Part 11 (1/2)
”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, fis.h.i.+ng 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?”