"I can tell you they weren't," she said.

Milgrim swallowed, painfully hard. "They weren't?"

"But they'd like to be. That could be a problem. Tell me about the man who let you see them."

"He had a mullet," Milgrim said, "and he was wearing Blackie Collins Toters."

"He was wearing-?"

"Toters," Milgrim said. "I Googled them. They have Cordura Plus pocket linings, for guns and things. And outside pockets for knives or flashlights."

"Oh," she said, smiling briefly, "sure."

"Sleight said he was special ... something?"

"I'm sure he thinks he is."

"Forces? Had been?"

"Sleight," she said, "Oliver. British national, resident in Canada. Works for Blue Ant."

"Yes," said Milgrim, imagining Sleight's picture on her wall. "Otherwise, he said almost nothing. Said they needed gussets."

"Gussets?"

"The pants." Then, remembering: "Blue Ant's smartest design a.n.a.lyst thinks they aren't military. Thinks they're streetwear. I think she was right."

"Why?"

"Coyote brown." He shrugged. "Last year. Iraq."

"I was in Iraq," she said. "Three months. In the Green Zone. I got tired of that color too."

Milgrim could think of nothing to say. "Was it dangerous?" asked his robot.

"They had a Cinnabon," she said. "I missed my kids." She finished her beer, and put the bottle down on a cut-gla.s.s coaster with a frilled sterling lip. "That was his wife you met, in the gift shop. He's been in Iraq too. First in an elite unit, then later as a contractor."

"I was afraid of him," Milgrim said.

"I imagine he's fairly dysfunctional," she said, as though that wasn't something warranting any surprise. "What is it with that Toyota?"

"The Hilux?"

"What local cooperation I have is via the FBI's legal attache here. The Brits were willing to follow you from the airport, and to let me know where you were staying. But they're curious about the truck."

"It's Bigend's," Milgrim said. "It has armor fitted by a firm named Jankel, special engine, tires that keep going if they're shot up." He didn't say cartel grade.

"Is that really his name?"

"The French p.r.o.nunciation would be 'Bayh-jhan,' I think. But he seems to favor the other."

"Why would he need a truck like that?"

"He doesn't need to need it. He just needs to be curious about it."

"Must be nice."

"I don't know if I'd describe him that way," Milgrim said. "But he's definitely curious."

"And extremely well connected here. When my Brits ran the registration, I got the feeling, they decided that a tail from the airport and the name of your hotel was about all I'd be getting. Though that might have been all I'd have gotten anyway. But they did ask about the truck."

"There aren't that many genuinely eccentric rich people," Milgrim said. "Evidently. Not even here."

"Couldn't prove it by me."

"No," Milgrim agreed, and took a tiny, careful sip of his bitter lemon pop.

"Why did they want the specs on those pants?"

"They're interested in military contracts," Milgrim said. "Designing. The actual clothing and equipment has to be manufactured in the United States. There's a law."

"No kidding," she said.

"That's what I've been told."

"No," she said, "I mean no kidding that they're looking at contracting?"

"None," said Milgrim. "They are. It's a major current project."

"f.u.c.king hilarious," she said.

Milgrim looked at his lemon pop, confused.

"Do you have a phone number?"

"I do," said Milgrim, fishing the Neo from his jacket and showing it to her. "But it's on this, and Bigend says it's tapped."

"Skip that, then. I arrested a serious s.h.i.tbird who had one of those."

Milgrim shuddered.

"Not because he had it. Something else. Do you have an e-mail address?"

"A Blue Ant address."

"How about a Twitter account?"

"A what?"

"Sign up for one," she said. "As Gay Dolphin Two, all caps, no s.p.a.ces. Numeral two. From the laptop in the lobby. As soon as you finish your drink. Make your updates private. I'll ask to follow you. I'll be Gay Dolphin One. Allow me to follow you, refuse anybody else. It'll mostly be p.o.r.n bots anyway."

"p.o.r.n bots? What is it?"

"It's how I talk to my kids. You'll register. That will be how we keep in touch. Let's try to keep you out of trouble."

Milgrim winced.

"You don't want to leave town without letting me know. Or change hotels."

"I have to go where they send me," Milgrim said. "It's what I do."

"Perfect. I'll be in touch." She stood. "Thanks for the beer. Don't forget about that registration. Gay Dolphin Two. Numeral two. All caps. No s.p.a.ces."

When she was gone, he continued to sit there, in the club chair. He took her card from his pocket. Held it without looking at it. Fingers on its sharp edges.

"No s.p.a.ces," his robot said.

17. HOMUNCULI

She found Heidi in Cabinet's bar, monochromatically resplendent in a sort of post-holocaust drum majorette jacket, cut from several different shades and textures of almost-black.

"f.u.c.kstick's cards worked?"

"Two did," said Heidi, raising a steaming gla.s.s of clear liquid in a highball gla.s.s. Her fresh-cut hair had been reblackened, likewise in several shades, and she seemed to have hit the makeup counter as well.

"What's that?" Hollis asked, indicating the gla.s.s.

"Water," Heidi said, and sipped.

"Want to go to Paris with me, tomorrow morning?"

"What for?"

"My day job. There's a vintage clothing fair. I may have found someone who knows what Bigend wants me to find out. Part of it, anyway."

"How did you find them?"

"I think she's dating the keyboard player from the Bollards."

"Small world," said Heidi. "And he's the only cute one. Rest are homunculuses."

"Homunculi."

"Little douche bags," Heidi countercorrected. "I'll pa.s.s. Throat's bothering me. f.u.c.king planes."

"No, Eurostar."

"I mean the one I came over on. When are you back?"

"Day after tomorrow, if I can find her tomorrow. I guess I'll take Milgrim, then."

"How was he?"

"Profoundly. f.u.c.king. Peculiar." Hollis blew gently on the thin tan island of foam afloat in her half pint of Guinness, to see it move, then drank some. Always a mysterious beverage to her. Unsure why she'd asked for it. She liked the way it looked more than how it tasted. How would it taste, she wondered, if it tasted the way she thought it looked? No idea. "Though maybe not in such a bad way. Not his fault Bigend found him. We know how that is."

"Robert's found me a gym. Old school. East side."

"End. Not side."

"He's cute."

"Don't you dare. 'No civilians,' remember? If you'd stuck with the rule, you wouldn't have to be divorcing f.u.c.kstick."

"Look at you. Motherf.u.c.ker's on YouTube, jumping off skysc.r.a.pers in a flying-squirrel suit."

"But it was your your rule, remember? Not mine. After the boxers, you stuck with musicians." rule, remember? Not mine. After the boxers, you stuck with musicians."

"Homunculuses," Heidi said, nodding, "douche bags."

"I could've told you that," Hollis said.

"You did."

The bar's level of early-evening drinking-crowd noise tilted, suddenly. Hollis looked up and saw the Icelandic twins, their identical frosty pelts aglitter. Behind them, somehow worryingly avuncular, loomed Bigend.

"s.h.i.t," said Hollis.

"I'm out of here," said Heidi, putting down her water and standing, giving her shoulders an irritated shrug within her new jacket.

Hollis rose too, half-pint in hand. "I'll have to speak with him," she said. "About Paris."

"You're the one with the job."

"Hollis," said Bigend. "And Heidi. Delighted."

"Mr. b.e.l.l.e.n.d," said Heidi.

"Allow me to introduce Eydis and Fridrika Brandsdottir. Hollis Henry and Heidi Hyde."

Eydis and Fridrika smiled identically, in eerie unison. "A pleasure," said one. "Yes," said the other.