Amberlough(32)

She gathered the folds of his oversized sweater more tightly around herself and marched for the stage door. Over her shoulder, she offered, “At least I don’t look like an asshole.”





CHAPTER

NINE

Culpepper paced the debriefing room like a zoo animal, shoulders hunched around her ears. “Mother and sons, DePaul, what happened over there? Where’s my evidence? What am I supposed to tell Hebrides?”

“Tell him I was blown before I could get anything.” It was the story he’d cooked up, bolstered by an artfully hectic exit from Nuesklend and a week lying low amid the dust sheets at the DePaul estate in Carmody, waiting for the election drama to play out. “They’re sharper than you thought, and they didn’t buy Landseer. Or maybe you’ve got a mole at home. I don’t know.”

“A mole?” she snarled.

“How do you think they clocked me? Somebody told them, and I’d wager it’s someone in the Foxhole. Who else would know?” He’d been wondering too, though his few inquiries had amounted to nothing.

Culpepper stopped in front of his chair and jabbed at him with her cigarette—her fourth during the debriefing. “Why don’t you tell me? I know I don’t slip FOCIS secrets to any old blush boy with a generous pocketbook.”

“Oh, very flattering. He’s got nothing to do with this.”

“You’re telling me he didn’t know where you were headed?”

“I’m a professional, Ada, not a gossiping grandparent.”

“I hope that’s true. You’ve run honeypots before, but that doesn’t mean you won’t fall for one if it smells sweet enough.”

Unbidden, Cyril thought of the crease of Aristide’s neck, where it met his jaw: the musky remnants of his everyday cologne mixing with the softer, darker smell of sweat. “Ada, I’m insulted.”

“Don’t be. It’s not personal; I’ve seen it happen to far better agents than you.” She smiled sourly. “There, you can be insulted about that one, if you want.”

“Thank you.” He stood, gathering his coat and hat. “No, really: thank you. You’re extremely generous.”

“And you are extremely useless.”

He stiffened. “Director, you are out of line. I have served this organization faithfully”—indignation made the lie easy—“for the last ten years of my life and more. Useless?”

His excoriation seemed to strike her like a blow. She sagged and sank into the chair he had just vacated. “I apologize. You’re right. But you have to understand … This is extremely upsetting.”

“I do,” he said. “Believe me, I do.”

“Go home,” she said.

“And what? Wait for orders? What’s the next step?”

“We have some contingencies, but I want to meet with Josiah. I’ll ring you up. For now, just get some rest. You look like somebody peeled you off their shoe.”

Slinking out of her office, he passed beneath Memmediv’s appraising eyes and had a sudden, creeping suspicion. Before he turned the corner, Cyril looked up and met the secretary’s gaze. Insight struck him in the gut like a boot, and he turned to flee.

*

He stood in the corner of the trolley stop, pressing one shoulder each against the cold walls. He was weary with travel, verging on ill. Pity, too. The evening was beautiful: sun low over the western edge of the harbor, fruit trees ready to burst into blossom. Yet all he wanted to do was go home, drink something strong, and sleep until he died.

He needed to see Aristide, or send him a message, but couldn’t scrape together enough acuity to address the problem of how. Van der Joost had made it clear he couldn’t see Ari anymore, not and hope to keep his skin. It had to be roundabout, however he dropped the news. He already knew he wouldn’t tell the truth. No, he’d just jettison Ari and let him figure it out on his own. Because of course he would. He was many things, but never a fool.

“Mr. DePaul?”

Cyril didn’t jump, but he must have moved, or made a face, because Finn apologized immediately.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, stepping under the overhang of the trolley stop. When he drew closer, his brows knit together in concern. “Queen and cairn, do you always look so rough?”

Cyril shrugged one shoulder. “Came in on the sleeper. Didn’t sleep much.”

“Ah, yes. I never do either. Where were you coming from? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

“You can ask,” said Cyril, and made a point to say nothing else. Silence hung in the air, explanatory.

Finn laughed, though the joke was weak. “I don’t suppose you’d join me for a pint, then. You ought to go home and turn in.”

“Oh, damn. I owe you one, don’t I?”

“It can wait, really.” Finn waved him away, a blush rising on his broad cheeks. “Anyway, I didn’t mean to call in the favor. I only—”

“No, no,” said Cyril, because despite his exhaustion, he suddenly saw an opportunity opening in front of him. Maybe his methods didn’t have to be so roundabout, after all. He just needed a patsy, and a boring colleague would work perfectly. “Listen, I do need to drop by my flat and freshen up, but how would you feel about dinner and a show?”