A Geography of Secrets by Frederick Reuss

By Frederick Reuss

Males: One discovers the price of maintaining secrets and techniques, of establishing a profession inside a central authority organization the place secrets and techniques are the operational foundation. Noel Leonard works for the security Intelligence research middle, mapping coordinates for army activities midway all over the world. One morning he learns that an errors in his place of work is liable for the bombing of a college in Afghanistan. And he is aware by surprise that he's as on my own as he's mistaken. From his windowless workplace in DC to an intelligence convention in Switzerland, and again to his daughter s collage in Virginia, Noel claws his means towards a extra in my opinion sincere lifestyles during which he can inform his kinfolk every thing each day. one other guy learns that family members secrets and techniques have saved him from who he's and from the ineluctable methods he's hooked up to an international he has continually disdained. This unnamed narrator, a cartographer, is the son of a occupation diplomat whose actions in Southeast Asia through the Vietnam struggle after which in Europe in the course of the chilly struggle won't were what they have been stated to be. He, too, travels to Switzerland, yet his quest isn't to unencumber himself from secrecy it truly is to profit how deep the secrets and techniques in his personal lifestyles cross. With a voice like John le Carré s and the overseas sensibility of Graham Greene, Frederick Reuss examines the inevitably covert nature of lives that make their circles via Washington, DC. A Geography of secrets and techniques is a singular of the time from an acclaimed writer who is aware the lay of the land.

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I felt sorry for him. ” I asked. ” As I left the room, he called after me, “An olive would be lovely, too. ” It was a familiar errand and took the charge out of the atmosphere. As a Foreign Service brat, I’d grown up around the protocols of cocktails and drinking. Nicole was putting things away in the kitchen. ” she asked. ” I took out the ice and the olives, expecting her to put some sort of time limit on the continued hospitality. But she didn’t. She followed me back into the living room, where Blake was now sitting with his chin on his chest.

Farther down, a man in a suit stood smoking a cigarette. A Park Police cruiser pulled up, idled briefly at the curb, then slowly drove on. I sat down on a bench and watched the old man work his reel. A large schooner was moored in the middle of Boundary Channel. Behind it were the Maine Avenue waterfront, the Southeast/Southwest Freeway, and the drab brown federal buildings of L’Enfant Plaza. I felt as if I knew exactly what was happening behind every louvered window and ciphered door in every one of those buildings as well as downriver in the generals’ houses at Fort McNair, at the War College, the Anacostia Naval Air Station, Bolling Air Force Base—even in the heart of the old veteran, who didn’t seem bored or frustrated by his poor catch, just tired and lonely.

The snow had stopped. The streets were empty. The tram came and went. Fifteen years earlier, I’d sat out there with my father and asked what he planned to do in his Swiss retirement. “Smoke and stare at mountains,” he said. The next day he came home with a dog, a snuffling, wriggling black puppy. He stood at the front door in a rumpled green track suit, scratching the stubble on his cheek and beaming as his little prize squatted and pissed all over the floor. “No. ” Nicole groaned. “Please. ” He scooped the overexcited animal up and cradled it in his arms.

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