Amberlough(18)
“Thank you, Memmediv,” said Culpepper, her professional manner reassembled.
“No trouble.” He retreated and shut the heavy door behind him.
Hebrides settled onto a corner of Culpepper’s desk and dashed cream into one of the cups. “Doctor says to take it black,” he confided. “But when half the nation stands against you, I say take it however you damn well please.”
Cyril curled his hands around his own cup, breathing the dark scent deep down into his queasy center. “So,” he said. “I dangle a blank check in front of their noses and make them convince me. And you’re hoping to shut it down before things come to a head?”
“Ideally. You get the evidence; we bring an accusation. The regionalists mount a fraud suit against Acherby, destroy his political career, and get him thrown in the trap.”
“And what if I can’t get you anything until after the election?”
“Same story. Just riskier. Possession is nine-tenths, et cetera.” Culpepper hitched an ankle over her knee. Her trouser leg pulled up, showing a length of muted argyle sock.
“Can’t you just get Nuesklend’s Master of the Hounds on this? It sounds like a police matter to me. Or maybe ask parliament for election monitors?”
“Election monitors are out,” said Hebrides. “Tensions too high with the Ospie states.”
“Shake with the right, shoot with the left.” Cyril massaged his forehead, pressing on his tender sinuses. “And the police?”
“We strongly suspect the unionists have bought Nuesklend’s force,” Culpepper said. “It’s part of why they’re hurting for money. And party members aren’t afraid to wield a cudgel in service of the cause. They have intimidation down to an art form. Finding witnesses to testify will be a problem.”
“But I’m not allowed to be intimidated, am I?”
“Why?” asked Culpepper. “Are you?”
Cyril set down his coffee cup and took a deep drag on Josiah’s very fine cigarette. The smooth tobacco tasted of malt sugar. Closing his eyes, he pretended to savor it.
Fieldwork. The scar that split his belly itched. He fought to calm his heart rate, to put the terror of his last action out of his mind. This was a simple job, set up by someone else, already half-done. An easy entrée, for an experienced agent stepping back into harness. He’d been very good at this sort of thing, once. He realized he was still holding his breath, and forced himself to let it go slowly.
Mid-exhale, he opened his eyes, and met Culpepper’s gaze through the smoke. “Who’s my case officer?”
She finally smiled, barely, and there was an edge to it. “You’ll report to me. It’s a little bit beneath my purview, but I thought you’d appreciate the familiarity.”
“For old times’ sake?” Cyril ground out his straight. “You’re a treasure.”
It got him one of her rare smiles. He tried to match it and knew he hadn’t. Shaking hands with Hebrides, he excused himself, then retreated to the washroom. As soon as the door was closed and bolted, he stripped his jacket and loosened his tie, then collapsed against the toilet bowl and vomited.
*
Culpepper gave him samples of Landseer’s handwriting to copy, and he spent a few hours covering pages and pages with the back-slanting script. His eyes hurt and his wrist was cramped, and he wasn’t getting any better at it. Besides, the sun was out at last, shining on the spires and naked treetops of the university. He didn’t want his back to the window. He wanted the sun and clear air.
The lift shuddered to a halt at the third floor. That redheaded boy—Finn Lourdes, wasn’t it?—got on with hat in hand, shapeless greatcoat unbuttoned at the front to reveal his shabby suit, worn to a shine. He nodded at Cyril, politely, but seemed to catch halfway through the gesture, like a faulty piece of clockwork.
“Here, now.” He leaned forward in concern, and his forelock flopped into his eyes. They were slate gray, generously ringed in blue. “Are you all right? You look bashed.”
Sacred arches, Cyril must look dire, if the accountants were catching him out. “Late night,” he said. “And a little too much of the green witch.”
“Ah, that explains it.” He pushed his hair back. It was unstyled and wanted a cut, though its copper brilliance distracted from its disarray. “You look like you’re about to drop.”
“I am,” said Cyril, and Finn laughed.
“Finn Lourdes,” said the younger man, holding out a hand. “I don’t believe we’ve ever met, not properly. You were pretty far gone with the morphine, last time.” He had the soft, rolling accent of an urban Farbourgere. Pleasant to listen to.
Cyril shifted greatcoat and briefcase. Finn’s handshake was good. Cyril held it a moment longer than necessary. Finn had soft palms, but for a scrivener’s callous on his pointer finger, black with an ink stain. As their shake lengthened, a flush started across the bridge of Finn’s nose, rising up his cheeks.
“Cyril DePaul.” He broke the handshake and eye contact and took his card case from his breast pocket.
“A pleasure.” Finn took a card, scanned the front, then slid it into the battered leather folio he held under one arm. Spiraling a finger to indicate the building around them, he asked, “Making a break from this tomb?”