Washington. These eleven in turn ran agents attached to the consulates general in Atlanta, Boston, Chicago, Houston, Los Angeles, New York, and San Francisco.
He was feeling restless as hell today, getting up from his desk frequently, pacing back and forth across the carpet that covered the creaking parquet floors. He made phone calls he didn’t need to make, tried to get some work done, thought about how much he despised his job and the everyday details of life.
He was supposed to be working on a truly silly communiqué about the government’s absurd ongoing commitment to human rights. The foreign secretary had rather bombastically proclaimed that Britain would support the international condemnation of regimes that violate human rights; support international bodies involved in the cause; and denounce human-rights abuses, blah, blah, blah , ad nauseam.
He glanced through a few of the computer games he enjoyed when he was uptight like this — Riven, MechCommander, Unreal, TOCA, Ultimate Soccer Manager. None of them appealed to him right now; nothing did.
He was starting to crash, and he knew the feeling. I’m going down, and there is only one certain way to stop it: play the Four Horsemen .
To make matters worse, it was raining and woefully grayskied outside. The city of Washington, and also the surrounding countryside, looked forlorn and depressing. It sucked. Christ, he was in a bad mood, even for him.
He continued to stare east across Massachusetts Avenue, looking into the trees bordering a park dedicated to the pacifist bullshit artist Kahlil Gibran. He tried to daydream, mostly about fucking various attractive women currently working at the embassy.
He had called his psychiatrist, Boo Cassady, at her home-office, but she was about to start a session and couldn’t talk for long. They agreed to meet after work: a nasty quickie at her place before he went home to face Lucy and the sniveling brood.
He didn’t dare play Horsemen again tonight. It was too soon after the nurse. But God Almighty, he wanted to play. He wished he could take somebody out in some very imaginative way, right there inside the embassy.
He did have one excellent thing to do today — saving it until now — three in the afternoon. He had used the dice already, played a bit of Horsemen, just to help him make a personnel decision.
He had called Sarah Middleton just before lunch and told her they needed to have a chat and could she stop by his office, say at three?
Sarah was obviously tense on the phone and told him she could do it earlier, anytime, at his convenience. “Not busy, then, nothing much to do today?” Shafer asked. Three o’clock would be fine, she answered hastily.
His secretary, the bestial Betty formerly from Belgravia, buzzed him promptly at three. At least he’d finally gotten through to her about punctuality.
Shafer let her buzz him several times, then picked up the phone abruptly, as if she’d interrupted him at something vital to security.
“What is it, Ms. Thomas? I’m extremely busy with this communiqué for the secretary.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Shafer, but Ms. Middleton is here. You have a three-o’clock appointment with her, I understand.”
“Hmmm . Do I? Yes, you’re right. Can you ask Sarah to wait? I’ll need a few more minutes. I’ll buzz when I’m ready to see her.”
Shafer smiled contentedly and picked up a copy of The Red Coat , the embassy’s employee newsletter. He knew Betty hated it when he used Ms. Middleton’s Christian name: Sarah.
He fantasized about Sarah for the next few moments. He’d wanted to have a go at Mzzz Middleton from their first interview, but he was too careful for that. God, he hated the bitch. This was going to be such fun.
Schafer watched the rain hammer down on the traffic crossing Massachusetts Avenue for another ten minutes. Finally he snatched up the phone. He couldn’t wait a minute longer. “I’ll see her now. Send Sarah in.”
He
He was feeling restless as hell today, getting up from his desk frequently, pacing back and forth across the carpet that covered the creaking parquet floors. He made phone calls he didn’t need to make, tried to get some work done, thought about how much he despised his job and the everyday details of life.
He was supposed to be working on a truly silly communiqué about the government’s absurd ongoing commitment to human rights. The foreign secretary had rather bombastically proclaimed that Britain would support the international condemnation of regimes that violate human rights; support international bodies involved in the cause; and denounce human-rights abuses, blah, blah, blah , ad nauseam.
He glanced through a few of the computer games he enjoyed when he was uptight like this — Riven, MechCommander, Unreal, TOCA, Ultimate Soccer Manager. None of them appealed to him right now; nothing did.
He was starting to crash, and he knew the feeling. I’m going down, and there is only one certain way to stop it: play the Four Horsemen .
To make matters worse, it was raining and woefully grayskied outside. The city of Washington, and also the surrounding countryside, looked forlorn and depressing. It sucked. Christ, he was in a bad mood, even for him.
He continued to stare east across Massachusetts Avenue, looking into the trees bordering a park dedicated to the pacifist bullshit artist Kahlil Gibran. He tried to daydream, mostly about fucking various attractive women currently working at the embassy.
He had called his psychiatrist, Boo Cassady, at her home-office, but she was about to start a session and couldn’t talk for long. They agreed to meet after work: a nasty quickie at her place before he went home to face Lucy and the sniveling brood.
He didn’t dare play Horsemen again tonight. It was too soon after the nurse. But God Almighty, he wanted to play. He wished he could take somebody out in some very imaginative way, right there inside the embassy.
He did have one excellent thing to do today — saving it until now — three in the afternoon. He had used the dice already, played a bit of Horsemen, just to help him make a personnel decision.
He had called Sarah Middleton just before lunch and told her they needed to have a chat and could she stop by his office, say at three?
Sarah was obviously tense on the phone and told him she could do it earlier, anytime, at his convenience. “Not busy, then, nothing much to do today?” Shafer asked. Three o’clock would be fine, she answered hastily.
His secretary, the bestial Betty formerly from Belgravia, buzzed him promptly at three. At least he’d finally gotten through to her about punctuality.
Shafer let her buzz him several times, then picked up the phone abruptly, as if she’d interrupted him at something vital to security.
“What is it, Ms. Thomas? I’m extremely busy with this communiqué for the secretary.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Shafer, but Ms. Middleton is here. You have a three-o’clock appointment with her, I understand.”
“Hmmm . Do I? Yes, you’re right. Can you ask Sarah to wait? I’ll need a few more minutes. I’ll buzz when I’m ready to see her.”
Shafer smiled contentedly and picked up a copy of The Red Coat , the embassy’s employee newsletter. He knew Betty hated it when he used Ms. Middleton’s Christian name: Sarah.
He fantasized about Sarah for the next few moments. He’d wanted to have a go at Mzzz Middleton from their first interview, but he was too careful for that. God, he hated the bitch. This was going to be such fun.
Schafer watched the rain hammer down on the traffic crossing Massachusetts Avenue for another ten minutes. Finally he snatched up the phone. He couldn’t wait a minute longer. “I’ll see her now. Send Sarah in.”
He
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