Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(89)

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.”

“We have a bodyguard lined up, former Royal Marine. Scots chap, top man, handles our security. Very reliable. He’ll be assigned to you directly.”

“My very own Scotsman. Is it my birthday?”

He laughed now, as if I’d actually said something funny. It ended quickly.

“The interpreter’s a local man. Again, we’ve worked with him before. He’s sound. You couldn’t be in safer hands.” He put his own hands on the tabletop and spread his fingers. “Really, Chris. Would I steer you wrong? Try the stew. Go on. Just try it.”

So I tried the stew.

“Good?” he said.

I nodded.

I looked at his hands, the knobby wrists protruding from his sleeves, so tanned they looked like they’d been dipped in paint. And I remembered, years ago, a girl saying, “But have you seen his arms?”

I hadn’t at the time, and it was quite a while before I did.

“The thing is, Chris, see—thing is this. It’s all a bit hush-hush, and I’m sort of . . . restricted in what I can tell you. But the fact is, you were recommended for this job. More than that. Requested, as it happens.”

“Yeah. Well, I’ve made enemies.”

“How’s the bamia? Good, I hope? I’d suggest the kibbeh or kofta to follow. You can eat well here if you know the right places.”

“And you don’t get killed.”

“Quite.” He put the spoon up to his mouth again. A line of red clung to his upper lip, looking unpleasantly like blood. “We’ve got a big, big presence here. The Registry, I mean. You won’t read about it in the press, but it’s true. Still,” he said, “this one site, we’ve held off on. Till now.”

He let me eat a little more. Then he asked me, “Interested?”

“Why should I be?”

“Well—it’s a job, for one. And you’re professional.”

“Not good enough.”

“You’re Field Ops.”

“That’s on my card.”

“What’s more—” He leaned back, one hand stroking his wrist. I wondered if he could still feel the scars, even after all this time. “What’s more,” he said, “you’re proud of what you do. No, Chris, you are, I’ve seen you. You take a real pride in it. I know this because it’s—well, it’s one reason I’m not in Field Ops anymore.”

He gave a small, self-deprecating smile.

I held off asking for as long as I could. Then I said, “Go on.”

“Simple. I saw it mattered to you, that’s all. But to me, it wasn’t like that. It was a job. To you—it was important. Getting it right. Doing it well.” He shrugged. “I had some bad experiences, and . . .”

“Well. We’ve all had that.”

“You got out for a time yourself, I heard.”

“Few years, yes.”

“But you got back in! That’s what I mean! With you—it’s in the blood, Chris. It’s what you do. And—well. This job’s special, like I say. You’re going to want this job.”

“Try me.”

“This is—this is probably the oldest entity so far identified. It goes back, I don’t know, thousands of years, at least. Hm?”

“OK. Risk of death aside, I’ll say that I’m intrigued.”

“I’m giving you the chance to be alone with it. Take a day, a night, however long you want. Talk to it. Commune with it, if that’s what you do. Because you know that once you get it back, you’re never going to see the thing again, don’t you? It’ll disappear into some workshop or research facility, or get left in one of those big bloody storerooms for about ten years till someone works out what to do with it.” He made a gesture with his hands, placing an unseen bundle on the table. “What I’m offering you—what I’m offering is a chance. To know what it knows. I can’t promise, but I can give you the chance. And I think you’ll take it, won’t you? Yes?”

I didn’t answer him.

“You’ll take it, because—well. Because somewhere in the world, there’s a god walking around with your face, and that bothers you. I’ll tell you, frankly,” he pursed his brow, “it would bother me.”

He raised his water glass, watching me over the rim of it.

“Half right,” I said. I raised my own glass, made to clink with his, but then pulled back. “It hasn’t got my face,” I said. “Not anymore.”