Devil in the Wires by Tim Lees Page A

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.
    â€œDo you like Mozart, Chris?”
    â€œHe’s OK.”
    â€œHe’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?”
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œYou 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 . . .
    â€œChris,” he said, suddenly sharp. “You’re angry.”
    â€œFull marks.”
    â€œYou 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?”
    â€œEastern 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.”
    â€œTell me about the Europeans.”
    â€œThey’re not what I’m angry over.”
    â€œTell 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?”
    â€œYou 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?”
    â€œThe other side.”
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œWell . . . 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 . . .”
    â€œBut 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 .”
    â€œHm.”
    â€œYes. Hm.”
    â€œYour 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