Which was Japanese, minute, and appeared to have been fathered by a Citroën Deux Chevaux, its mother of less distinctive lineage but obviously having attended design school. It had virtually no rear seat, so Hollis was folded in sideways now, behind Meredith and Clammy, watching a determined little rear wiper squeegee rain. Nothing could have been less like the Hilux. A tiny retro-wagon, devoid of armor. Everything, in traffic, was larger than they were, including motorcycles. Clammy had bought it used, through a broker in Japan, and imported it, the only way to get one here. It was the dark glossy gray of an old-fashioned electric fan, a shade Inchmale liked to refer to as "a crushed mouse," which meant a gray with some red in it. She hoped other drivers could see them. Though not if they were Foley’s crew, whom she’d started to worry about when Clammy was turning into Oxford Street. Garreth’s instruction to not leave the hotel had suddenly made a different sort of sense. She hadn’t been taking all that very seriously. She’d felt like an observer, a helper, or a woefully unskilled nurse. But now, she realized, in this new economy of kidnapping, she herself could probably be quite valuable. If they had her, they’d have Garreth. Though they didn’t, as far as she knew, know about Garreth. Though that depended, she imagined, on everyone in Bigend’s tiny immediate crew remaining loyal. Who was Fiona? She knew nothing about Fiona, really. Except that she kept an eye on Milgrim, an oddly personal one, Hollis thought. Actually, now that Hollis thought about it, as though she fancied him.