“One doesn’t,” agreed Bigend.

“And I’d never really thought about the idea of his being able to track me with the Neo before. I’d taken that for granted, assumed it was something you wanted him to do, but then you were expressing distrust for him, suspicion…” Milgrim shrugged. “I felt impatient, angry.”

Bigend studied him, the weird cathode blue of his suit seeming to float in Milgrim’s retina at some special depth. “I think I understand,” he said. “You’re changing. They told me to expect that. I’ll factor it in, in future.” He took an iPhone from an inner pocket and squinted at its screen, replaced it. “The woman in Seven Dials. The federal agent. I need to know more about that. All about it.”

Milgrim cleared his throat, something he tried never to do in situations like this. His bag was at his feet, the laptop in it, and now he resisted the urge to look at it. “Winnie,” said Milgrim, “Tung Whitaker.”

“Why are you wearing the Sonny logo?” interrupted Bigend.

“Heidi bought it from a cleaner.”

“It’s a Chinese brand, if one can call it a brand. Logo, rather. Used for the African market.”

“I don’t think he was African. Slavic.”

“Jun,” called Bigend, “come here.”

A small man, Japanese, with round gold glasses, entered from the darkened shop. Milgrim hadn’t seen him when Fiona had ushered him in, only the other driver, the urine-sample man. “Yes?”

“Milgrim needs some clothes. Put an outfit together.”

“Would you mind standing, please?” asked Jun. He wore a type of pointedly British hunting cap, Milgrim thought by Kangol. Milgrim associated it with the Bronx of another era. He had a small, very neat mustache.

Milgrim stood. Jun walked around him. “A thirty-two waist,” he said. “A thirty-two inseam?”

“Thirty-three.”

He looked at Milgrim’s shoes. “Eight?”

“Nine,” said Milgrim.

“British eight,” said Jun, and went back to the darkened front of the shop, where Milgrim knew the urine-sample driver was sitting, with his umbrella.

“She’s not interested in you,” Milgrim said. “She thought you might be Gracie’s business partner. She had no way of knowing what she was watching, in Myrtle Beach. So she followed me back here. And I think…”

“Yes?”

“I think she wanted to see London.”

Bigend raised an eyebrow.

“But the police, authorities, wouldn’t really help her much with you. She said you were connected. With them.”

“Really?”

“But they asked her about your truck.”

“Asked her what?”

“They were curious about it.”

“But what did she want from you?”

“She’d thought that by learning more about you, she’d learn more about Gracie, about Foley. But as soon as she learned that you were just a competitor, that you were interested in U.S. military contracts yourself, she stopped being interested in you.”

“You told her that?”

“And she stopped being interested in you,” repeated Milgrim.

There was a silence. “I see what you mean,” said Bigend.

“I wasn’t volunteering information. I was responding to specific questions. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Jun returned, his arms full of clothing, which he put down on the desk, pushing the fabric samples aside. There was a pair of very new, very bright brown shoes. “Stand, please.” Milgrim stood. “Remove jacket.” Milgrim unzipped the Sonny and took it off. Jun helped him on with something made of fragrant tweed, immediately removed it, tried another, equally fragrant, walked around, buttoned the jacket, nodded.

“But why didn’t you tell me this at the time?” asked Bigend.

“Remove trousers, please,” said Jun, “and shirt.”

“I was too anxious,” said Milgrim. “I have an anxiety disorder.” He sat down on the horrible stool and began to remove his shoes. Taking them off, he stood and began removing his pants, grateful to have something to do. “I didn’t make her follow me. You sent me to Myrtle Beach.”

“You may have an anxiety disorder,” Bigend said, “but you’re definitely changing.”

“Remove shirt, please,” said Jun.

Milgrim did. He stood there in black socks and underpants from Galeries Lafayette, with a peculiar awareness of something just having shifted, though he wasn’t clear what. Jun had been busy unbuttoning and unfolding a tattersall shirt, which he now helped Milgrim into. It had a spread collar, Milgrim saw, and as he was buttoning the front he discovered that the barrel cuffs extended nearly to his elbows, with a great many pearl buttons.

“Have you been to Florence?” asked Bigend as Milgrim was fastening those very peculiar cuffs.

“Florence?” Jun had just handed him a pair of whipcord trousers.

“Tuscany,” said Bigend, “is lovely. Better this time of year. The rain. More subtle light.”

“You’re sending me to Italy?”

“Along with Hollis. I want you both out of here. Someone is angry with you. I’ll generate deep Blue Ant traffic, to the effect that you’re both in Los Angeles. Perhaps that will convince Oliver.”

Milgrim heard that scream, outside of Bank Station, took a breath, but found that no words came. He zipped up his new pants. Which were oddly narrow in the ankles, and cuffed.

“Sit, please,” said Jun, who was loosening the laces of the brown shoes. They were wing-tip brogues, but with a narrower toe than was traditional, and thick, cleated-looking soles. Milgrim sat. Jun knelt, helped Milgrim on with the shoes, then tightened the laces and tied them. Milgrim stood, shifting his weight. They fit, he decided, but were stiff, heavy. Jun handed him a narrow, heavy leather belt of a similar shade, with a polished brass buckle. He put it on. “Tie,” said Jun, offering one in paisley silk.

“I don’t wear them, thanks,” said Milgrim.

Jun put the tie down on the desk, helped Milgrim into the jacket, then picked up the tie again, folded it, and tucked it into the jacket’s inside breast pocket. He smiled, patted Milgrim on the shoulder, and left.

“That’s better,” said Bigend. “For Florence. Bella figura.”

“Am I going back to Camden?”

“No,” said Bigend. “That was why I had you give Fiona your key. She’s gone ’round to pick up your things, check you out.”

“Where am I going?”

“You aren’t,” said Bigend. “You’re sleeping here.”

“Here?”

“A foam mattress and a sleeping bag. We’re just around the corner from Blue Ant, but they don’t know.”

“Know what?”

“That I’m Tanky.”

“What does that mean?”

“Tanky and Tojo. Name of the shop. I’m Tanky, Jun’s Tojo. He’s amazing, really.”

“He is?”

“You look,” said Bigend, “like a foxhunting spiv. His grasp of contradiction is brilliantly subversive.”

“Is there wifi?”

“No,” said Bigend, “there isn’t.”

“What she most particularly wanted to convey to you,” Milgrim said, “Winnie Tung Whitaker, is that Gracie believes you’re his competitor. Which means, to him, that you’re his enemy.”

“I’m not his enemy,” said Bigend.

“You had me steal the design of his pants.”

“ ‘Business intelligence.’ If you hadn’t thrown Foley under some random Russians, this would all be much easier. And it wouldn’t be distracting me from more important things. I am, however, glad that we had this opportunity to discuss the matter in greater detail, privately.”

“Bent cops are one thing,” said Milgrim. “A bent former major in the Special Forces, who does illegal arms deals? I think that might be something else.”

“A businessman. I’m one myself.”

“She said he believes he can do anything,” said Milgrim. “She said they sent him to schools.”

“He wouldn’t be my first arms dealer, you know,” said Bigend, getting up. He straightened his suit, which Milgrim noted was in need of a pressing. “Meanwhile, you and Hollis can do the museums, enjoy the food. It’s extraordinary, really.”

“The food?”

“What they managed to do with you in Basel. I’m really very impressed. I see now that it’s all taken a while to gel.”