Devil in the Wires

by Tim Lees

  There was a moment’s silence. No—­a real silence, like the silence of a vacuum, and it lasted maybe two, three seconds. It was the strangest thing. It was like a moment had been chopped out of the world, held in suspension. Then the sounds were back: the buzzing of machinery, the rush of water, rustle of the breeze. A bird took flight, somewhere over to my left.

  I stood there. Soon the dark would be complete. I pulled a small torch from my pocket, made my way back to the generator, and I shut it off. I called for Carl and Nouri to get supper, told them I’d stay out a little longer. Then I pulled a jacket on against the evening chill, climbed one of the mounds, and sat down on the top to wait.

  Chapter 7

  Night in Assur

  I felt sure that something was about to happen. My fingers tingled with it. My eyes and ears strained to catch a trace of it, the faintest whisper or the least glimmer of light.

  When nothing happened, I grew frustrated, restless, then, at last, bored. But I stayed there. And gradually, the sounds and smells of the night came up around me, and I started to perceive things I had missed before, taking in the moment, the world around me . . . and I settled into what, for mystics and psychologists, might be called a contemplative state.

  Field Ops has risks—­that’s well known. There is a certain kind of person who can do it, and you realize this once you’ve been in the job a while. You start to meet the other ops. All very different ­people, but in some ways similar. Insular. Self-­contained. Broody. Like we’re all listening to something no one else can hear. But the truth is, we can’t hear it either: we only catch the ripples that it leaves, like inferring that a boat has passed from the smack of waves against the shore.

  We like to work alone, if possible. Or with someone else who shares our mind-­set. But in Esztergom, I hadn’t worked alone. I’d been partnered with a man—­a boy, really—­named Adam Shailer. I’d taken a no-­nonsense approach, which he’d objected to and, in retaliation, he’d made some small adjustments to the capture mechanism, which had very nearly got me killed. The story didn’t end there: the entity itself, already near incarnate, hadn’t been entirely contained. Part of it escaped. (“Like froth down the side of a beer glass,” I would say, trivializing something that had cost a fair number of lives.) More to the point, part of it escaped wearing a pretty good simulacrum of my face.

  I am still Field Ops. Shailer, meanwhile, is quite the little mover and shaker these days, a Very Important Man, oh yes. I went to his apartment once in New York City. We had a pleasant little chat, but I broke a few things, so I doubt I’ll be invited back.

  The fragment of a god, designated Seven B in reference to its monstrous parent, designated Seven, is still at large. It may be in the US, perhaps in California. It has affinities with me beyond its looks; it seems to know things, often things it couldn’t possibly have learned by normal means. And I, in turn, have gained a little insight of my own, into its nature and its ways. But not enough . . .

  Plus: it scares the life out of me.

  There have been moments—­and this may be merely paranoia, after all—­moments I’ve had the sense he knows exactly where I am and what I’m doing. I’ve added locks to my front door, well aware that, should he choose to visit, they won’t keep him out. I find myself glancing over my shoulder in the midst of some quite ordinary task—­shaving, washing up, putting out the trash. And many times I have woken, suddenly, expecting to find him standing there over my bed, waiting to enfold me, devour me, absorb me into his own flesh.

  See how the pronoun goes from “it” to “him.”

  And I thought, He probably knows where I am right now. Knows I’m sitting here. And then I thought, That’s nonsense.

  So I watched the sun go down. It wasn’t cold. I didn’t think about the snakes and scorpions. I sat there as the ruins quietly dissolved in inky black, and I thought, Come on then. Talk to me, God of Assur. Say hi. Send me a dream, a vision. Tell me what it’s like, to be ten thousand years old, or however old you are. Tell me how it feels. Tell me what you are. Tell me how we lived with you for centuries, millennia. Tell me why we shouldn’t chop you up for firewood, which is pretty much what we’ve got planned. The Registry could light up half of London with a cache your size.

  A bird was crying, somewhere far away, and once some kind of a kerfuffle by the river made me sit up straight, straining my eyes against the dark, though it died away again soon enough. I’d planned to join the others at the camp, but instead I made myself comfortable, my back against some ancient block the size of a truck engine, and I dozed off.

  I had some odd dreams. In one I was back in London, and I had to go somewhere—­it may have been the Registry offices—­but the building was constructed in a peculiar way; there was no door, and the only way in was to pull myself up through a narrow gap in the floorboards of the room above. I didn’t think I had the strength, and I didn’t think that I could fit.

  That, perhaps, was mere surrealism. But towards morning I dreamed I had a son, given up for adoption long ago. He returned to me now, a radiant figure like the Blake picture Glad Day, reminding me how much I’d failed him, but reserving his real venom for some unknown stepparent it seemed I’d placed him with. This dream troubled me, for, though I’ve never had a son, it was obvious to me, even in sleep, that in some way he stood in for the creature who wore my face, and whom I had known as Seven B.

  I opened my eyes. It was close to dawn, for I could make out the rim of the horizon under a deep blue sky. But I dozed again, and didn’t wake till I felt someone nudge me with a foot. I mumbled. The nudge came again, a lot harder now, and I swore, then looked up.

  I didn’t know the man standing over me. He wasn’t Carl or Nouri. He wore desert camouflage and heavy army boots that were very near my face. I could see the way the soles curled at the toes. There was another object, too, thrust very close to me, and it scared me even before I was able to identify it. I stared at it, trying to focus. A ring of metal, black in the middle . . . the black was a hole, I realized. The thing was a tube, a cylinder.

  It was a gun.

  I’d been worrying about the gods. I’d forgotten the more immediate dangers.

  In a language I did not know he urged me to my feet. I didn’t argue. There are risks I’ll take and risks I won’t. The gods might let you live, but guns will kill you.

  Slowly, trying to look as harmless as I could, I put my hands into the air.

  Chapter 8

  An Offer from the Colonel

  There were a dozen guys. Most were locals in djellabas or combat gear; but the four officers were Europeans, probably Russian from the sound of them. My language skills weren’t up to pinning it down. Three were very young men, in soldiers’ uniforms that looked as crisp and clean as if they’d just come out of the bag. These weren’t soldiers. Even the rake of their berets was wrong, like costumes in a really bad school play.

  The fourth man was a different matter.

  The fourth man, I knew.

  He had been called “the Colonel” when I met him last. I had been made to stand up sharply every time he walked into the room or else receive a clip around the ear—­not really painful, but humiliating to anyone not still in short trousers. He’d asked a lot of questions about the organization I was working for, especially my log-­ins and my passwords, which frankly would have done him little good. I’d probably have told him if he’d offered me a decent deal, or even threatened me enough. Still, fate had intervened, and offered me a chance to get away, which, since I’d been wanted for murder at the time, I’d thought it wise to take.

  I had judged him about sixty then. He looked no older now, with his neat, white moustache and military bearing, and he struck me, as before, as immensely fit. He’d been in civvies when I’d last seen him. Now, in desert fatigues, three stars on his cap, he seemed commanding, energetic—­one of those men whose heart pumps more testosterone
than blood.

  I was kneeling on the ground with my hands on my head and a gun against my neck when he came over to say hi. He stood atop a little pile of rubble, looking down on me, his thumbs hooked in his pockets.

  “Mr. Copeland,” he said. He put his head on one side, then on the other, inspecting me from all angles. “Well, well. They told me who the op would be for this one, but I really couldn’t quite believe it was the same man. What are the chances, hm? After all this time?”

  “I often get mistaken for somebody else.”

  “Not now, though. With luck we’ll be done here by noon. What d’you say?”

  His English was devoid of accent, though the emphases were sometimes odd.

  I said, “Looks like I’m finished here for now.”

  “Oh no. Quite the opposite. You have a job to do, and you’re going to do it. I think that’s how it works, yes? In the meantime, I can offer you some tea, and breakfast—­the buns may be a little stale by now, but never mind. Let’s get going, shall we?”

  I raised my eyes, to indicate the man standing behind me. The Colonel nodded, said something in Arabic. I shook myself, looked round warily, then got to my feet. I was still half expecting a smack around the ear. Or worse.

  I said, “How’s Budapest?”

  A large, sand-­colored armored car had been drawn up behind our truck. It had a gun mounted on top. A ­couple of the local types were standing there with Nouri, and one of them had started a small cooking fire. No trace of Carl. I only hoped that was a good sign.

  The Colonel said, “To tell the truth, I’ve not seen Budapest in quite some while. I’ve been busy elsewhere.”

  “Nice for you, that. Keeping busy.”

  One of the officers was picking his way through the ruins, stopping every few yards, checking something in his hand. A reader, I guessed, doing just what I’d done yesterday.

  I said, “You’re not with the Hungarians now? At a guess, I’d say . . . Russian mafia? Something like that.”

  The Colonel chuckled. “Mafia,” he said. “They’re all respectable these days, you know. Captains of industry, I’m told. But no. I’m not with them.”

  “Russian, though?”

  “I’m a man of the world, Mr. Copeland. One can no longer be bound by mere nationalities. Don’t you agree?”

  The man with the reader seemed astonishingly young. Seventeen, perhaps, or not much more. Like the Colonel, he wore fatigues, a pistol at his hip. But he wasn’t a soldier. Just a glance could tell you that.

  I asked the Colonel, “You have a name? Or just a rank?”

  “I have a name. Several, in fact. Though I would recommend you shelve your curiosity, and contemplate your own situation. Let me explain, in case things aren’t yet clear.”

  We were coming up to the vehicles now. I gave Nouri a nod. He nodded back, sucking on his lower lip. His beard wagged unhappily.

  “We want you, Mr. Copeland—­Chris—­to go ahead, finish the job. The source here is a very ancient one, and as such, it’s of great interest to us. We’ve even given it a name—­Marduk, after the Babylonian deity. Marduk will be caught, locked safely in your flask, and you will go home none the worse. Everything will happen just as planned.”

  “Except?”

  “Except, of course, Marduk will return with us. So, by the way, will the rest of your equipment.”

  I pretended to think about this. “And if I don’t do what you want?”

  “You will immediately become irrelevant to our goals. You and your friend.”

  “That’s what it’s called now, is it? ‘Irrelevant’?”

  “I’m guessing you’re here on a covert op. I’d say there might be—­what, half a dozen ­people who know where you are? Perhaps fewer still. And it’s a war zone. Bad things happen.”

  “It’s not technically a war zone.”

  The Colonel made a doubtful little moue.

  “And when you say irrelevant . . . is that actually irrelevant, or technically irrelevant?”

  He gave me a look to suggest I was trying his patience.

  “Really,” I said. “I’d like to know.”

  When he didn’t answer that either, I said, “You’ve got the gear. You could do it yourself.”

  “Mr. Copeland. I have studied the retrieval process extensively. There are some very interesting films. Alas, I have never had chance . . . so I’m looking forward to this. I’m looking forward to it very, very much.”

  I mouthed at Nouri: “Carl?” and he flicked his eyes up, at the landscape round about. From the look on his face, and the fact he didn’t shake his head or just say, “Dead,” I reckoned we were to the good on that. More, the Colonel had mentioned only one “friend.” So maybe Carl just wasn’t on his radar. If so, then that was very, very good.

  There was a quality Dayling had been so keen to ascribe to me: professionalism. I wasn’t sure I merited it. Carl, I hoped, was a different character. He’d find a way to get us help. He’d do something. He’d be armed. Though getting caught up in a firefight was just about the last thing that I wanted. I wondered if I could forestall it somehow with a few tricks of my own. Which might be every bit as risky, in the long run . . .

  I had history with the Colonel, and I resented his intrusion into what might well become a tricky job. So, I thought, I’d let him find out how tricky. And see how he liked that.

  He walked beside me through the ruins while I took my own readings, marking them on the same map I’d used yesterday, though in red pen now, not black. It looked good. There were heavy readings around the temples in the north, especially the Ishtar temple, and lesser readings through the palace and around the ziggurat. In the southern parts there was now very little. I had it. The thing was there. It was coherent, fully formed. I’d feared it might have been fragmented, dissipated through the Earth. I wondered how aware it was, if it could feel our passage here, over the rooftops of its den. But it was half awake now, responsive to stimuli. Soon I’d have a sense of it, a notion how to use it, how to make it work for me. Soon . . .

  The Colonel stuck to me like a shadow. He studied what I did but he said nothing, asked nothing. He must have known I’d probably just lie to him.

  Presently, though, he cleared his throat, said, “You could have a place with us, you know.”

  “Not if I’m irrelevant.”

  “I’m serious. You know your job. You’re good at it. You could take whichever projects interest you. The rest of the time, you’d have an easy life. We need an expert trainer. You’d fit the bill.” His voice rose slightly in a question that I didn’t answer. “Think about it,” he invited.

  “Nah. It’s probably treason or something.” I scanned with the reader, turning in a circle. “They’d never serve me down the Dog and Partridge after that.”

  “You’re deliberately misstating the case.”

  “Oh, really?” I glanced up at the hot blue sky, the miles of emptiness. “Sorry ’bout that.”

  “I’m making you an offer. A legitimate proposal, from one company to the employee of another. The worst it could be called is poaching. It happens all the time.”

  “I’m sure the Registry will take you on,” I said, “if you fill in all the proper forms.”

  “Very loyal. Commendable, perhaps, but . . . not to your own advantage.”

  I knelt, resting the map on my knee. I’d been working it out, all this time; some part of my brain reading the indices, plotting the gradients . . . I sketched a rough of how I’d need to lay the cables. A big job, but not too big.

  The Colonel was still talking. “Our resources are the best in the world. You know this. Through Eastern Europe, north into Siberia, south and east into Asia . . . these are rich reserves, most of them untouched. Easily accessible. There is coal there. There is oil. There is timber. And there are gods.”

  “U
h-­huh,” I said.

  “These are spiritual nations. Worshipful nations. What we need now is . . . a means of harvesting the crop.”

  “Like I say. Give my boss a call. He’ll sort you out.”

  “Loyalty, again. Or do you just dislike me? The competition?”

  “Well. Got it in one.”

  I didn’t look at him; I was looking out across the site, trying to visualize it, where the cables ought to lie. How they’d fit in with the contours of the land, the ruins of the town. And what lay underneath

  He lit a cigarette, offered me one. I waved it off.

  He said, “Let me be honest. Our technology is far behind yours. Worse, our personnel are inexperienced and uninformed. You’d have the chance to build a team from scratch. An elite team.”

  “Right. Like . . . ?” I nodded to the nearest of the boy soldiers.

  The Colonel brushed this off. “They’re useful. They have . . . enthusiasm. On a job like this, that can take them far.” He smiled, confided, “Not ideal, no. But the clay from which much may yet be molded.

  “The interests I represent—­we’re businessmen. Nothing sinister, nothing dangerous. In other circumstances”—­he spread his hands—­“we might be sitting round a boardroom table, discussing these same issues. Your masters are wary of us for a simple reason: we are the competition. We don’t want to buy our power from the Registry, in whatever form it presents itself—­or from the West in general. Communism left us crippled in so many ways. Stalin said he would modernize the nation, but he left it mired in the past.”

  “So you’re Russian?”

  “The company has Russian elements. Also Slovakian, Czech, Polish. And the newer nations, Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan, places where, short of war”—­he cast his gaze to the horizon—­“the Registry will never be allowed to work. The business opportunities there are immense.”

  “No doubt.” I slipped the reader back into my pocket.