Aristide had been confident in his own ability to flash his colors and still slip the snares, operating on his own recognizance in a city he knew like the reach of his arms, the shape of his teeth against his tongue. As a part of a consortium, in terrain made foreign by years and conflict, he would rather don the disguise of banality.

Occupying the top floor of a neat brick low rise near the old customs house, the Cross-Costa offices could not have been more boring. The neighborhood smelled like low tide and diesel fumes, and the narrow stairwell reeked of cigars. Climbing up the threadbare runner, Aristide found the source of the latter stench just inside the office door, its brass nameplate in need of a polish.

Jamila Osogurundi, Amberlinian daughter of Lisoan immigrants lately returned home after riding out the Ospies in Rarom, rolled a smoldering cheroot between her fingers as she spoke into the telephone. At volume. Two clerks cringed in opposite corners, heads down at their ledgers as if the conversation were an oppressive cloud akin to the cigar smoke. Jamila held forth in a rolling patois of Shedengue and Geddan, embellished with indecipherable slang: from what Aristide could gather, she was jovially cursing somebody’s mother.

The hallway was too narrow for Daoud and Aristide to stand side by side, but he imagined that the younger man was grimacing.

Jamila looked up from her cigar and saw them standing in the doorway. “Ah, bless me,” she said, “the holy one has come at last.” And then, “No, pati, not you. Juma de sibe la. Yeah, yeah, you wish. All right, I’ll see you. And tell our friend we appreciate his efforts. Ahundibi. Yeah. Bye now. Yes, bye.” The bell jangled as she dropped the receiver back into the cradle.

“Aristide Makricosta!” she said. “I’m sober as a penitent, so your bones must really be here.” She was a young woman, but she talked like a crooked bookmaker and rose from her seat like the has-been wrestler in a fixed fight: palms on the blotter, pressing her weight through her arms. There was a sizable amount to press. Jamila wasn’t tall, but she was built like a drum of kerosene.

“Ms. Osogurundi,” he said. Her handshake resonated all the way into his shoulder.

“Call me Jamila or I’ll quit. Looks like you brought the welterweight along as well!”

Daoud’s smile would have been at home against a leather strop.

“Cross tells me you’ve been making useful friends.” Aristide took his cigarette case from his pocket and offered one to Daoud before he availed himself. A poor apology, and Daoud refused it. “Something about the West Cultham Rail Company?”

“No foreplay with you,” she said. “I forgot. At least let a girl get a little wet.”