The Price of Admission

As suggested in my last note, I took Svetlana Marinskaya up on her offer to meet in Paris, if for no other reason to escape the endless whining from all those who felt that they had been hard done by during the recent G20 meeting in Toronto.

So there we were, in a small cafe in Montmartre, sipping kir and enjoying ourselves. At least I was until Svetlana said "About that G20 thing. Really. A few cop cars burned? Some lunatics arrested? Really, Simone. You call that a protest?"

"I don't call it anything except an absolutely wrong venue for such a meeting. Or any future ones, for that matter."

"Oh," said Svetlana, "then where would you schedule such meetings?"

"Several places come to mind," I replied. "Baffin Island would do nicely. Or somewhere near Cape Horn. Or Death Valley in July. Temperature there can get up to 46 degrees Celsius. Another kir?"

Svetlana nodded, and a waiter was instantly attentive. I should mention at this point that the temperature being on the warm side, we had both dressed accordingly, in Tee shirts and very short shorts. Dolce and Gabbana of course. This had an effect upon our garcon, ensuring prompt and thoughtful service. You work with what you have.

Svetlana would not let the topic go. "But this Toronto G20 thing --"

"Svetlana, enough of this. Look, the whole mess boils down to the fact that the police followed their orders magnificently. The fact that these orders were very ill thought out by the Powers That Be -- in this case the Mayor and the Premier -- is the reason any enquiry will be doomed. Those two will never admit to error of any kind."

"Not like your Agate Christie once wrote."

"Agatha, sweetie. And what on earth are you talking about?"

"Well, I remember from English class a book of hers featuring a Miss Mapples --"

"Marples."

"Whatever. Anyway, all the other characters were convinced that one man was guilty because he had admitted that he had been home alone and had no alibi. Miss Marples said that she rather trusted this man, because he admitted things."

"Like your countrymen. And women."

"Now what are you talking about?"

"The Great Spy Scandal. Now The Great Spy Swap. Lord, I haven't heard so much admission since reading St. Augustine's Confessions. There was old Igor Sutyagin and three others stating that yes, they had spied for the CIA. And there was the fair Anna Chapman and the other nine saying yes, they had spied for Russia. Although in the former case, real damage was done; in the latter, any 'secrets' that got passed on came from Google. I'd say the U.S. got the better of in this particular case."

"Agreed," Svelana admitted ruefully. "But as I said, the Kremlin just forgot that cell was operative. Putin and Medvedev are still beside themselves, and the whole thing will die a very quick death. Although rumour has it that Vladimir is quite taken with the redhead, and after some slapping around, wants to turn her into a honey trap."

"From her pictures, may be a short trip. Uh oh, got to go."

"Yes, where is the faithful Irving -- ah, I see him at that brasserie."

I inquired, "And where is your minder, if you care to, uh, admit."

She replied, with a little smirk, "He's the waiter, cherie."

We rose, and I touched her arm gently. "All well and good, my friend, but I find it useful to keep the following lines in mind. From La Rochefoucauld, I believe: 'If you're prepared to admit it, it's not the worst thing you ever did.' A la prochaine."