Devil in the Wires by Tim Lees

the church, still watching me.
    The older man reached out to shake my hand.
    â€œThank 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.”
    â€œMar . . . duk.” The older man adjusted his shades. He put his head on one side.
    â€œNo,” 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.”
    â€œAssur,” 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.
    â€œYou’re early,” he said, as I walked in. He barely took his eyes off the computer screen.
    â€œYes. I am, aren’t I?”
    â€œHe’s busy.”
    â€œHe should be. He gets paid enough.”
    Now he did look at me, a quick, sideways glance.
    â€œUnlike yourself, you mean?”
    â€œYour support is duly noted.”
    I moved towards the inner door. That got him. He lunged across the desk, flapping a hand to stop me.
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œYes. No! I mean—­”
    I opened Seddon’s door. He was seated by the window,