An Exercise In Reciprocity

For once, a serene and quiet morning. Over a leisurely breakfast, I was ruminating about Toronto's mayoralty campaign, and the three main contenders. In the world of Shakespeare, this contest would be among Sir John Falstaff, Richard III, and Oberon. The Falstaffian miles gloriosus of the piece is of course Rob Ford, hell bent on saving every cent for the taxpayer (and possibly destroying the city in the process. Or not -- Lord knows the spending spree of the last eight years has been unconscionable). Then there is George Smitherman, whose past history in the provincial government cost tax payers millions (the electronic health fiasco). All one has to do is change the first "m" in his name to "l", and -- well, you get the picture. Finally, cometh Joe Pantalone, our beneficent Oberon, who will maintain things as they are, and for whom I would cast my vote in a heartbeat, given one proviso: that money grows on trees.

So I pondered, until Irving appeared.

"It's him. On the secure line."

I sighed, shoved the remnants of a cheese omelet aside, and got on the line.

"Well?"

Sir Harry was in no mood for pleasantries. "This Israeli software thing. Give it and that woman Rachel back."

"I think not." How the hell had Harry found out? Irving was as tight-lipped as they come, and Tilly Hatt could be tortured all the day long and never tell. (I know -- I was tied up in the adjoining cell in Mogadishu). But then, Harry had a wide circle of contacts, some of whom were no doubt in Israel itself. Doesn't matter, he'd found out.

Sir Harry continued. "Then you'd better fix it some other way. They are really, really angry, and are liable to commit some very untoward actions."

"I had better fix things then."

"Just get it done, Simone. Get it done." And he rang off. Terse. That was the word for Sir Harry. Terse.

A wee bit of background. Rachel, a stunning brunette, computer wizard and Israeli friend of my minder Irving (himself ex-Mossad) had arrived the other day at the Manor. She had fled from Israel, and had brought with her a piece of software she had developed. The software was entitled WRAITH, and it allowed access into computers without the users ever knowing that such access had occurred. I thought this rather neat.

Turned out that Rachel was dead set against the Israeli settlements beyond the 1967 borders. She had used WRAITH to misguide and frustrate those settlers, mainly by sending necessary building materials to all the wrong places, usually deep into the West Bank, although not Gaza -- Rachel had no use for Hamas. The Palestinians were delighted. The Israelis were not.

I saw some other uses for such a piece of software, but also knew the Israelis would persist until they got that software, and hopefully Rachel, back in Israel. Things could get nasty, and, my serene breakfast now ruined, I was forced to give the matter a great deal of thought. And then inspiration came.

I rambled through the Manor, and finally found Rachel and Irving in the gym, fencing. Of course. What else would you do on a gorgeous morning but hack at each other with pieces of metal? The two were so intent at their craft that it was a shame to interrupt, but needs must, so I simply turned off the lights. Nothing brings swordplay to a sudden halt faster than darkness -- think about it.

They were upset, but then I explained to them what I wanted.

"I don't know if it's possible," said Rachel.

"It had better be, sweetie," I stated. "It's either that prison in Tel Aviv. Oh, and Irving, you're riposte needs work. Now off you go."

The reference to Tel Aviv seemed to work, and the two disappeared into the computer room. Five hours later, success was reported.

The next day, after contacting my pilot Hank Grimsby, Irving and I were winging our way to Ottawa, where Canadians' tax dollars go to die. We were heading to the Israeli Embassy on O'Conner Street. Irving had a contact there, whom he referred to as Levi. The chances, I thought, of that being his real name were doubtful in the extreme.

We landed, got a cab. and soon were at O'Conner Street. I made for the entrance, but Irving stopped me.

"We're to use another entrance. Behind the building. No point in involving the Ambassador in this. Public figure and all."

This made sense, and after a rather extensive but, dare I say, somewhat enjoyable body search, Levi being rather good-looking, we were ushered into a plain room and got down to business.

The gist of the whole thing was as follows. We would keep a copy of WRAITH, but also give the Israelis software that would detect WRAITH when it was being used.

"We want the woman," said Levi.

"No you don't. She's far more valuable to you where she is. Throwing her into prison solves nothing, and you also lose a significant asset."

"We've already lost that asset," Levi said flatly.

"Actually, not so," I replied. "Here's why." I opened my compact, carefully lifted the powder tray, and withdrew three memory sticks. "Some body search. You, Levi, have to get more familiar with women. Now listen. The first stick contains WRAITH. The second contains the software that will detect its use. The third," and here I paused for effect, "contains the complete schematics for ALL of Iran's nuclear facilities. And from time to time, more stuff will be sent. Rachel believes in Israel. She just doesn't believe in the sort of irredentist behaviour that the settlement program represents, and wishes dearly that Bibi would get off his ass and do something about it. Now do we have a deal?"

Levi sat back, his eyes riveted on the memory sticks. Finally he said, "I'll have to clear it with my superiors, but yes, we have a deal."

Ain't reciprocity wonderful?