Read Online The Profession by Steven Pressfield - Free Book Online
Authors: Steven Pressfield
Ads: Link
secretary lost the sight in his left eye and suffered paralysis in that arm from the elbow down, but he never backed off or trimmed his rhetoric. His aides—if they’re any good, and I’m sure they are—have acquired my identity hours ago and cupcaked me through half a dozen mil/pol databases in the time he and I have been away on the moors. Without doubt the secretary has been informed of my service under Salter in Mosul and Yemen and East Africa. It would not surprise me if he knows too the origin and ownership of the leased jet I flew into Inverness on.
“Do you admire General Salter, Colonel? Are you a loyal myrmidon or only a gun for hire?”
“Sir,” I tell him, “I’m just here to see my aunt.”
Maggie Cole returns. She descends the stone and hewn-timber staircase in boots and Western-cut jeans with a man-tailored white linen shirt and a quilted vest, crimson, with a silver stag pin at the collar. All conversation ceases. Maggie is fifty-nine. She looks sensational. She crosses toward one of the great fireplaces, greets the secretary and others, and comes up, smiling, to me.
“Gilbert, is Inquisitor Torquemada attempting to rack you on the wheel?”
“He’s stretching my bones a bit, ma’am.”
The secretary salutes Maggie with a crisp bow. The former firstlady takes his arm. With a smile she steers the group and the conversation toward the vaulted stone dining hall. When I sign to her, as subtly as I can, that my orders are to get out of Dodge pronto, she dismisses this with effortless charm and motions me to keep close beside her. One of the guests—a Conservative MP named Sir Michael Lukich—asks Echevarria why he so dislikes Salter.
“I don’t dislike him. I fear him.”
And why, asks the MP, has the secretary himself trekked to this remote outpost, if he does not count himself among the general’s admirers or adherents.
“I’ve come, sir,” replies Echevarria, “for the same reason we all have: to collect my bounty. I believe the technical term is ‘being co-opted.’ ”
Here the secretary turns to me, the outsider. He speaks as if for my edification, but in truth his oration is intended for the ears of all.
“A sum,” he says, “that could only be described as munificent shall be donated by firms associated with General Salter to a charity dear to the hearts of my late wife and daughter. I shall accept this largesse, Colonel, as my fellow guests will claim their own respective emoluments, though perhaps I shall take mine with a bit more shame.”
A murmur of indignation arises from the company. The secretary dismisses this with a gesture of contempt, aimed, it seems, at least partially at himself.
“Surely, Colonel, you have apprehended that these gentlemen, however impeccably turned out in field-and-stream attire, have not traveled all this distance to stalk wild bucks and harts. In truth, the only real hunter in this company is our hostess—and her aim is to bag far more substantial quarry.”
I’m a Southerner; I can’t let this pass. “With respect, Mr. Secretary, your tone is offensive, addressed to the former first lady.”
Echevarria smiles. “Margaret, is this young man indeed your nephew?”
Mrs. Cole releases the secretary’s arm and takes mine.
“He is now.”
Dinner is game meat and whisky. The platters of venison, grouse, duck, and hare placed before the party, along with potatoes, beets, parsnips, and several vegetables I don’t recognize, must total twelve thousand calories per man. I down it all and so does everyone else. The conversation steers clear of politics until the group repairs to ancient leather chairs in the sitting room. Cigars appear, and brandy. The MP asks Echevarria what act he fears Salter might take under the current circumstances that would prove injurious to Western interests.
“Sell Iraqi oil to the Russians or the Chinese.”
“He can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not his.”
“My young
“Do you admire General Salter, Colonel? Are you a loyal myrmidon or only a gun for hire?”
“Sir,” I tell him, “I’m just here to see my aunt.”
Maggie Cole returns. She descends the stone and hewn-timber staircase in boots and Western-cut jeans with a man-tailored white linen shirt and a quilted vest, crimson, with a silver stag pin at the collar. All conversation ceases. Maggie is fifty-nine. She looks sensational. She crosses toward one of the great fireplaces, greets the secretary and others, and comes up, smiling, to me.
“Gilbert, is Inquisitor Torquemada attempting to rack you on the wheel?”
“He’s stretching my bones a bit, ma’am.”
The secretary salutes Maggie with a crisp bow. The former firstlady takes his arm. With a smile she steers the group and the conversation toward the vaulted stone dining hall. When I sign to her, as subtly as I can, that my orders are to get out of Dodge pronto, she dismisses this with effortless charm and motions me to keep close beside her. One of the guests—a Conservative MP named Sir Michael Lukich—asks Echevarria why he so dislikes Salter.
“I don’t dislike him. I fear him.”
And why, asks the MP, has the secretary himself trekked to this remote outpost, if he does not count himself among the general’s admirers or adherents.
“I’ve come, sir,” replies Echevarria, “for the same reason we all have: to collect my bounty. I believe the technical term is ‘being co-opted.’ ”
Here the secretary turns to me, the outsider. He speaks as if for my edification, but in truth his oration is intended for the ears of all.
“A sum,” he says, “that could only be described as munificent shall be donated by firms associated with General Salter to a charity dear to the hearts of my late wife and daughter. I shall accept this largesse, Colonel, as my fellow guests will claim their own respective emoluments, though perhaps I shall take mine with a bit more shame.”
A murmur of indignation arises from the company. The secretary dismisses this with a gesture of contempt, aimed, it seems, at least partially at himself.
“Surely, Colonel, you have apprehended that these gentlemen, however impeccably turned out in field-and-stream attire, have not traveled all this distance to stalk wild bucks and harts. In truth, the only real hunter in this company is our hostess—and her aim is to bag far more substantial quarry.”
I’m a Southerner; I can’t let this pass. “With respect, Mr. Secretary, your tone is offensive, addressed to the former first lady.”
Echevarria smiles. “Margaret, is this young man indeed your nephew?”
Mrs. Cole releases the secretary’s arm and takes mine.
“He is now.”
Dinner is game meat and whisky. The platters of venison, grouse, duck, and hare placed before the party, along with potatoes, beets, parsnips, and several vegetables I don’t recognize, must total twelve thousand calories per man. I down it all and so does everyone else. The conversation steers clear of politics until the group repairs to ancient leather chairs in the sitting room. Cigars appear, and brandy. The MP asks Echevarria what act he fears Salter might take under the current circumstances that would prove injurious to Western interests.
“Sell Iraqi oil to the Russians or the Chinese.”
“He can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not his.”
“My young