Siro by David Ignatius (short books to read txt) 📕

highway, in that respect, offered a snapshot of America in the late automobile age. It was one of those suburban strips that were homogenizing the American landscape, making the outskirts of every city look more or less identical. It could have been peeled up off the ground, with its fast-food restaurants and tire stores and L-shaped shopping centers, and stuck down somewhere else—Atlanta, say, or St. Paul—without anyone noticing much difference. That was the new America. The pieces of our national quilt—once rich and varied, marked by the particular quirks and obsessions of each region—were now all the same. Which made it easier to find your way, and harder.

“Let’s look for a bar,” suggested Taylor as they emerged into the noise and haze of the late afternoon.

“Out here?”

“Sure. They have bars in the suburbs. They’re all called PJ’s or TJ’s, and they all have the same hanging plants and phony bric-a-brac on the walls. But the drinks taste the same. C’mon.”

Taylor put his arm around her shoulder, friendly as could be, and she, just as gently, let it slip off.

A few more blocks and they came upon a place called McGillicuddy’s. It was a restaurant franchiser’s notion of an Irish pub, with old Guinness and Harp posters on the wall, brass ship’s lanterns in the lobby and, above the bar, an incongruous moose head with a sign that said “Kiss me, I’m Irish” hanging from one of the antlers. The bartender was wearing a green leprechaun cap. His name tag read: Sadlowski.

“What’ll it be, folks?” asked the bartender.

Anna looked at her watch. It was just four-thirty.

“Isn’t it too early to start drinking?” she asked.

“Not if you’re on Istanbul time.”

Anna ordered a piña colada, no cherry. Taylor ordered a gin martini.

“So what do you think of Stone’s little operation?” ventured Anna. It was a question she had been wanting to ask Taylor all day.

“I like it.”

“You do, really?”

“Yup. This is the real thing. It’s what I’ve been waiting for for years.”

“You don’t think it’s too far-out?”

“Nope. I think it’s just far-out enough.”

“And what about Mr. Stone? Do you think he’s cleared all this with the director?”

Taylor shook his head. “I don’t know, and to be honest, I don’t care. The director is an idiot. I’m sure Stone has cleared things with whoever he’s supposed to. He’s a pro. He doesn’t make mistakes.”

“But it sounds as if he doesn’t have to clear things with anyone.”

“So much the better,” said Taylor.

The drinks had arrived. Anna’s wary eyes were beginning to soften. “And you think we can trust Mr. Stone?”

“Why not?” said Taylor. “You have to trust someone. I’d rather put my money on him than most of the drones we work with.”

Anna thought of Howard Hambly and Dennis and the boys back in London. The difference between them and men like Taylor and Stone was … what? Toughness. Irreverence. A willingness to take risks.

“I just want to make sure we’re doing the right thing,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it. Of course it’s the right thing. A hot project, working with a smart guy like Stone. No paperwork, unlimited expenses. A chance to impress the big shots. What more could you want?”

“That’s not what I meant. I was thinking more in terms of right and wrong.”

“That’s not my department,” said Taylor.

“What is your department?”

“Applied mechanics.”

“Oh, come on. I don’t believe you. You wouldn’t deliberately do something you thought was wrong.”

“Maybe not. But deep down, I’m a sensualist. I think people should do what makes them feel good.”

Anna shook her head. “I didn’t think there were any more of you Jack Kerouac types left. You’ve gone out of fashion.”

“Sorry,” said Taylor amiably. “I didn’t get the word.”

Anna closed one eye and tilted her head. “Buy me another drink,” she said.

Taylor looked at her closely. For the first time all day, she appeared relaxed. As Taylor studied her, it occurred to him that she was dressed, not just elegantly, but expensively. The fine silk dress, open at the neck; the high-heeled shoes of Italian leather; the sheer stockings. In the late-afternoon light, her skin looked as soft as the magnolia blossom sitting in a vase atop one of the tables. He looked at her eyes. They seemed almost to match the green print of her dress, until she turned her head slightly; then, in a subtly different light, they seemed to become an impossible aquamarine shade of blue.

“You look beautiful,” said Taylor. He wondered how she would respond—whether she would protest, or change the subject, or chide him for being unprofessional. But she did none of those things.

“Thanks,” she said. She leaned against the back of her bar stool, crossed her legs and took out a cigarette. Taylor lit a match and Anna gently pulled the flame toward her.

“Definitely,” said Taylor. He didn’t have to explain.

They talked through the late afternoon, over several more rounds of drinks. As night fell and the bar’s regular customers began to arrive, greeting Sadlowski the bartender with friendly obscenities. Taylor suggested that they move to a booth in the corner. He didn’t try to put his arm around Anna this time. He just leaned toward her, enveloping her in the canopy of his attention. And she pressed in with him under this tent of words and gestures. Hours passed, and still they remained in the dark corner of McGillicuddy’s, ordering dinner, and after-dinner drinks, and after-after-dinner drinks. Even the bar food tasted like a gift from heaven. And after a very long time, when they had become as intimate as two people sitting fully clothed in a bar can be, the inevitable question arose. And inevitably, it was Taylor who posed it.

“Let’s go back to my place,” he said. “Or your place.”

“I don’t know,” said Anna.

“Why not?”

“I’m not sure I’m ready.”

“Oh come on,” he said dreamily. “You’re ready. You’re a big girl. You’re thirty years old.”

“Twenty-nine, and that’s not what I meant. I’m not sure I’m ready for you. You frightened me a little that afternoon in Istanbul, when