Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(87)

“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.