Read Online Zero History by William Gibson - Free Book Online Page A

audibly at the weight.
    “Fucking thing’s going to kill us all,” said Heidi, as if finding the idea not entirely unattractive.
    “What room is Heidi in?” Hollis asked him.
    “Next to yours.”
    “Good,” said Hollis, with more enthusiasm than she felt. That would be the one with the yellow silk chaise longue. She’d never understood the theme. Not that she understood the theme of her own, but she sensed it had one. The room with the yellow chaise longue seemed to be about spies, sad ones, in some very British sense, and seedy political scandal. And reflexology.
    Hollis opened the gate, when the lift finally reached their floor, then held the various fire doors for Heidi and the heavily burdened Robert. Heidi seethed her way through the windowless green mini-hallways, body language conveying a universal dissatisfaction. Hollis saw that Robert had Heidi’s room key tucked for safekeeping between two fingers. She took it from him, its tassels moss green.
    “You’re right next to me,” she said to Heidi, unlocking and opening the door. She shooed Heidi in, thinking of bulls, china shops. “Just put everything down,” she said to Robert, quietly. “I’ll take care of the rest.” She relieved him of two amazingly heavy cardboard cartons, each about the size required to contain a human head. He began immediately to unsling Heidi’s various luggage. She slipped him a five-pound note.
    “Thank you, Miss Henry.”
    “Thank you, Robert.” She closed the door in his relieved face.
    “What,” demanded Heidi, “the fuck is this?”
    “Your room,” said Hollis, who was arranging the luggage along a wall. “It’s a private club that Inchmale joined.”
    “A club for
what
? What’s
that
?” Indicating a large framed silkscreen that Hollis herself found one of the least peculiar articles of decor.
    “A Warhol. I think.” Had Warhol covered the Profumo scandal?
    “I should have fucking known Inchmale would come up with something like this. Where is he?”
    “Not here,” Hollis said. “He rented a house in Hampstead, when Angelina and the baby came from Argentina.”
    Heidi hefted a wide-based crystal decanter, unstoppered it, sniffed. “Whiskey,” she said.
    “The clear one’s gin,” Hollis advised, “not water.”
    Heidi splashed three fingers of Cabinet Scotch into a highball glass, drank it off at a go, shuddered, set the decanter down and flicked the crystal stopper back into its neck with a dangerously sharp click. She had a spooky gift for aiming things; had never lost a game of darts in her life, but didn’t play darts, just threw them.
    “Do you want to talk about it?” Hollis asked.
    Heidi shrugged out of her leather jacket, tossed it aside, and pulled her black T-shirt off, revealing an olive-drab bra that looked as combat-ready as any bra Hollis had ever seen.
    “Nice bra.”
    “Israeli,” said Heidi. She looked around, taking in the contents of the room. “Jesus Christ,” she said. “The wallpaper’s like Hendrix’s pants.”
    “I think it’s satin.” Vertically striped, in green, burgundy, ecru, and black.
    “What I fucking said,” said Heidi, giving her Israeli army bra a tug, and sat down on the yellow silk chaise longue. “Why did we stop smoking?”
    “Because it was bad for us.”
    Heidi sighed, explosively. “He’s in jail,” she said, “fuckstick. No bond. He was doing something with other people’s money.”
    “I thought that’s what producers do.”
    “Not like that, it isn’t.”
    “Are you in any trouble yourself?”
    “Are you kidding? I’ve got a prenup thicker than fuckstick’s long. It’s his problem. I just needed to get the fuck out of Dodge.”
    “I never understood why you married him.”
    “It was an experiment. What about you? What are you doing here?”
    “Working for Hubertus Bigend,” Hollis said, noting just how little she enjoyed saying it.
    Heidi’s eyes widened. “Fuck me. That asshole? You couldn’t stand him. Creeped