Of Prizes and Politics

I had been watching television (never a good thing; the word is half Latin, half Greek) and then discussing certain aspects of politics with my friend and lover, the Compte de Rienville. In America, the whole political arena appeared to be filled with wolves.

"You mean, as in Kipling, in The Jungle Books?" said the Compte.

"Not even. Those wolves had an ethos. Akela, Raksha, Grey Brother, they all followed a moral code, and straying from that code was ill advised. Listen:

'For this is the law of the wolf pack,
As old and as true as the sky;
Those that do keep it will prosper,
But those that do break it will die.'"

The Compte said, "Sounds pretty harsh to me."

"Only if the code is broken. Now, in many places in the world, the code itself has been shattered. Look at America. Poor Obama-Akela is at his wits end trying to corral that Bandar Log known as Congress. As for Russia, well, there we are dealing with Putin-Shere Khan. And in Zimbabwe --"

"Enough, Simone. Your point is made."

I shut up, and curled up closer. We were in a suite the Compte had obtained at the Georges Cinq in Paris, courtesy of one of his D.G.S.E. contacts. Wonderful set of rooms, delicious food and drink, and that edible dress I had purchased from Sebastian in New York had really proved its worth. As the Compte had remarked, it was not often that two primal urges, to eat and make love, could be satisfied at the same time. Or, if you were very skilled, simultaneously. And the Compte was very skilled.

What had brought me to France was the fact that my Ukrainian sugar beet holding had won first prize for producing better sugar beets than anyone else. Thus, Strunsky Enterprises was the proud recipient of the Golden Sugar Beet award, a beautiful trophy featuring a healthy sugar beet balanced somehow on top of a pyramid. The ceremony was held at Versailles, for a French concern had won a subsidiary prize, for most attractive sugar beet. (Are we surprised?)

I had chartered an aircraft, and brought all the workers down from Lviv for the event. I mean, it was their award, and their work, that was being rewarded. Yes, I take my 10 per cent, for providing the original finance, but the rest belongs to them. Would that certain bankers and financiers -- but I digress.

My Ukrainian supervisor, Bohdan, accepted the award, and spoke well and graciously on behalf of the workers. It was all good.

So maybe things will turn around in this wolf-like world we live in, and a code of ethics see the light again. Not for nothing had Lord Baden-Powell turned to Kipling when seeking a moral underpinning for his Boy Scout movement. In this regard, Tom Lehrer's somewhat scabrous words flashed into my mind, and I leave you with them:

"Be prepared! That's the boy scout's marching song;
Be prepared as through life you march along.
Don't solicit for your sister, that's not nice,
(Unless you get a good percentage of her price)
Be prepared, to hide that deck of cigarettes,
Don't take book, if you cannot cover bets,
And if you're looking for adventure, of a new and different kind,
And you meet a little girl scout who's similarly inclined,
Don't be nervous, don't be flustered, don't be scared --
Be prepared!

Nuance in New York

Off to New York, to see my son Sebastian's new line of Fall clothes. Somehow Sir Harry had heard of this (Harry is good at hearing things) and asked me to transport something to one Lin Po. He of Chinese Intelligence.

"You have met before, I think." Sir Harry said.

"Yes. In Nome. At the Idatrod. Where the husky was wounded." I could sense Harry shuddering.

"That was unfortunate, and best forgotten," he said abruptly. "Now a very small package should arrive within the hour. Normally I would use diplomatic channels, but this is --"

"Extremely sensitive, and probably well off the official record," I interrupted. "But since America has started its little Homeland Security adventure, this will take some ingenuity. And double the fee. Or some help in obtaining that sugar beet concession in Kent."

Sir Harry sighed, "Given the state of Her Majesty's Government right now, I'll opt for the fee. Do well."

And that was that. The package duly arrived, a small marble about a half inch in diameter, containing God knows what in microchip format. So off I went, and there was no problem at customs. Women simply have a myriad of places to hide stuff on, or in, their persons, and it would take something much more elaborate than an airport scanner to detect where that marble was secreted. Smiling sweetly at the wand-waving airport officer just helped everything along.

After a nice lunch at Sardis, it was off to Sebastian's, where I purchased a number of items, including a sheath dress that was made out of some vegetable thingy and was entirely edible. This raised a number of intriguing possibilities, something I would explore with the Comte de Rienville. And soon.

Arrangements with meeting Lin Po involved the Rockefeller Center, and I duly arrived there, or at 30 Rock as it was better known. At least since Tina Fey's TV show. I have never met the woman, although I admire her work. I have, however, met her doppelganger, Sarah Palin. ("I can see everything from my house!") In fact, it had been Palin who had wounded the husky mentioned above. Contrary to her PR, she is a terrible shot. But I digress.

A limo pulled up, and out popped the chauffeur. This was, of course, Lin Po himself, he being no slouch at being perceived as a non-entity. We chatted at the side of the limo, knowing that the diplomatic plates would keep the N.Y.P.D. at bay. At least for a short time. I have found over the years that you can push the N.Y.P.D. a bit. But only a bit. Then they push back. Hard. So Lin and I had better be quick.

I gave him the marble, for which he proffered thanks.

"And my best to Sir Harry, as well." he added. "And I have something for you. It should fit on your fourth finger, right hand."

Does his homework, does Lin Po. And the ring was beautiful, an iridescent opal centered by four tiny golden clasps.

"Might I ask --"

"You may. The information in the opal contains certain land holdings that may be favourable for sugar beet growth. You would still have to go through official channels, but this data will save you considerable time in research. And any proposal would be looked at kindly."

"As, no doubt, would my value as a conduit."

Lin Po's expression did not change, and, not for the first time, I thought that the expression 'po-faced' had originated with him, or at least one of his ancestors. "As for future value," he said, "that's as may be. It could be that things are slowly getting out of control, and the relay of essential information will become crucial. As Louis XIV put it, "Apres moi le deluge."

"Wrong," I said with some heat. "It was not even Louis XV, as most sources relate, but his mistress, Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson, better known as Madame de Pompadour. And what she actually said was 'Apres nous le deluge'. This is the sort of thing that happens when men write the history books. Check it out."

Lin Po said, "I had forgotten your penchant for details."

"Details like liberty, brotherhood, and equality."

"Now Lady Simone," Lin replied as he re-entered his vehicle, "let us not carp. And as for liberty, wasn't it the American, Will Rogers as I recall, who wrote 'Liberty doesn't work as well in practice as it does in speeches?'"

Then he drove away. With Lin Po, you had to be satisfied with a draw.

Electing The Elect

"Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness." So wrote John Keats of autumn, but his fine ode would have unlikely be written had he been in Canada. Here, you see, autumn is celebrated by having an election, whether that election is needed or not. And the one being projected is definitely not needed, and every non-Tory candidate that hoves into view should be asked one key question: "Given the global meltdown, just what on earth would you have done differently?" This will produce silence, of course, and you should cast your ballot accordingly.

Moreover, the cost of this running of the reptiles is roughly $300,000,000, begging a further comment: "Recession? What recession?"

That said, I still have doubts that an election will occur. After all, there are some 98 MP's who, if they lose their seat, would also lose their parliamentary pensions (you need to retain your seat for six years to qualify) and many of these creatures are making the most money they ever have in their life -- or will again. This would change radically in autumn of 2010, but for now..... I also wondered why this fact is not more reported on, but then it occurred to me that any reporter who brought this into the open would lose any chance of ever being appointed to that wondrous Canadian Valhalla -- the Senate. Myself aside, few would risk that.

Now to another election. My colleague Code Barry has just returned from Afghanistan, where he was monitoring, well, something. Certainly not an open and honest election. From him I learned the following:

* Over four times the ballots were returned than had actually been issued;
*They were returned in job lots of 200, 300 and 500, numbers which defy logic (although not neatness);
* In one case, Karzai received 700 votes from a district deep in Taliban-held territory. Great, except for one small fact: the polling station never opened; and,
* There is no word in Dari or Pushtu for "scrutineer".

Given this, it really is time for NATO and the USA to get the hell out of there, given the proviso outlined in my September 1 entry.

Mind you, elections are always tricky, in that it is the counting, not the voting, that is the rub. Just look at the American debacles of 2000 and 2004. Then, if memory serves, there was 1948, where Lyndon Johnson won his Senate primary only after the state Democratic committee voted to certify the ballots of dozens of loyal supporters.

Who, as it happened, were all dead.

I wonder what Keats would have thought about all this?

Once More Into The Breach -- Not.

Sir Harry called on the secure line, with a request. Apparently he and certain international colleagues were getting together to sort out Afghanistan, and he wanted my input.

"This meeting. Can I go?"

"No"

"Why?"

"Directors only. And you can be very upsetting at times."

"Directors only? Goodness, something might actually happen. Oh, and tell Robert Gates that I still haven't received that case of Dom Perignon for that nonsense in Minsk."

Sir Harry broke the connection.

I didn't bother asking where the meeting was being held, (Sir Harry wouldn't have told me anyway) although it would be some five star hotel or resort somewhere. They live well, do Directors of Intelligence.

After some thought, I wrote a piece and fired it off. This is the gist of it.

Where Afghanistan is concerned, the major focus should be on getting the hell out. It is, as history tells, the place where Empires go to die. Just ask the Brits. Or the Russians. Or for that matter, ask Alexander the Great. Yes, I understood why NATO and the U.S. was in there in the first place -- the Taliban wouldn't give up Osama bin Laden, but as I (and Sir Harry) know, the bunker bombs on Tora Bora took him out on the second day of the war. And the Taliban weren't going to invade anyone. Their own internecine clan warfare is quite enough, and they simply lack the wherewithal, both in military hardware and will, to think of moving too far beyond their borders. They tried this in Pakistan, but when they got too close to Islamabad, Pakistan decided to act. Bye bye Taliban. They also want nothing to do with Western women, who terrify them. I mean, what if their own burka-clad women suddenly saw that there was another role model? No, in Afghanistan they are, and there they will stay.

Al Qaeda is an entirely different kettle of fish. They do have resources, and the will to use them. But the plotting that led to the catastrophe of the World Trade Centre had little to do with Afghanistan. Hell, most of the plot was thought out in Europe, Germany in particular. So keep up the vigilance, and as the plots stand up, knock them down. That's what intelligence agencies are all about.

As for Afghanistan, bring the NATO and American boys and girls home, but not before sending this message to the various warlords and tribal elders in both Afghanistan and the tribal areas of Pakistan: "If we have knowledge that an Al Qaeda-like training facility has been constructed, expect a satellite-guided missile right down your throat."

What, you might ask, will happen to the Afghan women? Nothing good, would be my response, but as I have noted before, it is the women themselves that must throw off their chains. This will take time, but we did it and so can they. And yes, with the departure of NATO and the Americans, tribal warfare will erupt, and things will return to normal, as it has been in Afghanistan for hundreds of years, and change will only come slowly. As an Afghanistan saying puts it, "A Pushtun waited for 100 years, then took his revenge. It was quick work."

A Grecian Reflection

A good friend of mine, who was also an editor of a widely-circulated magazine, called me and asked if I would write a short piece on the Kennedy Era, an Era drawn to a close with the death of Ted Kennedy.

I was reluctant to do this, for several reasons, not the least of which was that I never met any of the Kennedys, and would be writing from sources, not personal experience. (This would not be true of Lord Strunsky's father, who had an almost visceral hatred of Joseph Kennedy, a hatred he shared with Churchill.) In any event, I declined, but this did not stop me from reflecting.

My first thought, when I considered the most recent Kennedy to pass away, was a line from Marlowe's Dr. Faustus: "Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight." There is little doubt in my mind that Ted Kennedy was set for the American presidency, until that horrific night at Chappaquiddick, a night that killed that possibility forever. (And really killed the unfortunate Mary Jo.) It is not my job to re-hash the details, other than to state that almost anyone else other than Ted would have been crushed. Period. Full stop.

But Ted continued on, and over the years, in the U.S. Senate, attempted to 'straighten' that branch. In doing so, the man achieved, if not redemption, at least a record of real accomplishment. And if his Senate work on universal health care can be brought to fruition....well.

Yet if you widen the scope on the Kennedy family, the whole tale plays out as if drawn from a Greek tragedy. Something along the lines of the House of Atreus, where most of the major players are doomed from the start. Yes, there is success: Jack becomes a beloved President, and entrances the world when he stated in a beleaguered Berlin, "Ich bin ein Berliner!" (Although, given his Massachusetts accent, the phrase came out as "I am a donut!" The Berliners attending were quick to forgive.) Less happy was his statement, "Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country." This is perilously close to Horace's "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori" [It is a sweet and noble thing to die for your country] something Siegfried Sassoon rightly termed "the old lie."

Then Bobby, who wanted to go after corruption, and as Attorney General, did. And would have pursued this even more fiercely as President. Well, said the Cosa Nostra, we can't have that. And they didn't.

So it may well turn out that the most lasting Kennedy legacy will be left to Ted, with the provision of affordable health cars for all Americans. In this he has switched from a Greek setting to one of the Old Testament, as Moses pointing to the Promised Land, but not allowed to go to it. And just who will the Joshua be to achieve this?

To that, I think we know the answer.

Academic and Non-Academic Pursuits

My youngest, Victoria, dropped in for a few days. She had finished her thesis for an MA in History at Stanford, and wanted me to review it. No problem, and I was glad to see her still in one piece. You may recall that Victoria has a somewhat bizarre sideline, where she has perfected acting as a dead body for various American television shows. I thought this ridiculous, but could not deny that she received a good buck for being sliced, diced and mangled in all manner of ways.

I reviewed her work, and was impressed. She had argued well that while religion was at the basis of the Thirty Years War, the economics of the situation were far more important. Put differently, the religious issues (Catholic v. Protestant) were for public consumption; the real issues were decided by bankers, traders and merchants. Not unlike things today.

I did have one big quibble, and put to her the fact that she didn't give enough stress on the importance of the early Battle of the White Mountain (1620) and the brilliance of the Catholic commander, Johann Tserclaes, Count of Tilly. He was, I argued, streets ahead of his opposite number, Christian of Anhalt.

"Tilly was an outright bastard," Victoria said.

"Inglorious, you mean. Well so were they all. And Anhalt had the high ground on the mountain. No way he should have been defeated. He just didn't see the importance of the bridge. Tilly did. And why that battle was so important is that it led to three centuries of rule over Bohemia by the Hapsburg's. That should surface somewhere in your writing. And one other thing."

Victoria groaned.

"You miss one of the key outcomes of the 1648 Peace of Westphalia."

"And just what was that?"

"Now Vicky, no need to be snappish. What I am getting at is that at Westphalia, the principle of non-interference in a state's internal affairs surfaced for the first time. In fact, if you wanted to be really bold, you could draw a direct line from Westphalia to that ghastly mess in Rwanda. But better not. This would lead to a feeling of guilt on the part of your examiners, and this would not be to your benefit. But the principle could be highlighted."

Victoria was silent for a time, but then, in a complete non-sequitor, said, "I'm thinking of moving back up here."

"Wonderful! What brings this on? I thought your proximity to your little parts in film and television were of importance, and a lot of the work is in LA. "

"Oh, I'd fly down for that. In fact, I've got some more work in 'True Blood', and -- funny you mentioned inglorious bastards, or rather 'ingloreous basterds' -- I've been approached by some of Quentin Tarantino's people. They were impressed with the scene where the vampires --"

"I don't want to know. And as for Tarantino, he'll probably have you thrown into a threshing machine."

"How did you know?"

I looked at her, shocked.

"Oh, Mum, just kidding. But he is brilliant. Anyway, things are just getting too hairy in the States. You can just feel the hate, Republicans against Democrats. And every one's armed to the teeth. I just don't want to be there when things explode. "

"Vicky, you've forgotten your Churchill. As he put it, 'America usually gets it right, after she's exhausted all the alternatives.'"

"Maybe. But I'm still coming. And you've forgotten your friend Bill Maher, and his statement, 'Democrats have moved to the right, and Republicans have moved into a mental institution.'"

"Vicky?"

"Yes?"

"Good to have you back."

Giving Perspective To Matilda

I had to cope with a rather distraught Matilda Hatt yesterday. All I knew was that she was furious with her immediate superior, whom she had dubbed Optimus Prime. (Tilly quite liked the Transformer movies.) I sent Ahmed in the Bentley to fetch her from the airport, something he was eager to do.

This was not always the case. Ahmed, being of a Middle East persuasion, was often singled out as he parked and waited for whatever personage was arriving. He would patiently explain to the officers that he was no relation to Bin Laden, had been a Canadian citizen for years, and indeed was married to a nice Catholic girl, an act that in certain areas of his homeland would result in him being beheaded. Eventually the officers, who all appeared to be retired drill sergeants trying desperately to fulfil a huge gap in their lives, would tell Ahmed to move on. This quite often resulted in his circling the airport and arriving again at his spot. Whereupon the whole process would start again.

Things were different now, thanks to the advent of the cell phone. Ahmed could wait, along with others doing the same thing, on a ramp just out of sight of the airport officers. When he received a call, he would know precisely the spot where the arrival was, zoom in and collect the person, and would then sail off, noting with pleasure the look of fury on the officers as they rushed to the pick-up spot, too late to harass.

So off he went to collect Tilly, and soon she had flounced into my study, demanded a healthy shot of Grey Goose, and began pacing around the room, venting. Big time.

"Simone, you're not going to believe this. I was all set to join a team to help out in the upcoming election in Afghanistan, and I was ready to kick ass. Get those Afghan women off their butts and into a polling station, and have them plump for any candidate that is pushing for their equality. And you know what Optimus did? She removed me from the team, with orders to take two weeks leave! The bitch!"

"I would have done the same thing."

"What! You've got to be kidding. After what we've been through? Simone, really."

"Tilly, stop pacing and sit down. By the way, I like the outfit." Tilly was dressed in a stylish black linen flared skirt and white blouse. It was a far cry from her usual army fatigues. Hell, I hadn't thought she even owned a skirt.

"Well, I'm meeting this guy later -- oh, stop it. You're trying to change the subject."

"Perhaps. But for now, just sit and listen for a bit."

Reluctantly Tilly folded herself into one of the big study armchairs, and I began. I explained that her "kicking ass" as she put it was precisely the wrong approach. You don't jump from the 9th century to the 21st that quickly. Just imagine, I asked her, if she was, oh, I don't know, say a serving wench in the 15th century who suddenly found herself thrust into the 21st. "You would be gobsmacked," I said. "What on earth would you do?"

"I would," Tilly replied, "get a job in a pub as a waitress. Some things never change. And then I would listen. And learn."

Good on Tilly, and she was right about the waitress job. A bum pinched in the 15th century is no different than one pinched in the 21st.

"So you would listen and learn," I continued. "Well, that's what you have to allow Afghan women to do. And it takes time. Look at Mary Wollenscraft. Look at Emmeline Pankhurst. And in Canada women were only considered legal persons in the 20th century."

"Really?" she said.

"Really. Look up Rosalie Abella on the topic. And this above all -- give them time. We needed it. So do they."

"I guess you're right," she said glumly. "God, some things are so hard."

"Progress is never easy. But where women are concerned, I have hope." I reached for a book. "This, Tilly, might give you hope as well. Emmeline Pankhurst said it. 'We have to free half of the human race, the women, so that they can help free the other half.'"

And for the first time that day, Tilly smiled.

I Attend A Town Hall Health Care Meeting

From Nairobi to Chicago, leaving Hillary to go on to the Democratic (Hah!) Republic of Congo. Good luck with that. In Chicago, I undertook a small task for Sir Harry, who was helping out his American friends -- all five of them. This involved retrieving and dumping about $60 million dollars worth of heroin into Lake Michigan, all neatly wrapped in bags emblazoned with their point of origin, the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan. No doubt the number of blow fish will increase....

Having some time to kill before returning to the Manor, I decided to drop in on one of Barack Obama's town hall meetings, set up to explain universal health care to Americans. That evening found me in the wonderful town of Gary, Indiana. The meeting had just started when I slipped in the back. Two harassed congressmen were trying to make a case for revamping the horror story that is American health care, but were continually being shouted down by several people in the audience. Cries such as "Socialism on the march!", "We don't want our health care to be decided by government death panels!" and "It's a Canadian plot to take over our country!" filled the air.

Eventually the congressmen simply gave up, and those citizens who actually wanted to learn something were left none the wiser. As the meeting broke up, I heard several of the group that had caused the disruption say they were meeting across the street at Macy's.

Macy's turned out to be a rather seedy bar around the corner from the community centre where the meeting had been held. Sensing that there was more to all this than met the eye, I headed for Macy's as well. But not before taking precautions.

I wore a red flannel shirt tucked into a pair of Levis, and had on some rather scuffed boots (I had done the scuffing earlier in the day, sensing that Gucci would not be well received in this part of Gary). Before entering the bar, I fastened two buttons to my shirt. Over my left breast, I placed a button for the National Rifle Association; on the left, one in bold letters saying 'Truckers For Christ'. Sir Harry always was keen on an operative melding into a particular environment.

As I made my way forward, I was aware of several appreciative glances, and I had not been at the bar for ten seconds before one of the men had offered to buy. Seeing that all were Budweiser fans, I made a sacrifice and had the same. (We are a long way away from Laphroaig or Grey Goose). And then I listened.

They apparently could only stay in the bar for about an hour, because the bus that had brought them was set to leave at that time. All were delighted to be in Gary, and they were off to another town hall the next day, Des Moines, I think. What delighted them was the fact that not only were they receiving a small cash stipend to disrupt these meetings, they were also going to get deep discounts on any pharmaceutical drugs they might purchase, for the next three years. The bus and driver, you see, were paid for by a cartel of drug companies.

At this point I left the bar, headed for the rest room, and suddenly, and very violently, vomited. I had realized that the battle to give Americans a decent health care plan was not an uphill one, but more one that involved climbing a mountain akin to the Eiger.

But Obama knows this. Or so one must hope.

Of Bill And Hillary And Al and Walt

Sorry to be a bit late with this one. I have been out of the country, courtesy of Sir Harry (Lord, how that comes trippingly off the tongue) and the trip took longer than expected. My task was to deliver to Hillary Clinton certain obscure codes related to nuclear submarines, which raised the question of what Sir Harry got in return -- a kind of Rumsfeldian 'known unknown'. Well, time will tell -- too late as usual.

I thought it would be a quick trip to Foggy Bottom in Washington, but the woman had hared off to Nairobi, and hence things took a bit longer than expected. The codes were encrypted into a microchip, and although I was thoroughly, and I mean thoroughly, searched in Nairobi, the microchip was safely in....well, never mind where. So, a successful mission.

Hillary was also flushed with success. Apparently two reporters for Al Gore's TV station, Current, had strayed across the border between China and North Korea. Whether or not this was so is irrelevant -- the upshot was that they were seized and immediately fired off to Pyongyang for trial and a sentence of 12 years of hard labour. Why young women are continually and foolishly putting themselves into this sort of situation escapes me. Have they never read T.S. Eliot's play The Cocktail Party?

So there were the two women, Euna Lee and Laura Ling, languishing in a Pyongyang jail, totally at the mercy of the Dear Leader, Kin Jong Il. As Hillary tells it, steps were immediately taken. She, Al, Bill and Barack got together, and through various back channels -- step forward, Sir Harry -- they determined what the Dear Leader really craved, the receipt of which would be a pardon for the two women. Kim, you see, had always gotten along fairly well with Bill Clinton, and wanted to see him again. (Kim had thought George Bush to be insane, to which I say, 'takes one to know one'.) And besides seeing Bill, he wanted a special gift. Apparently the Dear Leader is fixated on Disney films, and particularly wanted Snow White, The Little Mermaid and Cinderella. Bill agreed to bring the whole canon on DVD, but Kim said to not bring Fantasia -- the 'Night On Bald Mountain' segment scared the crap out of him.

All this was put in motion, and shortly after, success. Triples all round, a rare win-win situation for Washington. Even the Republicans stayed out of this one, busy as they were trying to prove that Obama's birth certificate was bogus. Oh, well, you can't have everything.

Hillary and I celebrated with some Grey Goose at the Embassy. However, one awkward moment arose when she asked me to tell her what she might be doing wrong.

"You're doing just fine."

"No, Simone, really."

"Well, you might consider, from time to time, wearing something else than a pant suit. A dress, a jumper, I don't know. I mean, you are an attractive woman. Such attractiveness can be a weapon, and weapons are there to be used."

"Point taken."

"But not just yet," I continued.

"What do you mean?"

"I have just learned that a woman has been arrested in Khartoum for wearing pants, and she's set for a flogging. So might I suggest something?"

"Please."

"Send old Al-Bashir your picture in your pant suit, along with a note saying something along the lines of 'We're watching you, you old bugger.'"

"Simone, you're priceless."

"Yes, I am."

"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.

The Perils of Politics

A gloomy day outside, cold, with a driving rain that slashed across the mullioned windows of my study. The summer of 09 is resembling more and more the coming of a new ice age, and I am informed by a reliable meteorological source that the ice has only recently left Hudson's Bay and that the polar bear population is on the rise. Must call Al Gore and ask where his calculations went astray.

Given the mess outside, I was content to work on a paper I had been asked to give to the movers and shakers in the American Republican Party. My working title was "Then And Now", and described in detail just how far the Republicans had strayed from their original roots -- the importance of self-responsibility, the firm divide between church and state, small but effective (and transparent) government, and a tax system that was as loophole free as it could be, with a form that ran to no more than three pages.

Definitely, I thought, a recipe for future electoral success, although I did make the point that this would take some time to bring about. For instance, the rabid screaming of Sean Hannity, Ann Coulter and Rush Limbaugh (to name three) had to be curtailed, something unlikely to occur overnight. At present, they do their party no good at all.

At this point my private line flashed. Since only four people knew the number, my interest was piqued. And then I was talking to a rather distraught Michelle Obama.

"Simone, this health care thing is horrible. People are saying all kinds of untrue things, and Barack at times despairs."

"Well, I never said it's going to be easy. It took some time to occur in Canada as well."

"And that's another thing," she continued. "His critics are accusing him of bringing in Canadian health care, and calling him a socialist. He's not. Really."

"Michelle, there's nothing wrong with a bit of socialism -- it actually can temper some of the raw edges of capitalism. But that's another issue. As for the harsh criticism, you must remember that he is aiming a dagger right at the heart of the health insurance and pharmaceutical companies. They will not go down without a fight. For now, however, I would ask you to emphasize to Barack the importance of the Tenth Amendment."

"The Tenth Amendment? What do residual powers....oh, I see. Like your Mr. Douglas." (One smart lady, this.)

"Exactly. Just ensure that the public health option is included in the final bill, but under Tenth Amendment provisions. That way each state can decide whether to opt in to a public option, and receive appropriate financing to do so. This might even draw some Republican votes, given that party's love of states rights. Of course, it won't play in Alabama or Mississippi, but it might in Vermont. Or even that promoter of gay marriage, Iowa. And once one or two states opt in, you're on your way. Up here, it was first Saskatchewan. Soon after, when the Saskatchewan hospitals and doctors realized that they weren't doomed, that they could survive, even prosper, other provinces followed suit, and the Federal Government shortly had no choice but to bring in a country-wide plan.

"Simone, that's a hell of an idea --"

"Oh, I suspect it has surfaced in Barack's mind as well. Might get a little more emphasis, though."

"I hear you. But those damn critics..."

"Nonsense. My critics have issued a fatwa that calls for my torture and beheading. So let it go. Although I do have a definition of a critic that might help."

"I'm all ears."

"A critic is a virgin who wants to teach Casanova how to make love."

"Oh, I like that."

"Thought you would."

Occasionally, You Win One

Bohdan, my Ukrainian sugar beet supervisor, called me to give an update on the various plantations scattered hither and yon about the planet. He should have been safely ensconced in Kiev, but this call was from Kandahar, something that gave me a jolt. Bohdan is brilliant at sugar beet nurture and growth, but AK 47's and I.E.D.'s are way beyond his remit. He replied that one must go where the sugar beet goes, as in the Frankie Laine song.

"Rubbish," I replied. "And the song was about wild geese, not sugar beets."

"Well, it sort of rhymes --"

"Stop it. Now what has happened?"

It turns out that the sugar beet project was doing extremely well. It is located outside the village of Deh-e-Bagh, south of Kandahar in the Dand district of Afghanistan. It got (pardon the term) its seed funding from Canada and Germany. Mind you, this took a bit of backing and filling. Originally CIDA, the Canadian international aid group, wanted to encourage Afghans to grow ginseng. When I got wind of this through Code Barry (see missives, passim) I used my not inconsiderable influence to bring this insane idea to an abrupt halt. Ginseng is difficult to tend and grow in the best of circumstances, to say nothing of the fact that the minute it is planted, it begins to kill itself. Sort of a mantra for CIDA, but I digress.

Long story short, after a quick conversation with the PM, the good Stephen Harper snarled down the blower, and soon CIDA officials were purchasing sugar beet seedlings like mad (I actually marked down the price somewhat -- we must all do our bit).

The Afghans who would be doing the actual planting and tending needed, and deserved, good wages. To underwrite these, I turned to Angela Merkel, who had really appreciated my help in getting the gas flowing again after that silly tiff between Yuliya Tymoshenko and Vladimir Putin. (And no, the woman still trots about wearing that braid.) I explained the situation to Angela, as well as reminding her that the German soldiers posted in the calm north of the country weren't actually doing much more than lazing about. She said I exaggerated, but was not averse to making a further contribution. So good wages came about.

As the project, approved and sanctioned by the village elders, began to grow, it naturally came to the attention of the Taliban. Horrified that a village was succeeding on its own, was enjoying the experience, and was actually creating wealth, they launched a suicide attack and an ambush. What is remarkable is that the Afghan National Army repelled the attack all on its own, wiping out several insurgents at the cost of one Afghan soldier who died, not in battle, but in a rifle mis-fire.

Bohdan, along with the Canadian commander stationed in the area, witnessed the whole thing.

After the attack, the villagers swelled with pride. This they had done by themselves, and it is this sort of thing that gives hope to the whole enterprise.

Nevertheless, I ordered Bohdan to get his ass back to Kiev as quickly as possible. Winning one small battle doesn't win the war, and the village would now be seen by the Taliban as a much greater threat than anything American marines could pose. I hope the Powers That Be see this as well.

A final comment. It is a truism that if Afghanistan is to succeed as a state, it is the Afghans themselves that will bring it about. In every state, in every nation, it has always been thus.

You go for it, Iran!

Not The Garb Age

Arrived back in Toronto, having trod the primrose path of dalliance in France, as well as being booted out of Turin. My son Mark was visiting, he who delights in hurtling down fearsome icy slopes on two sticks. The Vancouver Olympics loom, and he had persuaded Irving to give him some physical training suited to skiing. Since Irving works with me on training related to a somewhat different purpose, but still hard physical activity, I wondered whether Mark knew what he was getting himself into. Perhaps Irving will knock some sense into him. Or maybe break a leg -- that would do for the Olympics, and he would be safe. So go the musings of a mother.

Mark did raise a question, however, and one that demanded some thought.

"Ma, how come there's a garbage strike in Toronto? The Mayor is, or so everyone says, slightly to the left of Lenin, and is usually best buds with his union pals. But this time he's holding fast. So how come?"

How come indeed. And it was ironic that the point I had made in Turin, that a strike should only involve two parties, not an innocent third, was occurring right on my doorstep. Not that the Manor was affected -- owing to some excellent legislative grandfathering, the Manor was in an area of the city that still used transparent tendering and commercial pickup, saving millions in the process. But I digress.

Mark's question was well taken. The thing didn't make sense. I poured a serious Laphroaig, and pondered, using the key analytical question that is always germane -- who benefits?

At first glance, no one: neither the union, nor the Mayor (who was taking considerable electoral heat) and certainly not the benighted taxpayers. I was momentarily at a loss, and decided to call in some help.

The help came from my friend/enemy Don Guido, who knew a thing or two about waste management.

"Ah, bella," he said in gutteral tones, "how goes la dolce vita? Perhaps you and I --"

"Will keep things as they are," I said crisply. (You have to be careful with Guido). "What's this garbage strike all about?"

"You buying that acreage in Caledon for sugar beets?"

This change of subject was not unexpected. If Guido was going to give me something, he was going to get something in return. Altruism and Guido were unknown in combination.

"I might if the price is right."

"I will see that it is," he replied. "As for the garbage nonsense, I have nothing to do with it. They're not my people, and anyway, I would have handled it--ah -- quite differently."

"I don't doubt that for a minute," I replied. "But what's really going on?'

There was a pause, and then he said "Streetcars."

"Streetcars? What the hell do --"

"Aspet, signora, aspet. I've given you enough. And the price for the land will be fair. Ciao."

And that was that.

I sat back, sipped, and thought. I then rummaged through some files, made some further calls, and managed to crack the mystery.

Toronto, via the Mayor, had agreed to purchase a goodly number of new streetcars from Bombardier, signed the contract, and everything would be fine save for one thing. Toronto didn't have the money. The Mayor had put in some, the Province more, and the Feds -- nothing. (I should mention that the current Conservative federal government hasn't managed to elect a member from Toronto in years -- why would they be keen on supporting the city in anything?)
But the Mayor, insanely, had thought that the Tories would be all embarrassed and cough up the dough.

The Tories decided to be embarrassed.

So a monetary shortfall had to be met, or the Mayor, along with his inner cabal, could find themselves in a nasty court fight, one that would appal the electorate. To top it all off, an election was due in 2010. The answer was to save money that would normally go to garbage collection. If the strike could be made to last until mid-to-late August, the shortfall could be greatly eased, if not erased entirely. Such are politics today.

I had thought originally that the Mayor was being frighted by false fires. Not so.

This time the fires are real.

Perverse Parallels

On my way back from Turin, I took the opportunity to visit the Compte de Rienville at his chateau in the south of France. He had heard about my little speech to the ILO.

"Run out of town, were you?" he kindly stated.

"Sort of. I thought logic and sanity would carry the day. I was wrong."

"Well," he said, "if you argue with a reformer, you will always lose. C'est la vie."

"C'est la guerre would be more appropriate. But enough of this."

Thus started a wonderful weekend, and resting up after one of our romps, enjoying a magnificent Chardonnay, the Compte raised an interesting topic. "Have you noticed, cherie, the parallel between the financial mess and the rise of vampires in film, television and books?"

"Can't say that I have." What the hell was he talking about?

He explained, and the subject was explored throughout the weekend. Truth be known, things got a little out of hand, and the Compte has the bite marks to prove it. But let us not stray from the point.

The gist of his argument goes as follows. Just about the time that organizations such as Citibank, AIG and Lehman Bros. were ramping up, one of the most popular shows on television was Buffy The Vampire Slayer. Now I actually got hooked on that show, because of a brilliant subtext. An example is worth repeating.

In an early episode, Buffy (the winsome Sarah Michelle Geller) is receiving an assignment back from Giles, the school librarian (Anthony Head, now slumming around in the BBC series Merlin, where he plays Uther Pendragon, about as far from a librarian as you can get.) Anyway, Giles hands the paper back to Buffy, saying 'And, Miss Summers, I really can't critique your use of pure reason.' Wow! (Kant himself, however, must have turned a bit in his grave.)

To continue the Compte's argument, things progressed in the real world, or rather went downhill. We had the insane growth of unsupervised swaps, collateral debt options, and shaky derivatives, all this accompanied by a staggering growth in sub-prime mortgages and that kindly personage known as Bernie Madoff. A huge and fragile pack of cards that could do nothing but tumble down. Which, of course, it did.

At the same time, in the media universe, we got John Carpenter's Vampires, Blade Runner, and the Underworld (rather silly) series. Even teen-agers were drawn in with the publication of the Twilight books, and the recent eponymous film. The most recent entry into this dark catalogue is the HBO series, the somewhat grisly True Blood. This is also one I watch, for the subtext, as in Buffy, is hilarious. The central plot hook rests on the fact that the Japanese (who else?) have invented a blood substitute that vampires can subsist on. This "true blood" is not as nourishing as the real thing, but a goodly number of vampires (not all) have emerged from the closet and are fighting for a place in society. As for the subtext, we learn that the state of Vermont just passed legislation that allows vampire/non-vampire marriages, and we also learn that Brad and Angelina are in the process of adopting a vampire baby. You see what I mean?

The Compte does not see this vampire fascination as an accident, and posited that unconsciously society knew damn well what was happening. He pointed out that government is very careful to outsource blood donations, it being a bit too close to the bone; that is, government literally taking blood from their citizens. Yet, he stated, the financial blood was metaphorically sucked out of the system. "They were nothing but vampires", he said heatedly. "Vampires! And we knew it."

I had my doubts, but then a further insight came to me that supported his thesis. What do we call all those beholden to financial firms and like organizations?

We call them stakeholders, that's what.

Q.E.D.

Solidarity Not So Forever

My sugar beet plantations appear to have attracted some notice. Not the plantations themselves, mind you, but the relationship I have established with those who actually tend the beets. Apparently Strunsky Enterprises came out on top of a poll conducted by the International Labour Organization (ILO) involving the degree of satisfaction felt by the workers towards management. I was thus invited to give a paper on just how such a high level of worker satisfaction was attained. The paper would be presented at the ILO's International Training Centre in Turin.

I was glad to accept. I had not been to Italy for some time, not since a rather nasty incident involving the takedown of an Albanian gang trafficking women out of a house in a back street of Naples. The gang's crude motto was "See nipples and die", and I was happy to bring about some reality to the last word in the motto.

So it was off to Turin, along with Irving, who was always ever mindful of certain contracts out on yours truly. I stayed, of course, at the Meridien Lingotto. I mean, who wouldn't? Wonderful place, and the finest osso buco in the world.

I wore my little black dress (Thank you, Coco!) which may have been a mistake. The Italian official who introduced me, after mentioning my sugar beet business, went on to mention my four children and, staring pointedly at my breasts, allowed that I was truly a bella figlia of the Labour Movement. This could be taken in a variety of ways, but one should always give Italians some leeway.

The presentation started off well. I stressed the importance of workers uniting to achieve an honest wage, safe working conditions and sane benefits. I got a round of applause from the European participants by pointing out that the first recorded strike was organized by the weavers of Douai in 1245. Thus Europe had led the way. I also gave credit to the brave efforts of the miners in Wales and England, quoting some passages from Orwell's Down The Mine for effect. This was well received by the Brits.

The Americans in the audience came to life when I referred to the work of such Labour luminaries as Eugene Debs and John L. Lewis, and I ended this section with a tribute to the Industrial Workers of the World, better known as "The Wobblies". I even quoted the lines from the Joe Hill song:"But Joe, you're ten years dead. " / "I never died, said he."

So things were going swimmingly. Then the shit hit the fan.

I had stressed the power of a strike when a firm or business is maltreating its workers. The workers suffer financially, but so does the firm, and pressure builds inexorably to one of two conclusions. Either a deal is reached, or the firm goes out of business. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, a deal is reached.

The process goes off the rails, however, when those workers work for government. A strike in the public area hurts the workers, but more importantly the public, who really aren't involved at all. The government is not hurt financially, and indeed may gain. The duality of management and labour is now compromised by a third party. This is akin to kidnapping an innocent for ransom, and holding that person powerless. The way out is that if you are going to work for the public, then you must accept that the right to strike disappears, and is replaced by a binding arbitration process. The arbiter, of course, must be acceptable to both union and management, and strategies such as publicizing the job action and 'work to rule' can, and should, be used. But a strike? Never.

Well, you must have thought I had summoned all the demons from hell. . First, a stony silence, then a cascade of boos and hisses, interspersed with terms such as "fascist" and "aristocratic bitch". My Italian host tried to quiet the crowd, but to no avail. Didn't matter -- I was done anyway.

At this point an overlarge (I am being kind here) Frenchwoman stormed onto the stage, and this brought a vision of Dickens' Madame Defarge to mind. She was screaming something about my having forgotten the true doctrine of union thought. The crowd had gone silent, intrigued by this frontal attack, although I suspect only some understood her French.

I looked closely at this personage, and caught a flicker of fear in her eyes -- she could recognize, as most can, when someone has killed.

"Doctrine, you say?" I responded in French. "Doctrine? Madame, I direct you to one of your esteemed authors, Michel de Montaigne, and I paraphrase from that fine mind: 'The doctrine which you have learned could not reach your mind so that it has stayed on your tongue.'" Then I turned to my host and said in his language, "La commedia e finita!"

Which it was.

The Power of a Sliver

I am not a fan of Twitter -- only 140 characters allowed. Not enough. Could you imagine Plato delivering The Republic as a series of tweets? But I do have an account, with the address known to a very select few. Thus I received the following tweet from Michelle Obama: "Barack worried about his health sliver. Any suggestions?"

What Michelle was referring to was her husband's position on reforming American health care. He wanted a "sliver" of the Health Bill currently being debated by Congress to contain a public health option. This would be funded and administered by the government, and be open to all who wished to sign up. Participants would pay a pro-rated tax, and including such an option would go some distance to ensuring full health coverage for all Americans. All other plans run by insurance companies would stay operational, but they would have to compete.

This whiff of competition, of course, was viewed by the insurance companies, the HMO's and the American Medical Association much as an Orthodox Jew would view a person eating a ham sandwich at the Wailing Wall. Intense lobbying immediately ensued, and Senators began to collapse right and left. All those campaign contributions, you see.

Yet not all is lost. A recent New York Times / CBS poll indicated that 85% of Americans overwhelmingly support substantial changes to their health care system. Well, why wouldn't they? America, after all, is 37th in the world in health care success, just behind Morocco, if the WHO is anything to go by. A smaller percentage (72%) stated that the government could do a better job of holding down health care costs than the private sector.

Those opposed to the public option, if not super intelligent, are at least cunning. If a public option is part of the Bill, and is successful, then in order to compete, or even to exist, their profit-taking mind-set would have to be radically altered, and altered downwards. That, to be sure, is horror itself. Affordable drugs? Less unneeded and expensive tests? Not worth thinking about, even if savings could reach $3 trillion by 2020, as estimated by one economist in the Los Angeles Times.

So the fight will be fierce. In this regard I sent Michelle two tweets.

1) If the Bill reaches his desk with no public option, veto it.

2) Google Tommy Douglas.

Stirrings in Iran

Occasionally, you win one. I have learned since my chat with Mr. Wen at the Chinese Consulate that an invitation was extended by China to Kin Jong Un, the youngest son of the Dear Leader, Kin Jong Il. He accepted, and is now in the process of (one hopes) getting an earful from North Korea's firmest ally. The youngest Kim has an education and has travelled internationally, and may just be conducive to bringing his nation one or two steps closer to sanity. We will see.

I had just started to plan a dinner party for the Clintons, who were in town and wanted my input on bringing a sane health plan to the U.S.A. without having a "single payer" system. This would be an impossibility, but the conversation would be worth having. However, the process was interrupted by an excited call from Matilda Hatt, my colleague in the CIA. Tilly was all agog about developments in Iran.

"Isn't it wonderful, Simone!" she exclaimed. "They're becoming a democracy!"

Oh dear, I thought. Tilly has gone overboard again. I mean, the woman is crackerjack in the field with an M16, but geopolitics is another thing entirely. I had to, not without some sadness, disabuse her. The following contains the gist of my remarks.

Tilly had likened the Iranian post-election clamour to that of Lech Walesa's activities in the Gdansk shipyard and referred as well to the coming down of the Berlin Wall. This argument doesn't hold. Iran is not Poland or East Germany (neither has an oil field) and Communism is not Islam.

Iran is, at the present moment, a theocracy, and the people involved with disputing the recent election of Ahmadinejad are up against the words of Iran's leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenai, who characterized the results of the election as "divine". In effect, then, any person who takes issue with this is disputing Mohammed's mouthpiece, a step not far from disputing the word of Mohammed himself. (Allah appears to be silent on all this.) Therefore, unless all the disputers have suddenly seen the light and become atheists, something unlikely in the extreme, the result will hold. Sorry, Tilly.

Moreover, I tend to believe that Ahmadinejad actually won the election. The man is enormously popular in rural areas, where the populace is much more conservative than those living in urban areas, and where his semi-insane fundamentalism is well-received. Also, he handed out free potatoes. Who can resist that?

There are, however, some interesting stirrings that are occurring. One is the Mullah's ignorance of modern electronic communication in the form of Facebook, YouTube and Twitter. It must have astounded them that a rally could be held here or there on very short notice. How did all those citizens know the exact time and place? And all this stuff is flying around the world. The Taliban are a step ahead here, banning every form of communication.

The second interesting thing is that so many were prepared to confront the religious authorities. They are brave souls indeed, to start questioning "divine" edicts. In this context I recall words from my great aunt Maud, who was worried about my tendency to question the validity of organized religion. "Well, Simone," she said, "just remember, if you're going to kill God, be sure you do it on the first blow."

Finally, I think the challenger, Mir Hossein Mousavi, will survive -- he is now too well known around the world, and the Mullahs are all too conscious of the power of a martyr. (I worry more about his wife, who had the guts to campaign publicly for her husband. Given the vicious nature of the thugs who comprise the Islamic militia, the Basij, along with the creeps who make up the Revolutionary Guard, well, I worry for her.)

Tilly's response to all this?

"Well, Simone, you could be wrong. I think they're going to pull it off."

Deep down, I wished that, just this once, to be wrong

But I'm not.

Orienting to the Orient

Outside in the Manor terrace, happily buried in Sir Thomas Browne's Discourse on Sepulchral Urns, I didn't hear the phone ring.

Irving did, came out, and handed me the receiver. His look told me that poor Sir Thomas was going to get short shrift.

I took the receiver, and heard one word: "Ernestine."

Shit! I thought. That was the code to place a call. Work. I left the terrace, and went to my office to use the secure line.

"Well?"

"The Chinese want to talk to you." Harry, my handler, always came right to the point.

"Do I want to talk to them?"

"You do. And soon."

"Visas," I replied, "particularly that visa, take time."

"Won't be necessary. They have arranged a meeting in Toronto. At the Consulate. It's on St. George --"

"I know where it is. When?"

"Tonight. At eight o'clock. You will be met by a Mr. Wen."

"I would have thought at the least it would be Hu Jintao."

"Always the idiotic remark." Harry had never appreciated anything approaching a lightness of touch. He continued, "But go there alone, and leave that Mossad butler of yours at home."

"Which could mean that I won't get back to home."

"You will. This has been discussed. Oh, and wear something pretty. Mr. Wen is drawn to the female figure."

"Harry, what a sexist thing -- " But the line had gone dead.

Irving, of course, was determined to accompany me. We compromised on his being somewhere in the area.

Following Harry's directions, I took a bit more time with my wardrobe. My Donna Karan black pencil skirt, with a silk Givenchy blouse, would do nicely. For shoes I chose the Milano Blahniks, the pair that that harridan at Chicago O'Hare had tried to scoff last month. I debated whether to insert my small Beretta into my bag -- Prada of course -- but decided against it. Harry would have warned me if all wasn't on the up and up, and his information tended to be accurate. Not many have deceived Harry, and those that did have lived to regret it.

Ahmed drove me to the Consulate, dropped me off, and went to park somewhere to await a call from me to get picked up. As I approached the Consulate, I looked around for Irving, but of course he was nowhere to be seen. But I knew he was there.

I was welcomed in by an elderly gentleman, and taken to a meeting room somewhere towards the rear of the building. There I was greeted by a person who introduced himself as Mr. Wen. He appeared older than the man who had shown me in, and I wondered if the Chinese diplomatic corps had a policy of not allowing anyone to serve until they had been properly aged. Like cheeses.

"Ah, Lady Simone," he began "a real pleasure. Please, sit down." He took the adjacent chair, and looked me up and down, looks that would be more appropriate at a slave auction.

"Mr. Wen," I replied, ignoring his ogling, "I understand you wished to see me. Might I enquire what it is about?"

"You Westerners always want to rush things," he sighed. "However, when in Rome -- what do you know about North Korea?"

The question was so abrupt I was momentarily off-guard. "Uh, not a great deal. It's not a place to visit or vacation in."

"But you have visited. A year ago, if I have it right."

Had Harry let this slip? I doubted it. More likely this was straightforward intelligence work by the Chinese themselves. In any event, there would be little point in denying the matter.

"I may have spent a minuscule amount of time there."

"And wrote a report. This is a copy. Your employers were good enough to make it available."

Good Lord, so it was Harry after all. Wonder what he got in return?

"Well," I said, "if you've seen the report, why this meeting?"

"To clarify one or two things. And to get any further advice you may care to offer. Our government is aware of some of your -- activities -- and is impressed."

"I can't wait to get a card of commendation from President Hu."

"Our information also mentions that you are a bit of a smart ass, but let that pass. What we are interested in is any further thoughts that you have had on the situation, or information that might not have been in your report."

I thought for a moment.

"There were only two items I withheld," I said, "on the grounds they were ludicrous. One was the fact that Kim Jong Il, the Dear Leader, plays with Barbie dolls. The other was his huge crush on Jennifer Aniston. This didn't seem to be of earth-shaking importance."

"You may have erred there. But things are, how do you say, heating up. I would be interested in what suggestions you might have to, er, relieve things somewhat."

There are several things the People's Republic might do. All of them dangerous. You must realize that the Dear Leader is bat-shit crazy --"

"What? I don't understand the term."

"He's loco. Deranged. Therefore, my first and really only suggestion is to deal with the generals that surround him. They've got to be worried as well, and they can't all be as nuts as Kim. You do have contact with some of the generals, surely. God knows we don't."

"It's an avenue we have been looking at."

I crossed my legs, which got his full attention. "Do more than look, " I stated. "Much more. And that's really all I can give you. Now some tea would be nice. Oolong."

"Certainly. You have been most helpful. You know, should you ever decide to settle down in the East --"

"Doubtful. I am content right here. And I remember my Kipling."

"How so?"

I'm sure you know the lines, and I recited:

"At the end of a flight is a tombstone, with the name of the late deceased;
And the epitaph drear: 'A fool lies here, who tried to hustle the East.'"

He nodded, rose, and said."I'll arrange for the tea. And Lady Simone, I really don't think you're a hustler."

I thought, don't be too sure of that, Mr. Wen.

Politics Today: Of Miscues and Moats

I'm a bit late getting back from my Slavic sojourn, but a side-trip to Paris, and the Compte de Rienville, intervened. These things happen.

Thank God. Or perhaps Aphrodite. But let us not stray into prurience.

I needed some quiet time, and was just starting to relax with Brahm's 2nd when some items in the newspaper caught my attention. What on earth are the politicians up to?

First, the British House of Commons, where I read of MP's flipping houses, obtaining porn, and (although this almost beggars belief) cleaning moats. All courtesy of the beleaguered British taxpayer. Now I have thought of a moat to ward off the uninvited, but cleaning the damn thing would prove a bit expensive. If, however, the government would look after this....hmm, must raise the issue with The Mayor. He won't bite, of course, but just might succumb to a fit of apoplexy. One can only hope.

I gather poor Gordon Brown is going to soldier on, although Ministers are dropping like flies. Where is Sir Humphrey Appleby when you need him?

In Canada, things have taken a different turn. The Canadian Parliament is still recovering from the unholy machinations of Jean Chretien and the mammoth "Adscam" scandal, and expense account nonsense tends to stay under the radar, at least for now. No, the problem here is one of "leaving things behind." Things such as top secret documents. Maxime Bernier, Minister, left just such a document at his mistress' s apartment. Not good, but at least understandable, given how things happen in the heat of the moment, so to speak. What is more baffling is the behaviour of a competent Minister, Lisa Raitt, who also left top secret documents. Not at any one's apartment, but at a national television network. This requires some thought.

First, Stephen Harper, Prime Minister, is more than a little anal-retentive, and probably wants any and every document to have a top secret label. In his view, freedom of information requests are better described in terms of freedom from information. So any document left lying around -- well, you get the picture.

Still, this doesn't explain leaving documents at a television station. So...a puzzle, and in The Trade, whenever we are faced with a puzzle, one of the ways into the enigma is to raise the question, "Who benefits?" Now things become a bit clearer.

The documents Minister Raitt left behind were pretty mundane, dealing as they did with cost overruns at Canada's Atomic Energy Commission. Canadians, unless vacationing on Mars, knew all about this, although not the exact figure. That figure was going top come out at some point, and what better way than to come out side by side with a massive diversion. Her Majesty's Loyal Opposition, and all the media, immediately fell into the trap. The heat was on, not on the documents themselves, but on the way they had become public. It didn't hurt as well that Lisa Raitt is one of Harper's more attractive Ministers, and both the Opposition and the media take an unbecoming delight in pillorying a pretty woman.

The clincher to this argument resides in the fact that while the unfortunate Maxime Bernier was dropped like a hot potato, Lisa Raitt's offer to resign was swiftly turned down by Harper. (An aside -- at the recent election, Bernier was re-elected with a huge plurality. Quebec understands mistresses).

So there you have it. Or at least my take on the situation. And yes, I have my doubts, but I also remember my Voltaire: "Doubt is not a pleasant position, but certainty is absurd."

Until next time.

To The East

My oft-travelled cousin, Sir Robert Hazeltown, brings me some odd news from Russia. He had seen Swan Lake in St. Petersburg, and was startled to note that the ballet had created a happy ending, with Odette and her prince happily going off, no doubt to raise a number of ugly ducklings. He wondered what had happened to Odile, and two fates sprung to my mind. She had gone to Wall Street, as a true Black Swan. Either that, or she had fled Russia and landed a job pole-dancing in Bangkok. Whatever the case, this bore investigation, and since I had business in Ukraine, thought I would extend the trip a bit further east. I also needed to raise a rather serious matter with Putin. The trip was fine with my pilot, Hank Grimsby, and soon I was in the Lear, sipping Laphroaig and pondering the ironies of existence.

In Kiev, I met with my sugar beet overseer, Bohdan. All was going well, although he was having trouble fending off requests for a larger piece of the action from Yuliya Tymoshenko. I said not to worry -- I will get in touch with La Tymoshenko and remind her of certain favours owed, not the least of which was getting the gas flowing again. And the woman still hasn't lost that damn braid. Yuliya can handle a leveraged buyout, but her sense of style is the pits.

Then on to Moscow. At the airport, I had just got off the Lear when my cell phone rang. Very few have the number, but one who does is Vladimir Putin.

"Simone, dorogaya, word reached me that you were likely to visit. Where are you precisely?"

"At Sheremetyevo airport. And I am not your sweetheart."

"One can always hope. Stay there. I will send a car."

Shortly after, I was ensconced in a suite at the Kremlin. We spoke in Russian, in that I am fluent and Putin's English is awful , although he has mastered one word very well: 'no'.

"Vladimir," I said, "What's this nonsense about Swan Lake, with everyone going off into the sunset in a state of bliss?"

"Yes," he replied, "rather neat, that. Leaves people very happy, and forgetful that the economy is not what it might be. And we have a new version of Romeo and Juliet in the works."

"Don't tell me. The lovers survive, and go on to become major shareholders in Gazprom."

"Not exactly, but you get the drift, and the endings will be well received. Czar Ivan did the same thing with various court entertainments."

"I'm sure he did. He wasn't called 'The Terrible' for nothing. But sooner or later the populace --"

"Will do what we tell it to." He leaned forward. "And by the way, we have intercepted some information from our operatives in Pakistan. Apparently you are Number One on Al Qaeda's hit list. Just what did you do? I can only think of one thing that would get them so impossibly riled up. Let me see if I have it right."

"Speculate away."

"Our information is the following. We know you were in Afghanistan, near Tora Bora, a few days before the Americans attacked. We also know that somewhere in those mountains was one Osama bin Laden. Finally, we know that you left the area in one hell 0f a hurry." Putin stared at me for some time, then finally said, "You got him, didn't you?"

I kept silent.

"It's OK. The room is not wired, nor am I."

"No, your not Richard Nixon, nor were meant to be." I fussed with my skirt for a moment, then spoke. "Hypothetically, it might just be possible to track down a six-foot Arab with kidney trouble traipsing about Tora Bora dragging a dialysis machine. How hard could that be? And putting a bullet smack into the forehead. Hypothetically, mind."

"Ah," he said, "and of course the Americans knew, hushed it all up, and created a, a... I've forgotten the English term --"

"A bogeyman," I finished. "And now it's my turn. Vladimir, you and Medvedev must pay more attention to Iran and, particularly, North Korea. The Dear Leader is spinning out of control."

"That's China's problem. But we are monitoring things closely."

"You and China may have to do more than monitor."

"Point taken." Putin rose from his seat. "Now I must go. I've been invited to attend a seminar given by our leading physics researchers. All on the origins of the universe and the Big Bang."

I rose as well, saying, "I understand. Oh, and if you're meeting with your physics scientists on the Big Bang, you might raise a certain question."

"What question?"

"Just WHAT banged?"

There, that should start a healthy debate.

Meetings in Chicago

To the Windy City, where I had a number of meetings with various representatives of the Mercantile Bank of Chicago and the Chicago Board of Trade. At issue were figures related to sugar beet futures: to put it bluntly, they had flat-lined. What was going on?

Turns out that both institutions were participating in the current craze affecting American finance -- downsizing everything in sight. The result of all this was the letting go of senior managers (who knew their business) and retaining junior and less costly personnel (who knew squat.) Thus I quickly learned that these these ingenues made no distinction between sugar beets and beets, and this lumping together of two distinct entities had played havoc with the figures. After some heated words, this got straightened out, but still.

Cretins.

I had booked into the Knickerbocker on East Walton Place, and after the meetings, took time to recover from such nonsense and to enjoy a serious vodka gimlet in the Martini Bar. I had travelled with Irving, who was responsible for my security on these jaunts. He was somewhere in the room, just in case. The mad Mullahs are just that. Mad.

"Might I join you?"

I turned around on my bar stool, and there, of all people, stood Stephen Harper.

"Certainly, Prime Minister." Politicians are much more approachable when you have contributed goodly sums to their campaign.

He settled his somewhat bulky frame on the adjacent stool, and said, "Can I order you something?'

"Another Vodka gimlet would do just fine. Grey Goose."

He ordered the gimlet for me, and a Corona for himself. It was interesting to note that he could swan about Chicago without getting so much as a glance of recognition. This was not entirely unexpected. Americans, when they think about Canada, which is not often, think of cold weather and the perils of socialism. That any would recognize the Prime Minister, well, just wouldn't occur.

"What brings you to this fair city?" I began. "

"Just renewing an acquaintance with a number of fellow politicians," he said.

From which I could conclude that the Daly political machine was being consulted. Well, he could do worse. Barack Obama had honed his skills in Chicago.

"One thing, Prime Minister, that I would like to raise -- "

"Now, Lady Simone, let's not get into scrapping The Indian Act again."

"No, although you bloody well should. Can't keep giving people something for nothing. Saps the soul, it does, and drives one to drugs and alcohol. But, no. I am more concerned about those silly attack ads on Michael Ignatieff."

"Don't tell me you financially support him as well?"

"Of course I do. And if I could, I'd also support Giles Duceppe, who I think would run the country rather well were he not, like poor Gloucester in King Lear, tied to the Quebec stake and cannot fly. Jack Layton, of course, would be a politician too far. No, those ads are not only in bad taste, they don't play well in Canada, and, finally, they get the electorate all worried about an election, an election that you know very well won't occur."

The Prime Minister took a sip of his beer, and replied, "And just why won't there be an election?"

"You know very well. Pensions. Some 80 odd MP's would lose their pension benefits if there were an election before 2010, most of them in the Bloc. Hence, no election. So stop the ads."

"I will give it some thought. Oh, and Laureen thanks you for the skirts. They're really made of hemp?"

"You know it."

He rose to leave, and said, "Always a pleasure to talk to you. Although right now, with the economy, things are really difficult."

"Not as difficult as they might be."

"What do you mean?"

"You could be Gordon Brown."

A Dire Dilemma

Lord Strunsky once said, when he faced a conundrum, "We're on the horns of a dilemma, my dear. Only thing to do -- throw sand in the bull's face."

This adage was much in my mind when I took a call on my secure line from Michelle Obama. She was fretting about Barack's response to all the torture stuff (actual pictures) becoming public, particularly after the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Second Circuit dismissed the government's security concerns as vague, and that the public's right to know came first. Barack then quashed this, on the grounds that it would inflame anti-American feeling and lead to even more danger for the troops abroad.

"Well Michelle," I said, "you have reason to fret. What we have here is a lose-lose situation. If he doesn't allow the pictures to be released, the civil libertarians will be outraged. If he does release them, his statements about inflaming opinion and upping the danger ante for the troops will be all too true."

"But surely a few pictures --"

"Not a few. Hundreds. And some make what was earlier published from Abu Ghraib look like illustrations from Anne of Green Gables."

"Simone, just how do you know this? Barack, from what he tells me, hasn't seen them all."

"Because I'm in The Trade, and it's my business to know such things. But some others know as well. Why do you think Dick Cheney is running about the country, squawking like a headless chicken that torture really works? Or why Don Rumsfeld is applying for visas all over the place? They are very scared, Michelle, and they bloody well should be. If those pictures are released, along with documents that indicate that they both sanctioned and ordered that interrogations be carried out in that manner, they're very likely to wind behind bars for the rest of their lives. Hell, they might even be turned over to The Hague for crimes against humanity. The thing could actually reach George W., although that might be a bridge too far. Office of the Presidency and all that."

"But," said Michelle, "waterboarding doesn't sound all that horrific. Well, it is, but --"

"Michelle, you are entering one of the few areas you know nothing about. That's a compliment, by the way. You see, the problem with torture is who you've got. And this brings up a little axiom: 'There are old spies, and there are bold spies. But there are no old, bold spies." If a spy is captured, likely as not it will be someone young who has acted rashly; that is, he or she has made a mistake. So when they are interrogated in what I will call an 'all out' fashion, they will very shortly tell everything they know. Everything. Believe me, I know."

"How --"

"Because I've experienced interrogation. Twice. Two errors, and two extremely painful results. And I told everything I knew, although the second time I managed to last for three days. Got commended for that. But we are entering classified stuff here. Suffice it to say that Barack faces a real problem. You see, and I really shouldn't be telling you this, some of the interrogation techniques employed by the contractors sub-let to the C.I.A. involved children, young boys and girls. It is, by the by, to the credit of the C.I.A. that they wanted no part of this."

"Oh, my God."

"Yes, an unholy mess."

"But when Barack asks me what he should do, what should I advise? Not that my advice is always taken."

I thought for a long moment, then replied.

You've heard of Marshall McLuhan?"

"The medium is the message guy?"

"Yes. Well, Dr. McLuhan also made the point that we live in a world where there are more Xerox machines than shredders. And he wrote that before the Internet. So I think those pictures will come out, probably in some country like Australia. And he'd better be prepared to react.

"He's good at that. Tends to land on his feet."

"Good to know. And when all is said and done, there is something to hold on to."

"What?"

"A statement with which I know he will be familiar. Written by Justice Louis Brandeis: "Sunlight is said to be the best disinfectant."

A Tale Of Two Trees

Consider the Norway maple (Acer platanoides). This is a tree that deserves to be in a special education program big time. The shallow and fibrous roots go everywhere, strangle everything, and eventually girdle the tree itself, effectively choking itself to death. The Mayor, naturally, urges planting them all over Toronto.

All this surged into my consciousness when Ahmed, who likes to fix things around the Manor when he spots trouble, noticed yesterday that no water was reaching the main house. He quickly switched to our Artesian well , then went to explore just what was going on. Two hours later, he had the answer.

"It's that tree down by the road, My Lady," he said. "The one you don't like. The roots have pierced the water pipe that leads to the house."

"Well, Ahmed, just arrange for someone to cut it down. It's an eyesore anyway."

"Er, ...it may not be that simple."

"Nonsense," I replied. "The estate three lots down the road just cut one down, in almost the same location near to the road. I remember mentally applauding -- it is a very silly tree."

"Well, said Ahmed, "they got permission to bring it down."

"So get the necessary permission."

And there was the rub. Apparently there are in this tax-ridden city a group of tree police, (a.k.a. Urban Forestry staff) who refused permission, indicating that the tree was healthy and a significant and valuable part of the urban forest. An arborist whom I consulted said this was rubbish, the tree was actually dangerous, and should come down immediately. But she was a knowledgeable arborist, and hence unlikely to be part of the mayor's Urban Forestry staff. At that point I turned to my Councillor for help.

This man, whom I will call Peter X, was a decent, hard-working individual, who made it a point to respond quickly to concerns of constituents. There was, however, one big, black mark against him -- he was not part of the Mayor's inner circle of Council cronies, and he stated to me that while he would do his best, my chances were slim.

"But Peter," I argued, "The property three lots away just took down a tree in similar position."

"Simone, that property is in a different Ward, and that particular Councillor is part of the Executive Council"

"You mean the Mayor's Star Chamber."

"Oh, that's good. Henry VII would approve." (I told you he was decent and hard working. I should have mentioned that he was educated as well). "There is one Councillor, Joe X, that has, if you'll pardon the phrase, 'tree power'. Indeed, around Council he is known as The Italian Tree Emperor. Now if you could get him to agree --"

"He's Italian?" An idea was beginning to form. "Peter, say no more. I'll take it from there."

My next call was to an old enemy, but an enemy who owed me one. It was time to call in the marker. After some back and fill with various associates, I got him on the line.

"Pronto."

"Don Guido. Lady Simone Strunsky here."

There was a moment's silence, then came recognition. "Ah, Simone, how goes the saying? Ah, yes, 'Our eyes have met, our thighs not yet.'" Oh, c'mon, give him credit -- the guy was pushing eighty.

"My thighs are just fine, grazie. But I do need a small favour."

"And why should I do you a favour? After wrecking that nice little earner I was involved with in Bosnia. Really, bella."

"That was because you were supporting the trafficking of women. Which, I'm glad to say, I note that you've quit. Now, I ask you to remember a certain warehouse in Palermo."

There was a longer silence this time. What I hoped he was remembering was a very nasty bomb that had been planted by the Italian Red Brigade in said warehouse, a warehouse right next to a factory wherein most of the money extorted by the Sicilian Mafia was kept for later and careful disbursement. I, along with some British colleagues, had been instrumental in defusing that bomb, not, to be sure, to save the factory next door, but to save the city. Half of Palermo would have been blown to bits.

I was also hoping that he recalled the dozen roses he had sent to my London flat, along with a profuse thank you and the terse phrase, 'I owe you one.'

Finally, Don Guido spoke. "Si, I am a bit in your debt. What is the situation?

I explained, and was informed that 'he would make a few calls', to see what could be done. He also stressed that all debts were now repaid, to which I agreed. Too much dancing with the devil is dangerous. The devil won't change, but you will.

Two days later, a permit to cut down the tree arrived by Fed Ex, and shortly after that a city crew took down the tree, while at the same time a second city crew made short work of repairing my water pipe. Such service!

It was Irving (he can find out about most anything) who peeled the onion on this one, and I learned the following. Apparently, Joe X had initially resisted Don Guido's suggestion that I be awarded a permit. This attitude changed rapidly when he woke the next morning to find he was sleeping next to the bloody head of a chipmunk.

Satisfied that the whole barking mad incident was over, but feeling a twinge of guilt about the chipmunk, I wrote a hefty cheque to the S.P.C.A.