She walked with Macnamara to the cab rank and got a cab. He sat next to her in the seat, arms crossed, staring straight forward. One muscle in his jaw worked continually.
“So what’syour problem?” Sula demanded.
“Nothing,” he said. “My lady.”
“Good!” she said. “Because if there’s anything I don’t need, it’smore fucking problems. ”
They sat in stony silence. Sula had the cab let her off two streets from her apartment. Rain had started again, and she had to sprint, her jacket pulled over her head. One-Step, sharing a vendor’s awning with a few others caught in the downpour, did a double take as she ran past, her blond hair flying.
Inside, she tossed the wet wig onto the back of her chair and combed her short, dyed hair. She considered checking the news, but decided against it, knowing the news would only further irritate her.
In the end she decided a long bath was in order. Followed by her latest book of mathematical puzzles, and possibly a book she’d acquired at a stall two days ago,The Diplomatic History of Napoleonic Europe, something obviously printed by a history student for his own use, bound cheaply, then discarded. It was just the sort of page-turner she most enjoyed.
She took the book into the bath with her and found it an ambiguous comfort. Compared with the likes of Paul II or Godoy, her own superiors seemed positively…brilliant.
After her bath, she wrapped herself in a robe and went to the front room. The rain was still pouring down. For a long moment she watched herju yao pot as the crackled glaze reflected the beads of water that snaked down the window.
While watching the pot an idea occurred to her.
“Ah. Hah,” she said. The idea seemed an attractive one. She examined it carefully, probing it with her mind like a tongue examining the gap left by a missing tooth.
The idea began to seem better and better. She got a fresh piece of paper and a pen and outlined it, along with all possible ramifications.
There wasn’t a problem that she could see. Nor a way it could be traced to her.
Perhaps she could credit the influence of Metternich or Castlereagh or Talleyrand for the idea. Perhaps the afternoon of staring into Sergius Bakshi’s predator-fish eyes and wondering what was going on behind them.
Or perhaps the scheme came entirely from her own mind, from the mind that floated with the reflection of the raindrops on the window. In which case, she really had to admire her brain.
She destroyed the paper, leaving no evidence of her scheme. She looked at her right thumb, the thick pad of scar tissue where her print had once been.
It was very important that she not leave her fingerprints on this one.
NINETEEN
In the morning, Sula made deliveries with Macnamara and Spence. Macnamara was a little stiff but at least he wasn’t sulking too visibly.
In the afternoon, she went to the Petty Mount for a shopping expedition, and wore the result to meet Casimir at the Cat Street club. She was late, and as she approached the club with her large shoulder bag banging her hip with every stride, she found Casimir pacing the pavement next to the apricot-colored car. He was scowling down at the ground, his coat floating behind him like a cloak.
He looked up at her and relief flooded his face. Then he saw how she was dressed, in a long coat, black covered with shiny six-pointed particolored stars, like a rainbow snowfall.
“You got a coat like mine,” he said, surprised.
“Yes. We need to talk.”
“We can talk in the car.” He gestured toward the door.
“No. I need more privacy than that. Let’s try your office.”
Petulance tugged at his lip. “We’re already late.”
“Julien will be all right. His chef is brilliant.”
He nodded as if this remark made sense and followed her through the club. There were few patrons at this early hour, mostly quiet drinkers at the bar or workers who hadn’t managed to get home in time for dinner.
Sula bounded up the metal stairs leading to Casimir’s office. “How did the judge thing go?” he asked.
She had to search her mind for a moment to recall the story.
“Postponed,” she said.
He let her into his office. “Is that what you need to talk about? Because even though Sergius said I wasn’t supposed to help you, there are a few things I can do that Sergius doesn’t need to know about. Because—Oh, damn.”
They had entered his office, the spotless black-and-white room, and Sula had thrown her bag on a sofa and opened her coat to reveal that she wore nothing underneath it but stockings and her shoes.
“Damn,” Casimir repeated. His eyes traveled over her. “Damn, you’re beautiful.”
“Don’t just stand there,” Sula said.
It was the first time she had set out to please a man so totally and for so long. She moved Casimir over the room from one piece of furniture to the other. She took full advantage of the large, oversoft chairs. She used lips and tongue and fingertips, skin and scent, whispers and laughter. She would never have dared try this with Martinez—with him, she lacked this brand of confidence. There was something whorish about it, she supposed, though her own violent, mercifully brief encounter with whoring had been far more sordid and unpleasant than this.
She kept Casimir busy for an hour and a half, until the chiming of his comm grew far too insistent. He rose from one of the sofas, where he was sprawled with Sula on top of him, and made his way to his desk.
“Audio only,” he told the comm. “Answer. Yes, what is it?”
“Julien’s arrested,” said an unknown voice.
Sula sat up, an expression of concern on her face.
“When?” Casimir barked. “Where?”
“A few minutes ago, at the Two Sticks. He was there with Veronika.”
Calculation burned in Casimir’s gaze. “Was it the police or the Fleet?”
The voice shifted to a higher, more urgent register. “It was theLegion. They tookeverybody .”
Casimir stared intently at the far wall as if it held a puzzle he needed badly to put together. Sula rose and quietly walked to where her large shoulder bag waited. She opened it and began to withdraw clothing.
“Does Sergius know?” Casimir asked.
“He’s not at his office. That’s the only number I have for him.”
“Right. Thanks. I’ll call him myself.”
Casimir knew he couldn’t get away with a video-suppressed call to Sergius Bakshi, so he put on a shirt and combed his hair. He spoke in low tones and Sula heard little of what was said. She finished dressing, took a pistol from her bag and stuck it in her waistband behind her back.