“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?”
Finn made a sweet, sly face, like a naughty child. “Is this a pickup?”
It took Cyril half a second to realize he was being mocked, and when it hit him, he surprised himself with laughing. “I deserved that.”
“Aye, you did. What sort of show?”
“The only sort,” Cyril said. “The best. Have you been to the Bumble Bee Cabaret?”
*
They’d rolled things over while Cyril was gone, put up a new revue. It was like coming home to find all his neighbors had changed.
Spotlights swirled across the boards and the drape of the velvet curtains, sparkling on the jeweled costumes of the nymphs in the tableau. It glanced off the buckles of Aristide’s shoes, and the gold leaf glued around his dark eyes like dazzling freckles.
The applause for the opening number went on so long, Aristide had to hold up his hands and pat the air. “Children, children,” he said, “p-p-please.”
Gradually, they quieted. Aristide fanned himself with a languid hand, theatrically overcome. “You do know how to make a fellow blush.” Someone shouted a lewd remark from the rear of the theatre, to which he responded, “And I’m sure you know how to do a bit more.”