Misericordia

Q:
She rode well, he begrudgingly admitted. In the beginning, he had watched her for any sign that she might change her mind. There had been a moment when Roar turned back to gaze at the shrinking city that had made him hope she would reconsider. But after a long, lingering look, she’d faced forward, leaned into the wind, and picked up her pace. And from that point on, the only times she had looked back had been with caution, as though she expected a storm to come barreling after them at any moment.
... Little by little, her nervous glances backward lessened, so that by the time they stopped to eat and rest at a spot known as Death’s Spine, she appeared completely at ease. Almost … giddy.
...But his eyes kept wandering to where Roar walked along the rocky line of sandstone that gave this area its name. Death’s Spine was the unofficial end of Pavan territory, and from this point on it was them versus the wildlands. There was something captivating about Roar, standing upon that dividing line—framed by civilization on one side and wild terrain on the other. She stared out at the surrounding land, hair blowing in the breeze, taking it all in like she was tasting joy for the first time. He blamed Jinx’s earth magic; when she worked it always seemed to affect more than just whatever plant she was focused on. The sun shone a little brighter, the grass appeared greener, even the breeze seemed to luxuriate in the presence of magic, curling indulgently around them. (c)

Unexpectedly brilliant. Satirical and adventurous, comical and dishonest... I read this with no expectations and it is surprisingly good. Reminded me slightly of Our man in Havana...

Would be recommended to anyone who loves a good James Bondish story.
Q:
My superiors had ordained that Moonlight would shine, and so be it.
I had kept myself physically fit, and looked the part of a field officer. I lectured my small squad of six with a confidence I did not feel. I lectured them until the scepticism that had at first filmed their eyes was dissolved into shining enthusiasm. The men were not fools, but they could not have realised that they were in the hands of a novice – indeed, a terrified novice. After a week, the team was as ready as it could be, packed inside the noisy fuselage of a Westland helicopter.
...I retired to a cave. I had a small survival pack and a satellite transmitter. I reported the disaster, but leavened it with information on enemy deployments, identifying tribes, numbers and directions of movement; these were largely imaginary. It made the deaths seem less pointless and I hoped it made me sound valuable and worth saving.
...I moved mostly at dusk or in the moonlight, and in the early morning, nearly starving after a week, and fed occasionally by friendly herdsmen. I saw no friend or enemy, herdsmen apart, but my satellite transmitter worked for that week, and I sent more imaginative bulletins. I hoped that I would attract enough interest in the enemy deployments to warrant an aerial surveillance in the vicinity and perhaps lead to my rescue as part of the exercise. My ploy failed. Although daring deeds in rescuing comrades are written about, I knew the unwritten rule was that the British and US forces wouldn’t risk a chopper and pilots for me alone.
...I had nothing much to say at first. There really was nothing to say other than the fact that I had been clawing my way across the mountains for nearly two weeks. But when it became apparent that the officers who gathered at my bedside with their tape recorders and notebooks were hungry to hear something, anything, I (myself an IO) understood their plight and obliged. They were bored with the routine of the base. I therefore told a story of the heroism of my men, fighting to the death, completely outnumbered, instead of the truth that they were shot like dogs in the dark. In contrast to my lonely and miserable starvation scramble across rivers and mountain passes, I spoke of watching enemy deployments during the day, and moving to new observation posts at night. I filled the US intelligence officers’ notepads and tapes with a whole demography of war in the mountains. And I spoke to US war correspondents.
(c)
Q: I calculated that Hornby would view my proposed move with a certain ambivalence. He would be delighted to dispose of someone he detested, but competent operatives like me were all too few.
When I told Yarham that I might apply for Nick’s post, to my surprise, he frowned and shook his head in disagreement. Later, as we eased ourselves into the shadows of one of O’Connell’s booths, he dilated.
“That’s a sure way not to get the appointment, Captain. Why don’t you have a chat with Hornby and tell him that you’ve heard the vacancy will be coming up but it would be inconvenient for you to move to Washington?”
“That will get it?”
“You’ll stand a better chance. Applications aren’t a lot of use. The bosses do what they want, which is most often what you don’t want.”
“I should tell Hornby that I like New York so much, I wouldn’t like to be disturbed?”
Yarham caressed his chin. “It would certainly increase his pleasure in releasing you, Captain. There’s a certain perversity about appointments in the service, in which Hornby, like other managers, will conspire. You’re likely to be posted to the place you don’t want to go. If this had to be justified, it’s a test of toughness and we’re always being tested.”
(c)
Q:
I knew that Yarham did a regular and surreptitious survey of Other People’s Business, in which he, as it were, looked through everybody’s in and out trays. So much of the department’s work was done electronically, that he was able to accomplish this with relative ease from his computer station. Yarham was an expert hacker. As an intelligence officer, he considered every intranet a target, and like a dedicated crossword-puzzler, sudoku fiend and computer geek, could not rest easy until he had conquered it. The OPB trawl was a practice that we both found very useful. When I questioned Yarham about the propriety and the risk involved he was very relaxed.
“Don’t worry, sir, everybody does it to the extent of their know-how. We’re all spies, and we spy on each other!”
Now, in the malodorous confidentiality of O’Connell’s pub’s booth, Yarham revealed a matter which would have life-changing effects for both of us. His eyes shone happily. “There’s a top secret assignment coming up that looks important,” he said. “It’s a Washington posting. An email from Human Resources has gone round. Nominated candidates to go to London for selection. And there’s around half a dozen of them – an indicator of importance.”
“Me, nominated, Yarham?” I said, suddenly excited.
“No sir, not you. There’s only one from the New York office – Leyton. He’s more senior.”
“So I’m out?”
Yarham raised his eyebrows and dropped his jaw open. His eyes were wide. “Not if the memo had been addressed to you.”
“You mean?… Oh, come on, man, if you put me in the circulation by some jiggery-pokery, the mistake’s going to be discovered in London and I’ll be kicked out!”
“Perhaps not, sir. It’s no shame to receive a misdirected email. London will have a guest list of a half dozen or so on the day. Nobody is going to be checking the candidates against the computer. Corporate fog will be fairly thick. And one very important point: Human Resources is a department which doesn’t make mistakes, so your presence on the list, and at the selection, can’t be a mistake.”
(c)
Q:
Interviews are misleading and paper qualifications don’t always mean much.
(c)
Q:
“You were supposed to meet the contact, not to fuck him!” he spat.
It was fortunately two days before Harold Kershaw could hop into the office on crutches, by which time the joke was stale, but my face was still red and I vowed to be ruthless on the break-in. (c)
Q:
It was a touching display, and I could have told a tale of heroism but I didn’t. Rachel Fernandez would have to accept the limitations of the service. If the details of Dolores’ exploits were unravelled, questions would be asked about my performance of my duties. I moved on a different tack. “You mean she was a C3 agent? I didn’t know that. It might have been helpful to know. As far as I was concerned, she was a friendly contact. She died bravely, that’s all I can say.”
“How can you say that? Do you really know?” Fernandez said fiercely, seizing on my generosity of spirit.
I maintained a sympathetically wooden expression. “Because all our group died bravely,... (c)
Q:
“Do you think the intense heat might… set off the nuclear warheads, sir?”
“Yarham, I’m thinking of a glass of red wine and a steak, but keep moving at a brisk pace, will you?” (c)
Q:
“How will you explain the ahh… pause in compliance with the order to return, Captain?”
“Say I didn’t get it.”
“Then you better chuck the phone overboard when you’ve sent your report, because it’s logged in there.”
“Thanks, Yarham. I need you to keep me straight on these things.”
(c)
Q:
“It’s occurred to you, I suppose, that there’s nobody to contradict what we say?”
“Indeed, except Burton. It gives you a certain… freedom of interpretation, sir.”
(c)
Q:
“Suppose we each take a hundred thousand and leave the rest for Uncle Sam?” I suggested.
Yarham moved his jaw around, and said after a while, “I’m very grateful for the offer, and I don’t want you to think I’m moralistic about this, but I’d prefer not to.”
“Too much? Take a smaller slice.”
“It’s not that, sir. I can manage without any of it.”
“Good for you, Yarham. I was just testing to see if the shield of truth, and the sword of honour, were in place.”
(c)
Q:
It was a neat, sequential account, only at variance with the facts in immaterial respects.
(c)
Q:
Much was made in departmental memos of the astonishing cooperation between C3 and the CIA, as though the concept of frankly sharing information with a fellow agency was novel, startling, and slightly risque. Actually working together in the field was as unusual as intergalactic travel. And for two agencies to agree to be led operationally by a member of one of them was against the laws of nature. A new era of cooperation between agencies was heralded by the more far-seeing, and it was recommended that I should spearhead this, and be promoted to director level. A number of the big brass commented that I would make an ideal director of the CIA – certainly true. Only my lack of US citizenship stood in the way of this consideration.
(c)
Q:
“You know Nick talked to me before he died about the Disciples?”
She was homing in directly on what I had assumed was her real preoccupation. I gave her a blank look. “Sorry, you’ve lost me.”
“You’ve never heard of the Disciples?”
“At Bible class when I was a kid. Did Nick get religious?”
“Don’t the C3 guys talk about them in the bar?”
“C3 guys don’t talk together much, and never about the job.”
(c)
Q:...men who bear arms are as much in danger of death from their friends as a result of accidents, personal quarrels, and service rivalries, as they are from the enemy.
(c)
Q:
“Do you think it’s a situation where we could rely on the TIFU factor to work its way?” The TIFU, Typical Intelligence Fuck-Up, was as well-known and as ever present a phenomenon in our business, as in every disciplined service.
(c)
Q:
I had wanted to believe the earnest Professor Reich. We honour you, Roger. Did they mean to honour me posthumously?
(c)

Dynamic enough to be entertaining. Picturesque enough to satisfy even the most hardened sci-fi lovers.

A light paranormal investigations read. For all lovers of paranormal cityscapes.
The ending was rather overdosed on epic. Basically, this all lead to a battle-ish scene of about 15 pages.
The depressed god of love premise was a bit too washed out. Basically, some Prozak and timely psychotherapy could have solved the issues of this whole book.
The rest of the book was ok, though.
Q: ... I have a right—”
“People have fewer rights than they think,...” (c)

OMG!!!
Q:
“Are they very poor?” I ask Ana Kuya.
“Not so poor as others.”
“Then why doesn’t he buy a donkey?”
“He doesn’t need a donkey,” says Ana Kuya. “He has a wife.”
“I’m going to marry Alina,” Mal says.
(c)
I'm sorry but is it my dirty mind playing tricks on me or is there something gone wrong with this discussion?

Obviously, the person who consulted the author on the Russian words used as word-building staples either wasn't very knowledgeable in Russian or simply pulled a prank on her:
-'Grisha' - is Russian shortened version for George or maybe Greg - 'Гриша' stands shortened for 'Григорий' ('Grigori'). What the hell is so magical about an average George or even a bunch of them, I have no idea.
-'Otkazat'sya' is a Russian verb meaning 'to refuse' in nothing other than an infinitive form - 'отказаться'. Why would anyone name a faction 'to refuse' and keep referring to them so during the course of the book? Beats me.
-Ilya Morozova? A girl? Only after a sex-change operation. On the second thought, if you take girls and teach them how to be a 'George', you might just progress nicely to sex-change things.
-'Kvas' fail is also entertaining. It's really hard to get drunk on it (only 1% alcohol in 'квас'). I think the character should follow the feat by getting drunk on bread (0.3% alcohol), sour milk (0.05-0.5% alcohol) and grape juice (0.3%). That would sum it up nicely.
-'Novyi Zem' - basically 'Новый Земь" instead of some 'Новая Земля'...
-'Korporalnik' is a hellish mix of 'Полковник' ('Polkovnik') and 'Corporal' which is 'Polkovnik' in English. Why couldn't she stick with either of those and had to make up a third word?
-'The woman frowned but hesitated only a moment before she shrugged out of her red kefta and handed it to me.' ... 'Kefta'... there is a word 'кофта' ('kofta') which is basically any blouse or jersey. Imagine casually 'shrugging out of your blouse'.
-'Ana Kuya' is a really wonky name. Sounds really like 'А на хуЯ?' which really should be censored. And it's made even more conspicuous by the fact that in Russia there is name 'Anna' not 'Ana'.
-'Privyet' - is 'Привет' transplanted. Just imagine a guy named 'Hi' or maybe 'Hello'. What illuminating discussions one could have with such a name? I imagine it would go a bit like this:
A: Hi.
H: Hi.
A: What's your name?
H: Hi.
A: Yeah, hi. And you are?
H: Hi.
A: Yeah. And who are you?
H: I'm Hi.
A: What, you're so high you can't tell your name? What do you take? Care to share? Kvas, maybe?
H: No, I'm not high, I'm Hi.
A: *facepalm* Ok, see you around when you're better.

Conclusion №1: One shouldn't just grab any words from other languages and stick them into one's novels. Research is usually beneficial.
Conclusion №2: I do realise that Russia somehow translates to a dark and exotic place in the mind of an average US citizen who knows nothing on the subject except what has been spoon-fed to her/him by the US media. But one has to always make a reality check with such things since all the hype is not reality-based and the journalists who inspire treating Russia as some 'kingdom' are usually just uneducated bums who have no idea what they are writing about. There are lots of expats from US/EU/worldwide who go to Russia to work here and who are pretty much ok with it. If everything is so bad and sinister, then what the hell do they go to Russia for?

Overall, a good read, even if somewhat unwieldy due to the above-mentioned word and world troubles.

Q: Если это не первая ваша книга о личной эффективности, то вы наверняка узнаете GTD Дэвида Аллена, MYN Майкла Линенбергера, семь навыков Стивена Кови, эссенциализм Грега МакКеона, элементы тайм-менеджмента Глеба Архангельского, Франческо Черило с его помидорными техниками, техники 18 минут Питера Брегмана или 12 недель Морана и Леннингтона, успеватель Василия Кислого и техники работы с прокрастинацией Питера Людвига…
(c)
Q: Психолог Михай Чиксентмихайи описал явление, названное им состоянием потока, в котором процесс решения мыслительных задач проходит легко, может продолжаться долго и приносит массу удовольствия.
(c)
Q:

Wow! A reread!

An insight into the brain's inner workings. The alternative mechanisms of sight that some blignd people demonstrate are particularly illuminating.
A definite must reread.

Not sure if this was 100% real science. Or maybe 99%... Genes of mother and father vibrating to mom and dad's words? That's one step short of genes thinking for themselves. That's hard to believe and even harder to prove. Not sure if that's pseudoscience.
Overall an interesting read of short pieces of deceptions related topics.

An insider to a stroke, Jill has given a fascinating insider review of what happens when brain suffers.

Overall, I bit weird, a bit different though engrossing. The strategic part was with way too much emphasis. And the emotional line rather crazyish:
You get employed by a guy #1
> You run from him
>> You screw lots of guys (implied)
>>> You screw some stranger somewhere on a business trip (#2)
>>>> You turn to guy #1 for help
>>>>> You use the guy #1
>>>>>> You manipulate the poor SOB #1
>>>>>>> You love the #1
>>>>>>>> You get into a love triangle with the initial, brainy, #1 guy and another, hulkier, one #3
>>>>>>>>> The poor brainy SOB #1 dies
>>>>>>>>>> You go crazy over his death
>>>>>>>>>>> Take your revenge, scaring half the jungle (Q:“Where is she?” “Fuck if I know. If we’re lucky, she jumped overboard.”(c))
>>>>>>>>>>>> You go to Morocco to rescrew the guy #2. Nice approach to replacement, huh? What a downer...

What I don't like from the very beginning is that the timeline seemingly doesn't match:
1. Q: Each of his steps brought back the dread of her first entry into the United States. Similar doors and a similar experience—how much could have changed in nine years?(c)
2. Q: The arrangement had been going on as far back as Munroe had known him—that muggy summer night seven years before, when prejudice in a hole-in-the-wall bikers’ bar had turned to violence and she’d thrown in her lot with the underdog.(c)

From 1 follows that Vanessa hasn't been to the US for 9 years. From 2 follows she was in a fight in some godforsaken bikers' bar in the US 7 years prior. Which, in my book, is a mismatch in a plot.

3. Q: SIX YEARS AGO Kate Breeden had a thriving law practice in downtown Austin ... Breeden took what was left, put it into an investment fund, packed up, and moved to Dallas to start over.
They’d met on the Southern Methodist University campus, where Breeden had returned for an M.B.A. and Munroe was in her sophomore year. (c)
4. Q: Breeden spoke again. “It’s been two years, Michael. Consider it a good omen. Come on home.”(c)
5. Q: Now came the possibility of an assignment far outside the area of her expertise, and for that reason it intrigued her—that, and the fact that she had not returned to the continent of her birth since abruptly departing it nine years ago. (c)

Well, from 1-5 it is clear that the chronology is all over the place. Obviously, at some point the author changed her opinion concerning the geography of VMM but didn't follow up on it throughout the plot. Which is too bad since it makes me one cranky reader. Grrrrrowl!

And don't even get me started on the villain(s). Naive, that's their second name!

Still, the narrative is really different from this reading segment which guarantees the book its 5 stars. I always praise originality and novelty more than anything.
Basically, this book clicked quite a bit with me, which gets it bonus points.

Unsurprisingly superficial. Chess players, sadly, rarely are able to orient adequately in life. This had been marvellously reflected in a well-known Nabokov's novel and this book is a testament to this.
An ex-chess-champion who decided to become a yet another safe-proclaimed Cassandra of a better-than-though politician. Gosh! God knows there already are millions, if not billions, of those on this overpopulated globe and any other professional would be of immensely more use. The author's a vastly worse politician than a chess player and a writer of even less qualifications. His analytical real-world skills are altogether nonexistent. Sadly none of these stopped him from penning this diatribe full of propaganda and fear-mongering:
Q: "Putin's Russia, like ISIS or Al Qaeda, defines itself in opposition to the free countries..." (c) Actually, one can reverse it: "The self-proclaimed free countries, like their allies ISIS or Al Qaeda (which do include the US-backed opposition groups in Syria, yep? *), define themselves in opposition to Russia." Both statements are opinions, and as such both are entitled to exist in a liberal world.

PS. I hope Mr K at least got paid for this nasty stuff from some country's taxes.
PSS. * https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/national-security/trump-ends-covert-cia-program-to-arm-anti-assad-rebels-in-syria-a-move-sought-by-moscow/2017/07/19/b6821a62-6beb-11e7-96ab-5f38140b38cc_story.html?hpid=hp_hp-top-table-low_ciasyria-310pm%3Ahomepage%2Fstory&utm_term=.6691d0530f17
*http://edition.cnn.com/2017/07/20/politics/cia-syria-anti-assad-rebels/index.html
*http://www.wnd.com/2015/02/u-s-backed-syrian-group-joins-islamist-fighters/
*https://southfront.org/isis-commanders-joined-us-backed-moderate-opposition-southeastern-syria-reports/
Really, WP, CNN and a bunch of other media basically confirm that there have been covert programs to train Muslim guerillas, financed until recent date by the dime of the US taxpayers, for Mr Trump to stop. Had there been none, would he have been able to stop any? Don't think so.
The next question should not be about Moscow. It should be what the hell did Mr Obama think when he authorised training guys who go back and forth between ISIS, US-backed opposition and God knows what other terroristic groups? What, there are no longer any poor people in the US?
Even a person with extremely poor imagination could think of other ways to utilize that money more productively, yep. For instance, one might pay off the US external debt which is the biggest on Earth to date.

Here goes a flowing story line, refreshing coincidences and outright weird heroes...
Q: He lifted the desk phone and typed 49, and after a doorman’s military opening gambit—“Yes, sir”—he cut in: “Name.”
“Steven Norris, sir.”
“Listen carefully, Steven Norris. Are you listening?”
“Uh, yes. Sir.”
“If you ever send a goddamned Homelander upstairs again without clearing it with me first, you’re out of here. You’ll be guarding the front gate of the U.S. embassy in Baghdad wearing a George Bush T-shirt instead of body armor. Got it?” (c)

Q:
...He checked his rearview for Vance, Reel, and assorted bogeymen.
I’m not growing paranoid. I am paranoid. And who could blame me?
(c)
Q:
Her firm core had come from agonizing exercise and careful diet. It had nothing to do with appearance. The core was power central. And fat slowed you down. In her world that was poison
(c)
Q:
There were three ways to approach the mission. For a mission was what Jessica Reel was on.
You could start from the bottom and move to the top.
Or start at the top and move to the bottom.
Or you could mix it up, be unpredictable, go in no particular order.
The first option might be more symbolically pure.
The third approach greatly improved Reel’s odds of success. And her ability to survive.
She opted for success and survival over symbolism.
(c)
Q:
It had been traumatic in ways that even now Reel didn’t fully understand or appreciate. The experience had come to define her, and guaranteed that many normal things people did in life would never be part of hers.
What happened to you as a child, particularly something bad, changed you, absolutely and completely. It was like part of your brain became closed off and refused to mature any further. As an adult you were powerless to fight against it. It was simply who you were until the day you died. There was no “therapy” that could cure it. That wall was built and nothing could tear it down.Maybe that’s why I do what I do. Engineered from childhood.
(c)
Q:
“It’s ancient history. I’m not much into history. I try to be more of a forward thinker.”
“Your compartmentalization skills are amazing, Robie.”
He shrugged. “Necessary part of the job. Hindsight might be twenty-twenty. You learn from mistakes, and you move on. But every situation is different. One size does not fit all.”
“A lot like working cases. So how much longer are you going to be doing what you’re doing?”
“How long are you going to be doing what you’re doing?”
“Probably till I drop.”
“You really think so?”
“I don’t know, Robie. You said you’re a forward thinker. I’m more of a live-in-the-present kind of person. So when are you going to call it quits?”
“I probably won’t be the one making that decision.”
She sat back, took in the meaning of his words, nodded. “Then maybe you should try to make sure you’re the one deciding.”
“Doesn’t go with the territory, Vance.”
They said nothing for about a minute. Each played with the drink in front of them.
Finally Vance asked, “Have you seen Julie?”
“No,” he replied.
“Didn’t you promise her you’d keep in touch?”
“I promised you too and look what happened.”
“But she’s just a kid,” countered Vance.
“That’s right. She has a long life ahead of her.”
“But a promise is a promise.”
“No, not really,” answered Robie. “She doesn’t need me anywhere near her. She’s got a decent shot at a normal life. I’m not going to screw that up for her.”
“Noble of you.”
“Whatever you want to label it.”
“You’re a really hard person to relate to.”
Robie again said nothing.
“I guess as long as you do what you do this is how it’ll be.”
“It is what it is.”
“Do you wish it could be different?”
Robie started to answer this seemingly simple question and then realized it was not nearly as simple as it appeared to be. “I stopped wishing a long time ago, Vance.”
“Why keep doing it, then? I mean, I have a crazy-ass life, though nothing like yours. But at least I have the satisfaction of putting slime away.”
“And you think I don’t?”
“I don’t know. Do you?”
Robie put some cash down on the table and rose. “Thanks for the call. It was nice catching up. And good luck on your case.”
“Do you really mean that?”
“Probably more than you know, actually.”
(c)

It made a different reading. I love how things have been turning out.
Though the self-medication sounded like a bit weirdly taken on: really, who the hell cares if it is self-medication or doctor-prescribed one as long as the person it taking heavy addiction-inducing drugs? It's basically drug problem, not self-medication one.
And who sleeps with their knives close to the bed? Even I wouldn't dare as I would be bound to at least cut myself while sleeping. Why not take all dangerous items away from the bed? Lock them up, if needed? Drugging felt unnecessary.