw Hollis smile at him.

“Thanks,” said the man, Garreth, and Milgrim saw him squeeze Hollis’s hand.

Someone rapped on the door twice, lightly, not the brass lady-hand. Knuckles. “Me, innit,” said a voice.

Hollis swung her feet to the floor, got up, crossed to the door, and admitted a very pretty young man and a less pretty girl. The girl carried an old-fashioned black leatherette case. They both looked Indian, to Milgrim, though he was vague about South Asians generally, but the girl was a goth. Milgrim couldn’t remember having seen an Indian-looking goth before, but if you were going to see one, he thought, you’d see one in London.

“My cousin Chandra,” said the young man. He wore complexly distressed, very narrow black jeans, a black polo, and an oversized, ancient-looking motorcycle jacket.

“Hello, Chandra,” Hollis said.

Chandra smiled shyly. She had perfectly straight black hair, enormous dark eyes, and complexly pierced ears and nose. Her lipstick was black, and she appeared to be wearing a sort of Edwardian nurse’s outfit, though it too was black.

“Hello, Chandra,” Hollis said. “Chandra and Ajay, Fiona and Milgrim. And Garreth, Chandra.”

Ajay was looking at Milgrim. “Bit of a stretch,” he said, dubiously.

“Spray you on the sides,” said Chandra, to Ajay. “That fiber stuff, from a can. For covering bald spots. Have some here.” Now she looked at Milgrim. “He could do with a haircut. So that’s in our favor, really.”

Ajay ran his hand back through his hair, military-short on the sides but a silky black mop on top. He looked worried.

“It grows back,” said Garreth, from the bed. “Milgrim, would you mind taking your pants off?”

Milgrim looked to Fiona, then back to Garreth, remembering Jun in the back of Tanky amp; Tojo.

“The waterproofs,” Garreth said. “Ajay needs to get a sense of how you move.”

“Move,” said Milgrim, and stood up. Then sat down again, bending to untie his shoes.

“No, no,” said Fiona, getting up. “Zips for that.” She knelt in front of him, undid foot-long zips on the inner seams of the armored pants. “Stand up.” He did. Fiona reached up, drew the massive plastic fly-zipper down, loudly ripped Velcro, and tugged the pants to the floor. Milgrim felt himself blush, explosively.

“Come on,” said Fiona, “step out of them.”

Дата добавления: 2015-08-03