“Look.” Cyril hunkered forward on the table. “With Hebrides dead, Van der Joost wants me to bring in Ada.”
“And why, then, do you need me? You’re the man with the paddle.” Hovering one lean hand above the table, he twisted his wrist as if manipulating a marionette. “I hear Konrad is very pleased with your work so far.”
“He may be pleased,” said Cyril, “but he doesn’t know Müller. The man won’t hold Ada without charges. He’s an honest cop, mother love him. And I played on it to bring him over.”
Memmediv sneered. “You blackmailed him, DePaul. Don’t try to elevate it.”
“The blackmail was a clincher,” said Cyril. “But I promised him an aboveboard police force. If I can’t give him that, he’s gone.” He could feel an angry flush rising up his neck. Memmediv saw it, and graced him with an infuriating, thin-lipped smile.
“We have him.” The “h” was guttural. “He is commissioner by the grace of the One State Party. His wife is involved with an undesirable alien, a known associate of smugglers and deviants. He cannot afford a false step.”
“He can’t,” agreed Cyril. “But people don’t care about consequences when they’ve been pushed and pushed and pushed. I’m trying to reel him back, Vasily, not shove him off the cliff. Keep testing him and eventually he’ll jump on his own.”
“Like you did?”
Cyril set his wineglass down with deliberate care. “Excuse me?”
“Culpepper did not mean to push you.”
“We’re not here to talk about me.”
Memmediv didn’t acknowledge him. “She should have known. Bowing and scraping to Tatié, to the very people who nearly killed you? Then the desk work: humiliating. And just as you resigned yourself and started to get comfortable, she dragged you back into the field. You were like a child who fears the water, after nearly drowning. And she just threw you in.” He flicked his fingers over his wineglass. Softly, so that Cyril almost missed it, he added, “Splash.”
Cyril sat back and crossed his arms. “She’s good at her job.”
Memmediv’s laughter was quiet, rich as velvet. “She’s a fool. I suggested you, for the Landseer action.”
It came to Cyril then, like an anagram resolving. Memmediv had groomed him. His anger was swift, scorching, and bitterly impotent. “She listened to you?” he hissed. “Why, for queen’s sake? You’re a secretary. What do you know about espionage?”
“As it happens, more than anyone thought. She listened to me, DePaul, because she loves me.”
The echo of Cordelia’s accusation raised gooseflesh on Cyril’s arms.
“What did she say?” Memmediv went on. “Oh, yes, ‘Good idea, Vaz. Let’s get him back out there. I’m sick of wiping his drool off of you.’” He blinked again, slow and flirtatious. His long, dark lashes cast momentary shadows over his cheekbones. “She has a jealous streak, our Ada.”
Cyril said nothing.
Crow’s-feet deepened at Memmediv’s temples as his smile spread. “Now,” he went on, “you need something from me. If you ask very, very nicely, perhaps I can be persuaded to help you.”
“If you help me, you help the unionists. Isn’t that what you’re after?”
“Whatever it is you’re doing,” said Memmediv, “you’ll find a way; Konrad has you by the jewels.” He cupped one hand evocatively. “But other ways may be harder than this, less elegant. And you would look so sweet, begging on your knees.”
PART
3
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
On the first truly sultry evening of the year, Aristide sat under the candy-striped awning of the Crane Gallery on Talbert Row, buttoned into a linen suit of summery white. Waiting for Finn’s trolley, which was late, he was moments from slipping away to make a few telephone calls and disappearing into the night.
The affair had been pleasant enough. But these days being what they were, there were more important people Aristide could be spending time with. Dalliances were for peacetime, and with the Ospies ascendant, this was no such thing.
His runners were reporting sharp drops in business due to unionist intimidation. After Tory MacIntyre’s run-in with the blackboots, Aristide could see why. Cordelia had thrown Cyril over entirely after the incident, and had nothing good to say about him since. It was ridiculous, but without her little asides about Cyril slipping into conversation, Aristide felt shut off from something he hadn’t even known he wanted. On top of it all, Cross was still incommunicado. He was beginning to worry something had gone wrong with her transfer of loyalties.
Before he could descend into further nervous calculation, the 8:15 trolley slid into view down tree-lined Talbert Row. Its bell clanged brightly, scattering automobiles. Aristide ground his straight into the ashtray, adjusted the amethyst studs at his cuffs and ears, and took a moment to preen in the window. As he straightened his tie bar, the trolley slid up to the curb and deposited a tipsy redhead on the corner. Finn’s shoulders were dusted with glitter, and there was a garish rosette pinned to his lapel.
“Mr. Lourdes.” Aristide pulled out a chair for his companion. “You’re late. And there’s confetti in your hair.”
“I was out with a few of the folk from the office.” Finn rubbed sheepishly at his coif, leaving it in disarray. His efforts did nothing to dislodge the rainbow spangles. As Aristide settled into his own seat, he got a better look at the gaudy loops of gold ribbon and tinsel erupting from Finn’s buttonhole.
“And what’s this?” he asked, reaching for it across the table. He kept the question from coming out sharp, just barely. That rosette was familiar.
Finn tugged it free and handed it over. “I was just … it’s my birthday. A few of the folk in the office took me out for drinks.”
“A p-p-party,” purred Aristide. “How nice. Who was there?”
“Oh, I don’t think you’d know any of them.”
“I think you’d be surprised. Names, Finn.” He knew he sounded curt, but things had just taken a very interesting turn.
“Well, Amelia was there, and Dugan—both from the bursar. Merrilee came for a bit—”
“Merrilee Cross? You know her?”
“I wouldn’t call us friends,” said Finn. “I only just met her a few weeks ago—she’s been away on business. But she’s nice enough. She came by as we were leaving. It seemed rude not to invite her along.”
“I’m sure it d-d-did.”
“Ari, is something the matter? Have I done something wrong?”
“What? Oh, no, darling. In fact you’ve been quite terribly clever.” He pinned the rosette back in place and leaned the extra inches across the table to kiss Finn on the tip of his freckled nose. “I d-d-don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“That’s quite nice,” said Finn. “You know, I was getting a feeling you might drop me soon.”
“D-D-Drop you?” Aristide put a dramatic hand to his heart. “I’m wounded, Finn. P-P-Positively shot through the heart.”
“You’re wounded? Think how stung I felt.”
Aristide took Finn’s hand in his and squeezed it. “Would you be awfully p-p-put out if we skipped dinner altogether? I suddenly feel a great need to do imp-p-possibly wretched things to you.”
“They fed me a bit,” said Finn, “at the party.” He blushed, but his smile was wicked. “I could wait on dinner. Maybe even until morning.”
“Excellent.” Aristide pulled him to his feet. “I hope you like shirred eggs. Ilse’s are d-d-delicious.”
* * *
Finn laughed and flirted like a Princes Road harlot the whole ride back to Aristide’s flat. Wine or birthday gaiety made him vivacious. But as soon as Aristide closed the door behind them and slid the bolt, Finn’s smile dropped away.
“I’m not an idiot, Ari,” he said.
Aristide paused, his hand still lingering on the lock. “Nobody said you were.”
Folding his arms, Finn nailed Aristide with a stern look. “What’s your connection to Cro
ss?”
“Nothing you need to know about. Care for a d-d-drink?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Finn tailed him into the parlor and, while he poured single malt into two tumblers, continued to harangue him.
“You’re using me to send messages,” he said, tearing the rosette from his buttonhole and holding it high. “Do you realize the kind of trouble I could land in? It’s not like it was; I can’t afford to be caught out aiding smugglers. And she is a smuggler, isn’t she?”
“I am a smuggler,” said Aristide. “She is my associate.” He capped the decanter and set it at the back of the bar. The crystal snapped against the mirrored shelf, harder than he’d meant it to. He turned to Finn, a glass in each hand. “Drink. Relax.”
“I won’t rotten relax,” said Finn, “until you tell me you won’t do that again.”
Aristide rather doubted Cross meant to send any more messages in such a flashy, obtuse manner. She was just marking Finn as a channel; it was up to Aristide to figure out the manner in which he might be used. But that wasn’t what Finn wanted to hear. Instead, Aristide asked, “Are you frightened?”
“Yes, Ari. Of course I’m frightened. The country’s falling apart and you’re using me to run who knows what right under the Ospies’ noses. You’re being reckless, and I want no part of it.”
“Don’t you?” He set the glasses aside and stepped closer.
Finn’s eyes flickered, but he held his ground. “No.”
“Are you sure?” Aristide closed, and took the rosette from Finn’s suddenly pliable fingers. He used the gilded frippery to trace a line up the front of Finn’s waistcoat, to follow the curve of his throat and tip his head back. “Don’t you think you’d like it? Helping me do d-d-dangerous things?”
“You should have told me,” said Finn. He was breathless.
“Why?” Aristide leaned forward, put his mouth against Finn’s ear. “Would it have made a difference?”
“I know that office, Ari. There are better ways to send a message than this.” He dashed the rosette from Aristide’s grip.
Aristide grabbed his wrist instead, pulling Finn into his body and curling over him, speaking into his neck. Finn’s pulse beat against his lips. “Like what?” He let his tongue curl elaborately over the “L,” striping the warm hollow of Finn’s throat. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“There’s—there’s a procedure…”
“Yes?”
“For agents like Cross … she—ah!”
Aristide’s grip on Finn’s wrist had gone very tight. He let go and pushed Finn back until his knees buckled against the sofa. “Go on,” he said, settling on the floor between Finn’s thighs. His fingers knew their own way around buttons and zippers, so he could stare Finn straight in the face. Desire made the boy’s pupils into inkpots, swallowing the gray center and leaving only a halo of gentian around the black. “Go on; I’m waiting.”
“Um. Cross is … she’s inactive, but she’s … on retainer. They call it … oh, perdition. They call it ‘hobbled.’ Like a horse.” He swallowed, larynx bobbing beneath whey-pale skin.
“That means nothing to me.” Aristide made small, slick circles with his thumb. Finn cursed. “Explain.”
“She’s not on an action.” He spoke carefully, with long pauses in between his words. When he finished the sentence, he took a shuddering breath. “But they want to keep her close, in case they need her.”
Aristide dipped his head, letting his breath out. His mouth was so close to Finn’s prick he could feel the heat of it. “And?”
“They pay her expenses—” He choked. “She’s got … she’s got to turn them in at the beginning of the week. Every week. Please will you just—!”
“I still don’t understand,” said Aristide, pausing to put the tip of his tongue out, to taste Finn for just a moment, “what exactly this has to do with me.”
Finn’s hands jumped, fluttering close to Aristide’s face, then curled into fists on his own knees. His words came out strung together, in a gasping rush. “Hobbled agents put in their reports at the beginning of the week. At the end we put out a memo about departmental expenses. Somebody’s got to collate those reports and write up the memo. Plague take it, do you understand now?”
Inhaling, long and slow, Aristide could feel the air move across his palate. He knew Finn could feel it too, in more sensitive places. “Clever boy. So d-d-devious.”
Finn made a strangled sound and clenched his fist in Aristide’s hair, pushing desperately. But Aristide held his neck stiff, unwilling to be directed. He wasn’t finished yet.
“Tell me…” he said, tipping his chin so his curls fell around his face, tumbling over Finn’s spread thighs.
“Tell you what?” Finn’s spastic grip stung Aristide’s scalp.
“In between reports. How do we talk if something urgent comes up?”
“If it’s on her end, she can—she—”
Aristide’s hands, resting on the top of Finn’s thighs, slid inward and up. “What can she do?”
“Ask for emergency funds.” He shifted into the pressure of Aristide’s hands, caught his breath. “She can put the message into the request form.”
“And if I need to talk to her?”
There was a scrambling pause before Finn attempted to answer. “I—I—ah! I can—”
“You can what, Finn?” He let it come out sharp, and pulled his hands back. Finn slipped down on the sofa, chasing his touch.
“An audit,” he said, desperately. “I can audit her expenses.”
“Hmmm.” Aristide kept his lips closed but soft, ready to give in.
“Plague take it, what now?”
“Nothing,” said Aristide, casting a treacle-slow glance upwards to meet Finn’s pleading eyes. “Only I never knew accountancy could be so thrilling.”
Finn’s snarl was like a wounded animal’s. “Oh, shut up!”
And though Aristide usually gave the orders in his own boudoir, this one he obeyed.
* * *
In the morning, Aristide rang for his breakfast from bed. Finn didn’t wake, even when Ilse budged the door open with her hip and settled the tray over the folds of the duvet. The Morning Telegraph and the Clarion were folded into neat bundles next to a dish of shirred eggs and a pot of steaming coffee. Aristide poured himself a cup while Ilse folded Finn’s abandoned trousers briskly over her arms. “I’ll get these brushed and pressed,” she said. “Looks like last night took it out of him. You ought to be a little gentler, Mr. Makricosta.”
“Hmm?” Aristide looked up from stirring sugar into his coffee. “Oh, he’ll be fine after he’s had a bite to eat. Perhaps a few layers of powder before he goes out.” Bruises spattered Finn’s neck like crushed berries. Aristide swept his thumb across the red-and-purple skin.
Ilse cleared her throat. “Will that be all, sir?”
He nodded absently and picked up the Telegraph. Flipping it open, he scanned the headlines. Peace negotiations in Tatié—no doubt the Ospies were turning their attention to Amberlough, and Moritz had got the order to redirect resources from the border dispute. Aristide didn’t bother with the article below the bold type—his spectacles were in the parlor. He set the Telegraph aside and picked up the Clarion. Though he kept his face from showing his surprise, the breakfast tray jumped across his knees.
“Sir?” Ilse lingered in the doorway, watching him.
“My spectacles,” he said, deadly calm.
“Where did you leave them?”
“Parlor. By the wingback chair. Now, if you please.” Even without corrective lenses, he could read the two-inch headline perfectly. Culpepper in custody. Plague it all, this was why he needed Cross in the Ospies. So he would know when things like this were happening. Squinting, he read painfully through the first paragraph, then cursed and threw the paper aside. If the Telegraph hadn’t put this story on the front page, it meant they were in the Ospies’ pocket. The editor had always leaned radical; with Hebrides dead and Acherby on the rise, he mu
st be happy as a maggot in a midden heap.
Finn stirred, blinking sleepily from the depths of his pillow. “G’morning.”
“I think you’ll find it isn’t.” Before Finn could ask what he meant, Ilse returned. Finn blushed and buried his face in the linens. Ilse smiled at Aristide and rolled her eyes. He took his spectacles without returning her bemused expression. “Thank you. That will be all.”
She slipped away. Aristide set the breakfast tray on the bedside table and turned to Finn.
“Your offer,” he said. “It still stands?”
“Hm?”
Well, he hadn’t even remembered his name, toward the end of the night. Of course he needed a little reminding. “You’ll act as go-between in my communications with Merrilee?”
That erased the saintly peace sleep had leant to Finn’s expression. He looked pained. “Ari, I—”
Snatching the Clarion from where he had thrown it, Aristide shoved it under Finn’s nose. “I can’t afford to be surprised like this again. There are things at stake I’d rather not risk.”
Finn’s eyes moved as he read. His mouth fell open. “Plague and pesteration…” Then, scrabbling into a modicum of comprehension: “But Cross can’t possibly help you now. The Ospies will take the Foxhole. They’re the ones who’ve had her arrested, I’d wager a year’s pay.”
“Of course they will. But Cross is one of them.” A small secret to part with, and not dangerous to Cross, not now.
“What?”
A thought struck Aristide then. “Will they keep you?”
“Cross, an Ospie?”
“Finn, will they keep you? In the bursar, will they?”
“Um.” Finn shook his head, like a horse scaring off flies. “Maybe not forever? But they can’t exactly sweep the whole place clean and go without. I imagine it’ll take a few weeks to even get down to us accountants.”
“A few weeks is plenty of time. Finn, please.”
There was a pause Aristide could have measured with a yardstick. “I don’t want to know what they say.”
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