The End Game

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When you’re a spy, the word belated gets eradicated from your vocabulary. You don’t send belated birthday cards. You don’t send belated Christmas cards. You don’t send belated wedding, anniversary, graduation or congratulations cards. You don’t even bother to send belated wishes via e-mail. You tend to miss physical events like birthdays and baptisms and Bar Mitzvahs, because it’s nearly impossible to tell a Taliban assassin you’ll have to halt his inquisition until Monday so you can make it to T.G.I. Friday’s for your buddy’s fortieth.

If birthdays, weddings and holidays meant a lot to you, you wouldn’t be traveling the world under diplomatic cloak; you’d be sitting in a cubicle, rigging the Secret Santa lottery, drafting memos about the need for casual Fridays, and fantasizing about the person who services the photocopier. Being a spy means never being forced to eat potato skins in a T.G.I. Friday’s surrounded by men in Dockers or expressing your emotions through the mystery of Hallmark.

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