“Because I have no clue what they mean.” She flips the sheet over and folds the corners in again. “News flash—no one here understands anything anyone is saying.”
“Surely, you exaggerate.” I watch her paper airplane take shape. “There are better ways to sound clever.”
She looks up from her handwork. “Like what?”
“Like the good old proposing something that makes a lot of sense and that people can relate to?”
“Sooo pre-PowerPoint!” Camille rolls her eyes. “If you say things that make sense, your colleagues—worse, your boss—will be able to grasp what you said. They’ll ask follow-up questions. You’ll have to come to staff meetings prepared.”
“Because at MINDFUCH you don’t?”
Cocking her head, she studies me. “How big was the outfit you worked for before?”
“Tiny,” I admit.
“State-funded? A nonprofit?”
“Neither.”
She doubles up her plane. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“That you’re used to communicating intelligibly.”
“Doesn’t every organization want to do that?” I ask, even as I’m guessing her answer. “Isn’t that necessary for their survival?”
She folds the right wing of her plane down. “Not the big ones. Once they’re on a roll, they just, you know, roll.”
“Downhill,” I prompt.
“Sure.” She folds the left wing. “But when you’re big, you’re also slow, and it takes a looong time to reach the bottom. By the time you’re there, no one can figure out what happened, and no one takes responsibility.”
“Not even the top management?”
“Especially not them.” She looks pointedly at the inner circle. “The guys on Yasmina’s left are diplomats that got benched before they could make it to ambassador. The guys on her right are sidelined government officials, all tucked away in MINDFUCH to finish their careers. Not the responsibility-taking types.”
I study the men and women around Yasmina. “Don’tthey get bored here? Isn’t it hard to do nothing, after a real career in the foreign service or a ministry?”
“The perks keep them happy enough, I guess. Good pay, departments to boss around, nice offices on the top floor, access to the VIP rooftop terrace.” She looks up from her work. “Rumor is, it’s amazing.”
“Lucky them,” I say.
Fessing up that Max has taken me to that terrace doesn’t strike me as a good idea.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about your mission, the one you went on with Maximilian Delaroche.” Her eyes sparkle with curiosity. “How did it go?”
“Um… Not so well.”
“What happened?”
“We failed to get the object we were after.”
I’m afraid she’ll ask for details, but she knows better than to press.
“Was the trip itself fun, at least?” she inquires instead.
“Oh, yes,” I admit. “Great fun.”
