THE NEXT MORNING, I went to see Andrews at the police station by myself. Mnenga’s companions clearly did not wish to enter the city, which came as something of a relief. I did not want to have to explain to the women that they would have to cover up or be arrested for indecency. Even in the Drowning, people would stare. I told them that a police ambulance would come to take the body to the morgue and then I left them. I suspected that they would stand watch over the coffin until the police were in sight, but that the officers would find the body of Arthur Besland alone.
I did not speak to the inspector, but left a note for him saying exactly where to go and included the journalist’s papers. That task complete, I went on foot via Javisha to Szenga Square and the ornamented facade of the Standard’s offices. I met Sureyna in the lobby, loaded down, with her reticule over her shoulder so she could manhandle a large cardboard box of books and papers, writing utensils, and other miscellaneous bits and pieces. Her face already matched my mood. I had been thinking all the way over how to say it, worrying my approach, since I did not know how well my friend had known the dead man, but now that it came to it, I could think of nothing to present but the unvarnished truth.
“Your missing correspondent was Arthur Besland?” I said.
“One of them, yes. What do you mean was?”
“I’m sorry, Sureyna. He’s dead. Mahweni from near Mnenga’s village brought his body to the city. By now it will be on its way to the morgue. His belongings were not with him, but this money was sewn into his jacket. I assume it belongs to the paper.”
I waited for her to set her box down slowly, and handed it to her.
“How did he die?” she asked dreamily. She did not look like she was going to weep, but she seemed off-balance.
“I’m not sure. Stabbed, I think. He was out in the bush, but he was not killed by an animal. I’m sorry.”
I’m not good at consolation. Other people’s sorrow makes me awkward. Sureyna nodded vaguely.
“Were you good friends?” I tried.
She shook her head. “I only met him a few times. I don’t think he was pleased that the Standard hired me as a reporter at first, but he complimented me on the Elitus story. But no. He was always away. A good reporter. I had hoped he might be a mentor to me one day, but I suppose…”
Her voice trailed off, and she looked suddenly lost.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, meaning it. “We’ll get to the bottom of it. You’ll be able to write a tribute article to him, an obituary or…” She was still shaking her head. “What?” I said, frowning at the box she had been carrying. “Sureyna? What’s going on?”
“You saw who Richter appointed to take over the newly created Security Department?” she said.
“No. Who?”
“Colonel Archibald Mandel,” she said in a leaden tone, laying it all out as if every word had significance, all of it bad, “former secretary of trade and industry under the Nationals and late of the Glorious Third Infantry Regiment.”
That wasn’t just her usual perfect recall that made her sound like a newspaper report. She didn’t like him, and with good reason, though neither of us had met him in person. Mandel was the man Ansveld had warned me about, the man who had run the Red Fort, or rather turned a blind eye to what Major Gritt did in his name, and he had an ugly reputation among those he did not consider his equals. I knew he had been connected to Richter, both by racial politics and industry connections: Richter and his secretary, Saunders, must have dealt with him all the time, given his background in the steel industry.
I remembered the man from a picture I had seen the day I met Emtezu: Mandel was an austere—if slightly absurd—military man with a handlebar mustache and a monocle. He had extricated himself from the business over the faux luxorite cave when their plans had gone awry, leaving his co-conspirators—including Vestris—to take the blame while he went into quiet retirement.
“But Mandel was in disgrace after the Red Fort business!” I said. “He resigned from politics over his shares in Grappoli munitions factories.”
“Well, he’s back,” said Sureyna. “I’d say it was less disgrace than public embarrassment. Apparently the Nationals think he’s paid his debt and is, as they put it, what the times require, which is their usual way of justifying ethical violations. Given his military background and knowledge of government, he was, apparently, an easy pick for this new security division the Heritage leaders have dreamed up. I suspect his former National party cronies are just glad to see a familiar face in Richter’s inner circle. They go along with it all, but they’re afraid of him and his goose-stepping supporters.”
“What does ‘head of security’ even mean? We have police, army. Why do we need another security force?”
“Not clear yet,” said Sureyna, “but it has people scared. Richter says it’s a way to unite the existing branches, but it sounds more like a way for the prime minister’s office to control what the police and military do more directly, and it allows the creation of a civilian militia, whatever that is. I’ve heard several generals are unhappy about it, and there’s a group of police inspectors who have written a letter of protest to the commissioner, but that won’t make any difference.”
“Willinghouse said this would happen,” I said. “That Mandel would make a return to politics. But what does this have to do with you?”
“The colonel remembers me,” she said, looking utterly forlorn. “My writing, I mean. I don’t know what he said, or how much it’s part of a more general shift as the Standard faces a new political reality, but…” She shrugged sadly, a gesture that made her look younger than she was. “The paper doesn’t feel that they can maintain the appearance of objective political journalism with”—and here she was quoting—“a staff whose members belong to those groups that are most conspicuously hostile to the present administration.”
“What does that mean?” I demanded.
She sighed.
“I’ve been fired.”