Devil in the Wires by Tim Lees

been lucky. It could have easily—­too easily—­gone wrong.
    It isn’t what happened that bothers you. It’s what could have happened. What could happen next .
    I had a few days’ leave due. Maybe it was time to take them.

 
    Chapter 13
    Special Projects
    â€œS ee? It went well, didn’t it?”
    â€œActually, no.”
    â€œBut you got it?”
    He was just a bit too quick on that for my taste. Not, “What happened?” “Are you OK?” or, “Anybody hurt?” Not even, “Take a seat.” I dropped the backpack on his office floor, in the middle of a red-­and-­yellow oriental rug. His gaze went with it. His hands made little in-­out moves, like silent applause.
    â€œYeah,” I said. “I got it.”
    He called for tea, then made a show of breaking out his best scotch from the secret drawer and pouring me a glass. He had one too, “to keep me company,” he said. I outlined what had happened. For the man who’d assured me we’d be under the radar, I have to say his little pantomime of shock wasn’t especially convincing. He asked me how I was. He put his head on one side, then the other. He said, “My God,” “No,” and “Jesus Christ.” Then he said, “Come on. Let’s grab some lunch.”
    I bent to pick up the pack.
    â€œWe’ll put that where it’s safe,” he said.
    â€œLondon’s pretty safe,” I said.
    â€œWell, we’ve no flights right this second, Chris. But there’s a secure room here. It’s not the first of these we’ve had to deal with, I can tell you. The Registry branch out here might not be very active, but it’s not . . . inactive. ”
    I was reluctant to let the thing out of my sight, in light of all the trouble it had cost me, but I did see Dayling’s point. The secure room, as it turned out, was a cupboard armored like a bank vault. Steel door, steel walls, combination lock. Very nice.
    I was tired, I was irritable. But I was also hungry. And you do get a taste for bamia , if it’s done right.
    We went to the same restaurant as before. The same waiter chewed what may have been the same toothpick—­there were shortages, after all, there was a war on—­and Dayling ordered for us with a genteel magnanimity, as if he knew my own tastes better than I did myself.
    â€œMost of these places,” he told me, “they’ve got about a hundred items on the menu, but in the kitchen, only one.” He paused, like a conjuror before the climax of the trick. “Fried chicken.”
    â€œI like fried chicken.”
    â€œYou’d do well here, then.”
    â€œYou’ve done pretty well.”
    He shrugged, mock-­modestly.
    â€œThough I’ll admit,” I said, “I’m sort of baffled by it all. I mean, you left Field Ops for a place like this? Is that wise?”
    â€œOr safe?” he countered. “I know, I know.” He started fussing with the dishes on the table, lifting each lid, checking what was where. I noticed that he wore long sleeves again, buttoned at the cuffs.
    I said, “Doesn’t it get to you? The bombs, the shootings? You said it yourself: easy to kill someone here. Right?”
    â€œOh—­” He flapped a hand. “I’m not exactly front line. We’re well protected, and the money’s good. I get regular vacations. Here—­try some of this. You’ll like this.”
    He ladled some sort of sausage onto my plate. It floated in a pool of grease and veg. Little of it was immediately identifiable.
    He looked at me, pulled a serious face. “Chris. I feel so bad about what happened. I feel like it’s my fault. If I’d have known the risk—­”
    â€œYeah. Well. I’m on the first flight back to Brize, and I’m not coming back.” I let this rest awhile. Then I said, “You still