Steal the Lightning

by Tim Lees

  “This guy McAvoy—he’s got Registry property, he’s responsible for—”

  “We know the history. Thank you, Mr. Copeland. You’ve been very helpful.”

  I could have just accepted it. I’d done my job, I’d finished. But I said, “Wait a minute. This is—”

  He held his hand up. There was no smile now.

  “Like I say,” he said. “We’ll take it from here. You’ve done enough. The good news is, you and Ms.—Ms.—”

  “Dr. Farthing.”

  “Your hotel’s paid for the week. You get some rest, OK? Kick back, relax. Think you can do that?”

  “You don’t know what you’re dealing with here. This guy’s dangerous. For fuck sake—”

  He put his head down, spoke quickly, quietly. “Mr. Copeland. We know exactly what we’re dealing with. I’ve told you: get some rest. Do you understand?”

  It wasn’t an invitation.

  The younger man led McAvoy away. He held open the car door like a chauffeur, and McAvoy slipped quietly inside.

  Voss stood in front of me, blocking me, as if he thought I’d suddenly run after him.

  I said, “What’s happening here?”

  “He’ll be debriefed, and dealt with appropriately.”

  “‘Debriefed’?”

  “He’s Registry personnel.”

  “According to Registry, he’s fucking dead.”

  Voss shrugged. “Technical error. Don’t let it bother you.”

  “You’ve come to take him home,” I said. “You’re the one he calls ‘control’, aren’t you?”

  “I think you’ve seen too many spy movies, Mr. Copeland.”

  Behind us, Edward Ballington threw back his head and screamed.

  Ghirelli held him, while his personal physician—the man I’d last seen coping with the injured from the raid—pulled up his sleeve, and started looking for a vein.

  “Another thing,” said Voss. “The flask, please.”

  I took it from the bag and gave it to him. He flicked the display on, checked the levels.

  “This is . . . lower than expected.”

  “So?”

  “This is your only flask?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “This is the Second Eden god? Complete?”

  “No, that’s the Ballington god. Part of it. Friendly chap. Don’t get too close, you’ll singe your beard.”

  “Where’s the Second Eden god?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “It’s still in place here?”

  “I don’t know. You better check on that.”

  “I need the Second Eden god.”

  “Your great experiment? What department are you, by the way?”

  “We need the god, Mr. Copeland.”

  “It’s probably around. You never know with gods, though, do you? Here today, gone tomorrow. That’s gods for you.”

  Behind me, Ballington howled. Ghirelli had him in a lock. The doc was trying to get a needle in his arm.

  “Poor chap,” I said. “Must be a real letdown, being human again . . .”

  Chapter 69

  Welcome to Field Ops

  “You’re qualified,” I said.

  “Official?”

  I held my phone up, let her see: “‘Resourceful,’ ‘problem-solving,’ ‘team worker.’ Oh, there’s a bit at the end about, ‘risk-taking’ and ‘loss of acquisition,’ but they’ll always find something to gripe about. I’m meant to read it all out but I can’t be bothered.”

  “Field Op,” she said, like someone trying on a new coat.

  There was more I had to say, only I put it off. More about the future, and about us.

  But we went out to celebrate instead.

  The same way we did every night, regardless whether we’d a reason.

  I’d sent in two reports: one on Angel, one on McAvoy. The McAvoy report yielded a lot less joy.

  Great work, wrote Ms. Ramirez, politely thanking me for what I’d done.

  I wrote back, Who is Voss?

  Not familiar with the name myself, she wrote. And then, Enjoy Las Vegas!

  So we did.

  The burn on my arm stopped me from swimming, but I was happy just to lie beside the pool, soaking up the sun. We ate too much. We went to bars. We once drank yard-long margaritas around 10:00 a.m. and had to nap by 12. We visited a dolphin pool and saw the paintings at the Bellagio. The latter was impressive, just to say the least.

  “You don’t get this in Blackpool,” I said.

  “What’s Blackpool?”

  “It’s like Coney Island, but with fish and chips.”

  In the mornings she rose early. She’d vanish for an hour or more and often I would wake alone. I never asked her where she went or what she did. She brought back coffee which we drank in bed. Then we made love. Then we hit town. Then came back, and made love again. There was an urgency about it, the way you get when you know something’s going to end—not now, and not today, but soon.

  One evening, we met Elvis Perez, idling with a cola and a hot dog between jobs. So they dueted—Angel on the backing vocals, very formal, very classical, while they ran through “Teddy Bear,” and Perez growled, squealed, and postured. He struck karate poses. He sneered. He swiveled his hips.

  To tell the truth, he couldn’t really sing.

  “I am the last great Elvis on the Strip, people! Everyone else is superhero, spaceman. But I—only I am Elvis!” He raised his hands into the air, thanking an audience that no one else could see. “This—I tell you, friends. It is more than just a costume! To be Elvis—it is life!”

  “At least the ghosts are gone,” I said.

  “Ah. The city finds a way. I should have faith in them . . .”

  Another night, in the Venetian, she sang back to the gondoliers. And everyone applauded.

  “Brilliant,” I told her.

  “Average,” she said.

  I should have just relaxed. I should have kept off e-mail and the news feeds, should have ditched my phone and my computer. But I didn’t.

  Four days after leaving Vegas, Edward Ballington, Senior, announced that he would run for President.

  Like he was doing everyone a favor.

  He promised great strides in alternate energy production, and “the biggest shake-up to employment laws” in well over a century.

  Angel just looked at me.

  You do the right thing short term. You wonder about long term, though.

  I said, “At least he’s just a man this time. He could have been a god.”

  “Why’d a god want to be President?”

  “Gods are greedy. They want to eat. You get them paired with someone else like that . . . The god might not care one way or the other who’s President. But the man does. And that’s the part that interacts. The part with the ambition.”

  I felt dizzy, worn out with the light, the heat, the booze.

  “We’re going to have to talk,” I told her. “Not just yet, but soon.”

  Silverman called. He wanted me to do another interview.

  “We can Skype it, if you want, although I’d rather face-to-face. I just think there’s a few points need some clarifying here. Voice-over, maybe.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You due in New York anytime soon? That’d be best.”

  “Well, you know my itinerary . . .”

  “Not really, Chris. That was a one-off.”

  “Why the rush?”

  “Ah.” His voice got louder then. “I’ve got a spot in TriBeCa. The festival. I sort of suggested things might be a bit further along than they are, but I think I’ll be OK. I mean, there’s some amazing shots. You won’t believe.”

  “I think I will.”

  “I’ll send you the program. It’s called Steal the Lightning. A film by Paul Silverman. Sound good?”

  “This is . . . about what I do, right? About me?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get you tickets to the premier. You and Angel. As many as you like.
”

  “It sounds,” I said, “like a Frankenstein film. It’s an awful title.”

  “Chris! It’s like—it’s like Ben Franklin, you know? Or like, Prometheus. That’s good, right? Stealing the power of the gods?”

  “Frankenstein,” I said.

  “The organizers like it.”

  “They’re idiots. Besides, it’s fire. Prometheus stole fire, not lightning.”

  “That’s just a detail, Chris—”

  “Is Ballington in this?”

  “No.”

  “Not at all?”

  “I, um, actually, I’ve an injunction from his lawyers. If I make any reference to him, in any way—”

  “I thought he wanted everything recorded.”

  “He did. But it wasn’t exactly Triumph of the Will, was it? So I suppose he changed his mind. I could take him to court, but he’d do his usual trick and drag it out until I’m broke. You know?”

  “By which time, he’ll be President.”

  “Chris.” He laughed. “This is America. He’ll never be President . . .”

  “You’re qualified. You know what that means? For the first couple of years at least.”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “They’ll send you anywhere. You’ve got no seniority, you’ll take what you’re given. You’ll get sent to every shit hole on the list. No choice where you go. You can make requests, only your chance of being approved . . .”

  “Mom says she’ll take care of Riff. I’ll miss him, though. But I really want to travel. I need it, Chris. And if I get some bad trips at the start, I’ll just have to put up with them, I guess.”

  “You’ll miss Riff. And me?” I said. “You’ll miss me?”

  “Chris . . .”

  “I didn’t want to say it earlier. Spoil things. But, you think—the two of us . . . ?”

  She put her head down.

  I said, “I’m due in London next week. I can make requests, but I can’t guarantee.”

  “What are you telling me?”

  “Just . . . it’s going to be tough.”

  “Like last time.”

  “Last time . . . was different.”

  “Last time, when you walked off, full of promises, and I didn’t see you for two years.”

  “I made a mistake.”

  “You were a dick.”

  “I was a dick.”

  I heard her breathe.

  Then she said, “You want to know where I’ve been going every morning?”

  “Should I be worried . . . ?”

  She led me from the room, down to the gaming floor.

  There were still drinkers at the bar. She nodded to the barman and he nodded back. They knew each other. I was jealous, instantly. But she didn’t linger there.

  Set back, on a podium, there was a grand piano. She went up to it, pulled out the stool, lifted the lid.

  I don’t know what she played. It was a strange piece; long, abstract chords, neither major nor minor, then a fierce, rhythmic section. It was not exactly classical, nor jazz, nor anything that I could easily define. It went on maybe four, five minutes. Then she took her hands away, and shut her eyes.

  “That’s what I’ve been doing,” she said. “It just came to me one morning, and I remembered seeing a piano down here. No one playing it, this time of day.”

  “And this is . . . one of those pieces you were hearing?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “It’s . . . unusual.”

  “You don’t have to like it. The point is, it was there. And I finally got it from here,” she touched her brow, “to here.” She put her hands just lightly on the keys.

  “That’s great.”

  “It’s like you said. The gods mess with our heads. But they only mess with what’s already there. And that’s all ours, and no one else’s.”

  She pushed the stool back, got to her feet. On the podium, she towered over me, the chandeliers back-lighting her hair, a jet-black halo.

  “You asked if we were going to stay together.”

  “Yeah.”

  She came down the steps. I put my hand out to her, and she took it.

  She said, “I think it’s kind of the same thing. If it’s in us, then we’ll do it. And if it’s not . . .”

  “Let’s just forget if not.”

  Acknowledgments

  It’s Oscar time again. I’d like to thank everyone at Harper Voyager for their hard work and enthusiasm, and give a nod to the Art Department for their amazing cover mock-ups. I wish we could have used them all.

  Writers need editors, and a very special “thank you” goes to Chloe Moffett for dedication above and beyond the call of duty, and to Nancy Fischer for exquisite copyediting. Final decisions were mine, however, so any errors herein are my responsibility.

  Most importantly, I want to thank my wife, Charity Blackburn, for her continued love and support, and for helping scout the book’s locations with me. Research, especially for the Vegas scenes, was arduous in the extreme (so much so that we plan to do it all again as soon as possible).

  Finally, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to everyone who’s read and enjoyed the Field Ops books. Without readers, writers are irrelevant. So thank you all.

  An Excerpt from Devil in the Wires

  If you enjoyed Steal the Lightning

  keep reading for an excerpt from

  another enthralling Field Ops novel:

  Devil in the Wires

  By Tim Lees

  Available now wherever ebooks are sold!

  Chapter 1

  Interested?

  “But it’s a war zone,” I told him.

  “Not technically. Not anymore.”

  “Oh, good.” I folded up the map and passed it back. “So if I’m killed there, what? I’m not technically dead or something? That how it works?”

  “No, Chris. If you’re killed there—­God forbid, but if you are—­then you were never technically there at all. You follow me?” Dayling smiled, the gracious host. “Do try the bamia, by the way. It’s delicious here.”

  “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  A dozen lidded bowls lay on the tabletop between us. A ceiling fan whisked tepid air over our heads. In the adjoining room, the only other customers—­ both westerners—­had just been served the pleasures of the sheesha, and a sweet drift of tobacco smoke began to mingle with the smell of sweat, and spice, and char-­grilled lamb.

  “Please, Chris. Just hear me out, will you? For old times’ sake?”

  He raised his brows. His forehead wrinkled like a puppy’s.

  “I need your help,” he said.

  And in a life spent saying many, many stupid things, I said one of the stupidest.

  I said, “OK.”

  His name was Dayling, Andrew Dayling, and I’d last set eyes on him about ten years back, at a Registry get-­together in Berlin or Berne or somewhere. It only stuck inside my mind because at one point he had taken me aside and told me he was leaving Field Ops. “I mean, you can’t do this forever, can you?” He’d asked me for advice. I’m not sure what I said and don’t imagine it was any help, but he’d seemed pleased, and for my own part, I’d felt flattered to be asked. (I found out later he’d approached a half a dozen others at the same event, each in the same hushed, confidential tones. But never mind.)

  He’d closed the conversation with a running joke, a little gag we used to do that always made him laugh.

  He’d asked me: “Any tricky jobs lately?”

  “Yeah,” I’d said, waited a beat, and he’d joined me in the punch line: “All of them.”

  He’d grinned and clapped his hands together. “Later,” he’d said, and, as I’d assumed, walked straight out of my life.

  Till now.

  He hadn’t changed a lot. His face had filled out—­too much bamia, perhaps—­and his hair was touched with gray; there was a look of strain about the eyes, maybe, though no worse than I’d expect from living in a place like this. I’d recogniz
ed him instantly. In a profession that accepted, even fostered, certain shows of eccentricity, Dayling had been resolutely straight-­edge. A shirt-­and-­tie man through and through. Today he wore a linen suit, stained under the arms, his tie held with a small pearl pin. He looked every bit the Englishman abroad, remnant of an empire long ago dissolved and vanished into memory. We had been friends once, or, more accurately, friendly. We’d worked jobs together, kicked back and relaxed when we were done. He was charming, attentive, usually good company. Yet when he’d left the field, I hadn’t kept in touch, and didn’t know anyone who had.

  Nonetheless, it should have been an amiable reunion. It should have been a lot of things. Most of all, it should have been a different job.

  “I was told this was a quick assignment. In and out. Not a bloody two hundred mile trek through warring desert tribesmen. Come on—­”

  “Hardly tribesmen. They’re pretty sophisticated these days.” He raised the lid on the bowl nearest him. “This isn’t Lawrence of Arabia, you know.”

  “Shame. I know how that one ends.”

  “The militias here are well-­armed, and they’re ruthless. I won’t lie to you. But it’s a hundred to one that you’ll run into them. I’ll tell you: you’re in a lot more danger here and now than you could ever be, out there.” He spooned a reddish tomato-­smelling stew into a bowl and handed it to me.

  Well, I thought, if I was going to die, I’d rather do it on a full stomach. Perhaps the bamia was worth it after all.

  He said, “You are currently in one of the most over-­crowded cities on the planet. Killing’s easy here. It’s a daily occurrence. And they don’t discriminate. You’d think that Shia would kill Sunnis, and Sunnis would kill Shia, but it’s not like that. I’d feel safer getting out of here myself. Who wouldn’t?”

  “I’d feel safer back at home, watching it on telly with my feet up. Personally.”

  This he ignored.

  “One truck,” he said. “Middle of nowhere. Unscheduled. Visible, it’s true, but tough to hit. If anybody’s bothered. Which they won’t be.”

  “Comforting.”