Brutal Fantasies [antikvár]

'Do you have a problem acknowledging that your lifetime's work has counted for nothing?' The words are spoken by a well-dressed overweight man with thinning sandy hair, solicitous expression, and distant eyes. He is sitting next to two men at a conference table in front of a tall narrow window overlooking the trucks and cars in the service area of CIA headquarters' southwest loading dock. It says a lot for morale in CIA these days that one of its psychiatrists is a member of the review board. Or have they brought in a shrink just for me? I'm tempted to grab his manila file and stick it up his ass. Instead I say calmly, 'No.' 'Is your anger caused, perhaps, by a deep-seated guilt? That you share responsibility for Rick Ames compromising the Agency's operations in Russia?' I take a deep breath and say in my most reasonable manner, 'My anger's not caused by any guilt. It's caused by the fact that every asset I acquired in Russia ended up in a pine box, and that for nine years the brass here at Langley failed to spot Ames spending like he hit the lottery every month.' 'I think your anger runs much deeper,' the shrink says. 'I don't need this shit. When did you ever put your hide on the line for your country?' Twenty five years ago I sat before a review board in an off-white office like this one. I was proud to carry out any assignment in CIA's élite corps. Times have changed. The bunch of incompetent corrupt careerists who now manage the directorate of operations have brought CIA to the verge of meltdown. 'Now, now, Mr Darcy,' says Blair Moffet, the smoothie from Personnel. 'What Robert is saying is that, in his professional opinion, you've earned the right to a less stressful assignment. We