March Topic: Champagne
In victory, you deserve champagne; in defeat, you need it. - Napoleon Bonaparte.
When Sydney went up against Anna Espinosa for the first time, she failed. It wasn’t completely unexpected; Sydney had been field rated for a year by then, and had shown herself truly gifted, but Anna Espinosa was one of the best, both in terms of experience and ruthlessness, and it said something about Sydney that she had survived at all. Sloane didn’t comment on this during the debriefing; he listened, impassively, and sent her away without condemnation or praise.
Later, he told her he needed her to escort him to a meeting with one of the clients Credit Dauphine did actual business with in order to maintain credibility. When the less than interesting negotiations about investments were concluded, Sloane took Sydney to a bar and ordered champagne.
“I don’t understand, Sir,” she said.
“In victory, you deserve champagne,” Sloane replied, quoting Napoleon. “In defeat, you need it.”
“I botched it,” she burst out. She had her father’s chin and her mother’s dark, compelling eyes, but that youthful mixture of wounded pride, vulnerability and self-directed ruthlessness was all her own.
“I am aware of that, Agent Bristow,” Sloane said, not refuting her analysis. “Do you intend to leave it at that?”
Her eyes narrowed. “No, Sir,” she said slowly. “I’d like to request permission to go after Espinosa again.”
The champagne arrived: Veuve Cliquot, his favourite. Sloane had always thought Dom Perignon to be overrated. He signalled the waiter to leave, poured in both their glasses expertly, and handed one to Sydney.
“Permission granted.”
He raised his glass to her. Her expressive face showed surprise, determination and curiosity in short order. She opened her mouth as if to ask whether they’d be toasting to her past defeat or the future victory she had just promised him, but then she closed it again, and raised her own glass, all those emotions draining away until she showed the blank, perfect mask of an agent on assignment.
“Anna Espinosa,” she said instead, and Sloane concluded, with none too surprised satisfaction, that she had evidently understood that past defeat and future victory were one and the same.
When Sydney went up against Anna Espinosa for the first time, she failed. It wasn’t completely unexpected; Sydney had been field rated for a year by then, and had shown herself truly gifted, but Anna Espinosa was one of the best, both in terms of experience and ruthlessness, and it said something about Sydney that she had survived at all. Sloane didn’t comment on this during the debriefing; he listened, impassively, and sent her away without condemnation or praise.
Later, he told her he needed her to escort him to a meeting with one of the clients Credit Dauphine did actual business with in order to maintain credibility. When the less than interesting negotiations about investments were concluded, Sloane took Sydney to a bar and ordered champagne.
“I don’t understand, Sir,” she said.
“In victory, you deserve champagne,” Sloane replied, quoting Napoleon. “In defeat, you need it.”
“I botched it,” she burst out. She had her father’s chin and her mother’s dark, compelling eyes, but that youthful mixture of wounded pride, vulnerability and self-directed ruthlessness was all her own.
“I am aware of that, Agent Bristow,” Sloane said, not refuting her analysis. “Do you intend to leave it at that?”
Her eyes narrowed. “No, Sir,” she said slowly. “I’d like to request permission to go after Espinosa again.”
The champagne arrived: Veuve Cliquot, his favourite. Sloane had always thought Dom Perignon to be overrated. He signalled the waiter to leave, poured in both their glasses expertly, and handed one to Sydney.
“Permission granted.”
He raised his glass to her. Her expressive face showed surprise, determination and curiosity in short order. She opened her mouth as if to ask whether they’d be toasting to her past defeat or the future victory she had just promised him, but then she closed it again, and raised her own glass, all those emotions draining away until she showed the blank, perfect mask of an agent on assignment.
“Anna Espinosa,” she said instead, and Sloane concluded, with none too surprised satisfaction, that she had evidently understood that past defeat and future victory were one and the same.