"But what if honour pricks me off?"

Falstaff's speech on honour (Henry IV, Part I) was much in my mind after I received a frantic call from Matilda Hatt, my colleague in The Trade. She again was pushing the boundaries of the CIA, although I also knew that that organization wouldn't let her go. A crack shot, with superb martial arts skills, Tilly also had something exceedingly rare in bureaucracy -- imagination. In any event, she was calling from the Swat Valley in Pakistan, and wanted my help in re-locating some individuals. "They could," she tentatively suggested, "work in one of your sugar beet farms."

The individuals in question were four teen-age girls. According to Tilly, they had been badly battered, cut and bruised from being caught in a crossfire during Pakistan's attack upon The Taliban.

"Tilly," I said, "there were hundreds like that. Why these four?"

Tilly explained in an anger-tinged voice that, when found cowering under a large rock, the girls had then been treated for their injuries by a team from Medicins Sans Frontieres. They were now in good health, but couldn't return to their village.

I thought for a minute, then got it. "I suppose, Tilly, that they were treated by a male doctor."

"Bingo, Simone. No relative was anywhere near their location. If they return home, the village elders, those wise paragons of justice and mercy, will order their death, likely by stoning. The family's honour has been called into question, and word has it they've already dug four stoning pits."

"Well," I replied, "given this situation, a number of things are called into question, but honour isn't one of them." A plan began to form in my mind. "Tilly, they will need visas."

"Already taken care of. Your boss, Sir Harry --"

"Sir Harry?"

"Oh, hadn't you heard? The Queen tossed a bauble to him. For services rendered to the United Kingdom."

"No shit. Will wonders never cease. Now Tilly, here's what I propose."

The plan was to send the girls off to the UK, to the government run project exploring the sugar beet as an alternate fuel. This would necessitate a call to the now Sir Harry. It went as follows.

"Why?" he said. Harry's telephone skills left much to be desired.

"It's Ernestine," I said, using my usual code name. "Congrats on the knighthood."

"You wouldn't tie up a secure line for that."

"I need a favour."

"Good. So do I. A big one." (It was, but that's for another day.)

I explained the situation, and reluctantly he agreed to employ the girls until they could be comfortable in English society.

"And they will need an Urdu-speaking mentor."

He replied, "And no doubt a personal trainers, their own cooks, plus some fashion designers --"

"Stop it. And this is a good thing you do. An honourable thing."

"Well, I did make the Queen's Honour List after all."

He had a point. There is honour, and then there is cultural crap masquerading as honour. Even Falstaff could work out the difference.