Cindy Dees – Special Forces: The Operator (страница 8)
“That’s a pretty dark view of the world,” she responded.
“I live in a country where every time you step out of your house you knowingly put your life at risk. And I don’t exactly have a boring, routine job.”
“Still. I try not to dwell on death. I would rather focus on being and staying alive.”
“On that we are in complete accord,” he murmured, ushering her across a blocked-off street crowded with pedestrians. They slipped into a dark little restaurant called The Adler, and the sudden silence was a relief from the noisy party outside.
The bay window of the restaurant held a large, carved wooden mountain with little wooden skiers mounted on its painted slopes, and a collection of cuckoo clocks hanging above it. She was going to go with this being a Swiss-themed joint.
They had no trouble getting a table and sat down in a booth in a back corner. A tea candle in a glass globe gave out most of the light, and the table had an odd well cut into the middle about a foot deep.
“What is this place?” she asked curiously.
“Fondue joint,” Avi replied. “Best cheese fondue this side of Zermatt, Switzerland.”
“Huh. I took you for a steak and potatoes kind of guy.”
He leaned back and grinned. “Perhaps you’re guilty of misjudging me as badly as I initially misjudged you.”
“What did you initially take me for, then?”
“A groupie who managed to sneak into the village to pick up hot athletes,” he answered frankly.
“Gee, thanks,” she replied sarcastically.
He shrugged unapologetically. “You wouldn’t be the first one.”
He wasn’t wrong of course. Just yesterday, the American delegation had chased out a half-dozen drunk Polish guys from the American athlete building. They’d claimed to be looking for an American high jumper who was also a high-fashion model and on the covers of all the fashion magazines these days.
“If you’re not a steak and potatoes guy, then how would you describe yourself?” she challenged.
A waitress came and Avi ordered quickly in German: some sort of meal package for two, and then Rebel’s limited German gave out as he and the waitress conversed in the tongue quickly and fluently, ending on a laugh. Rebel had to stop herself from glaring off the flirting waitress, which privately stunned her. She had never been the jealous type before, and it wasn’t like she had any claim on Avi Bronson, thank you very much.
The waitress brought a fondue pot filled with a creamy cheese sauce, a platter of bread cubes and a handful of long dipping forks.
“It’s hot,” Avi warned her. “Don’t burn your mouth.”
She nodded and dipped a bread cube in the smooth sauce that smelled lightly of wine and Emmentaler cheese. She blew on the bite and popped it in her mouth. “Oh my God,” she groaned. “That’s fantastic.”
“Told you.”
“I will never question your culinary recommendations again.”
He smiled a little as he dipped a cube of his own. “I take my food very seriously.”
“What else do you take seriously? You never answered my question of how you’d describe yourself.”
He shrugged as he swirled a bread cube in the pot. “I would like to think I’m on my way to becoming a Renaissance man. You know what I do for my work. In my free time, I enjoy art, music, reading and good food.”
“What kind of art?” she asked.
“Modern interactive art is my passion, but I enjoy a good Rembrandt as much as the next person.”
“Music?”
“Every kind. Except Nazi-metalhead.”
“Books?”
“That’s a bit tricky. I prefer history or dead poets, but I make myself read literature and pop fiction.”
“Why?”
“To be well-rounded.”
“That all sounds terribly intellectual and dry. What do you do for fun?”
He leaned forward, and a boyish smile hovered on his lips. “I kill people.”
“Oh, puh-lease.” She rolled her eyes at him. “You must suck at your job if you have to whack people often. The idea is to get in and get out without being spotted and without ending up in a fight. Or didn’t they teach you that part in Israel?”
He laughed outright at her pithy observation. “Well, damn. Most women are unbearably turned on by knowing I can kill.”
“Sorry. It’s just an unpleasant part of the job to me.”
The waitress removed their cheese fondue, which they’d mostly polished off between them, and replaced it with a bubbling pot of hot oil and a platter of meats and vegetables.
“What makes you happy?” Avi asked when they’d demolished most of the main course.
“Happy?” she echoed. “I don’t believe in happiness.”
“Why ever not?” he exclaimed.
“Because it’s a lie. People confuse pleasure with happiness, and most humans only want pleasure. Which is transient, fleeting and passes quickly. It’s not worth ruining my life in pursuit of a few moments here and there that constitute mere pleasure.”
“Wow. Cynical much?” he murmured.
She shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy my work. I take deep satisfaction from it, in fact. But that’s because I’m doing something important that will improve the quality of the world... I hope.”
Avi shuddered. “What a dreadful way to go through life.”
“What’s dreadful about being committed to my career?”
“Nothing. I’m committed to mine, as well. Passionately.”
“Why passionately?” she followed up.
“Because I live in a small country surrounded by larger enemies. Israel’s ongoing survival is always an open question. Unlike your country with oceans on either side of it and no enemies on Earth who can match your power, my country is tiny and imminently crushable. It takes many people of passion to keep her safe.”
“Just because the United States is big and powerful doesn’t mean we can stop working at staying safe. We have lots of enemies, and our size and power makes us a prime target. Hence, the need for people like me.”
He nodded. “We have a point of agreement, then. Both of our countries need robust security forces to ensure their safety.”
“Speaking of which, when do you expect to hear from your people about our friend? I’m dying to know what they have to say about him.”
One corner of his mouth turned up sardonically. “Are you in such a big hurry to jump in bed with him, then?”
She frowned across the table at them. They might have to speak elliptically about Mahmoud Akhtar in public, but she wasn’t loving the sleeping with Akhtar analogy.
Avi grinned unrepentantly. “Lighten up a little, Rebel. It was a joke.”
“Again, you didn’t answer my question.”
He sighed. “You need to learn how to slow down. Relax a little. Like now. Enjoy the good food and exceptional company. There will be time later for business.”
Except when the dessert course came—a rich, silky, dark chocolate fondue and a platter of succulent fresh fruit, berries and delicate ladyfinger cookies—she forgot her impatience and lost herself in savoring the delicious sweets.
“Be careful, Rebel. You’re looking suspiciously close to happy over there.”
“I didn’t say I don’t like pleasure. Just that I don’t live for it.”
“I fear, mademoiselle, that you are missing out on most of the best things in life with that grim philosophy of yours.”
“I am who I am,” she retorted. She refrained from reminding him she didn’t owe him a blessed thing. After all, she was supposed to work with this guy and trade information. No sense in antagonizing him outright.
“That’s a rather Socratic take on life,” he commented. “How does the saying go—I know that I am intelligent, because I know that I know nothing.”