Religion Off The Rails

Received a gift from Sir Harry the other day, a copy of the recent Man Booker novel, Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel. A short note accompanied the present: 'I think you will enjoy this. There is much in Cromwell that is you, and not a little bit of More. Now send me your analysis of the Moscow subway debacle. And soon.'

First things first. The novel, which I enjoyed, deals with the relationships between and among Thomas Cromwell, Thomas More, Henry VIII, Catherine of Aragon, the Boleyn girls (Mary and Anne) and Sir Thomas More. It is well written, and over the years I have found that the Man Booker Award is worth paying attention to. You can, for instance, actually read the prize winners. This is in contrast to the Nobel Prize for Literature, which all too often awards writers who appear to specialize in obscurantism, and hail from places like Dagestan or Patagonia.

Since Sir Harry had linked me to Cromwell and More, I paid particular attention to the characters. I came to the opinion that Ms Mantel painted Cromwell as having morals that I doubt that he historically held, and that her portrait of More was too harsh. I will give her that he was an overly devout Christian, but his beliefs were common to the time. He was, however, not a sadist.

This brings me to Sir Harry's request, and what I sent him was along the lines of the following.

I confined my remarks to the 'People of the Book'; that is, Judaism, Christianity and Islam, and what can occur when the deranged manage to get a degree of power within these structures. (I avoided Hinduism and Buddhism, where there are like tendencies -- Hindus favouring sending ten-year-old girls to the marriage bed, Buddhists, in direct contradiction of Tantric Law, immolating themselves in public squares). The three aforementioned will suffice to make my point.

Extremism is dangerous in any form, but particularly venomous when parading around in the guise of a religion. Thus the two women who took it upon themselves to blow themselves to pieces in the Moscow subway system, taking all too numerous innocents with them, had no doubt been brainwashed by Machiavellian mullahs into seeing this as a direct way to Paradise. (Although it is interesting to note that said Mullahs were prepared to offer extra prayers to Allah in order that that the women be seen as holy martyrs. They were, after all, women.)

Now while Islam is particularly susceptible to this type of tragic nonsense, it is not alone. The fundamentalists in the Israeli Knesset want to continue to build settlements until there is nothing of Palestine that remains, and that paragon of Christian womanhood, Sarah Palin, talks little the kindness and mercy of the Founder, but on her Facebook would rather post rifle cross-hairs on the pictures of Democrats she wants to see defeated in the next election, along with the exhortation:"RELOAD!" And then there is the Pope...well, that matter is receiving the attention it deserves. It is to weep, and maybe old Nietzsche was right when he stated, "Two thousand years, and no new God."

Not much comfort for Sir Harry here, other than a suggestion I proffered that a certain percentage of financial resources that are currently going into heavy armaments (useless against suicide attacks) go to supporting the moderates in all three religions, with an emphasis on -- to the extent possible -- saturating the media with condemnations of any attack on innocent civilians, such condemnations to include banishing the perpetrators as apostates. This probably won't work, but can't do any harm, either.

Yet the problem is a thorny one, not subject to easy solution. As it's put in Wolf Hall, "Show me in the Bible, 'Purgatory'. Show me where it says relics, monks, nuns. Show me where it says 'Pope'".

Selah.

Let's Go To The Movies!

My daughter Victoria flounced into town, all excited about her acting career getting a bit of a boost. Usually she had been featured either writhing in agony -- Vicki was always a good writher -- or lying dead in some alley, covered in blood. Apparently she has been given a few lines of dialogue before being shot to pieces.

"Mum" she exclaimed, "this is HUGE."

"And just why would that be?"

"The pay scale rises. Big time."

When I peeled the onion on this, I found out that a non-speaking part in a movie was one thing; a speaking part was quite another, and much more remunerative. Aha, I thought. No wonder there are so many actors and actresses involved in kidnapping that are gagged. I might have known -- the almighty dollar wins again.

"Mind you," admitted Victoria, "it's only a few lines. But it's a start. I get to say, 'Stop it. please stop it! Then I scream.'"

"Not exactly Hamlet."

"Well," continued Victoria, "it beats what universities pay for history lectures. I worked on that Peloponnesian War paper for three months. All I got was $500 bucks. This latest film gig will get me $4000.00. Do the math."

This was inarguable, although I did think it was a waste of a fine mind. Well, I thought, she's not alone in that. Look at Ann Coulter.

"Now Mum," Victoria stated firmly, "I've got passes. We're going to the movies. I want to see Avatar."

"I don't think --"

"Oh, you'll like it. And it's in 3D. It' ll be awesome!"

No it won't, I thought, but from time to time I have thought it wise to humour the whims of my progeny. So off we went, accompanied by my minder and butler, Irving, who thought the whole thing insane. Theatres are public places, and, being necessarily dark, perfect for nastiness. Al Qaeda, he had said, will never forget that I offed Osama Bin Laden in Tora Bora. On the other hand, I have no wish to live like a hermit, so chances must now and then be taken.

In fact, nothing out of the ordinary occurred, other than my thinking that the time -- some three hours -- might have been more profitably spent. I tried to be enthusiastic for Victoria's sake.

"Well, Mum, what did you think?"

"It was...interesting."

"Weren't the visuals great in 3d?"

"They were...interesting."

"Right," stated Victoria, reaching a conclusion. "Now tell me what you really thought."

I put my courage to the sticking place and said, "The film really was a Western, and not a very good one at that. The Good Guys versus The Bad Guys, the White-Hatted Hero solving all. The plot has been much better done in Red River, The Good, The Bad And The Ugly, or even Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid. Although I will admit the scenery was magnificent."

"Humph," muttered Victoria. Then she brightened. "But the 3D. Wasn't that impressive?"

"Actually, it was annoying. Those silly glasses irk. And when you take them off, the picture goes all blurry. Not good at all."

"Is there anything, O Wise One," asked Victoria, "that might have saved the film?"

I considered a bit, then spoke. "Actually, a different Director, and a different Hero. And they could be one and the same."

"Really," said Victoria. "I can't think of anyone who --"

"Try Clint Eastwood."

Enough said.

Life Is Choices

Consuela, my gardener, was now great with child. Ahmed, my driver, handyman and Consuela's husband, was also showing signs of expectation -- he had actually dented the Bentley when backing out of the garage, something he had never done before. Both were obviously losing focus (Consuela had lost track of where she had planted the tulip bulbs , and only found them after the squirrels had) and something had to be done.

I called them both into drawing room, determined to find out what was amiss. Something was at work that went beyond hormonal change.

"Now then you two," I said, "is everything OK?"

"Everything is fine," said Ahmed.

"Yes," put in Consuela, "the doctor is pleased with the progress. The ultrasound --"

"Good, good," I replied. No need, I thought, to go into every pre-natal detail. "Then what is it?"

"What is what?" asked Ahmed.

"Something is really bothering you two," I stated, "and your work is beginning to suffer. Now just what is going on?"

"Well," admitted Consuela, "we are having, er, discussions on how to handle the child's religious life."

Readers may recall that Ahmed is an observant Muslim, while Consuela is a devout Catholic. I am nothing if not an equal opportunity employer. And I now began to suss out just what was at issue.

"So", I said, "it is a matter of what religion the child will be exposed to."

Their silence confirmed agreement with this.

I leaned forward. "Might I offer some advice?"

They looked at each other, then nodded.

"Don't do anything. There are times in life where doing nothing is a wise course to follow. Like staying away from the junk bond market. Or not forwarding chain mail. Or, in this case, leaving the kid alone to make up his or her own mind."

"But Father Clipart said --"

"My Imam made the point --"

I cut them both short.

"Look. You are not as far apart as you might think. After all, you are, if I can use the present vernacular, two microchips soldered together on the motherboard of life. And it seems to be working well. That will have more effect on the child than any theology will."

The two of them remained silent, absorbing this, and I realized that the motherboard allusion was perhaps not the best illustration I could have used.

I continued. "Look. Both of the texts you adhere to, the Bible and the Qu'Ran, have beautiful, truthful passages in them. They also contain a great deal of rubbish. Emphasize the truthful ones, ignore the others."

"What," ventured Ahmed, "is wrong with the Qu'Ran?"

"Wrong may not be the term," I said. "Relevant is a better word. For instance, the Qu'ran is silent on cars."

"What?" exclaimed Ahmed.

"In Saudi Arabia, as I am sure you know, Ahmed, the Qu'Ran is cited as a authority that bans women from driving cars. This is pushing things a bit, don't you think?"

"But there is no Qu'Ranic reference," said Ahmed, "to women driving anything. Therefore --"

"Not entirely true. Women in the Ninth century often drove carts. Goodness, from time to time they are pictured dragging them. I always wondered where the guys were, but that's neither here nor there."

"The Bible," put in Consuela, "only speaks truth."

"Doubtful," I countered. "In an earlier time, perhaps. I do recall that the Bible urges that a witch should not be suffered to live. Today, I know some Wiccans that would have issues with that statement. So I would let the child simply be. Show him or her the best of your respective religions, and allow the child to determine his or her course in due time. There is a principle that I think spans both the Qu'Ran and the Bible that you might consider. Mens sano in corpore sano.

The both looked at me blankly. Modern education has a lot to answer for.

I sighed. "It's from the Roman writer, Juvenal. Literally, 'a healthy mind in a sound body.' Not the worst principle to remember when raising a child. Now back to work, you two. And for goodness sake, focus.

One can but hope.

Putting It To Putin

So there I was, re-reading Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics, and musing about sending 100 copies to the United States Senate (where it was desperately needed) when Irving entered and said, "It's him. On the secure line."

"Sir Harry? But he's in Kabul right now."

"No. The other 'him'. Vladimir Putin."

"Oh, that 'him'. Good. Nice to keep my Russian up to date. I'll take it in the conservatory."

I sauntered downstairs, and soon was on the line.

"Vladimir. A pleasant surprise. How goes life in the Kremlin?"

"Where have you been?" he replied. "Medvedev wanted to discuss something with you, and you apparently had disappeared."

"I was...away. And let us hope that what Medvedev wanted to discuss was his earlier emphasis on law, transparency and rewarding merit. That apparently has disappeared as well. Really. No wonder Russia screwed up so badly in the Olympics. The old emphasis on who you know rather that what you know."

"I don't want to talk about that," he said curtly. "And I suppose you had nothing to do with that weird avalanche in North Waziristan that wiped out a certain jihadist training camp? Someone spotted you, or a clone, nearby. I'd be interested in just how and whatever team you were with managed that."

"I"ll just bet you would," I said sweetly. "But remember, Vladimir, each snowflake in an avalanche screams 'Not guilty!'" Now what are you actually calling about?"

"I hear your sugar beet enterprise in Ukraine is going well."

"Ah. Been talking to Yuliya, have we? I heard that you were comforting La Tymoshenko after she got turfed out of office. Personally, I blame it on her keeping that silly peasant braid she swans around in."

Putin hesitated, then said "She is...interesting. But that's neither here nor there. I would be interested in discussions leading to a similar enterprise in Russia."

This caught me a bit by surprise. "Really," I said. "Under the same arrangement? Twenty per cent to Russia, the rest to Strunsky Enterprises, who control policy, staffing, wages and benefits? Not exactly the way you run things there."

"I and Medvedev are prepared to give it a try. As a sort of... working model."

Goodness, things must be worse than I thought in Mother Russia. "Very well. I will bring the proposal up in front of the Board."

"You are the Board," he snapped.

"And I need something in return."

"And just what might that be?" His voice had returned to its normal smoothness. Negotiation he understood.

"Sanction the hell out of Iran. Religious idiots and nuclear bombs don't mix. "

"We're working on that."

"Work harder."

"Then there's the Chinese --"

"I have a little thing I am exploring with Premier Hu on that," I admitted. "Fruit not yet ripe for the picking. But I must commend your initiative on the sugar beet matter. Either that, or you are totally smitten by the fair Yuliya."

"So we can proceed?"

"As your position on Iran goes, so go the sugar beets. A happy mix, just as that with socialism with capitalism. In the West, socialism is what makes capitalism bearable."

"And in the East?" Putin asked.

"Capitalism is what makes socialism bearable."

"Neat, that. Bye, dorogaya."

Sweetheart indeed. Well, we will see.





















"N

Settling A Son

To Geneva with my son Mark and a look at the Large Hadron Collider where I hoped Mark could continue his work in theoretical physics, and lower downhill skiing on his priority list. At an earlier meeting in Davos, I had struck up an acquaintance with Dr. Rolf-Dieter Heuer, Director of the European Organization for Nuclear Research, better known by its French acronym, CERN. We had had an interesting conversation, with my point being that smashing things into smaller and smaller pieces would only result in, well, smaller and smaller pieces.

"Ah, but Dr. Strunsky, you forget the importance of the Higgs bosun."

Now a Higgs bosun to me is a likely character in a Patrick O'Brien novel. In physics, however, I admitted its presence is critical but its presence is also theoretical. It was this emphasis on the theoretical that I now stressed to Dr. Heuer, and showed some of Mark's work in that regard, particularly his speculations regarding Bell's Theorem, the work of Alain Aspect, and Einstein's comment: "Spooky action at a distance." (Look all this up -- these missives are not academic monographs.

Dr. Heuer took Mark's papers with him, and later that day stated that, should some extra research dollars be found, he was willing to act as Mark's thesis supervisor. "Perhaps", he said, "a small contribution from your rather impressive sugar beet holdings....?"

Does his homework, does Dr. Heuer.

I agreed, and when I informed Mark he had been accepted into the CERN team, I was glad to see some excitement cross his face. The last time he had expressed excitement was in the starting gate at Kitzbuhl. The work at CERN would be much less dangerous. Of course, this view is not shared by certain evangelicals in the American mid west, where they think that CERN is an embodiment of the Anti-Christ, and would create a black hole that would swallow the entire Earth. Not so much The Rapture as The Rupture. Again I turn to Schiller: "With stupidity, the gods themselves struggle in vain."

I had trouble booking a flight back to Toronto. My own pilot, Hank Grimsby, would normally handle this chore in his Lear, but Hank, damn him, was in Afghanistan flying in supplies to American military outposts. He had, however, let me know,through e-mail, that he had uncovered a very interesting sidelight to the whole mess. Apparently the Afghan National Army and the Taliban share the same (outdated) radio communications and have, as well, a few i-phones. They chatter incessantly to each other, arguing their viewpoints, but also share the odd picture. Hank stated that the Olympics were huge, with the Taliban apoplectic about women's figure skating. Apoplectic they may be, Hank continued, but the demand for these photos by the Taliban was huge: a picture of Joannie Frechette in mid-air was worth two AK 47's.

Don't these clowns realize that if they joined the human race they could actually attend the events in person? As for me, I will know that all is well with the world when skaters from Saudi Arabia win gold in the pairs competition. But as Piet Hein says,"T.T.T."

Things take time.

Out To The Olympics

To Vancouver, and the (almost non) Winter Olympics. I was travelling with my daughter Isolde, the violinist, who had been asked to give a concert for the Ukrainian athletes, and had accepted. Isolde would also have a chance to hook up with her lover Lolulu, or Luke as she was known. Luke was in The Trade as well, and was charged by me to keep Isolde safe. As for the Ukrainian thingy,I suspected my supervisor at my sugar beet plantation in Ukraine, Bohdan, had a hand in this. He is on good terms with the fair Yulia, she of the damnable braid, and might have swayed things a bit.

Once in Vancouver, I found rain gear, not parkas, to be the order of the day. This would undoubtedly please the global warming fanatics, save for the fact that the rest of the continent is freezing, along with much of Asia and all of Europe. This, however, is not what is on my mind at the moment.

My son Mark, the skier, was in need of consolation. He was an alternate on the Canadian ski team. At least, he was, until he sprained his ankle. Apparently, this occurred after some apres-ski event with some colleagues from Spain. They had been singing oldies and goldies from the Spanish Civil War, and things had gotten a little out of hand. Mark had lurched out the door, and gone over on his ankle. This caused me to be of two minds. As a mother, I had never really encouraged him to fly downhill at breakneck speed on two sticks, and was grateful that this possibility was now ruled out. Yet I felt his disappointment.

Seeking to alleviate his mood, I suggested that he re-consider the path that he had left behind. Mark had been half-way through his Ph.D in theoretical physics when the ski bug had taken hold, and left to pursue the sport full time. (He had always been a good recreational skier). I had some success here, as I managed to pique his interest in what was going on at CERN; that is, the Large Hadron Collider. More about this, and what happened when we got there, is fodder for a future missive.

Now to the Olympics. I had been asked (never mind by whom) to check out security arrangements, focussing on likely sniper locations. I thought this was a bit excessive. The opposition, particularly in its Al Qaeda form, prefers the mass slaughter of innocents rather than concentrating upon a pertinent and particular target. Still, one has obligations. They were honoured, and at the same time, this task provided an opportunity.

The opportunity was the chance to compare notes with a number of colleagues in The Trade. I and Luke would gather with others at a secure location, very upscale, and one that had escaped the notice of IOC Officials, who were no slouches at getting the best and most expensive digs available. But we have our ways...

Here one could compare notes, exchange information on weaponry, mourn those who had erred (an error in The Trade has a somewhat permanent result) and bitch at the short-sightedness of our political masters. My good friend Matilda Hatt, however, could not be with us. Tilly had been left to her own (and lethal) devices somewhere in Waziristan, and word was that six had gone, there were four more to go, and that the Mullahs were scattering like leaves before a wind devil. My heart goes out to them....

Isolde, in the meantime, had struck up an acquaintance with a Finnish biathlon athlete, and, being aware of some of her mother's activities, had asked me to give them an inspirational talk.

Now normally I would have hastily declined, but Isolde is Isolde, and hence I found myself discussing shooting techniques with some very avid listeners. It quickly became evident that what I do and what they do are entirely different things. Yes, some of the techniques are the same, but the differences are stark. They ski, they stop, they shoot, then ski again. The fastest through with the best shooting record wins. As a professional, I am amazed they can actually hit anything, let alone a thousand yard target. I mean, when I am setting up a shot, I want lots of time to assess wind direction, temperature, angle, and distance (at times over a kilometre).

Most biathlon athletes use a .22 calibre Anschu Fortner; I use a .308 calibre Erma SR 100 with a Burris Scope.

When asked if I would like to try my rifle out on the course, I said I would love to, but everyone of them would immediately be disqualified. You see, what would happen is that not only would the targets be hit, they would be blown to bits, bringing any competition to a sudden and abrupt halt. The IOC would take a very dim view of this. I did, however, offer the team one action they might consider.

The biathlon follows the Olympic credo of highest, strongest and fastest. I pointed out that they could take aim at a sport that also favours the prettiest, and suggested they bring their rifles and take up position right behind.... the ice-dancing judges.

Just a thought.

A Palaver With PETA

Well,well, well, I thought. Iran has finally sown some seeds of destruction. A recent news report indicated that the country had blasted into space a rocket containing various fauna -- hamsters, guinea pigs, even worms. So that should tear it.

I immediately got on the phone to the folks at the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, or PETA as it is known. Indicating that I wanted to make a sizeable financial contribution, along the lines of six figures, I asked the minion answering my call to be put through to my good friend Ingrid. (She wasn't my good friend at all, but Ingrid Newkirk is the President of the organisation, and I figured the mention of a large contribution, along with suggesting that I knew her well, would speed up access).

I was not disappointed.

Ms Newkirk began by thanking me in advance for my financial help, although she was a bit concerned about just where the funds would be coming from. Hmm. I wondered who'd been laundering money via the organization. Well, an issue for another day. I explained my wealth was based on sugar beets, and Ingrid was pleased. PETA apparently has no issues with sugar beets.

Then ensued the following dialogue.

Me: "I should like, however, to direct these monies to your Iran campaign."

Ingrid: "What Iran campaign?"

Me: "The one that is surely in the works. Iran has sent into space all manner of small, furry animals. And their treatment has been horrible."

Ingrid: "What on earth are you talking about?" (Ingrid apparently is not up on current events).

Me: "Just think about it. The poor creatures are laid out on boards, tied down, punctured with various electrodes, and then shot into space. Kind of like a hamster Hostel film. Terrible stuff."

Ingrid: "I'm not sure if --"

Me: "And it gets worse. You see, Ingrid, Iran doesn't have a shuttle which can return the creatures to earth. They're toast. Gone. Kaput. We're way beyond seals here. So these not inconsiderable funds will allow you to make effective demonstrations in Tehran. You can ram the point home to the Ayatollahs that PETA will not abide such cruelty to our animal friends. This is a much better way to make your point than savaging the income of First Nation seal hunters."

Ingrid: "We would not be allowed into Iran to protest."

Me: "Oh."

Ingrid: "But we will use the funds to publicize this atrocity."

Me: "Yes. You could get Sir Paul McCartney to lambaste old Khameni right and proper. That should do the trick."

Ingrid: "Certainly bears thinking about. And your financial help will assist us in closing down the Canadian seal hunt."

Me: "No, they won't. You see, Ingrid, I also have A Cause. I am very concerned about the fate of fish. In particular, the cod."

"Ingrid: "What has that got to do with cruelty to seals?"

Me: "Everything. First of all, the seals are killed humanely, not the way Iranians treat hamsters. Secondly, the growing seal population has destroyed cod fishing in the northeast Atlantic. Moreover, the growth of the seal population has led to a concomitant growth in the polar bear population, as any Inuit can tell you. Hell, just ask Sarah Palin -- she can see polar bears from her house. Now get with the program, and get some people into Iran!"

Ingrid: "I'm afraid that's not possible."

Me: "In that case, a cheque is on the way for publicity only. About $150 should be enough."

Ingrid: "But you mentioned six figures --"

"Me: "That was to pay off various official when your protesters were thrown into Iranian prisons. I mean, Iran is not Canada. Here, a slap on the wrist. There, the entire wrist goes."

Ingrid cut the connection at that point.

Oh, well, one must try.

Death Wishes In Toronto

Curled up in the library, getting the memory of wretched Somalia out of my system as I sipped from a Margaux given by the Compt de Rienville (a little coming home present, much appreciated) I read the following in the local paper.

Apparently in the last 15 days, 14 pedestrians had been killed on Toronto's streets. An aside: the missing day must have been a Sunday, when The Lord rested. (He's been resting ever since). In Montreal, to contrast this a bit, 19 pedestrian fatalities in the past entire year. Of course, Montreal pedestrians are well used to drivers teetering along the edge of insanity, and take the necessary precautions. But what on earth was going on in Toronto? Had someone taken literally the saying, "so many pedestrians, so little time"?

I got on the phone to an old friend in the Toronto Police Department, Superintendent Max Smith. Max and his operational team were charged with coping with the odd or the unusual, and I recall something about a pizza delivery person, name of Percival, who had a very strange ability. Forgotten just what it was, but it had taken Max some time to sort it all out. In any event, neither here nor there. What was here was an unusual death count on Toronto's streets.

When I finally got through to Max, I discovered he was at his wits end in figuring it out. He then asked me to brood on the situation for a while, and get back to him with my thoughts. I had done this before, when the penguins in the zoo began to attack any keeper who came near, and only ceased when I had determined that an employee who had had his pension reduced had been spiking the penguin's food with Viagra. I doubted that the present case would prove that simple to resolve.

After examining each pedestrian death, one common denominator stood out -- total lack of attention to where one was or what one was doing. This rubric applied both to drivers and pedestrians, and recalls Schiller: "With stupidity, the gods themselves struggle in vain." Modern accoutrement's such as i-pods and cell phones simply exacerbate the situation. There really was only one solution.

I informed Max that while cuff and kiss is a good combination to encourage proper behaviour, this was definitely a "cuff" scenario. I suggested that every so often, on a random basis, send the uniforms into the streets, and raise the fine for jaywalking to $100 a pop, while at the same time really bear down on cars running reds. Moreover, forget the nice warnings that had hitherto been in place. Word of this approach would spread like wildfire, and things should improve. Save for teen-agers, who think they're immortal.

Max thanked me, stating that he had been having thoughts along similar lines.

Nevertheless, all this was somewhat depressing, but I was cheered up by watching Robin Williams on television (and another glass of the Margaux). Williams was at his bi-polar best, and I leave you with one of his more unusual observations:

"I see that American gays and lesbians, losing court battle after court battle, are getting fed up and moving to Canada in droves. Bloody hell. Canadians are already the nicest people on the planet. Do they have to be the best dressed too?"

Slagging About In Somalia

I did not expect to be away for so long, but, as the saying goes, shit happens. While I am not in a position to tell the whole story -- certain government officials would be furious -- I can, however, relate the gist.

At the request of Irving, my Mossad-trained butler, and Matilda Hatt of the CIA, I was asked to accompany them and some colleagues to Mogadishu in Somalia. Apparently some U235 had gone astray from Russia, and had surfaced in Somalia waiting for the right price. This uranium was weapons grade, and the buyer at the head of the line was Iran. Needless to say, the Israelis took a dim view of such a transaction, as did the Americans. My role in all this was to watch from a vantage point with my Erma SR100 and ensure that the extraction went smoothly.

How we entered the city I cannot relate, but once in, I, Tilly, Irving and a colleague of his named simply Bak adopted a rather neat disguise. We aged ourselves, and slowly made our way along one of the main streets, avoiding the various pot holes, barricades and what have you that make Mogadishu such a charming place.

The armed patrols that careened along from time to time didn't give us a second glance. Four poor, elderly Somalis tottering along, the men in front, Tilly and I behind in our naquibs, were non-existent to the clans that run Mogadishu. When we reached the half-wrecked building where the uranium was guarded (Israeli intelligence doesn't make errors in this regard) we waited for the show to begin.

It was evening, and suddenly, down by the waterfront, an explosion. This got the attention of everyone, but the guards at the building were well-trained (or terrified of breaking orders) and stayed put. No matter -- more was in store, for we knew what was coming.

After the explosion, a wide beam of white light appeared from the sky, and out of it, a white-clothed figure of a bearded man emerged, stating in flawless Somali that he was The Prophet returned, and that he was mightily displeased. One of the clan leaders, not taken aback as were others, raised his AK47 and fired a burst at the figure. The bullets went right through, and the figure began quoting various suras from the Qu'ran on the futility of mindless violence. The growing crowd, hearing this, fell to their knees. Of course The Prophet would be beyond earthly attack!

Word was also spreading throughout the city that The Prophet had arrived, and people were flocking to the site. To such news, the guards at the building were not immune. What was uranium when put against hearing the words of The Prophet? They left, Tilly, Irving and Bak entered, and before long emerged with a heavy lead canister. One armed patrol, oblivious at this point to The Prophet's appearance, happened round the corner,saw this and made to investigate. My Erma came into action, and the investigation came to a sudden and abrupt halt.

We made our way out of the city, and were picked up by some very helpful Americans in a Blackhawk helicopter, one (this time) that went up instead of down.

At the seaside, The Prophet continued to lecture the clans on the errors of indiscriminate killing, the value of peaceful negotiation, and, where women were concerned, that Allah saw them as people rather than chattel. He urged, as well, that the Qu'ran should be read intelligently, not brandished about as a foundation for jihad.

How long all that went on I didn't know. What I did know was that the laser-driven holography being sent down from an overhead AWAK was finite, and at some point the power would give out. I will watch and listen carefully to see if this little event makes any difference on the ground. Probably not. Poor Somalia.

At home, Sir Harry was soon on the secure line, apoplectic with fury.

"You were told no more field work! Now this! I'm afraid I'll have to inform the PM."

"Oh I have already talked to Gordon. He thought it was an excellent idea. Also, he is quite interested in doing some consulting work for me. After all, my sugar beet enterprise keeps on going, the money is getting complex, and Gordon does understand finance. This, of course, after that young Billy Cameron has his day in the sun."

"I despair," moaned Sir Harry.

"Now what you need to do," I replied, , "is to relax somewhere at a place where girls in diaphanous veils bring you orange sherbet. Among other things."

There was a long silence. Then he said, in a hoarse voice, "You may very well be right."

A Foray Into Religion

"Well at least, Isolde, you must admit your sister makes a good point.""

My daughter and I were in the library, discussing my youngest daughter Victoria's latest historical paper, "A New Take On The Battle Of Plataea". Isolde was complaining about the style of language --staid, precise, and in her terms, boring.

"Isolde, it's written for an historical audience. And her thesis is sound. The Spartans and Athenians couldn't believe the way the Persians set out their line of battle, and they employed a very good counter-strategy; that is, never interrupt the enemy when he's making a mistake. Napoleon picked up on this a lot. The principle works as well in other areas, such as politics and hockey games."

At this point my butler Irving interrupted. ""Er, My Lady, you have a visitor."

Irritated, I said, Good God, not Cousin Prudence again. I just can't face the whining and --"

"No," he replied. "It's Father Tom. From the Church of the Weeping Sepulchre."

"You go, Mum," said Isolde. "A little bit of Vicky goes a long way -- she should stick to playing dead bodies. And I should practice. The Sibelius is tricky, and the concert is tomorrow."

So off Isolde went, and I made my way downstairs to talk to Father Tom, whom I rather liked. I remember, when the weather was particularly fine, greeting him and stating, "You've done an excellent job in arranging things today." To which he replied, "Oh, My Lady, not me. After all, I'm in sales, not management." Good one, that.

We met, and he readily agreed to share some sherry from a fine cask of Amontillado I had received from a grateful Italian Government (such as it is). After some pleasantries were exchanged, he came to the point.

"That convent you support --"

"Ah, yes. The Little Sisters of Poverty and Pain. They do good work. And they do it for those who believe what they do not, because of the immense comfort such an act provides.Then there is the sanctuary, the soup kitchen, the outreach program --"

"The Bishop wants to shut it down," Father Tom said bluntly.

"Does he now? And just why hasn't he come to tell me himself?"

"Well apparently there was that issue with the stained glass window in his manse."

"Hah! As I recall, I recommended three fine artisans that could have done the work. But no, he had to pick one of his inept Benedictine cronies, and the result was crap. I mean, really. It depicts Salome, being nasty. I think the artist had seen what the Vancouver Opera had done with the Strauss version last May, where the soprano, I believe it was Mlada Khudoley, took the head of John the Baptist, opened her legs, and --"

"All right, My Lady, all right! Point taken. But what the Bishop objects to, and here I concur, is that all the nuns are atheists. Atheists!"

"And," I replied, "are to be doubly commended. What they do, they do for a very human reason. In effect, they feel the authority of compassion, and respond to it."

"I have no problem with their reasoning. But they are betraying the God they purport to worship."

"Rubbish. All of the sisters well realize that any God who permits innocents to come to harm, and does nothing to prevent it, is not a God worthy of worship. They have no quarrel with the free will thing, and that if you choose evil, then that's a choice that will be paid for, mostly in psychological terms, but also through the criminal justice system. But for the truly innocent to suffer --"

"There is a larger picture --"

"Perhaps. But neither they, nor I, have received the gift of faith that would encompass such a larger picture, as you term it. Now you tell the Bishop that if he acts on this, a certain matter will immediately come to light involving certain preferred shares purchased for the diocese involving an armament company that is sending weaponry to the Congo."

"How on earth --"

"Just inform the man. I think you will find that the matter will go away. In a hurry."

Father Tom looked crestfallen.

"I might add, this has absolutely nothing to do with your parish. By all accounts, it is doing its job, and your parishioners benefit, something in no small way due to yourself. More sherry?"

"No," he replied, "I must go and report back. Something I'm not looking forward to. I might, however, drop into the convent first."

"Why would you do that?"

"For comfort, My Lady. For comfort."

Luke

My four brats all descended on the Manor for the Christmas Holidays, something that took my mind off a very great worry (See Virago of a Virus). All went well, various presents were, well, presented, and an added plus was the presence of the Compte de Rienville, who arrived along with his cook, Stephane. This was indeed a Good Thing; my own cook, Ludwig, had left in a huff over a disagreement about asparagus. I wanted it steamed. He wanted to boil it. Obviously he had to go.

Isolde, my concert violinist daughter, had brought along her agent, Lolulu, who went by the name of Luke. An austere woman, she was clothed in a dark, nondescript pant suit, in marked contrast to the colourful party frocks worn by my daughters. She said little, but obviously adored Isolde. Well, who wouldn't?

Stephane did wonderful things to a turkey, with a wine-based gravy that was superb. And he readily agreed that asparagus should always be steamed. Good man, Stephane.

After dinner, the kids all assembled in the drawing room for the Christmas Monopoly Game, a Strunsky tradition. I retired to the library with the Compte and cognacs, and was soon involved in a heated discussion about Yemen. My point was that if Yemen was going to screw with us, we were bloody well going to screw with them. The Compte took the view that if airport security had been better, that addled Nigerian would never have been allowed on any plane whatsoever. Yes, the authorities in Lagos were inept, but the Dutch are not, and how they had missed him was a bit of a mystery. "Although," he added, "I gather the man was in transit."

"Seems to me," I said with a bit of jaundice, "we are not far away from having to strip before boarding an airplane, and being forced to wear one of those ghastly hospital gowns. And don't get me started on body scanners. I can think of at least three explosive materials that would not be picked up. What was that?"

A dull thump had echoed throughout the Manor.

"I think it came from your firing range," said the Compte.

The two of us scurried downstairs, where we came upon my ex-Mossad butler Irving engaged in reeling a target sheet back from the range. Standing on the shooter's mark was Luke, cradling my Ruger M77 in her hands.

The target sheet had arrived. I looked at it. "Nice grouping."

"I'm a bit off," replied Luke calmly, as if she walked into peoples' houses everyday and fired weaponry. "My own preference is a Steyr-Mannlicher SS6-69. I would have liked to try the Erma SR 100, but Sir Harry said that was your baby, and I respect that."

And now things became clear, and I felt a huge surge of relief.

"So Isolde has nothing to do with any of this?" I asked.

"Well, there was that courier thing in Vienna, but Sir Harry said you gave him what for, and put a stop to it. She's just to good a violinist to waste The Trade. When I met Isolde, however, and got to know her --"

" --No doubt in the Biblical sense --"

" -- And way led on to way," Luke continued, firmly ignoring my interjection, "we seemed a perfect fit. I get her bookings, Sir Harry helps, and this gives us access --"

"I get the picture." Bloody opportunistic Sir Harry. But at least I now knew what Matilda Hatt had been hinting at about another sniper. Thank God it didn't turn out to be Isolde.

"I would though," said Luke, "like to request a favour."

"Go on."

"Isolde's next concert is three weeks away. In Prague. I won't be able to be with her until then, and it would be neat if she could stay with you during that time."

"Consider it done. What takes you away?"

"Uh..."

"Only one place, I should think." This from the Compte. "Where things have gone a bit pear-shaped."

"And little training schools have started to grow like evil mushrooms," put in Irving.

"Mushrooms that badly need rooting out," I said. "So, Luke, enjoy....Yemen."

A Virago Of A Virus

Yes, very late this time. Put simply, I must have picked up a nasty virus while in Copenhagen, pointing out likely sniper positions that could, if employed, disrupt proceedings. Actually, that boondoggle could have used a good dash of reality, but attentive readers, and which of you are not, already know my position on global warming.

Anyway, here I was, back in Toronto at the Manor, and flat on my back. This was a body position more in keeping with the Compte de Rienville than coping with a vicious bug, but what can you do? Yet I continue to believe that we create our own reality, that an illness is in fact dis-ease, and therefore there was a reason for my coughing, lack of sleep, fever, loss of appetite, and innumerable aches and pains. I was obviously uneasy about something, but what?

So, a chance to reflect. Where had the virus come from? The only time I was exposed in Copenhagen was when I had to make my way through the protesters to retrieve a certain microdot for Sir Harry, and get it out of the country. Easy-peasy -- I am a woman, and microdots can be hidden in a variety of places, places only the most stalwart of custom officials would dare to look. They didn't, and Sir Harry was pleased.

Must have been the protesters, a scruffy bunch of Muslims screaming for the downfall of Switzerland. Something about minarets that escaped me, and what this had to do with global warming remains a mystery. And why the Swiss, of all people? I mean, a thousand years of democracy, and what have they produced? The cuckoo clock.

As for the virus, this might be the 'where' of the question, but not the 'why'. The answer still eluded me.

After two days of absolute misery, things were beginning to look up, both literally and figuratively (I was still flat on my back). A visit by Matilda Hatt helped as well.

She entered, bearing a pot of tea that she said worked wonders. I was at that point more interested in a serious Laphroaig, but drank the stuff anyway.

"This is good,Tilly," I said. What is it?"

"A special mixture. Lavender, with just a titch of belladonna."

"Belladonna! That's poison --"

"Only in certain doses. A very small amount gets your insides on full alert, and they attack anything out of the norm. In this case, your virus."

"And just where, Dr. Hatt, did you learn this?"

"Yemen. And you know about that. As for Copenhagen, I can report that there were no incidents."

"Wasn't there someone from Zimbabwe caught in the vault of the UBS Bank?

"Yeah, the silly bugger was attempting a robbery. And the fact that he got that far is a tribute to the rotten security of UBS. Bloody initials should read 'Used To Be Smart'. And why the climate conference organizers let Mugabe in, well, there's no accounting for stupidity.

"Now, Tilly," I replied, "he has a low carbon footprint."

"Sure he does. Destroying an entire country will do that."

This produced small silence. One cannot argue with the inarguable. Then Tilly said, "Oh, I had a small talk with your Sir Harry. He's found a new sniper that might be able to match your abilities."

"Yes, Code Barry is very good indeed."

"No," Tilly replied, 'this person is not with CSIS. Someone being groomed by Sir Harry himself. He said she reminded him of you in your younger days."

"She?"

"She. But that's all I could get from Mr. Secrecy. You know how he is."

"Too well."

Tilly left shortly after, and following a moment's reflection, I had a very disturbing thought. A very disturbing thought, and quite likely the cause of my viral distress. This needs dealing with, I thought, and very soon. Stay tuned.

Clowns In Copenhagen

A trip to Copenhagen and the World Conference on Global Warming was not on my "to do" list, not by a long shot. However, Sir Harry had said that certain of his colleagues had requested my presence, and hence, "no" would not do. Apparently my expertise was sought, involving key sniper positions that could come into play should something untoward occur. Having bargained for first class airfare, and successful in this, off I went.

Once there, I immediately saw a definite plus. In an act of insane Danish political correctness, all Christmas shrubbery had been removed from the site -- couldn't offend the burka-and sari-wearing set you know. But such shrubbery might have been used to hide IED's or whatever, to the detriment of delegates' health, so what you loses on the roundabouts, you gain on the swings. So I set about discussing with the appropriate security personnel the likely spots where trouble could erupt, and without much ado, agreement was reached. It is always a relief to work with competent professionals. Such people have very direct reporting lines that bypass the usual middle and upper management types who's whole existence lies in the necessity of putting their oars in, usually screwing up whatever is being proposed.

Back at my temporary quarters at the British Consulate, I reflected on the Conference, the reflection aided by a bottle of Grey Goose Sir Harry had thoughtfully provided. (He does have his good points.) First off, I have no doubt that global warming is occurring, although this would be a hard sell right now in Alberta -- average temperature minus 30 degrees Celsius. And yes, I am aware of certain e-mails that indicate certain disagreements among the scientists studying the matter. Who knew that scientists occasionally differ? No, my argument is that such warming is part of forces that we can do little to influence.

In short, the delegates seem blissfully unaware of the cosmic forces they intend to rein in. The last ice age we experienced is still in retreat, and of course the world is warming up. In time, the situation may come about that currently-frozen Alberta might once again experience the 40 degree Celsius temperatures that allowed dinosaurs to happily roam about. Hence, in my opinion, time could much more usefully focussed on adaptive strategies. If given some planning time, we as a race have proved rather adept at formulating and enacting these. Mind you, if the cosmos suddenly began to play really dirty pool, we would be in the position of looking skyward, noting something huge hurtling our way, and left with nothing but "What the fu--"

So going on and on about greenhouse gases, carbon capture, L.E.D. bulbs, cap and trade, or whatever, seems a total waste of time. The earth, (and the cosmic forces that enable its existence) is oblivious to the pleas of the Copenhagen delegates, however earnest they be. It is as if a person screamed at the universe "I exist!" to which the universe replied, "Well, I'm sorry, but I don't feel any sense of obligation."

Unless....there is another game being played entirely. Carbon capture is going to raise a gazillion taxpayer dollars, particularly where cap and trade is concerned. Might the whole thing be a gigantic money grab? And then I had a zero at the bone sensation a la Emily Dickinson. Who was it some time ago that argued forcefully for the capping and trading of carbon? My memory is not what it was....then I had it.

Enron.

Enough said.

Analysis, Interrupted

The following message came in from Sir Harry on the secure line: "The Russians are herding whales off the coast of Vladivostok. Why? And no, you're not going there. Analysis only. Usual rate."

I felt like hurling back Alford Korzybski's observation that the map is not the territory, but since my little promotion to the Analysis Department, I felt I better not push things. Anyway, I had some contacts in the area that would at least get me a picture of just what was afoot.

After some back and fill, and calling in some markers, I learned that the Russian navy had indeed corralled some whales. Five Minkes and four Humpbacks, to be specific. Further investigation indicated that the research was tied into their submarine program. This did not surprise -- Russia and submarines was a romance that too often ended in tears. Remember the Kursk? Obviously they were attempting to learn from pros just how to submerge and float with ease.

As I wrote Sir Harry, this would not work, and he needn't worry. It is always unwise to copy nature exactly. For instance, early attempts at emulating bird flight went nowhere. We only learned to fly by bolting a 400 horsepower engine onto the equivalent of a barn door. Nature never went in this direction. I mean, how would such a creature feed itself? What was important was to suss out the underlying principles, and work from there.

Just as I was to expand on this aspect, Irving, my butler and minder, entered, all apologetic. He knows I hate being interrupted when I'm on a Sir Harry assignment, so whatever it was would be of some importance.

"There is a woman," he began, "who claims to be your cousin."

"I don't have any cousins...wait. There is one. But she is deep in some godforsaken town in Iowa, if she's still alive. We never got along. Are you telling me --"

"Her name is Prudence Smith," Irving continued. "I put her in the drawing room."

"Well, needs must," I sighed, and we trotted downstairs, there to meet a very ruffled Prudence, her face flushed, and glaring at Irving. "That man," she said icily, "touched me!"

"Quick search for a weapon," Irving said dispassionately.

Oh, my, I thought. Prudence, I began to recall, was modest. I mean, so much so that she would eat a banana sideways. And her outfit! Ill-fitting jacket, and a dress that was more a tent than an item of apparel. On the other hand, I was in my comfy but very unstylish sweatsuit, so I was not in a position to comment.

"Prudence," I said. "Welcome. It's been, how many, twenty years? Twenty-five?"

"Thirty-one," she replied.

"And what prompted you --"

"I am attending a convention in the city. The World Temperance Union. And since I knew you lived nearby, I took a cab here. Something very disturbing has happened that involves one of your children. You must deal with it."

"Do go on." What the hell was she talking about?

"In the hotel, I made the mistake of turning on the television. There is a religious program on at eight that I don't like to miss. Instead, I got something called CSA --"

"CSI probably. Unless you were watching a program on the Confederate States of America."

"Anyway, there was a body. All bloody. And Simone, it was Victoria!"

"How on earth would you know that? You've never even seen her."

"I follow all the family", she said primly. "Our pastor encourages close family ties. So I keep a scrapbook, and get in touch with all family members. They send me pictures."

All this was news to me. "Well, I never sent you any pictures."

"I never asked for any. Considering what you do for a living."

"I raise sugar beets," I retorted.

"And kill. But I've always thought you were a lost cause. But you children can be saved. They can be protected. And Victoria should not be shamelessly exhibiting her body that way. Disgusting. You'll have to tell her to stop it."

"I have."

"What?"

"I've already had a conversation with Vicky on the matter. She uses her little film career to supplement her income. It allows her to attend various seminars, and give papers. Right now she is in Boston, I believe, presenting a thesis on the decline of Western Christendom."

"The she is lost as well. You're probably proud of her."

"As a matter of fact, I am. I'm proud of all my children. All four. One of each."

"What does that mean?'

"Oh, you'll figure it out. In time. Anything else? Care for a cup of tea? Something stronger?"

"Nothing. You can call me a taxi."

"I can have Ahmed drive you back to your hotel."

Prudence flinched. "Ahmed? I think not. A taxi will do."

Shortly after, she flounced out.

I looked at Irving.

He looked at me.

"Lord protect us from protectors," I said.

"Amen," he replied.

A Moll At The Mall

I had a spot of trouble recently. Not entirely my fault, but it might have been avoided. Just can't see how -- you be the judge.

I was on the way back from an excellent lunch with some colleagues in The Trade, during which we had evolved a solution for Iran. Can't relate the details, other than to mention that the cost would be minimal, and the results spectacular. The proposed action, involving a sound cleric's discussion of where Islam had gone off the rails, would certainly "kindle" a highly revolutionary flame. Further deduction of the precise technique I leave to you; enough information is given.

Anyway, as I reclined in the back seat of the Bentley, I thought the proposal had a chance, particularly given the low cost aspect. Suddenly, I felt a twinge, cursed, and spoke to my driver.

"Ahmed, I need something at a pharmacy. Soon." The Gucci purse I had was tamponless.

"My lady, we're not far from a major mall. Should be one there. But Irving said not to let you out in a public place. I will get the item for you."

"Not this item you won't, and Irving occasionally takes his protectiveness too far. I will be fine."

Shortly after, Ahmed dropped me at the mall entrance. I quickly made my way to a drug mart, obtained what I wanted, and headed for the nearest washroom. Even in my haste, I couldn't help noticing that, at least at two in the afternoon, the mall had been taken over by the senior set. Everywhere one looked were rickety individuals trundling about with canes, walkers, Zimmers, and various kinds of electronic conveyances. I assume as the day wore on they would be replaced by hordes of teenagers, but for now, the difference between the mall and a seniors home would be difficult to tell. Who knew?

The washroom was at the end of narrow, extended corridor. I entered, unzipped my skirt, and, well, that's enough about that. Suffice it to say that God was back in His "undisclosed location", and all was right with the world.

Not entirely.

As I emerged, I was confronted with three of the brothers, one brandishing a Smith and Wesson. Oh dear, I thought, reaching quickly into my purse and grasping my own Glock 9mm. This was going to get messy. Must have been my outfit -- the Armani skirt, Burberry jacket, the Gucci purse already referred to -- here would be easy and profitable pickings.

I looked up, and saw the gunman's eyes widen. I had seen that look before, too many times, and dove, rolling to one side as far as I could. Gunfire erupted, and the gunman fell writhing to the ground. Some distance away, but directly behind where I had been standing, another person was stretched out, but he was not moving at all. Good shot, bro' I thought. That second person I realized had been aiming for me.

The sound of gunfire was still ringing in my ears. Before anyone realized just what had happened, I decided to get out of there as quickly as I could. I calmly walked into a nearby store, Champagne and Ice, I think, and hid among the party frocks until things subsided a bit. I had no desire to be interviewed by a mall cop, let alone a real one. Too many awkward explanations.

I managed to leave by a side entrance, walked around to the Bentley, and ordered Ahmed to get moving. As we left, four police cruisers were entering, along with a vehicle marked RCMP.

Later, back at the Manor, I duly received a tongue lashing from Irving. I also learned that the person behind me had been shot dead (not really a surprise to me) and that the gunman who had shot him, though wounded, was now being considered some kind of hero. (Wonder how he explained the Smith and Wesson?) Apparently the guy who had me briefly in his sights turned out to be an Al Qaeda assassin. Alleged, of course, although Irving said that he was the real thing.

Does go to show, however, that malls can be interesting places. And a further thought. I recalled that after the gunfire, all the seniors had suddenly disappeared. Speedily and effectively. So I guess there is truth to the adage, as you head downhill, you pick up speed.

A Prince Pops By

Prince Charles and Camilla, the Duchess of Cornwall were in town recently, and the Prince had requested a meeting. He had been to visit the UK program where my sugar beets were being studied as a future bio-fuel, and wanted to learn more.

Arrangements were duly made, and we took tea at the British Consulate, far from the madding crowd of paparazzi and rabid republican protesters. (These republicans are idiots: the monarchy gives enormous stability, with the nasty stuff all confined to the prime minister level, where it rightly belongs. As you know, I tried to tell Hamid Karzai this, but no, he couldn't see that by giving up power for ceremony he could become a much beloved statesman. Vanitas, vanitas, omnes vanitas.

The Prince was in good spirits, and we had a good chat. Camilla was off learning about long-horned beetles, or some other insect, I've forgotten which, so Charles and I could get right at it. He had done his homework, and complimented me on the management of my various sugar beet holdings.

"No union problems?" he inquired.

"Goodness no," I replied. "All the workers own shares, so there's no division between management and labour. After all, they are just as important as the sugar beets they grow. Should you have occasion to go to Ukraine, do have a discussion with Bohdan, my manager there. Nothing like seeing at first hand."

We then discussed the bio-fuel project, which was coming along nicely, and he was impressed with the environmental aspects of the initiative. This, I gathered, was Charles' Big Thing, along with some opinionated views on modern architecture. Soon, however, his princely duties called, and we parted. His last words, however, disturbed somewhat.

"Lovely to meet you, Lady Simone, and Sir Harry sends his regards."

Bloody hell. Sir Harry mucking about with royalty. On the other hand, Charles was the future King, so I guess keeping him somewhat in a very nasty loop was necessary.

Back at the Manor, I reflected a bit on Charles. His first marriage was, of course, a disaster; a more mis-matched couple I found hard to imagine, short of Stephen Hawking suddenly proposing to Paris Hilton. The marriage lasted a lot longer than I thought it would, given the serious gap between how Diana saw the world and Charles saw the world, and both perhaps were blameless, yet both also responsible for a number of acts better not committed. And certainly no one foresaw the tragic ending of it all.

Bah. Getting morose. I made a serious martini, and thought of my own marriage to Lord Strunsky. This heartened. We were in all things equal, and delighted in each other's perceptions. That's the way it should be. Even if he wore that silly ring on his left ear. Then I recalled an observation made by my good friend, Rita Rudner: "I think men who have a pierced ear are better prepared for marriage. They've experienced pain and bought jewellery."

Says it all, really.

An Atrocious Act

The other day, while scanning a number of news sources, I came across the following: "My opinion is the very nature of the country begets speculation, extravagance, failures and rascality. Everything is chance, everything is gambling."

Wow! Who the hell wrote that? Well, it turned out that the writer was a general involved in that wee tussle known as the American Civil War, William Tecumseh Sherman, taking issue with life in the USA.

I thought he was talking about the Indian Act of Canada.

This was on my mind in that one S. Harper had asked for a brief analysis of this particular piece of legislation, and what might be done. I won't bore you with the long version of what I fired off to him, but can give you the highlights.

The Indian Act came into being in 1856, signed by Canada and approved by Britain, or, as the Indians of the day said, "The Great White Mother Across The Sea." (Victoria should have known better. Albert certainly would have raised more than a few issues). The Act was overhauled in 1951, and amended since from time to time, but it still remains a horror story.

There are, in my opinion, two root causes for the Act's dysfunction. It isolates the First Nations peoples (the term Indian is not on, correcting a mistake made by Christopher Columbus) from the rest of the populace, and it gives government largesse without requiring anything in return.

The first cause results in a classic we/they dichotomy to no ones' benefit, and the concept of containing the tribes on alcohol and drug-ridden reservations really has no place in the 21st century. The second cause is soul destroying in its bias towards life-long dependency. Worse, the largesse is handled abysmally. Every First Nation man, woman or child gets something in the order of $30,000 per year, but damn few women or children get that -- the Band Chiefs see to that.

What to do?

I advised Mr. Harper to scrap the thing in its entirety, giving all First Nations People a one off payment. To accomplish this, he would need a majority in the House of Commons --the howls of outrage from the Chiefs, aided and abetted by the NDP, would be stupendous -- and hence his goal should be to get that majority when he can. His area of expertise, not mine.

The analysis was well-received, but no promises were made. Sherman would have understood that.

Little Green Shoots

I will be first to admit that the world all too often resembles a darkling plain, where ignorant armies clash by night, to borrow shamelessly from Matthew Arnold's Dover Beach. Lately, however, I have been encouraged by a number of little green shoots that have popped up. Not those "green shoots" cited by optimistic economists with respect to the current financial mess -- that will continue for some time -- but rather others somewhat less obvious. To wit:

1) The proposed Asian Song Festival. This surfaced in that austere and fact-checked magazine The Economist, and hence has some validity. It is, of course, a riff on the Eurovision Song Contest, and is a much sounder (sorry about that) way to push national rivalries than shooting, beheading or bombing. Good on Asia, although I do recall that, in the Eurovision thing, the French are still mightily pissed off that Abba won the contest with their song Waterloo. On the other hand, no one went to war.

2) The advent of the mobile phone and its ability to effect monetary transfers is doing wonders at cutting down bribery and graft, particularly for those less well off. The cash actually goes where it was meant to, without being interrupted by various and venal government officials or third party parasites looking for a cut.

3) Finally, where my work in international intelligence is concerned, I have been promoted. Sir Harry has informed me that I am now in charge of a unit entitled "Special Circumstances". Does the name Pavlov ring a bell, I thought, because this term certainly did, resulting in this exchange between Sir Harry and myself.

"Yes, Simone," he said. Did I detect a faint note of trepidation?

"First, the promotion is welcome, along with the salary rise. But the term "Special Circumstances" -- Harry, have you been reading Iain Banks again? I warned you about that. His world view, his "Culture", is not ours."

"Worthy goal, though."

"Moot," I replied. "And I understand this is more an analytical job than field work. What of replacements --"

"Several are being trained as we speak. One in particular shows promise, but we shall see. Oh, and your advice to Hamid Karzai about power sharing was well-received by all."

"Yeah, but not by Hamid himself. Silly man is going for a second election."

"Doesn't detract from your thesis." Hah! I thought. This is typical Sir Harry, who once thought an agent's entry into a country was super brilliant. The guy had parachuted down in the middle of a soccer game in Bolivia, landing right in the centre of the pitch. Of course, the guy was apprehended immediately, but Harry had given him full marks for imagination. As SNL's Amy Poelher and Seth Myers would say: Really?

"Still," I said, "a pity. Another election won't really do the job."

"But Simone," Harry replied, "you're forgetting an adage you once hurled at me."

"And just what adage might that be?"

"From Will Rogers. 'No matter who you elect, the government gets in.'"

All right. So occasionally Sir Harry wins one.

Of Kabul, Karzai and Kooks

Got in late last night from Kabul, where, at the request of Sir Harry, I met with Hamid Karzai. While this was going on, apparently all of North America, and a goodly portion of the rest of the world, was watching a balloon containing a small child fly through the sky. The whole thing was a hoax, of course, something that should have been immediately apparent given the whacko family behind it. But no, the hoax worked all too well. Lots of other examples, mind you, both at the macro level (religion) or the micro (tree policy in Toronto). The perpetrators? Kooks, all of them.

But back to Afghanistan, and Hamid Karzai. I had never been in Kabul before (Kandahar is a different story) and recalled Lord Strunsky's father and his description of Kabul as "the Paris of Central Asia." This was said sometime around 1945, and indeed, the city prospered until the early Seventies. My husband, the late Lord Strunsky, remembered in the Sixties the well kept gardens, working fountains, and young Afghan women attending Kabul University, many sporting flowing locks and mini-skirts.

This lasted until 1978, when a very effective Prime Minister, Sardar Mohammed Daoud Khan, was killed in a Communist coup, whereupon things went steadily downhill and reached rock bottom with the arrival of the Taliban.

Karzai knew all this -- the man is not stupid -- and wanted to know how to bring all this earlier success back, minus of course the girls apparel -- that would be a hem line too far.

Apparently he had read my earlier synopsis of the situation (courtesy of Sir Harry?) and its thesis of ring-fencing the country for a time, and settling things on the Afghan border with the tribal areas of Pakistan via special forces, satellite-guided missiles, and a big push from the Pakistan army. I told him to take heart, indicating that Pakistan had woken up to the fact that the Taliban were lusting after those nuclear armaments and once had gotten a mite too close to Islamabad for comfort. So they were on the attack even as we met. Gently, however, I suggested that he himself had some decisions to make.

"Hamid, you are in a bit of a bind. The recent election was a tad more than flawed, you are far to close to certain narcotic-driven warlords, and little of government largess actually reaches the people. Hence, I offer the following strategy. Become a second Daoud Khan."

"What do you mean?" he asked hesitantly. (Everything the man does or says is done or said hesitantly).

"Become President, and make Dr. Abdullah your Prime Minister. Let him sort out the tribal alliances, something he knows a lot about. You trot about distributing goodies, attending international meetings, and cut ribbons here and there. In effect, a father of the country, standing above the nasty, and sometimes downright dirty, fray."

"But the UN wants another election --"

"The minute you and Dr. Abdullah come to an agreement, the UN will heave a gigantic sigh of relief, shower Afghanistan with money, and leave."

"But I would have to decide --"

"Yes, you would have to decide."

And there we left it.

Bah. They don't pay me enough.

Rewarding Possibility

Finally back at the Manor, after a grand sojourn with the Compte de Rienville that involved some ballooning and barging in Belgium (among other things). So relaxation was in order, and this involved a challenging chess game with my butler and minder, Irving. He had used the Reti opening, and I was pondering the Traxler Variation in response when my gardener Consuela and her husband (and my handyman) Ahmad burst in with two pieces of news.

"We're going to have a baby!" said Consuela ecstatically.

"Barack Obama has just won the Nobel Peace Prize!" said Ahmad, less ecstatically, but still with some fervour.

I doubted a causal relationship between these two events, but offered my congratulations on the first announcement, and said I would have to think about the second.

"Of course," said Consuela, "there will be the child's education to consider. Now a good Catholic school would be nice....And my little girl would look so cute in a white blouse and kilt..."

"Well," said Ahmad, "a boy can really profit from a good Muslim education..."

" A yeshiva never hurt anyone," put in Irving.

At that point I fled, muttering again that when religion tends to creep into a conversation, everything deteriorates faster than Lindsay Lohan in the grip of Grey Goose vodka. I wound up in my study, slammed on Shostakovich's Fifth (inner turmoil matching outer turmoil and all that) and pondered the giving of the Nobel Peace Prize to Barack Obama.

It was, I thought, strange, and established an odd precedent. If grammatical terminology be used, this was the future conditional tense rather than the past perfect. Other winners had all done something, whether the winners were people -- Lester Pearson, Nelson Mandela, Desmond Tutu, or poor Aung San Suu Kyi, (still in the grip of those thugs in Myanmar) or organizations such as Medicins Sans Frontieres. Even Henry Kissinger won, although I would be loath to let the man win anything. Obama has yet, in my opinion, to do.

Another oddity came to mind. Did the Nobel Committee award the prize for the simple reason that Barack Obama wasn't George Bush? And would future prizes be awarded on the grounds of who you were not? The possibilities here are endless. Will the person who next comes to power in Zimbabwe get a prize for not being Robert Mugabe? Will the next ruler in North Korea get one for not being the Dear Leader, Kim Jong Il. You see what I mean.

Finally, I thought, the decision might be more based on hope than any thing else. And perhaps this is OK. After all, as in chess, it will be the end game that matters. And one should not forget that humans are smarter than people think.

Being Real About Real Estate

Apologies for being somewhat late with this missive. Sir Harry had called with a request -- well, actually an order -- and it took some time to get all the ducks in order. He needed three safe houses in various spots in and around Toronto, and needed them within the month, bought, paid for and secure.

"And pigs will fly, Harry" I said flatly.

"It's a simple request."

"No, it is not," I replied. "It is anything but simple. Real estate agents will be involved, as well as lawyers, inspectors, municipal government officials --"

"Why the hell would they be involved?"

"Ah, Sir Harry, the Mayor of Toronto in his rapacious need for revenue to support the homeless and bicycles, has created a land transfer tax -- "

"Details, Ernestine. Details." (Ernestine is my code name that Harry dreamt up in a weak moment.) "See to it. Her Majesty's Government will be grateful.

"How grateful?"

"That concession in Norfolk you want for your sugar beet adventures might become available."

Now that changed things somewhat, but one question concerned me. "Sir Harry, if I did manage to get the houses, and even managed to make them secure, just who would mind them? You just can't leave them vacant. Raises awkward questions."

Sir Harry replied, "Not to worry. three young couples from...well, never mind where they're from. Occupancy will not be a problem."

"Oh, and these young folk will simply sail through Canadian immigration?"

"Already taken care of. We've made an arrangement with the appropriate officials. Involved doing some free fix work on those wonky submarines we sold to Canada. Delight all round. Now get to work on those houses."

My next call was to Don Guido, on his secure line.

"Bella. Always a pleasure. But unexpected. The score, as I recall, is even."

"And will stay that way. This will be a tit for tat. Cosi fan tutte, as it were."

"That's not entirely accurate, but let it go. What are you after?"

I explained my need for three houses, along with the need to make them secure."

"Just how secure?" asked Don Guido.

"As your own home. Steel, reinforced concrete, the works. But not the internal systems. I will arrange that myself. And the exteriors should look entirely normal, Don Mills Functional if you will. No charming architectural wonders."

There was a lengthy silence, after which Don Guido said, "There is a possibility I could help. But Bella, if this is the tit, what is the tat?"

"Twenty per cent of the Calabria sugar beet farm."

"Forty per cent."

"Thirty per cent."

"Thirty-five percent" said Don Guido.

"Done," I replied. "I will have my lawyers draw up the necessary."

"Still using Lambaste, Lambaste and Scruem?"

"Yes."

"Good firm, that. In fact, I have a nephew --"

"I don't want to know. Now Don Guido, you know that various permits will be required --"

"And various people will profit. Or other arrangements will be made. My area, not yours."

"Well, then, we can proceed. And all this, as I am sure you would agree, falls under the Einstein equation."

"E = mc squared?"

"Not exactly. Let us just say that if A is success in life, then A equals x plus y plus z. Work is x, y is play, and z is keeping your mouth shut."

"Brava, bella. May you have long life."

And that was that.

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.