“God’s in the details, the architects said. But you have rather a bigger problem, here. Contextually.”

“You refer,” Bigend said, “to Hollis’s unseemly readiness to shop me to the Guardian?”

“Gracie,” Garreth said. “I imagine he’s doing this because he feels you’ve been fucking with him, successfully. He didn’t ask you for money?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t your mole want money?”

“I’m sure he does,” Bigend said, “but I would imagine he might be in over his head with these people. I imagine he was looking for a context in which to profitably betray me, but then they found him. He’s likely afraid of them, and likely with good reason.”

“If you were to turn Milgrim over to them,” said Garreth, “and get your Bobby back intact, they’d be back. You’re that wealthy. This bent officer may not yet be thinking in those terms, but your mole already is.”

Bigend looked uncharacteristically pensive.

“But if you do it the way I’d do it,” said Garreth, “you really will have fucked with them, in a very formal and personal way. They’ll come after you.”

“Then why would you suggest it?”

“Because,” said Hollis, “giving them Milgrim is not an option.”

“The thing is,” said Garreth, “you need to simultaneously fuck with them and neutralize them, in some seriously ongoing way.”

Bigend leaned slightly forward. “And how would you do that?”

“I’m not prepared to tell you,” Garreth said, “at the moment.”

“You aren’t proposing violence?”

“Not in the way I imagine you mean, no.”

“I don’t see how you could possibly mount anything very sophisticated in such a short period of time.”

“It would have to be something off the shelf.”

“Off the shelf?”

But Garreth had gone back to his breakfast.

“And how long have you known Mr. Wilson, Hollis?” his tone like some Jane Austen chaperone’s.

“We met in Vancouver.”

“Really? You had time to socialize?”

“We met one another toward the end of my stay.”

“And you know him to be someone capable, in the ways he’s proposing to be capable?’

“I do,” said Hollis, “although I’m under an agreement with him to say no more than that.”

“People who claim capabilities of that sort are most often compulsive liars. Though the most peculiar thing about that, in my experience, is that while most bars in America have alcoholics who claim to have been Navy SEALs, there are sometimes former Navy SEALs, in those same bars, who are alcoholics.”

“Garreth’s not a Navy SEAL, Hubertus. I don’t know what I’d say he is. He’s like you, that way. A one-off. If he tells you he thinks he can get Bobby back, and neutralize this threat for you, then…”

“Yes?”

“Then he thinks he can.”

“And what would you propose I do, then,” Bigend said to Garreth, “if I were to accept your help?”

“I’d need an idea of whatever tactical resources you may have, in London, if any, that remain uncompromised. I’d need an open operational budget. I’ll have to hire some specialists. Expenses.”

“And how much do you want yourself, Mr. Wilson?”

“I don’t,” said Garreth. “Not money. If I can do this to my own satisfaction, and I imagine that that would be to yours as well, you’ll let Hollis go. Release her from whatever it is she’s doing for you, pay her what she feels she’s owed, and agree to leave her be. And if you can’t agree to that, I advise you to start looking for help elsewhere.”

Bigend, eyebrows raised, looked from Garreth to Hollis. “And you’re agreeable to that?”

“It’s an entirely new proposition to me.” She poured herself some coffee, buying time to think. “Actually,” she said, “I would require an additional condition.”

They both stared at her.

“The Hounds designer,” she said to Bigend. “You won’t have her. You’ll leave her absolutely alone. Quit looking. Call everyone off, permanently.”

Bigend pursed his lips.

“And,” said Hollis, “you’ll find Meredith’s shoes. And give them to her.”

A silence followed, Bigend looking at his plate, the corners of his mouth turned down. “Well,” he said at last, looking up at them, “none of this would have been the least attractive before seven twenty this morning, but here we are, aren’t we?”

58. DOUCHE BAGGAGE

Voytek was very angry about something, probably whatever had been the cause of him receiving his mottled, yellowish, not-quite-black eye. He seemed most angry with Shombo, the sullen young man Milgrim had seen at Biroshak amp; Son, though Milgrim found it hard to imagine Shombo striking anyone. He’d looked to Milgrim as though just getting out of bed would have posed an unwelcome challenge.

Milgrim would have liked to be up-front with Fiona, in the passenger seat, but she’d insisted that he sit back here with Voytek, on the floor of this tiny Subaru van, an area slightly less than the footprint of a washer and dryer, and cluttered now with large, black, cartoonishly sturdy-looking plastic cases he assumed were Voytek’s. Each of these had PELICAN molded on the lid, clearly a logo rather than any indicator of contents. Voytek was wearing gray sweatpants with B.U.M. EQUIPMENT screened in very large capitals across his ass, evidence of what Milgrim took to be kitchen mishaps down the front, thick gray socks, those same gray felt clogs, and a pale blue, very old, very grimy insulated jacket with that Amstrad logo on the back, its letters cracked and peeling.

The Subaru had actual drapes, gray ones, everywhere except the windshield and the front side windows. All drawn now. Which was just as well, Milgrim supposed, as it really had a great deal of glass, as well as a moonroof that was in effect the whole top of the vehicle, through which Milgrim, looking up, saw the upper windows of buildings passing. He had no idea where they were now, no idea which direction they’d taken from Tanky amp; Tojo, and none where they were going. To meet Bigend again, he assumed. Like urine samples but more frequent, meeting Bigend punctuated his existence.

“I did not come to this country for the terror from paramilitary,” declared Voytek, hoarsely. “I did not come to this country for motherfucker. But motherfucker is waiting. Always. Is carceral state, surveillance state. Orwell. You have read Orwell?”

Milgrim, trying for his best neutral expression, nodded, the knees of his new whipcord trousers in front of his face. He hoped this wasn’t stretching them.

“Orwell’s boot in face forever,” said Voytek, with great formal bitterness.

“Why does he want you to sweep it?” asked Fiona, as if inquiring about some routine office chore, her left hand busily working the shift lever.

“Devil’s workshop,” said Voytek, disgusted. “He wants mine occupied. While he fattens on the blood of the proletariat.” This last phrase having for Milgrim a deep nostalgic charm, so that he was moved, unthinking, to repeat it in Russian, seeing for an instant the classroom in Columbia where he’d first heard it.

“Russian,” said Voytek, narrowing his eyes, the way someone might say “syphilis.”

“Sorry,” said Milgrim, reflexively.

Voytek fell silent, visibly seething. They were on a straight stretch now, and when Milgrim looked up, there were no buildings. A bridge, he guessed. Slowing, turning. Into buildings, lower, more ragged. The Subaru bumped over something, up, then stopped. Fiona shut off the engine and got out. Milgrim, flicking the drapes aside, glimpsed Benny’s cycle yard. Benny himself approaching. Fiona opened the rear door and grabbed one of Voytek’s Pelican cases.

“Caution,” said Voytek, “extreme care.”

“I know,” Fiona said, passing the case to Benny.

Benny leaned in, looked at Voytek. “Disagreement at the local, was it?”

Voytek glared at Milgrim. “The blood,” he said. “Sucking it.”