Free Borderless Deceit by Adrian de Hoog Page B

effort…that’s us. We were bred up, not down.”
    Jaime looked up at the flags draping down. They formed a backdrop, a kind of wreath over the Czar’s head. In deadpan she said, “Irv, are you telling me you think it’s the weather that’s responsible for us being the top-ranked country in the world?”
    â€œHadn’t thought of that before,” he replied solemnly. “Fits though. Makes us New Brunswickers proud.” With a stately turn he recommenced the journey to Operations Tower. “As for Carson,” he added, “maybe he treats us as a lower breed, but actually he’s the one that got bred down. There’s stories I could tell you.”
    Jaime slowed her stride to match his. “Sounds juicy, Irv. How’d you know them?”
    The Czar chuckled. “Everyone’s got a file.”
    â€œSure…so what’s in his?” Jaime pictured the brooding figure at the back with a mouth set grim and a forehead knotted so tight it must have hurt. “Was he always a blister?”
    â€œWell, you know, he’s been doing the spook thing too long. After a while everyone in that crowd loses perspective. Half the stories they come up with are invented, then they make them taller still and in the end they claim they’ve found a new gospel…something like that. Carson’s been a spook for twenty years. Won’t budge. To be fair – and we’ve got to be fair – he’s not a total disaster. No one sees the linksbetween raw intelligence and geopolitical calculations like him. The problem is what happens next. He loves to ram a brilliant piece of work down your throat. He does it to everyone. Me too. Years ago. What’s the reaction? People get stroppy right back.”
    At the entrance to Operations Tower, Alphonse stood alert. When the Czar came around the corner and Alphonse perceived that today’s arrival was benign, like a great ship berthing, he gauged the shrinking distance perfectly. Softly whistling the day’s tune – the majestic opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony – he executed a well-timed, dignified, swinging of the door. The Czar acknowledged him.
Bonjour, Alphonse. Merci
. Alphonse, not dropping a note, whistled them through.
    Jaime wasn’t finished. “So the dude’s got a hot brain but a nose that’s out of joint. What does he do when someone chucks his stuff back at him? Grab ‘em by the throat?”
    â€œToo clever for that, Jaime. He goes cold, looks you in the eye and hammers you with logic. A frontal assault. It unnerves people. They conclude they should meet Mr. Pryce as seldom as they can.”
    â€œHeavy.”
    â€œDeep down, we think, he may be living in hell.”
    â€œHot stuff.”
    â€œHot? I don’t know. He was married once, so maybe he is, or was for somebody. With his reasoning power he wouldn’t have done that just for the free sex. He’d have seen that if that’s all marriage is, the price is too steep. So there must have been some feeling. Possibly some lingers.” They were traversing a remote part of Operations Tower. When they stood before a back staircase, Heywood stopped to catch his breath.
    â€œHim? He tied the knot? When?”
    â€œBefore he joined, I think. In university maybe. Or high school even.”
    â€œNo way.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œHere.”
    In the half-light of the barren stairwell, the Czar rested one foot on the first step and leaned heavily on the railing while Jaimecontinued her questions. During Heywood’s Investiture days, when he’d been keeper of the people files, he had pawed at them like a bear. Fantastic stories in them all. Touching descriptions of moral calamities and careful renderings of human failings. Each file was a book and each book took strange twists. The Czar knew all there was to know about Carson Pryce. During their slow climb