Lillian turned to him, beseeching.

“Magnusson told me where to find Ms. Saeger,” said Daoud. “Aristide wanted to speak with her. About … you know.”

She hadn’t, but it was coming together. Saeger had been Catwalk, an ally to Tatien separatists. If one needed to get out of Gedda, it was the closest international border. Battlefield chaos made it easy to disappear.

“I almost told you,” said Daoud. “But you said you didn’t—”

“Want to know. I don’t.” She closed her eyes briefly, swallowed past the tightness of her throat. “It’s safer for everyone if we don’t mention it again.”

“So let’s talk about what you came to say, instead.” Saeger crossed her arms. “I think it’s flimsy.”

“It’s sensational,” said Lillian, clawing her way back to the line. “And more importantly, it’s the best thing you’ve got. With Cyril gone, Frye is scrambling for something to sell to voters. This is your chance to slip in and steal the show.”

“You told anyone else?” This was aimed at both of them. “Anybody else know anything about it? Your husband, maybe? Ain’t he a pen-fencer?”

Guilt made sweat prickle on her palms. “My husband is an arts and culture editor. It isn’t exactly his beat.”

“There is a journalist,” said Daoud, words dropping like stones, one at a time. “A radio anchor, with FWAC. Aristide spoke to him, but then the explosion happened, and … things changed.”

“He never ran it. Because, like I said, it’s flimsy.”

“Never ran it as a bulletin,” said Lillian, unfurling her strategy now that all the pieces were in place. “There’s not enough evidence for that. But might he run it as an exclusive interview with a former employee of Cross-Costa? Someone who could read those papers and tell us what kind of lies they tell? Someone who could turn those papers over to the police, upon request, and cooperate with any resulting investigation?”

The irritation on Saeger’s face faltered, and then crumbled into curiosity. Lillian had lined up this shot and sunk the ball, neat as billiards.

She should have felt victorious. Instead she felt only gratitude and terror.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-ONE

By the time he dragged into the dusty waiting room, sometime after a breakfast he hadn’t eaten, Cyril was inclined to be uncharitable. But even in a good mood he’d have said it: rural little Tarbycliff Station wasn’t exactly Bythesea.

So why did he feel like his heart was being squeezed for oil? Like he’d jammed his finger in a socket? Like he was sitting on a pipe bomb waiting for the fuse to run down?

False papers. Early morning train. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t done this before.

He wished he had never done this before.