Devil in the Wires (22 page)

 

Chapter 55

The Direct Approach

A
ngel came to fetch me. Just as well, really. I was starting to make a prick of myself: arguing and picking fault and not telling anyone what was really bothering me. I walked around with my reader in hand, checking it at almost every corner. That's how she found me: pointing it up at the ivy-­covered walls outside, as if he'd suddenly appear, a gargoyle on the ramparts, sticking out his tongue and mocking me.

“Chris,” she said. “Let's go.”

In some ways, I suppose, I was glad of an excuse to get away. But I wasn't going to let anyone know it, least of all her.

“It's fucking perfect,” I grumbled. We were sitting in her apartment. “It's like hiding a tree in a fucking forest.”

“You don't even know he's there,” she said.

“Exactly! No one knows! The reader doesn't even pick it up, because Assur's too strong. I can't be sure. So what? I just sit back, do nothing? I—­”

“This is me, Chris. Don't talk to me like that.”

“Well, I'm—­I'm wound up.”

“Don't talk to me like that.”

“I'm sorry.”

She gave me a mug of tea with a shot of rum. Riff lay in his dog bed with his head up, aware that there was something going on.

“If you're ready to listen,” she said, “I found a ­couple more pics.”

She powered up the laptop. Two more shots. The first was one of those executive lineups, a row of grinning suits, and only one not smiling. If I hadn't known better, I'd have said that one was me.

The second was a shot across a crowded bar. Upscale. Very nice. A table in the middle distance: me and Shailer in a pretty little tête à tête, the two of us.

“Either of these look familiar?”

“No.”

“Thought not.”

She put her hand over mine. “Chris. Can this be right? Someone who looks almost exactly like you? How's that? How's it happen?”

“Not quite like me. Younger. Smarter. Better-­looking.”

“You can't see that in the pictures.”

“In real life—­if you see him—­there's a charisma. I don't know what else you can call it.”

“Chris—­” She was staring at me hard. “Your voice . . .” Her fingers pressed on mine. “This bothers you, doesn't it? I mean, it really bothers you.”

“Yes. Yes it does.”

“Tell me.”

“One of those things you hope won't happen. But you know it's going to. One day.” I shrugged. Fucking Shailer,” I said. But swearing didn't seem to help.

I told her everything, then. Shailer in Esztergom, that first retrieval. Then the stuff at GH9. The god they'd designated Seven, which had made this, this
thing
. This Seven B.

“Seven B,” she said. “Well, that makes sense, then.”

“How?”

She showed me her records. She'd been checking back. The flights she'd booked, hotels she'd dealt with. All for the Registry. One name, booked into Chicago, and not out again; no reference for him at the Beach House, none with the Registry in general, in fact. Just one name, out of hundreds that she'd dealt with.

Steven Benedict.

I stared at it, not quite believing for a moment.

“He's got a name,” I said. “A real name.”

“An I.D., too. He came in on an ordinary, commercial flight, Chris. Business class. Three, four months back. And guess who was with him? Your pal, Adam Shailer. What d'you make of that?”

I called Shailer again.

Voice mail.

I switched off.

“Kuehl's probably let him know,” she said. “Told him something's up.”

“He knows anyway. I've been phoning him. He knows I'm angry, too.”

“He doesn't respond to you yelling at him. I don't blame him, either.”

She put a finger to her cheek.

“This is our plan,” she told me. “Here is what we're going to do. Direct approach, right?”

“I'm listening.”

“We e-­mail, or we text—­or both—­the photos straight to Shailer. From you. No comment, nothing. Two photos, maybe. Leave something in reserve.”

“ ‘I know what you did.' ” I looked at her. “When did you come up with this?”

“While you were out playing macho man. And then we wait, OK?”

We didn't have to wait for long.

 

Chapter 56

The Pyramid Analogy

F
rom the apartment window I looked out towards the Beach House. As the rain eased, so the light around it seemed to die, the soft halo of color growing darker, less distinct. I was no longer certain what was real and what hallucination. The edge between the inner and the outer world was blurring, and not just for me. I pictured, not the curious or reverend sightseers to the House itself, but the odd figures who would linger outside, perhaps too poor or too deranged to enter: listless zombies, tuned to some vibration no one else could hear, catching the hum of the electric wires, the scent of sheathed lightning, harnessed, pouring out into the city . . .

The phone rang.

I was calm now. I was very calm. I looked at it. Then Angel picked it up, and passed it to me.

S
hailer said, “This isn't what you think.”

I hit END CALL, and waited.

Presently, he phoned me back.

“You don't know what I think,” I said.

“Chris, listen. I can guess. This is why—­oh, fuck it. I should've just been straight with you, right from the start. You're smart, you'll see the sense of it. Jeez. I got things wrong. I screwed up, OK? Can we start over? Can we?”

“ ‘Jeez,' ” I said.

“What?”

“Very difficult to trust the sincerity of a grown man who says ‘Jeez.' ”

“Oh, come on! If we're going to quibble over words—­”

“Not words. Pictures. I have more, as well.”

“OK, OK! Look—­I'm in—­I don't know where I am exactly. Somewhere on the way to Boston. I can free up time in a ­couple of days, get out to see you. I'll explain. I'll explain everything. Till then, Chris, can you promise me—­
don't take any action till I get there
. OK? Will you promise that?”

“No. Don't think I fucking will.”

“Chris—­”

I wrinkled my nose at Angel, made my hand into a claw like I was strangling him.

I said, “Every step of the way, I've had ­people lying to me. And at the bottom of it, who do I find? Adam fucking Shailer. Adam Shailer sends me to Iraq, Adam Shailer's minions take the flask off me in Paris, Adam Shailer sets me up with a nice job at the Beach House.
You're in charge, Chris, you're in charge
. Then this—­”

“Sins of omission, Chris. Sins of omission. Or—­how about, a slow reveal? Bit by bit, till the full picture—­”

“Fuck off.”

Silence.

I said, “Seven B. Steven Benedict. That's witty, that. Very . . . subtle.”

He gave an awkward laugh. “That was . . . yeah. We probably took that a step too far.”

He was still on the phone. He needed me. I said, “You two are pretty pally, then. Good mates?”

“No. Not—­not really. The truth is—­” that awkward laugh again, “he scares the shit out of me. It's like . . . Jesus. You've met him, right? He could just . . . suck the life right out of you. And he wants to. You can see it. It's like palling up with a nuclear reactor. But—­you see—­he
understands
. He understands the future, how it has to work. We have an ally, Chris, and—­”

“He was in the Beach House with us, wasn't he? All that time back. Right from the fucking start.”

“Uh-­huh.”

“That's why I got that reading. And you knew it.” I drew a breath. “Is he still there?”

Another pause.

“Shailer!”

“Chris, I don't want you—­I—­look. This is our chance to make things happen.
Good
things. Listen to me, bear with me, will you? Just listen. Here's my analogy. Have you been to Egypt, Chris? Seen the pyramids? Impressive, right? Yeah?”

“Get on with this.”

“Well. Once upon a time, they thought the pyramids were built by slaves. You see it in old movies. ­People being whipped to pull these blocks of stone and everything, you know?”

I took the phone from my ear.

“Little shit,” I mouthed at Angel.

“The current thought,” Shailer was lecturing, smooth as they come, “is that no
way
could it be slaves who built them, for a simple reason: slaves don't have that dedication. That willingness to be precise, accurate. To get the job done right.

“If we're going to use the gods, Chris, there is only one way. We need them to cooperate. We need to work together. There's got to be something for both sides . . . you follow me now? Do you?”

 

Chapter 57

My Options

“Y
ou look as if you want to kill someone.”

Angel was watching me, the way you'd watch a sick man, or a lunatic.

“I always said I would. Sort of wish I'd done it, too.”

“Well . . . he's easy to dislike, I'll give you that. Now what? Sit tight until he gets here? Like he says?”

“Maybe.”

“
Chris
.”

“Like I said. Maybe.”

“Call your Mr. Seddon. He could help. He could sort it out . . .”

“Firstly, he can't. Secondly, if it goes through Seddon, it's official. Unless he deems it otherwise. I'm not sure I want it official. Or not just yet, at least.”

She said, very slowly, “Chris. This isn't the time to be stupid.”

It was one of those moments. I had walked out on her before, and it had been a bad thing to do. Now, I was on the edge of doing something else that would put our relationship at risk—­put me at risk, as well.

I said, “I want to . . . keep my options open.”

“It's not your job.”

“It's no one else's.”

“Fuck it! You're not—­you're not paid for this—­”

I sat there, and I didn't move.

“Chris!” she said. “Talk to me, will you? Just fucking talk?”

I
could have run. Physically, metaphorically. I thought about it, both ways. But I knew that if I had, the whole thing would have hung over my head forever. Sleepless nights. Waiting. Worry.

So I went back to the Beach House. Alone. I kissed Angel on the cheek, which she accepted, but she didn't kiss me in return. Kuehl was gone when I arrived. That was good. I got some looks but I ignored them. I got comments, and I acted like I didn't hear.

I went out to the compound. The weekday visitors were there. The regulars: I knew some of the faces. Woollard and his pals had tracked them all, reviewed their records, checked out anything suspect. These ­people were like hopefuls come to Lourdes, praying for a miracle. You saw the eagerness, the way they'd wait and wait, then suddenly, they'd rouse, stirred by some sound, a change in light, some current in the air which only they perceived . . .

Finally, when it was quiet, I went up to the rail and peered into the shifting mass of shadows that I'd brought back from Iraq.

“I want to talk,” I said, then, very slowly, clearly, I said, “Steven Benedict. Seven B. I want to know what's going on. And why you want me here.”

The shadows moved. They seemed to unfold, like the petals on some huge, half-­seen flower, and then closed again in silence.

I waited, and I waited.

 

Chapter 58

The Beach House

I
watched the last few visitors go home. I watched housekeeping come and tidy up, sweep away the paper cups and candy wrappers, wipe the seats and tables, empty out the bins. I watched the day staff leave, the night staff coming on. I watched the sky grow dark even while the glass roof grew transparent, clear enough to see the stars. I watched the night-­lights on the courtyard walls, unwinking orange eyes, and the red dots of cameras, always on, always watching.

But most of all, I watched the god Assur, the force I'd roused and caught and brought back to the West. I watched it measuring the length and breadth and depth of its captivity, never resting, never stopping now, as if the long, long centuries of sleep had been too much. A somnolence that, once shaken off, could never be regained.

I seemed to see it better in the half-­light, as though it grew more solid with the dark. It filled out its domain, thrusting its way into the corners, arching up against the fields which held it. Dayling had once claimed it spoke to him, and now I, too, seemed to hear a whispering, right in the center of my skull, a voice that never quite made sense yet had some urgent message to impart—­so I imagined. The slightest movement of my head would silence it. The least distraction and it vanished from my consciousness. But if I sat still, cleared my thoughts, it was there again, right on the edge of hearing. Almost words. Almost . . .

The sound of an opening door brought me back to myself. One of the night staff appeared, bringing coffee. It was unexpected. I felt suddenly centered, grounded once again. I was probably too profuse in my thanks; the sudden human contact caught me by surprise, made me realize how immersed I'd been.

I drank about a half a cup. Then it went cold beside me.

The voice, or whatever it was, came back.

There were shapes there, moving in the dark. I had the impression of some great mass, heaving itself repeatedly at the containment wall. Here was a being ancient beyond memory, that had perhaps prefigured human life itself, that had existed long before the first buildings were raised at Ur, long before Assur itself was built. Simply being in its presence conjured images, feelings, thoughts, for the perception of it worked directly on the nerves, on the tissues of the brain itself. I had a sense of sharp, feral eyes, peering at me. The thing was aware. It knew me; knew who I was and what I'd done. The pressure of its interest touched me like a physical power. Was this what Dayling had experienced? If so, then there was nothing pleasant in it. I shifted in my seat, briefly breaking its hold on me, and bringing me back to myself.

“How's it going?” I tipped an imaginary hat, and the shadows flickered in response. The words echoed—­it seemed that other voices took them up, twisted them around, till they were scarcely more than animal sounds, grunts and growls and low, threatening reverberations.

“Is this the way it used to be, back in the old days? Being worshipped? This what you're used to?”

Something hissed inside my ear.

I said, “What's the link? Your ­people and mine? What connects us, then?”

The noises started up again, muttering and whispering. After a time, a figure rose before me. It was like an animal, twisted up into the shape of a man. Its shoulders flexed. Its legs grew long and stilt-­like, stretching skin and sinew with an ugly ripping sound. Club-­like paws articulated strangely human gestures, complex movements like the words of sign language. Sharp claws scraped the air. The head seemed much too large, and its black lips peeled back over row on row of teeth, regressing endlessly, as in some twisted fairground mirror.

I remembered Dayling in that dim-­lit Paris church, staring at something in the air, something I couldn't see. What I saw now, I was fairly sure, must be illusory, the product of a direct stimulation of the brain. The thing looked solid down to the shins; then it trailed away in ghosts and shadows, its feet invisible.

It pantomimed. It posed. It made a curious, imploring gesture.

It wouldn't show up on the monitors or TV screens. The night staff, if they were watching, would see me standing here talking to myself.

If they could see me. If I was still there, really there . . . I had a sudden, frightening doubt about that, but I shelved it, nervously . . .

“Chris.”

This, too, was illusion, the sound of my own name, pulled from the tangled sounds, the glossolalia.

I remembered the Colonel:
Who else is here?

It answered, as if listening to my thoughts: “I'm here, Chris. You know I'm here.”

The animal figure disappeared. No: someone stepped in front of it, usurped the place it took up in my vision. This was someone new, someone I recognized. The shadow of Assur still moved behind him, folding and unfolding, trapped in the containment fields, but the newcomer was unrestrained. He strolled across the compound, stopped before me, put his head on one side, and he smiled. “You guessed, Chris, didn't you? You knew that I was here. I must say, I'm impressed.”