jewelry.”
“Names?”
“Nah. Mere’d know.”
“She’s in Melbourne?”
“Nah. Paris.”
She let the darkness of the mothership’s hull fill her field of vision. “Paris?”
“What I said.”
“Do you know how to reach her?”
“She’s at some vintage clothing fair. Two days. Starts tomorrow. Ol’ George is there with her. Inchmale’s pissed that he left while we’re in studio.”
“I need to meet her. Tomorrow or the next day. Can you arrange that?”
“Remember our agreement?”
“Absolutely. Get on it now. Call me back.”
“ ’Kay,” said Clammy, and was gone, the iPhone suddenly inert, empty.
16. HONOR BAR
S he was waiting for Milgrim when he got back to his hotel. On the upholstered bench where they kept their complementary MacBook leashed, on the left side of the crossbar of the T-shaped lobby, opposite the desk.
He hadn’t seen her there as he asked the Canadian girl for his room key. “Someone’s waiting for you, Mr. Milgrim.”
“Mr. Milgrim?”
He turned. She was still seated there, just closing the MacBook, in the black sweatshirt. Flanked on the bench by her large white purse and a larger Waterstone’s bag. She stood, slinging the purse over her right shoulder and picking up the Waterstone’s bag. She must have had the card out, ready, because he saw it in her right hand as she approached him.
“Winnie Whitaker, Mr. Milgrim.” Handing him the card. Badge-like emblem in gold foil, upper left corner. W INNIE T UNG W HITAKER . He blinked. S PECIAL A GENT . Looking past that, desperately seeking escape, into the Waterstone’s shopping bag, where he saw at least two Paddington Bear fuzzy toys, with their iconic yellow hats. Then back to the card. D EPARTMENT OF D EFENSE . O FFICE OF I NSPECTOR G ENERAL . D EFENSE C RIMINAL I NVESTIGATIVE S ERVICE . “DCIS,” pronouncing the individual letters of the acronym, then pronouncing it again as “dee sis,” stress on the first.
“You took my picture,” Milgrim said, sadly.
“Yes, I did. I need to have a talk with you, Mr. Milgrim. Is there somewhere more private?”
“My room’s very small,” he said. Which was true, though as he said it he realized there was absolutely nothing in his room that he had to keep her from finding. “The honor bar,” he said, “just up the stairs here.”
“Thank you,” she said, and gestured with the Waterstone’s bag for him to lead the way.
“Have you been waiting long?” he asked as he started up the stairs, hearing his own voice as though it belonged to a robot.
“Over an hour, but I got to tweet my kids,” she said.
Milgrim didn’t know what that meant, and had never fully taken the measure of the honor bar, and wasn’t sure how many rooms it might actually consist of. The one they entered now was like one of those educational display corners in a Ralph Lauren flagship store, meant to suggest how some semimythical other half had lived, but cranked up, here, into something else entirely, metastasized, spookily hyper-real.
“Wow,” she said appreciatively as he looked down at the card, hoping it would have become something else entirely. “Like the Ritz-Carlton on steroids. But in miniature, sort of.” She put her bag of Paddingtons carefully down on a leather hassock.
“Can I offer you a drink?” asked Milgrim’s robotically level voice. He looked down at the horrible card again, then tucked it into the breast pocket of his jacket.
“Do they have a beer?”
“I’m sure they do.” With some difficulty he located a paneled-in refrigerator, its door covered in red mahogany. “What would you like?”
She peered into the cold matte-silver interior. “I don’t know any of those.”
“A Beck’s,” suggested his robot. “Not the one they have in America.”
“And yourself?”
“I don’t drink alcohol,” he said, passing her a bottle of Beck’s and choosing a canned soft drink at random. She opened it, using something sterling, with a thick
“Names?”
“Nah. Mere’d know.”
“She’s in Melbourne?”
“Nah. Paris.”
She let the darkness of the mothership’s hull fill her field of vision. “Paris?”
“What I said.”
“Do you know how to reach her?”
“She’s at some vintage clothing fair. Two days. Starts tomorrow. Ol’ George is there with her. Inchmale’s pissed that he left while we’re in studio.”
“I need to meet her. Tomorrow or the next day. Can you arrange that?”
“Remember our agreement?”
“Absolutely. Get on it now. Call me back.”
“ ’Kay,” said Clammy, and was gone, the iPhone suddenly inert, empty.
16. HONOR BAR
S he was waiting for Milgrim when he got back to his hotel. On the upholstered bench where they kept their complementary MacBook leashed, on the left side of the crossbar of the T-shaped lobby, opposite the desk.
He hadn’t seen her there as he asked the Canadian girl for his room key. “Someone’s waiting for you, Mr. Milgrim.”
“Mr. Milgrim?”
He turned. She was still seated there, just closing the MacBook, in the black sweatshirt. Flanked on the bench by her large white purse and a larger Waterstone’s bag. She stood, slinging the purse over her right shoulder and picking up the Waterstone’s bag. She must have had the card out, ready, because he saw it in her right hand as she approached him.
“Winnie Whitaker, Mr. Milgrim.” Handing him the card. Badge-like emblem in gold foil, upper left corner. W INNIE T UNG W HITAKER . He blinked. S PECIAL A GENT . Looking past that, desperately seeking escape, into the Waterstone’s shopping bag, where he saw at least two Paddington Bear fuzzy toys, with their iconic yellow hats. Then back to the card. D EPARTMENT OF D EFENSE . O FFICE OF I NSPECTOR G ENERAL . D EFENSE C RIMINAL I NVESTIGATIVE S ERVICE . “DCIS,” pronouncing the individual letters of the acronym, then pronouncing it again as “dee sis,” stress on the first.
“You took my picture,” Milgrim said, sadly.
“Yes, I did. I need to have a talk with you, Mr. Milgrim. Is there somewhere more private?”
“My room’s very small,” he said. Which was true, though as he said it he realized there was absolutely nothing in his room that he had to keep her from finding. “The honor bar,” he said, “just up the stairs here.”
“Thank you,” she said, and gestured with the Waterstone’s bag for him to lead the way.
“Have you been waiting long?” he asked as he started up the stairs, hearing his own voice as though it belonged to a robot.
“Over an hour, but I got to tweet my kids,” she said.
Milgrim didn’t know what that meant, and had never fully taken the measure of the honor bar, and wasn’t sure how many rooms it might actually consist of. The one they entered now was like one of those educational display corners in a Ralph Lauren flagship store, meant to suggest how some semimythical other half had lived, but cranked up, here, into something else entirely, metastasized, spookily hyper-real.
“Wow,” she said appreciatively as he looked down at the card, hoping it would have become something else entirely. “Like the Ritz-Carlton on steroids. But in miniature, sort of.” She put her bag of Paddingtons carefully down on a leather hassock.
“Can I offer you a drink?” asked Milgrim’s robotically level voice. He looked down at the horrible card again, then tucked it into the breast pocket of his jacket.
“Do they have a beer?”
“I’m sure they do.” With some difficulty he located a paneled-in refrigerator, its door covered in red mahogany. “What would you like?”
She peered into the cold matte-silver interior. “I don’t know any of those.”
“A Beck’s,” suggested his robot. “Not the one they have in America.”
“And yourself?”
“I don’t drink alcohol,” he said, passing her a bottle of Beck’s and choosing a canned soft drink at random. She opened it, using something sterling, with a thick
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