How to Betray Your Country by James Wolff (spicy books to read .TXT) 📕

“Executive recruitment?” asked his neighbour. “And what – your firm won’t fly you business either?” His brown hair was combed in straight lines like a freshly ploughed field. “Fucking cutbacks. With your height too. What are you, six three, six four? Cheap bastards.”

“It’s a point of principle with me,” said August. “Downsizing, you should try it. Last year I had an epiphany, sold my BMW, the cottage in the country, gave twenty Italian suits to my local charity shop.”

“The result being that you don’t look like any executive I’ve ever seen. What, did you sell your washing machine too?”

“One of the perks of being the boss is that no one can tell you what to do.”

“You’re the boss? No offence but you look a bit … what are you, thirty-five? Forty? I thought business prodigies were into yoga, tofu, that kind of thing. Not drinking neat gin from a bag hidden under the seat.”

“I only drink when I fly. I’d be a bag of nerves otherwise.”

“Okay, it’s like that.”

“I’ve got two days of back-to-back interviews followed by an overnight to New York. And perhaps the most difficult client I’ve ever seen.”

“My home town. You recruiting for this client?”

“In theory, yes. In reality, nobody’s good enough. Plenty of interested parties, given the crazy bonus structure. They’re offering upwards of – well, it’s a good package. They keep on saying they’re looking for someone a little different. What does that mean, though, that’s my question.”

“Someone from outside the sector is my guess.”

“Who knows.”

“Okay, Mister Recruiter, you’ve got me interested. Tell me more.”

“What? Oh, I see. Listen, no offence, but it’s a few levels above agriculture salesman.”

“Regional sales manager.”

“Let me top up your medicine there while Nurse Ratched is out of sight.”

“I’m good, thanks. What’s the company?”

“Come on, hold your cup still.”

“American or European?”

“Can’t say, it’s all very hush-hush, they’re still clearing out dead wood.”

“What sector, then?”

“Your firm probably makes a machine for clearing out dead wood, am I right?”

“Finance?”

“No, and it’s not farming either, don’t worry, your job’s safe.”

“Industrial?”

August sighed. “Could be.”

“If they’re paying top dollar it’s got to be either —”

“I’m not going to confirm any names.”

“That sector’s not a million miles from agriculture. As I tell my team, end of the day it’s all about men, money, materials and machines.”

“Or plants, pitchforks and pesticides in your case.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Tractors then.”

“Our bestselling combine starts at half a million, buddy, and I closed on six of them last quarter. Have you heard the saying ‘sell snow to the Eskimos’?”

“What? No. I like it, though.”

“That’s me all over.”

“Come on, let’s stop talking business and make a toast. To a successful —”

“I mean it, I’ll send you my numbers. You on LinkedIn?”

August thought: now’s as good a time as any. Quicker and considerably rougher round the edges than he would have liked, but over the years he’d seen too many opportunities missed by people waiting for a perfect opening that never came. Besides, he had to dodge the LinkedIn question somehow.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “See that young guy with gel in his hair? Four rows ahead of us?”

“What? Listen, I’ve got —”

“In seat 34c. Sell him … this.” He picked up his paperback. “Instead of sending me your numbers, show me how good you are. You can’t give it away; I want at least ten dollars. Now, this is the important bit. See if you can find out in the process where he’s going and what he’s doing there. You must be good at reading people in your line of work. He doesn’t look like a tourist, does he, in that cheap suit, but he’s got all those books stacked up. So what’s his story?”

“I’m not going —”

“If it makes it easier, imagine he’s an Eskimo.”

It was only as his neighbour was lowering himself into 34b with a wink in August’s direction and a loud comment about how the view was better from this side of the plane that he suddenly remembered the book had been a gift. Martha had even written an inscription inside the front cover, just one year ago, on the occasion of his fortieth birthday. What else did he have with her writing on it? He had burned all the letters, all the cards, in a bonfire that made his eyes water for days afterwards, the smoke clinging to him like grief. Two parks police had appeared from nowhere and chased him as far as Battersea Bridge. He wished he’d burned the book too – that he’d burned everything. Her clothes filled three bin bags. He tried to leave but found himself sitting at a bus stop outside the charity shop for the rest of the day, watching through the window as other women bought pieces of her. He even followed one of them home, the one who bought her pea-green winter coat, and on the worst nights he was ready outside her house long before her morning walk to Clapham Common Tube station, the change at Stockwell, the Earl Grey with skimmed milk from Starbucks and the arrival at work at nine on the dot. Some evenings there were work drinks or a date. He even saw off a mugger once, snapping his wrist and throwing him into a rose bush while she clutched the coat around her and ran off in tears down the street. That night his house felt emptier than ever.

“Piece of cake, buddy.”

“What’s that?” August said, rubbing his face. He couldn’t swear he hadn’t fallen asleep.

“The book, he bought the book.”

“What did he say?”

“I told you, he said yes. Ten US dollars for a rare first edition complete with an inscription from the author’s wife.”

“With a what?”

“Talk about making lemonade. There’s some handwritten thing on the first page that makes no sense at all so I improvised —”

“Hang on, let’s start at the beginning. What’s his name?” asked August.

“Joe or John or something like that.”

“Why’s he wearing a suit?”

“I don’t know, I was trying to sell him a book, remember?”

“Where’s he going?”

“Istanbul