Oddities

I was annoyed when the secure line rang. I had been asked by a certain atheistic publication to point out the errors Martin Buber had made in his book I and Thou, and was enjoying the experience. However, needs must.

It was Sir Harry's aide on the line, Sir Peter Crapp. Now he and I have an interesting relationship: I believe him to be smarter than I, but according to Matilda Hatt, he believes the same of me. We circle each other warily, but do get along surprisingly well. Sir Peter is also a magnificent cook, and what he does with a smoked pork chop...well, words fail me.

In any event, Sir Peter had a tale of woe to relate. Some unpleasantness had occurred at Sir Harry's club. Apparently Sir Harry had taken too large a swig of a bloody Caesar he had been imbibing, and had swallowed the celery stick. On the way down, the stick had somehow managed to scratch his larynx, temporarily disabling his speech function. In his efforts to dislodge the stick, Sir Harry had fallen, severely bruising his ribs on a nearby Chippendale table. Now he was in hospital, mute and immobile.

But not out of it by any means, and Sir Peter informed me that Sir Harry had charged him with getting me to pick up a package at the usual place. When retrieved, I was directed to make the best use of the material, a use that should be of maximum discomfort to the Ungodly.

This was not welcome news, since "the usual place" was a seat at the local hockey arena, and could only be accessed during an actual game. I should add that I have purchased two platinum season tickets, and that these are given to a local teen-age homeless shelter with the proviso that I would need then from time to time. I made certain that this condition was made known to all at the shelter -- too many of those kids had had the rug pulled out from under them at the last moment. No need to repeat the idiocy.

I should admit that I enjoy a good hockey game. What I do not enjoy is the screaming decibels of sound that accompany the experience. The Powers That Be that manage the arena seem to be terrified of silence, much like teen-agers with their ears constantly glued to their I-Pods. Recently, however, a solution has presented itself. My driver, Ahmed, and his wife (and my gardener) Consuela, are mad hockey fans, and cheer on the local team with gusto. They were delighted to attend, and to retrieve what had to be retrieved.

I asked Sir Peter, "Do you know what is in the package?"

"I have a good idea, but have not actually seen the material."

"Well you will."

Ahmed and Consuela were delighted to go, and I agreed to baby sit their little girl, Maria Aisha. Hell, I've raised four myself, and occasionally (just occasionally, mind you) felt the need to keep my hand in.

The process of retrieval is simplicity itself. One of the seats has a false bottom that opens when -- well, that's classified. Unless the person knows the opening procedure, it is impossible to detect. How all this was done is also classified, although my good friend, Code Barry of CSIS, let me in on the mechanics of it all.

All Ahmed had to do was to open, retrieve, and slip the package into Consuela's purse. Ahmed is adept at this, waiting for a goal and acting as the crowd goes into wild celebration. Sometimes, however, our roller coaster team doesn't score a goal, in which case Ahmed waits for a fight to break out, causing the same effect.

Later that night Ahmed returned with the package, a video disk. I inserted it into my player, and Sir Peter and I viewed the thing. The footage was a bit raw, but it showed clearly a large number of North Koreans being beaten and hauled away to prison. Their crime? Not bemoaning, weeping or wailing enough at the recent funeral of Kim Jong Il.

"Hmmm," said Sir Peter.

"Hmmm," I replied. "What do you think?"

"It's your call."

"Iran. It could be inserted into their Government TV news broadcast. Tilly's colleagues at the NSA managed that not too long ago. Let old Ahmedinejad justify that to Kin Jong Un."

Sir Peter said, "Fascinating, and a cosy relationship would become decidedly less cosy. But Iran will immediately try to trace the tape's origin. Any thoughts?"

I thought for a moment, and then had it.

"Easy-peasy. The Kremlin."

Sir Peter stared at me, then said, "Let us never become enemies."