Daoud’s body moved toward the bar, but he watched Aristide the whole way there. When he had a glass down and the bottle uncorked, he said, “The tar. Something to do with the tar, and the election.” Then, midway through pouring, “And DePaul.”

Aristide held his hand out over the back of the sofa, open and curved for the crystal. Daoud sat it there, then stood with his hands on his hips while Aristide—pleased with himself and apt to be theatrical—sipped his drink to draw out the moment.

“Hmm,” he said, tipping the globe so the brandy caught the light. “Not the best I’ve had.”

“Aristide.”

“Yes, of course.” He set the glass aside. “Frye never truly ceded control of her corporation—she’s knocking Custler, for the Lady’s sake. And now West Cultham is moving tar. Would you want that all to come if you were running for prime minister?”

Aristide knew that Daoud wore a mask with him: a cool, ceramic-smooth aloofness, occasionally smeared with irritation or indulgence. It reminded him, almost, of the sweet servility he had affected for Pulan. If not in form, then certainly in function. It was maddening, and Aristide had tried many tactics to break it.

This time he succeeded without trying at all.

“You cannot do this,” said Daoud. “This is madness.”

“It’s perfectly reasonable,” said Aristide, setting brandy aside in favor of a straight.

“If you expose her and Saeger wins, will there not still be a tribunal? It seems inevitable, at this point.”

“Well then, she has to win, doesn’t she? What percentage of her campaign costs do you think the sale of my shares will cover?”

Daoud didn’t move, though Aristide had breathed a cloud of smoke in his direction. “You are being hasty. You have not thought this through.”

“Of course I have. There are plenty of people and shells between me and that tar. I’ll be perfectly insulated if it comes to light. Don’t tell me how to do my job.”

“It is not your job!” He finally broke from his freeze, throwing his arms up and striding back to the desk. “This—” he grabbed a bunch of papers from the top of the stack, clipped together at one corner and marked with a metallic seal. “This is your job! Cross-Costa is not your … your…” He slapped the papers down. «It’s not your little empire. You aren’t the King of Crime, or whatever stupid nickname they used to call you when you lived here in the golden years. Other people depend on this company for work. For money. For their lives. If you do this, your own employees will be arrested, probably jailed.»

Aristide ashed his cigarette. “You seem to be under the impression that I intend to go straight to the press but, my dear, that defeats the point of blackmail.”