Beneath her pillow, the iPhone began to vibrate. She slid her hand under, cupped it, considered the option of skipping the call. But these were not times for skipped calls.

"h.e.l.lo?" she whispered.

"What's wrong?" It was Milgrim.

"Garreth's sleeping."

"Sorry," whispered Milgrim.

"What is it?'

"It's complicated. Someone needs to speak with Garreth."

"Who?"

"Please don't get the wrong idea," whispered Milgrim, "but she's a U.S. federal agent."

"That's as wrong an idea as I've heard in a while," said Hollis, forgetting to whisper.

"What is?" asked Garreth.

"It's Milgrim."

"Give him to me."

She covered the phone, realizing she had no idea where its microphone might be, or if covering it would help. "He wants you talk to a U.S. agent."

"Ah," he said, "the odd bits emerge now. The localized high-pressure zone of weird begins to manifest. Always does. Give me the phone."

"I'm scared."

"Makes perfect sense." He reached over, squeezed her arm rea.s.suringly. "Phone, please."

She handed him the phone.

"Milgrim," he said. "Been networking, have we? Slow down. Does she have a name?"

And she heard a pen on paper as he wrote in the dark, something he was very good at.

"Does she? Really? She put it that way herself?" She felt him prop himself on the pillows. When he opened the laptop, its light was light of some weird and other moon. A lucky one, she hoped. She heard him begin to type, with one hand, while he asked Milgrim questions, brief ones, and listened to longer answers.

74. MAP, TERRITORY

The heels of Milgrim's Tanky & Tojo brogues, as he sat astride the high, raked pillion of Benny's Yamaha, didn't quite touch the cobbles of this tiny square. Something about the angle of his feet recalled some childhood line-drawing from Don Quixote Don Quixote, though whether those feet had been the knight's or Sancho Panza's, he didn't know. Fiona sat, saddled lower, in front of him, boots firm on the pavement, holding them upright. He held her iPhone behind her back, seeing exactly where they were now, on the bright little window, via the application she'd shown him earlier: amid these narrow lanes, his eye backtracking to Farringdon, the straight run to the bridge, river, Southwark, Vegas cube. Comprehending the route for the first time.

He'd phoned Winnie from this courtyard, reading off the number Garreth had given him. He'd written it on the back of her card, which was becoming a softer object, its sharp corners blunted. She'd repeated it back to him, made him check it. "Good work," she'd said. "Stand by in case I can't reach him."

But that had been eight minutes ago, so he a.s.sumed she was on the phone with Garreth.

Fiona's yellow helmet turned. "Finished?" she asked, m.u.f.fled by the visor.

He looked down at the screen, the glowing map. Saw it as a window into the city's underlying fabric, as though he held something from which a rectangular chip of London's surface had been pried, revealing a substrate of bright code. But really, wasn't the opposite true, the city the code that underlay the map? There was an expression about that, but he'd never understood it, and now couldn't remember how it went. The territory wasn't the map?

"Done," he said pa.s.sing her the bright chip. She turned it off, pocketed it, while he put on Mrs. Benny's helmet and fastened the chinstrap, scarcely noticing the hairspray.

He put his feet on the pegs as she rolled forward, and curled in closer to her armored back, watching day-bright vignettes of headlit wall-texture as she wheeled them around, the Yahama's engine sounding as though it were anxious for the bridge.

What would Winnie and Garreth be talking about? he wondered as Fiona drove out of the courtyard and down the lane to Farringdon Road.

75. DOWN THE DARKNETS

Watching Garreth as he listened to his headset, she wondered what the American agent was saying.

She'd watched him free a phone she hadn't seen before, from a vacuum-sealed plastic bag, then install a card selected from a black nylon wallet containing a few dozen more, like the duplicates folder in a very dull stamp collection. He'd connected the new phone to a power unit, and then, with another cable, to something black, and smaller. When the new phone rang, the tone was a variant on Old Phone, her own most frequent choice.

Now he listened, occasionally nodding slightly, eyes on the screen of his laptop, forefinger poking, as if of its own accord, at keys and mouse-patch. He was down his darknets again, she knew, communicating with the old man, or unspecified third parties. There seemed to be no advertising on Garreth's darknets, and relatively little color, though she supposed that was because he tended mainly to read doc.u.ments.

Now a color photograph of a woman appeared, Chinese, thirtyish, her hair center-parted, expressionless, in the style of a biometric pa.s.sport photograph. Garreth leaned forward slightly, as if for a better look, and wrote something in his notebook. "That wouldn't actually be of much help," he said. "I have better numbers than that myself." He fell silent again, listening, opening screens on his desktop, making notes. "No. I have that. I don't think you can really do much for me. Which is a pity, considering your willingness. What I could really use would be something heavier. Ma.s.sive, really. And the goods will be there. Worth ma.s.sive's time, amply. Ma.s.sive'll come along, I imagine. But ma.s.sive immediately would be the business." He listened again. "Yes. Certainly. Do. Good night." He touched the keyboard, the photograph vanishing. He looked at Hollis. "That was well queer."

"That was her, the photograph?"

"Probably."

"What did she want?"

"She was offering something. Didn't really have what I'd most like, but may be able to get it."

"You won't tell me?"

"Only because you'd be less safe knowing at this point." He stroked her hair back from her face, on one side. "Do you know what you'd take with you, if you were going away forever? No more than you can carry at a brisk run."

"Forever?"

"Probably not. But best to a.s.sume you wouldn't come back here."

"Not the author's copies," indicating the boxes.

"No. But seriously. Pack."

"I'm not going anywhere without you."

"That's the plan. But pack now, please."

"Is this too big?" indicating her roll-aboard.

"Perfect, but keep it light."

"Is it about something she told you?"

"No," he said, "it's because I doubt we have much more time. Pack."

She set the empty roll-aboard on the nearest armchair, unzipped it, and began to select things from the drawers in the wardrobe. She added the Hounds designer's jersey tube. Went into the bathroom, gathering things from the counter.

"How's Frank?" she asked, emerging.

"Complaining, but he has to get used to it."

She noticed the Blue Ant figurine on the bedside table. Picked it up. You're in, she thought, surprising herself, and carried it, with bottles and tubes of product, to the roll-aboard. "Won't you need some sort of follow-up for neural surgery?"

"Woman in Harley Street," he said, "as soon as I can."

"How soon is that?"

"When this is over." A phone began to ring. Yet another variant on Old Phone. Not hers. He took a phone from his pocket, looked at it. After the third ring he answered. "Yes? From now? Venue? No? Crucial." He thumbed a key.

"Who?"

"Big End."

"What?"

"We're on. Ninety minutes."

"What's crucial?"

"We don't know where. Venue matters. We need exterior, need privacy. But so do they. You ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

"Get a pullover. Back of the van's unheated." He'd brought out a second phone. "Message all," he said, tapping a few tiny keys. The phone beeped.

She glanced around Number Four. The insect-parts wallpaper, the shelves with their busts and heads. Would she see this again? "Are you taking the scooter?"

"No further than the door," he said, rising from the bed with the aid of his cane. "It's Frank's turn." He winced.

She'd just pulled a sweater on. "Are you all right?"

"Actually," he said, "I am. Be a dear and get the ugly T-shirt from the bedside hutch. And the other package, the smaller one."

"What's that?"

"Almost nothing. And a world of woe, for someone. Quick. There's a vegan van waiting for us."

"What the f.u.c.k is up?" demanded Heidi, from the other side of Number Four's door.

Hollis opened the door.

Heidi stood, glaring, majorette jacket open over Israeli army bra. "Ajay just got a text, hauled a.s.s down the hall, said he had to see his cousin." She saw Garreth. "Was that you?"

"Yes," said Garreth, "but you're coming with us."

"Whatever the f.u.c.k this is," Heidi said, "I'm coming with-"

"Us," interrupted Garreth, "but not not if you make us late. And put a shirt on. Trainers, not boots. In case there's running." if you make us late. And put a shirt on. Trainers, not boots. In case there's running."

Heidi opened her mouth, closed it.

"Time to go," said Hollis, zipping her bag shut.

"Not without the party favors," said Garreth.

76. GONE-AWAY GIRL

Milgrim stood, feeling lost, remembering the sound of Fiona's Kawasaki fading to nothing at all.

She'd gotten a message from Garreth and was gone, leaving her chicken and bacon sandwich uneaten on the table in the Vegas cube, but not before she'd snapped a short length of transparent nylon line to tiny eyebolts, front and rear, on the paint-dazzled penguin. He'd helped her steer it through the door, and she'd anch.o.r.ed it, atop Benny's huge red tool kit, by placing a hammer on the fishing line. Then she'd quickly returned to the cube, where she'd given him the penguin's iPhone. "That little van I brought you here in," she said, "will be here shortly. Wait in the yard, with the penguin. It'll fit in the back."

"Where are you going?"

"Don't know." Zipping up her jacket.

"Am I going to the same place?"