Devil in the Wires by Tim Lees Page B

right. From what I’ve heard—­”
    â€œForget all that. Just tell me. When did you know he was involved?”
    â€œWhen . . . ?”
    â€œRight from the start? Before I left the country? Last time I was in here? When?”
    â€œOh, 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 -­”
    â€œHe’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.”
    â€œYes, 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?”
    â€œSince 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.
    â€œNot necessarily,” he said.
    His fingers dabbed at one another. The smile was close-­mouthed, not entirely friendly.
    â€œAs 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.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThere’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 . . . ?”
    â€œI might try Russia. Honestly, I could go either way.”
    â€œI thought you liked the US, Chris.”
    â€œI love the US. It’s Shailer I can’t stand.”
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œI am not,” I said, “working for Shailer. End of story. All right?”
    â€œAh well . . . as you will, Chris. As you will . . .”

 
    Chapter 20
    The Presence of the Future
    â€œC hris, Chris. Welcome to the Third Coast.”
    Adam Shailer seized my hand, squeezed it, and then, jumping ahead of the chauffeur, flung open the rear door of a big blue Lincoln sedan and urged me inside.
    It is, perhaps, a sign of maturity, to work with ­people you dislike, to smile and laugh and look them in the eye as if they were your fondest friends. If so, I can manage it for maybe ten or fifteen minutes, after which it all begins to fall apart.
    Shailer oozed into the leather seat, put back his head, discreetly tweaked his pants, and spread his arms along the seat back as if staking territory. “You know, I’ve met ­people—­even Americans, sometimes—­who don’t know about that.” He gestured to Lake Michigan, rising, pale and calm to the horizon. “They think we’re landlocked. Isn’t that amazing?”
    â€œAmazing.” I kept the smile up on my face until it ceased to be a smile at all, becoming just an ache in the cheeks, a pressure on the lips—­a ventriloquist’s dummy of a smile.
    â€œLooks like the sea,” I said.
    â€œIt does, doesn’t it? Exactly like the sea.”
    Last time I’d seen Shailer, he’d been nowhere near so self-­assured: a frazzled and resentful wreck, certain his superiors had set him up and that he was about to die. Now I could smell his cologne. I could smell—­I don’t know what it was, a scent of boardrooms and hotels and presidential suites, of luxury apartments