Amberlough(28)

To an ignorant reader, “Rye soda” might have read as a drink order, but in truth it was one of Cyril’s call signs. He hurried to fit his cufflinks into place, checked his bow tie in the mirror, and went downstairs.

At the bar he ordered—what else?—a rye and soda, and waited for his contact to find him. It must be important; they’d never met in person. Usually he dropped his reports for the other agent—man or woman, he didn’t know—to pick up and relay.

“Well, you are a fine one.” The voice was low and rough with smoke. “Their descriptions didn’t do you justice.”

He turned and found a woman of generous proportions on the stool beside him. She was girdled into a perfect hourglass, the brown expanse of her bosom marked with a single beauty spot.

“Hello,” he said. “Buy you a drink?” There was a slim chance she wasn’t the person he was waiting for, but after so many years, you got a feeling for it. Even rusty from his time out of the field, Cyril was close to certain.

“A gin fizz will do all right.”

Cyril put the order in.

“Listen,” she said, while the rattle of the cocktail shaker drowned her out. “Pollerdam’s not going to give you any trouble now. His money’s staying in his pocket. They wanted me to tell you.” The bartender deposited her cocktail on a folded napkin and moved on.

“Is he…?”

She shook her head and sipped her drink.

“Look,” he said. “I’m not exactly free all night.”

“Culpepper put the squeeze on him,” she said. “Got a couple big buyers in Amberlough threatening to cut their orders. He’s not going to give the Ospies anything. Got me?”

“I do indeed.” He toasted her, and drained his glass. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a party to attend.”

*

Cyril didn’t have much luck at the fundraiser. Not until Van der Joost caught him in the foyer, near the doors. “Mr. Landseer. Off so soon? You’ll miss supper.”

Cyril forced a smile. “Headache coming on,” he said, tapping his forehead. “Thought I’d go out for a little air.”

Van der Joost linked arms with him, without asking. “Let’s you and I abandon ship. What do you say? Ms. Linsky’s spread of hors d’oeuvres wasn’t anything to fuss over, and I don’t imagine the meal will do much to redeem her.”

Trying not to let his sudden interest show, Cyril gave in to the gentle pressure on his arm and went with Van der Joost into the street.

The weather had grown markedly milder since Cyril’s arrival, but the night air still had a nip to it. He turned up the collar of his coat and resettled the white silk of his scarf against his neck. “Where are we headed?”

“I thought we’d have a nightcap in my local,” said Van der Joost. “Quiet place. Lots of tradesmen. Good for conversation.”

Conversation. He hoped it meant what it ought to. It was the right time—a week until the election, and Pollerdam had fallen through. So tonight, Van der Joost was going to put his cards face up and tell Cyril what he was here to find out.

They took a winding path through damp brick streets, under the leaning shadows of increasingly old and dingy buildings. The sign above the pub door showed a leering kobold. Van der Joost held the door for Cyril, letting him onto the landing of a narrow staircase. The back of Cyril’s neck prickled as they descended. Ridiculous—Van der Joost shouldn’t mean him harm—but it was an instinct, and Cyril gave it credence, sharpening his attention to the other man’s proximity.

The pub was dark, with a low ceiling, and smelled of water and dirt. Cyril felt as if he’d stepped five hundred years or more back in time, except for the white-and-gray pennants hanging over the bar, marked with the Ospies’ quartered circle within a circle.

“The corner table,” said Van der Joost. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Cyril went where he was bid and tucked himself into a chair against the sweating stones of the wall, his back covered and his eyes on the room. Van der Joost returned with two tiny glasses of Nuesklend’s ubiquitous cherry bounce. The liquor was viscous and bright in the gloom.

Cyril toasted him and drained his glass. The sour-sweet tang of last spring’s cherries coated his tongue. It was powerfully alcoholic. He wished he hadn’t been drinking at the fundraiser—on top of champagne, the bounce wasn’t going to clear his head. But it would look odd to be the only man without a glass at a party, and at least Van der Joost had matched him in raising and downing the scarlet liquor.

When their glasses were empty, Van der Joost leaned across the table and said, without preamble, “We’re not polling well.”

Cyril affected tipsy camaraderie. “Oh, come on Konrad. You’ve still got a week. You’ll turn things around.”

“Are you offering your help?”

“Ah.” He looked down to avoid answering.

“It costs nothing to encourage, does it?” Van der Joost tipped his empty glass so the dregs pooled in the tiny hollow at the top of the stem. “But you want to be sure of a victory before you back the party.”

“Where’s the benefit in writing the unionists a check if you don’t win the majority?” Cyril could feel tension piling on between them, teetering dangerously, ready to fall. “With your party in power, I’d earn my contribution back within the first quarter. But that doesn’t look likely right now.”