THIRTY-TWO
Van der Joost had the shades drawn in his office against the morning sunlight on the harbor. Despite the scorching weather, he wore his plain, dark suit like a uniform.
By contrast, Cyril’s blue seersucker was stained at the front with oil, dusted with jail dirt, and past the point where wrinkles added to its charm. He’d slept in it, on a hard bench in some suburban lockup, wondering why they hadn’t dragged him straight to the Warehouse. The ride down to the Foxhole through burnt and bloodied streets had given him some idea. He was almost glad they’d arrested him before the riots really got under way.
His minders hauled him in front of Van der Joost’s desk. He’d had the same two goons on his case since yesterday morning—Moore and Massey were the names he’d wheedled out of them, though the comedic alliteration made him suspect pseudonyms. They were all right—he’d played a few hands of cards with them in his cell.
“Rough night?” he asked, casing Van der Joost’s dark circles and sagging face.
“Ah, Mr. DePaul.” Van der Joost closed the report he had been reading and set it aside. “Have a seat. Coffee?”
He was dying for some, but he shook his head. “I’m sure the stuff around here’s gone down in quality since your people took over. Let’s just talk, and then I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Very well.” He selected a stack of papers from his inbound mailbox. “Our staff at the interrogation facility extracted some intriguing information from Miss Lehane.”
“Did they?” Under the table, Cyril balled his fists.
“She implied that at one time you were … intimate with her employer, and seemed to think this intimacy may have continued until recently.” He said the word like he was picking it up with tweezers.
Cyril wanted to reply with something facetious, but his mouth had gone dry. “She was mistaken.”
“We can discuss that later. For the purposes of this investigation, your precise activities with Mr. Makricosta are irrelevant. We’re more concerned about his access to sensitive government materials.”
“I don’t—”
Van der Joost rode over him. “Naturally, we would prefer to question Mr. Makricosta himself about his acquisition of the travel permits.”
“Naturally.”
“Unfortunately, he was killed in yesterday’s … disturbance.”
“Oh.” He should have drawn a breath, but forgot. His next words came out a little too forced, airless. “What a shame.”
“But we must press on with the investigation,” said Van der Joost. “Don’t you agree?”
“Of course.”
“Let’s begin with the obvious. Did you pass the papers to him?”
“No. It had to be Cross.”
“Preliminary investigations suggest they used a middle man.”
“Konrad, please. I didn’t even know this was going on. I haven’t—hadn’t seen him in weeks.”
“But you were assisting each other. Lehane says he put the two of you in contact; that he paid her to act as your companion. Surely you felt an obligation to reciprocate.”
“I’m a very self-interested man.”
“Are you? Lehane says you tried to turn her, to keep her safe. And what about that second set of papers, for your … friend?” He knew, and Cyril was undone. Van der Joost kept asking questions, but really, it was already over. Some of the questions, Cyril would have preferred not to answer, but he did. Aristide was dead. What harm could these indiscretions do him?
Under all of it, Cyril wondered if Aristide’s death wasn’t really an assassination. The riots would have been an excellent cover. And despite what Van der Joost had said about preferring to interrogate Aristide himself, maybe the Ospies had decided he was more trouble to them alive than dead. That they could get their information elsewhere. From Cyril, for instance.
When the questions were done—two hours later, nearly, and he was starving and thirsty and wished he’d said yes to the damn coffee—he walked stiff-backed out of Van der Joost’s office and went straight to the washroom, so fast Moore and Massey had to jog after him. Locking the door in their faces, he collapsed onto the toilet seat and folded over his knees, weeping noiselessly, drawing jagged breaths through his mouth.
For two minutes, he let himself go on in a silent, mourning howl. Then—though he could have stayed all afternoon with his cheek resting on the cool tile—he washed his face at the tap and combed his hair back into place. His eyes were rimmed with red, but they’d been like that for weeks. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night.
No, that was a lie. It had been months ago, in early spring, wrapped in moiré silk while a rainstorm peppered the windows of Ari’s flat.
He clenched his jaw to keep grief at bay.
*