Amberlough(89)

Unfolding the paper, where it wasn’t shredded, Cyril revealed a stack of documents. He leafed through them, reading names—none he recognized, but that didn’t mean anything. These were false papers, versions of the travel permits Cross had mentioned. Each was marked “approved,” in scarlet ink, with the newly modified national seal below. They must have gotten an impression of the stamp. Cyril might not have known the papers were forged if they hadn’t been sitting between him and Van der Joost at quarter past three in the morning.

“Never seen them before,” he said, pushing the pile away.

“So you weren’t involved in leaking them to the black market?”

“You know me,” said Cyril, forcing himself to lean back in his chair, relaxed. “You know why I’m here. Why would I jeopardize that?”

“Perhaps I don’t know you as well as I thought. Reading a man’s file does give one certain insights, but it sometimes fails to communicate the nuances of his character.”

“You told me to toe the line; I toed it. I have done nothing but what you asked.” He crossed his arms, drawing his mackintosh tight around his chest. Pinning Van der Joost with a bleary, small-hours glare, he added, “Frankly, I’m insulted by your suspicion.”

Van der Joost gathered the papers up and tapped them against his desktop, straightening the edges. “But you understand it.”

“No,” said Cyril. “I don’t. What does this have to do with me?”

“Shall I tell you who the police caught carrying these papers tonight?”

Cyril shook his head, bewildered. “A runner? I don’t know.”

“One Cordelia Lehane, with whom I believe you are associated in some capacity. Your … mistress?” Condescension coated the word like slime.

Damnation. It was satisfying, in a small way, to know Aristide had his own plans. But Cyril couldn’t appreciate the irony of their mutual destruction; he was too busy scheming frantically, recalibrating his own strategy.

Cross worked Ins and Outs. Cyril would wager anything she’d ferried the original documents to Aristide. And he’d wager anything twice the foxes had hauled her out of bed tonight, too. If she’d been there in the first place.

Aristide and Cross were partners. And Cordelia was probably giving up everything she knew under torture. Pressure built behind Cyril’s eyes. He ground his teeth against it, unwilling to give Van der Joost the satisfaction of seeing him weep, even in frustration. “I didn’t know.”

Van der Joost sighed, suddenly, and looked at Cyril with concern. “DePaul, I hope you’re telling the truth. We had a very tidy bargain. I’d like to think you weren’t fool enough to break it.”

“I am telling the truth.” Cyril leaned across the desk and looked Van der Joost full in the face. “I swear I am. If I can prove it, does our agreement stand?” If he could prove Cross’s involvement without linking her to Aristide. If Cordelia didn’t give away everything when they started sliding pins beneath her nails.

“If you can prove it, perhaps. But it will be tricky. And forget about the same thing for your friend.” Van der Joost’s tone lent the word a vulgar connotation.

Well. If Cyril could get out of Gedda, that was enough. Aristide obviously hadn’t been banking on his help, and would have some sort of secondary plot in motion now that his first had come undone. He would get out safely. Cyril just had to save his own skin now.

“Memmediv.” Van der Joost handed the pile of papers back. “Burn these. And tell Customs and Immigration to start drafting a new set of permits.”

Memmediv glanced pointedly at the clock. “Now, sir?”

“Soon begun is sooner done.”

“Yes, sir.” He disappeared through the double doors.

“Are you going to hold me?” asked Cyril. “Because I’d really prefer my bed to a cell.”

“You’re free to return home,” said Van der Joost. “But not, I’m afraid, completely at liberty.”

“House arrest? How am I supposed to—?”

“You will be allowed to move about the city, with an escort. But I wouldn’t try anything adventurous, if I were you. We will ask you back for further questioning, at which point you may present any evidence in your favor, as regards your involvement in this leak.”

Cyril’s grin felt tight. “I can’t wait.”





CHAPTER

TWENTY-EIGHT

Aristide’s plans changed rapidly after the leaked papers were discovered. Who knew how long Cordelia would hold up under Ospie interrogation? He needed an out that didn’t require international travel. The scheme was already laid for his exit from Amberlough, but he lacked a destination.

He had been scouting places where his money would be worth triple and out of reach of anyone who might like to freeze his assets. Places no one asked expatriates many questions. Now he was hemmed in. In such a bustling international port, the Ospies would be on watch for fugitives. The northern border, though … Now there was an opportunity.

So he visited a lawyer in the southwest quarter, a discreet, squirrel-faced woman who specialized in inheritance law. Aristide had never sent so much as a postcard home after leaving Currin. But he’d been an only child—there was no one else to take the farm after his father died. Which he had done, according to the records, almost five years ago. The waiting period was nearly run out, but not quite; the state of Farbourgh hadn’t claimed the farm as abandoned property. It still belonged to Aristide. Or, more accurately, to Erikh Prosser.