Devil in the Wires (8 page)

 

Chapter 18

A Black Mercedes

I
could feel him shaking. I hooked my hand under his arm and I could feel the spasms racing through him, wave after wave, like a fever. He didn't try to stop or hold back. He was passive, almost limp. The cops held off till we got three or four steps from the church, just far enough to give them room. And then they jumped us.

I lost my balance, toppled backwards, and smacked against the wall. Dayling they dropped. There must have been a dozen of them, holding his arms, his legs, his head. They got his hands behind his back and cuffed him. No one spoke. No one shouted or gave orders. Somehow it was worse for that. They dragged him to his feet, raised him bodily just like a slab of meat, and threw him in the van. I said, “No—­wait—­there's no need—­” Then I remembered what the guy on Dayling's floor looked like, and realized they weren't taking any chances.

A black Mercedes stood across the street. Two men got out, leaning on the side of the car, watching us. From time to time, one of them would pass a comment to the other, but there seemed to be no urgency, no sign they planned to get involved. The police ignored them. I wasn't so lucky.

“M'sieur.”

Someone tugged at my sleeve. The cops wanted a statement. Then they wanted my backpack, which I wouldn't give them. This started a long verbal tussle, in which Justine, to her credit, took a very firm stance. She addressed them like a bunch of naughty little boys. The backpack, she announced, was Registry property, protected under international license. It could not be touched. Some phone calls were made, and a lot of angry Gallic gestures followed. They say Parisians are rude, but they're no worse than Londoners. It's just what happens in a big city: nobody has any time for you, and cops have least of all.

Seddon phoned. “The Americans,” he said, “are kicking up a stink.”

“The Americans are parked across the street,” I said, “and they're not kicking up a stink at all. I wish they were.”

“You've got the flask?”

“If I can stop the local gendarmes taking it away from me, then yes.”

“They should have been told better now. Let me try again . . .”

But they hadn't been told better. I hung up on Seddon. Justine said, “I think you must go with them. I will do the best I can.”

“You've got a supper date.”

“Unhappily, m'sieur, I also have a job.”

I wasn't moving, though. Or not just yet. I talked to them in English, which no one seemed to understand. Then one of them decided it was time for action. He was young and clearly fancied himself. He moved in, snatched the backpack off my shoulders, but I grabbed it, and then the two of us were nose-­to-­nose, tugging the pack this way and that just like a pair of kids in the school playground. It was ridiculous. Unfortunately, it was the kind of ridiculous that usually ends with beatings, bruises and a charge of resisting arrest. His mates stood around, watching, obviously amused. I was looking right into his face. I could see the anger there, the way his jaw thrust forwards. I wondered if he'd even started shaving yet.

Things were starting to get nasty—­he'd made a botched attempt to knee me in the balls—­when I heard crackling from the cop car radio. The driver gave a shout, and just like that, the whole business was over. The young cop dropped the pack. No explanation, no final word. He went back to the car. The rest of them began to stir, as if released from a spell, and amble away. That was it. Like somebody had pulled the plug and we were done.

I checked the fastenings on the pack. Then I hefted it onto my back. There was a waist strap and, just for good measure, I fastened it.

“Well. That was interesting.”

“They are finished with you,” Justine said.

“One down,” I said.

“You will need further help.”

She tapped her foot. Her hands were deep in her pockets, shoulders up.

I said, “I'm heading home.”

“You will need a taxi, then.” She nodded to one of her colleagues. He took out his phone.

I told her, “Call your supper date. Say hi from me.”

I thanked her for her help, and then, before we got bogged down in arrangements, I set off down the street, pretty sure that it would be a short journey. And it was.

The black Mercedes slid along beside me, stopping a yard or two ahead. The same two men got out. One was young, wearing a yellow open-­neck shirt and a light linen sports jacket. The other man was older, heavier. He, too, wore a light jacket, and mirror shades, which the dim-­lit Paris streets did not exactly merit. Both looked like they'd been dressed for warmer climes.

“Thank you, Mr. Copeland. We'll take it from here.”

I suppose it was the way he said it that annoyed me—­the kind of authority that didn't expect to be questioned. That, and the fact they'd waited until now to make their move. I didn't give a damn about the flask. They could have the bloody thing for all I cared. But I'd been messed around, and none of it had gone the way it should have gone, and that just got my goat.

“Take what?” I said.

They showed me Registry ID, which I pretended not to recognize. If they were American Registry, I'd little doubt that Shailer was involved, somewhere.

“You got the wrong man, mate. I'm with Pollins-­Read, Industrial Consultancy. We're London. Look us up, eh?”

It was stupid, I suppose; my last pathetic efforts to insist I'd still got some kind of control over my life.

“The bag, please, Mr. Copeland.” The younger man reached for it, and I pulled away.

“Give him the papers,” said the older man. Streetlights glinted in his shades. He had a little country twang, Tennessee, maybe Kentucky, somewhere like that. He watched me while his colleague ducked into the car, emerging with a leather folder.

“What's going on?” I said.

“We're taking courier duty. These are the papers. Look them over, sign and initial, please.”

Several sheets fell to the grubby Paris pavement, but we collected them all up, and moved to a streetlight where I could inspect them for a while. The letterheads were all in order; the stamps looked authentic. They were issued by the New York office, and their meaning was quite unambiguous. I was to hand over the flask and sign in triplicate that I had done so. I would keep one copy. They would keep the other two.

The Registry is like an octopus
, I thought.

I said, “What's this about?”

The older man smiled. “Celebrate,” he said. “Your job's all done, you're here in Paris. It's the weekend, boy.”

His colleague said, “You ought to thank us.”

“I'll thank you when I know what this is all about,” I said. “I'm meant to go to London, as per usual. No one mentioned you two.”

They weren't fazed. The older one reached in his pocket and produced a phone. “This will explain.” He pressed a ­couple of buttons, held it up so I could see the screen.

A tiny little square of light, a pre-­recorded video.

Adam Shailer.

He wore a sky-­blue suit and a shirt of paler blue, with a necktie in a color probably described as “midnight.” His voice was thin and scratchy through the little speaker; his tone almost insufferably genial.

“Chris. Chris! How you doing, buddy?” A moment's pause, as if he actually expected me to answer him. “First off, bud, excuse me for not real-­timing. I'm here in San D right now, busy schedule, and with the time difference—­you understand, I'm sure. I'm guessing everything's gone well at your end. Always does, huh? I said you were the guy for this, the only one I'd trust to get it right, so, well, forgive the subterfuge involved, will you? Wasn't sure you'd go for the direct approach. But, hey—­I knew you'd make it work. Appreciate it, buddy!” He touched his fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. “All the best. I owe you one. Remember what I told you, hey? I don't forget my friends.” He crinkled up his forehead in a look of absolute, completely fake sincerity. “I'll see you soon!”

The screen went blank.

I stared at it. I looked up at the older man.

“That's all we've got,” he said.

My mouth came open.

“
Buddy
,” I said.

Fucking Shailer. Halfway around the world, and here he was, poking his fingers back into my life, stirring up trouble yet again.

The anger rose up like a wave, rose and passed straight through, leaving me icy calm.

I said, “How long was all this planned, then?”

“What are you asking?”

“Since when did I wind up in Special Projects, or whatever this all is?”

“We weren't given a time line. We act on orders, Mr. Copeland, just like you.”

I sighed. I made a big show out of sighing. Then I said, “Give me a pen.”

I signed. I took the backpack off, gave it to the younger man. He set it down, took out the flask, frowning at the brownish crust around the top. “That's blood,” I said. He checked the date, the dial, the readings. I got the feeling that he wasn't too familiar with the hardware of the job, but presently he put his puzzlement away and nodded. “Good. It's good,” he said. He zipped the bag up, stood, and hefted it.

“Of course it's good. You think I'm a fucking amateur?”

I could see Justine and her colleagues, hanging back outside the church, still watching me.

The older man reached out to shake my hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Copeland. You've been very helpful.”

I stood there, hands at my sides. I watched them as they walked back to the car. Then I shouted, “Hey!”

They stopped, looked round.

I said, “It's called Marduk. If you want to be on first name terms.”

“Mar . . . duk.” The older man adjusted his shades. He put his head on one side.

“No,” he said. “It's called Assur.”

The younger man shifted the bag from one arm to the other. It was heavier than he'd expected.

The older man said, “Marduk was a southern deity. You ought to check your facts, don't just believe the things you're told.”

“Assur,” said the young man. Or something like that. I caught the first syllable, anyway.

I watched them driving off. I took my phone out, started to call Seddon, then thought,
Fuck it. Let someone else give him the news
.

Midnight in Paris. There had to be something happening somewhere, didn't there? A bar? A club? A restaurant? The last time I'd eaten had been somewhere in Bulgarian airspace. Perhaps Justine wanted a third for supper. Or better yet, perhaps she had a friend . . .

 

Chapter 19

Office Chat

W
e're a lot more public profile than we used to be, but even so, you still won't find your local Registry office by looking in the phone book. You might, however, find one of its subsidiaries: Energy Solutions or Uptown Power or Home Utilities; you might even find Pollins-­Read, the company I've worked for during most of my career. Along with capturing residual psychic energy in flasks to create electricity, we're a somewhat vague industrial consultancy who, if you really pushed, might possibly advise you on the proper ergonomic layout for your premises and a few simple design features you might incorporate to minimize your energy consumption. It may seem odd, a company that raises and distributes electric power, telling you to use less, but that's how it's done these days. It makes us look like nice guys. And don't worry: we take your money anyway.

There are ­people who deal with all that sort of thing. The consulting's just a small concern—­a front, really—­and not remotely big enough to merit all the premises we own across the city. We're not exactly secret, but we're secretive, and probably with cause, when you think of what we do. Not everyone approves. But when has that mattered, I'd like to know?

The office that I go to is in Greenwich. It's nice there: upmarket, heritage London. You might say it's for tourists and not “real,” but it's as real as anything else. As real as Pollins-­Read, at least.

Seddon, my boss, had recently moved offices. He was a ­couple of floors higher now. His assistant, Derek, guarded the front office with the zeal of a palace eunuch. This is probably unfair, but he certainly performed his duties with a dedication rare under the circumstances. Also, irritating.

“You're early,” he said, as I walked in. He barely took his eyes off the computer screen.

“Yes. I am, aren't I?”

“He's busy.”

“He should be. He gets paid enough.”

Now he did look at me, a quick, sideways glance.

“Unlike yourself, you mean?”

“Your support is duly noted.”

I moved towards the inner door. That got him. He lunged across the desk, flapping a hand to stop me.

“I mean it. He's busy. I can get you a coffee if you want one, and I'll let him know you're here, but you can't go in. You've an appointment, it's—­”

He turned towards a chart pinned to the wall.

I said, “Is he alone?”

“Yes. No! I mean—­”

I opened Seddon's door. He was seated by the window, elbows on the desk, long fingers clasped together. There were several bound files on the desktop, a ­couple of flash drives and an elegant china cup and saucer (he took tea from the machine, like all of us, but poured it into china before drinking). The white tufts of his brows rose slightly as I entered. He wore earbuds, and one forefinger tapped gently on the other in a pleasant rhythm my arrival failed to interrupt.

Behind me, Derek said, “I told you not—­” but Seddon waved him off and nodded me inside. He motioned that the door be closed.

I was an hour early. Derek was right to be annoyed.

Me, I didn't greatly care.

I took a seat. Seddon's eyes closed; he put his head on one side. Then, rousing somewhat, he switched off the player and, with a certain delicacy, winkled the speakers from his ears.

“Do you like Mozart, Chris?”

“He's OK.”

“He's the greatest genius that has ever lived. He started composing at the age of five. He produced more than six hundred works. Dead at thirty-­five. Astonishing life. Don't you think?”

“Well, you put it like that . . .”

He nodded, smiling beatifically. Only the pale blue eyes suggested he was still aware of me, and they were scrupulous, analyzing every gesture and expression.

“You know, when I hear Mozart, I remember that the world can produce a man of such—­such caliber, and it makes me think it's all worthwhile. This whole shoddy mess. All the rigmarole and silliness of life . . . Yes?”

Ah, I thought. We're in philosophical mode, then. And he's trying to sound sympathetic. Soon we'll both be sitting here, brooding on the unfairness of the world, the misery and the injustice . . .

“Chris,” he said, suddenly sharp. “You're angry.”

“Full marks.”

“You had some trouble? I got a report this morning. A little hazy, I'm afraid. The Baghdad office is in chaos, as you might imagine. But—­Russians, I believe?”

“Eastern Europeans. I can't be precise. My old friend from Hungary. And another old friend, too. I'm sure you're well aware of who I mean.”

“Tell me about the Europeans.”

“They're not what I'm angry over.”

“Tell me anyway. Hm?”

And so I told him. Then I said, “One more thing. Someone reckoned they were Registry.”

Seddon puckered his brow. “Registry? Well, that's hardly likely, is it? What would be the point?”

“You tell me. But then, I don't know who's doing what these days, it seems. Or who I'm working for. I had a ­couple of blokes from the other side do exactly the same to me. So how does that work, then?”

“The other side.”

“The Yanks. They were very polite about it, mind, but the end result was just the same. Except they got away with it. Made me sign some papers, waltzed off with the flask.” When he didn't respond, I said, “We usually call that theft.”

“Well . . . I think you're being a bit harsh there, Chris. It's not the same thing at all, really, is it? But I gather it was decided that particular specimen should go to the US. Special Projects, and all. Annoying, I suppose—­they could have put their own men on the job right from the start. Still. All in the family, eh? And these things usually work both ways . . .”

“But they couldn't send their own men, could they? Because muggins here was specially selected. And you know who by. You said it yourself:
Special Projects
.”

“Hm.”

“Yes. Hm.”

“Your old friend, Mr. Shailer, he really does hold you in high regard, you know. He thinks you've an affinity with these, ah . . . creatures. Or whatever we're now supposed to call them. And I'm starting to believe he's right. From what I've heard—­”

“Forget all that. Just tell me. When did you know he was involved?”

“When . . . ?”

“Right from the start? Before I left the country? Last time I was in here? When?”

“Oh, Chris. We're on the same side, you know, you and I. You do seem to forget that. I found out—­well, about the same time you did, I expect. It was a change of plan. And you most certainly have my sympathy. I know that Shailer's not the easiest to work with -­”

“He's a—­”
Sociopathic dickhead
were the words that came to mind, but that wasn't quite the kind of balanced and dispassionate assessment which the Registry expects, and so I stopped myself. Seddon caught the hesitation, raised his brows. I said, “You know what I think.”

“Yes, I do. And, given your antipathy for the man, I have a job for you I think you might see the importance of. I'd like you to keep an eye on him for me. Will you do that, Chris?”

“Since I have no intention of ever seeing him again, I'm afraid it's going to be rather difficult.”

But Seddon put his hands together, and he smiled.

“Not necessarily,” he said.

His fingers dabbed at one another. The smile was close-­mouthed, not entirely friendly.

“As I said, he has a new project. Not only him, of course. But, as I hear things, at some point, in perhaps five or six months, he intends to offer you a job. And I would like you to accept.”

“No.”

“There'd be advantages. We'd put you on secondment, paid by Special Projects. A bit more lucrative than you're used to, I'd expect. He'll want you in the US, for a time, as well . . . ?”

“I might try Russia. Honestly, I could go either way.”

“I thought you liked the US, Chris.”

“I love the US. It's Shailer I can't stand.”

“I see.” The smile was gone. His fingers meshed, as if to cage some small, rebellious animal. “You'd be based in Chicago, as I understand. I believe you have . . .” the pause was brief but loaded, “an association there?”

“I am not,” I said, “working for Shailer. End of story. All right?”

“Ah well . . . as you will, Chris. As you will . . .”