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.”
“And what if I told you we don’t need your help to win this election?”
Cyril kept admirably calm, though he was a whisker away from victory. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “If that’s the case,” he said, pinning Van der Joost with a disapproving stare, “I’d be interested to know what we’re doing across this table.”
“We’re finally having a truthful conversation.” Van der Joost’s smile was lipless and self-satisfied. “It’s time to drop the charade, DePaul.”
Acid burned the back of Cyril’s throat. Deadpan, he said, “But I’m so fond of party games.” There was no point in denying his identity, if he was blown. “How long have you known?”
Van der Joost steepled his fingers. “Since before you got on the train.”
“You have a mole in the Foxhole.”
Van der Joost’s steepled fingers flexed, hyperextending. Around his short nails, the skin went white with pressure. He said nothing.
“I’m only a replacement,” said Cyril. “Were you going to turn the first agent they assigned?”
“We already had. But you’re a better catch—what’s that quaint little nickname your branch of the FOCIS gave you? Oh, yes: Master of the Hounds.”
It clicked for him, then. Why Van der Joost had let him run free like a pet mouse for more than a month, before jerking the string that held him. “My assignment caught you off guard,” he said. “Just like it did me. You’ve been busy with your research, trying to predict my reaction to whatever offer you’re about to make.”
“Very good,” said Van der Joost.
“And what was your conclusion?”
“I think,” he said, polishing his spectacles on his tie, “that you will do what I’m going to ask of you. But even if you don’t, the outcome is the same: the One State Party triumphs.”
“Then why even bother asking?”
“It would be good to keep Culpepper complacent,” said Van der Joost. “If you disappear, she’ll scent trouble and start scheming. If you arrive home safe, our plans come to fruition unchallenged. And”—he smiled, almost flirtatiously—“because despite the somewhat … unsavory things I’ve turned up in my research, I believe you might be useful to the party. It would be a shame to waste your potential.”