A Dinner in Paris

To London, where I dropped off a piece of analysis for Sir Harry (effective bribery in Yemen, if you must know). Travel now had become a dream, what with Hank Grimsby and his Lear jet at my beck and call, and Sir Harry's granting me diplomatic immunity. (He owes me more than he could ever repay.) Thus no more fussing at airports and obnoxious people waving wands up and down my person, and female officials looking with ill-concealed envy when I removed my Christian Louboutin stilettos.

Now, my assignment completed and Sir Harry pleased, I felt the need for a fine dinner. I was also hungry for something else, and thus got in touch with the Compte de Rienville, whom I knew was confined to Paris until Sarkozy straightened out certain issues related to French pensions. The way this policy change has enraged the left, you'd think that working until age 62 was a complete loss of liberty, fraternity and equality. Suck it up my freres et soeurs. Everyone else does.

The Compte was delighted to learn of my intent.

"I suggest," I said, "The Tour d'Argent tomorrow night. About 7:30 pm. I feel the need for their pressed duck."

"No chance, cherie," he replied. "The Tour makes reservations weeks ahead. Weeks."

"You let me worry about that," I replied. "See you there."

Hank Grimsby readied my plane, and once airborne, I made a certain phone call. That done, I settled back and relaxed with earphones and Debussy. In Paris, after a luxurious bubble bath and some primping at the Georges Cinq, I taxied to the Tour, and was soon ensconced at a table, with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot nearby on ice. I had just had my first sip when the Compte slid in beside me. After a kiss and a hug, he was curiosity itself.

"How on earth did you do it?

"Do what?"

"Get a reservation. It would have been impossible."

"Well," I replied, with just a soupcon of smugness, you know the U.S. Marine saying: 'The impossible we do every day. Miracles take a little longer.'"

"You are not a marine."

"Ah, but I am a woman of mystery. And mystery is a good quality in a relationship, n'est pas? Now let's to the canard."

The Compte knows when he has been stymied, and dropped the subject. At least for now. I could almost see into his brain, filing this little event under the heading, 'Things to be examined later. In depth.'

What I had done, of course, had involved my new friend and resource, the wonderful Rachel. In that I had saved her ass big time, she was delighted to help me out as occasion merited. This was one of those times. Using the program WRAITH, she had taken over the Tour's reservation software, and made a substitution: the Compte de Rienville and Lady Strunsky replaced Martine Aubry and guest, who were flung out somewhere in cyber space. I was OK with this. I mean, what is a socialist doing in the Tour d'Argent in the first place?

Dinner proceeded, with much talk of finance, currency wars, and budget cutbacks. Boring, perhaps, but not if you own a major international sugar beet enterprise. Over dessert, we got round to the American efforts at fiscal restraint, something the Compte said was almost non-existent.

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," I said. "Look at the death penalty thing."

"What the hell has that got to do with saving money?"

"A lot. Did you know that a fair number of states are seriously considering dropping the death penalty?"

"Ah," he exclaimed. "Enfin, ethics and reason show themselves."

"Er, not exactly. You see, the bean counters have discovered that it costs a horrendous amount of money to support the death penalty. Appeals can go on for years, expensive appeals. A life sentence, on the other hand, is a far cheaper alternative."

The Compte looked down glumly, then said, "So no flash of humanity?"

"No. But it still is a Good Thing, even given Eliot's lines in Murder in the Cathedral.

"You're getting away from me again. What lines?"

"Eliot wrote, dealing with Thomas Becket's concern that he may be acting out of a desire for martyrdom, 'The last temptation is the greatest treason / To do the right deed for the wrong reason.' Says it all, really.

And it does.

An Exercise In Reciprocity

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

So I pondered, until Irving appeared.

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

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

"Well?"

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

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

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

"I had better fix things then."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We want the woman," said Levi.

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

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

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

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

Ain't reciprocity wonderful?

Of Deflections and Reflections

A loud screech of brakes on an otherwise quiet afternoon heralded the arrival of Matilda Hatt at the Manor. I peered out the conservatory window, and shuddered as I saw her rented Camry, the model with stoppage problems, just centimeters behind my Bentley. The door banged, and soon Tilly flounced in, trailed by an upset Irving, slowly replacing his Glock into his side holster. Well, you never know.

Tilly was wearing a clingy cashmere dress -- Armani, I thought -- and looked stunning.

I invited her to sit down, and complimented her on her outfit, adding "Bit unusual for you, isn't it?" (Tilly usually dresses as a poster child for punk rock groups.)

"I'm meeting someone tonight. Contacts in North Korea. We're trying to get a handle on the latest 'Dear Leader' known as Kim Jong Un. This person --"

"Is going to fall into a honey trap."

"Duty calls, my dear. And he's rather good-looking."

"Always helps the scenario along."

Irving was standing in the conservatory entrance, taking this all in, but then left after hearing a voice calling him.

"Who's that calling?" asked Tilly.

"Uh, that would be Rachel, his new found friend."

"Really! Hadn't realized that your minder has a little social life. Good to know. Now to business, but first, is your Grey Goose stock, ah yes, still on the sideboard. Want one?"

I acquiesced. "Over ice."

Tilly nodded, made the drinks, then curled up on the sofa and got down to what was concerning her. It was, of course, the whole business of the WRAITH software recently obtained by yours truly courtesy of Rachel and Irving, although Tilly was unaware of the source.

"First,Simone," she began, "you owe me big time. I managed to deflect the interest of the Powers That Be from wondering how those Predator drones went so badly astray, and got them focussed on something called Stuxnet, and now everyone is fussing about in Belarus, examining the Siemens Corporation, de-constructing servers in Denmark and Malaysia, and, no surprise here, appealing to Microsoft for help. So you are off the hook. And for all this help, I only ask one little thing."

What Tilly wanted was access from time to time to WRAITH.

"I'll talk to Rachel --"

"Hah!" exclaimed Tilly. "I thought as much. The woman appears, the software also appears, and--

"And I'll talk to Rachel," I continued. "She would have to be dead certain that any use could not be traced back to here."

"Lifted it, did she? But your condition is not unreasonable. Like to meet this woman. It's always exciting to discuss something with a person who's committed high treason. I wouldn't," she added, "need access very often. Just when I have to enter a red zone. It would be rather neat to quietly deflect the ungodly away from what might be at issue. And I will have another Grey Goose. If only to stop thinking about the current mess."

"What mess?"

This led to a long diatribe on the current political scene, a Congress deadlocked, an indecisive president, the growth of the Tea Party, a witch running for the Senate, and topping it all, Sarah Palin. I tried to explain the impasse in historical terms, mentioning that when the American Founders first borrowed the separation of powers doctrine from Montesquieu, they couldn't conceive of an age where allegiance to a party could be put before allegiance to country.

"Be that as it may," said Tilly, "it's sad. Although....there's always...Hillary. Let's say that Obama has had enough, and wants to fend for Michelle and the kids rather than fend for the country. So he doesn't run in 2012. Then Sarah P. gets the Republican nomination, and Hillary wins for the Democrats. What a cat fight that would be!"

"That's the Grey Goose talking."

"Yeah, I guess. And I've whined a bit, haven't I? Departed a bit from your little credo. One. Don't whine. Two. Make the world a better place. Three. Get as much happiness as possible. Did I get them right?"

"Missed one."

"What?"

"When travelling in the southern U.S., never, ever, crush the mint in a julep."

Rachel

Yes, I know, very late with this one, but there was not a lot I could do about it. That's what happens when you have a new computer installed and programmed. That's what happens when Rachel appears.

Rachel?

To cut right to the chase, Rachel is a colleague of my minder and butler, Irving, and at his request was staying at the manor "for an interim period" as Irving put it. Now I am well aware that nothing is so permanent as the interim, but this was OK. Turns out that Rachel could do almost anything with a computer, given one that was well-equipped. Hence the upgrade, a kind of tit for tat arrangement. A room for her, a state-of-the-art machine for me. As for Irving, he was grateful.

Turns out that Rachel knew Irving in his Mossad days, and I suspected that he knew her not only as a colleague, but in the Biblical sense as well. This attraction appeared not to have diminished over the years; the number of dewy-eyed glances between them that I noticed would suggest that the attraction remained a strong one. This did not surprise. Irving was a handsome devil, physically adept, and very, very smart. Rachel almost matched his six feet, was drop dead gorgeous, and as mentioned could make a computer sing.

And this was where the trouble started. Rachel had re-vamped my computer room, putting in God knows what devices and peripherals, so much so that the room now resembled a NORAD control centre. I was OK with this -- Rachel assured me that the information she managed to garner from the world's cyber systems would be of enormous use. What she was less forthcoming about was how she and Irving were using the system.

Bit of background now. Rachel had left Israel under a bit of a cloud. She was dead against further settlements into Palestine, and had disrupted computer-ordered construction supplies meant for the outlying settlers. These were sent instead to the West Bank, Ramallah to be exact, where they were gratefully received. The uproar this caused when it came to light was such that Rachel decided to get the hell out, even given strong support from a goodly portion of Israeli citizenry. Others, particularly in the Knesset, were not so forgiving, so Rachel took off. At least, that was the story I was given.

This should have tipped me off that Rachel was a bit of a loose cannon, but Sir Harry had me hard at work analyzing the North Korean succession -- one insane idiot preparing to transfer power to another insane idiot. So it was that for a time I was unaware of the following, all of which emerged after a frantic calls from Matilda Hatt of the CIA, and Sir Harry.

Rachel was indeed brilliant, and had developed a piece of software she termed WRAITH. This little piece of programming allowed her to surreptitiously take over another computer system, with the organization or person being totally unaware that such a thing had occurred. Rachel, had worked in Unit 8200, the signals intelligence arm of the Israeli defence forces, and had used WRAITH to send a virus that crippled Iran's computer systems, bringing work at Iran's newest nuclear power station at Bushehr to a crashing halt. This was looked upon as a Good Thing by her employers, particularly since Ahmadinejad had refused to believe such a thing was possible by the Allah-forsaken Israelis and ordered the arrest of four engineers working at the power station. They were now languishing in the pleasant confines of Evin prison in Tehran, and totally baffled at why they were there.

But it was the Predator drones that did her in. Somehow Rachel had tapped into the guidance systems of these weapons, and several times had altered their targets to focus on the Number 2 in Al-Qaeda, old Ayman al-Zawahri himself. She just missed him twice, but he had been rattled enough to disappear, not only from those hunting him, but his own troops. The Americans, needless to say, were also rattled, and by concentrating mightily on where the disrupting signal was coming from, had zeroed in on Toronto.

This prompted a call from Tilly Hatt.

"Simone, just what the hell are you up to?"

"Nothing. Although there's a Mayor's race on, and --"

"Well, you'd better bring 'nothing' to a stop, she interrupted. "At least where the Predators are concerned. I can deflect the issue, but it must stop."

"Predators?"

That's when I learned of the signal disruption, something further confirmed when Sir Harry called and inquired about some very sophisticated software that had somehow disappeared in Israel, and they wanted it back. Badly. One didn't need to be a rocket scientist to connect the dots, and I had very extended conversation with Rachel and Irving, and they agreed to down tools for the moment. For certain Rachel needed a secure place to stay for a while, and Irving was obviously smitten, but she had brought unwanted attention and would likely create more. On the other hand, this WRAITH thing....

Nothing for it, then, but to have a good think about it all, so I told them that I would give them my decision shortly, and headed for my decision-making place. I filled the Jacuzzi with hot water, bubbles, and jasmine oil, threw off my clothes, slapped Das Rheingold on the surround sound, and sank in. The only way, really to decide things.

Doesn't everyone?

Catching A Code

The secure line rang. I picked it up, annoyed.

"Yes, Sir Harry?"

"You sound bitter."

"I am bitter. I was just nicely into Gerard Manley Hopkins and 'The Windhover'. You know, the poem where his 'heart in hiding stirred for a bird, the achieve of --"

"I know the poem. Not what I wanted to talk about."

"Pity. Well, come live with me and pay my rent --"

"Will you shut up! This is important. We are changing the book codes."

"Finally," I sighed. "I was getting tired of poring through Hardy's Jude The Obscure."

"As was I. The new text will be more direct."

This was rubbish. Sir Harry was never 'direct', but rather was a kind of Galapagos turtle, given to making slow and almost imperceptible movements when he thought no one was looking. What he was on about was our mutual need for a code when it was necessary to exchange super secretive information. We had learned to our cost that electronic data, no matter how well firewalled, could always be hacked by some Lisbeth Salander or other. (cf. Stieg Larsson's Millenium Trilogy). Hence we simply used the Royal/Canada Post.

The code is simplicity itself. Here is a representative line:

L35-16-7R44-8-6. Easy, eh?

Not bloody likely. To be sure, it's not too difficult to decipher the first part (CODE Barry of CSIS figured it out in around ten seconds -- he is not called CODE Barry for nothing) by determining that L = left, 35 is a page number, 16 is the number of lines down that page, and 7 is the actual word. So also with the R (right) series. BUT WHAT BOOK?

And therein, as Hamlet stated, "lies the rub." If you do not know the book being used by the two people involved, the encoded information remains just that -- encoded. Yes, both sender and receiver have to work from the same edition, but this is not that difficult to arrange.

What was bothering Sir Harry was that he found out that the Americans, through the NSA, had discovered the text we had been using was the Everyman edition of Jude The Obscure. Hence the need for another text.

I emphasized to Sir Harry that text selection was not his strong suit, and asked him to recall his first effort -- Neal Stephenson's Cryptonomicon. The Israelis were on to that after a week. I mean, why would he select a book on codes in the first place?

"Well what do you suggest, then?" he asked, a note of petulance in his voice.

I thought for a bit, then proffered my selection. He agreed, and no, I cannot divulge the title (that would be telling) but I can say that our choice does call upon we Finnegans to wake.

Let us hope we wake in time.

Good Morning, Baltimore!

No, the title doesn't presage a review of the musical "Hairspray", although my violinist daughter Isolde was once dragooned by a close friend into playing in the pit after the scheduled violinist herniated a disc. I took in the performance, and while we are not talking Wagner's Ring here, the vim and vitality of the cast made the event a worthwhile one. No, my reason for citing Baltimore had to do with two things that transpired.

The first thing involved a close colleague in The Trade who had taken out a very bad person indeed, but had not come out unscathed. In fact, he was recuperating at John Hopkins Medical Center, after having a bullet removed from his neck. I offered what comfort I could, and in the process learned an amazing fact. The surgeon who operated had discovered yet another bullet logged in his cranium that had gone undetected for years. This, I realized, would explain John's (not his real name) rather weird habit of quoting certain cantos of Ezra Pound at odd and invariably inconvenient times. One hopes for a full recovery.

The second thing concerned Isolde, who had an engagement with the Baltimore symphony and the playing of the Sibelius violin concerto. I knew this to be tricky stuff, given the pieces' somewhat Oriental cast, and was looking forward to hear how Isolde would deal with it all.

It was, however, in my hotel room at the Hyatt Regency (not a bad little hostelry) that I got somewhat rattled. In perusing the "What's On In Baltimore" brochure kindly provided by the hotel I noticed yet another sign that America's regard for education was not where it should be. To wit: the University of Baltimore was proudly offering a course in Zombies. I thought, not them too, for I recalled reading somewhere that Simpson College in Iowa used the entire spring semester writing a book on 'The History of the Great Zombie War'. (No wonder Sarah Palin is popular in Iowa.)

Ridiculous. I mean, it was not that long ago -- 1989 to be exact -- that a survey undertaken by the National Science Foundation discovered the following. "93% of Americans cannot distinguish between a proton and a crouton, think that DNA is a food additive, that radioactive milk can be made safe by boiling, and that Chernobyl is a ski resort." Zombies aside, surely things have changed for the better?

To test this, I went to the hotel lobby and asked several guests what they thought Chernobyl was. To a person all replied, "Easy. That's Cher's real name."

There are times I despair. But at night the stars do sparkle on Chesapeake Bay....

Good Morning, Baltimore!

The Power of Superstition

I really did not want to write about this burning of the Qur'an nonsense, but Sir Harry wanted my thoughts, and even my kids called up seeking my opinion. This startled -- they are so engrossed in their own life-plays that they are often only dimly aware of the crap and corruption that is such a large part of geopolitical life. Apparently not this time, so here goes.

The root principle at work here is that as you believe, so it is -- the seeming makes it so. There is ample evidence for this. At one time, most believed the world was flat, a not untoward observation dictated by common sense. (Mind you, Thales of Miletus predicted an eclipse, so at least someone was a wee bit ahead of his time.) Then came the belief (pace Galileo) that that earth was the centre of the universe, with the sun revolving around it. Then Newtonian physics, and now Einsteinian relativity, buttressed by Hawkings' "M" theory. As Kurt Vonnegut wrote, "so it goes".

And this is as it should be. As more evidence comes in, and better scientific instruments are perfected, the world view alters.

Not so with superstition.

To some, the world was created in seven days, because this is written down in the Bible. The Rock of Ages usurps the ages of rocks. A second book, the Qur'an, is held to be the literal word of God, and hence, unlike scientific exploration, cannot be altered in any way.

Now if all this were confined to temples, churches and mosques, all would be well. But it is not, and the tenets in these books seep out into society where they clash, not only with science, but with each other. And for followers to deviate...well, doubting Christians risked burning at a stake at one time, and in the present age, it is death to leave Islam.

Which brings us to Terry Jones, the Florida pastor who, along with his 30 odd followers, ignited a world-wide firestorm when he threatened to burn copies of the Qur'an because a mosque location was, in his (and God's) opinion, in the wrong place. This suggests three things.

The first is that burning books of any description is a Bad Idea. The reader here is directed towards Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451; Mr. Bradbury deals with this issue far more capably than I.

The second raises the question of why Pastor Jones is allowed in society at all. At one time, state and provincial governments ran mental institutions where the likes of Terry Jones could get the help they so obviously need. No longer -- politicians saw an opportunity to fund causes nearer to their hearts, and therefore enacted a policy of inclusion and social integration, sending all manner of mental delinquents on to the street. (In America, the NRA arms them.)

The third concerns Islam directly. Leaving aside the issue that jihadist thugs were delighted to use Pastor Jones' idiocy as propaganda suited to their purpose, the fact remains that Islam, even as a superstition with a long track record, exhibits incredible insecurity. That 30 mentally unbalanced people could produce the outrage that it did beggars belief.

But belief is what it's all about, as I mentioned when I began this missive. And until those beliefs change....

Yet there is a glimmer of hope, best put by H. L. Mencken: "Every time the scientists take another fort from the theologians and the politicians, there is genuine human progress."

Enough. Or too much.

Sugar Beets Rule!

I scheduled the Annual Board meeting of Strunsky Sugarbeets Inc. in Paris this year, an act which enabled a neat weekend with the Comte DeRienville at his chateau near Versailles. All went well, and at the pool, my Cardin bikini was a hit. Still, the Compte was a wee bit distracted. His superiors had ordered that he develop some sort of ring fence around President Sarkozy, in order to shield him from the L'Oreal mess. That's a complicated affair, and not really worth the time of my treasured readers. That is, you.

I did enquire why Sarkozy couldn't do what his Italian counterpart would do in similar circumstances. I mean, Berlusconi would just enact a law making what was at issue legal, and presto, all solved! No flies on old Silvio.

"C'est non possible," the Compte sniffed. "Nous sommes... francais."

At which point I was going to shout "J'accuse!" but thought better of it. No point in engaging in a discussion that would intrude on, shall we say, other activities of a pleasurable nature. As the Irish adage goes, 'Many a man's tongue broke his nose.'

So off to the Paris Board meeting at the Georges Cinq. My Ukrainian manager Bohdan greeted me, and in the meeting room, I renewed acquaintance with the other representatives of the enterprise. Soon I was immersed in various and sundry items of a sugar beet nature.

I will not bore the reader in detailing all that occurred, but one or two things are worthy of mention. Beet sugar has moved from being 25% of the world's sugar to 30% -- a considerable gain. The East Anglia fuel project involving the production of biobutanol was coming along nicely, and German Zuckerruben-Sirup was becoming ever more popular. All in all, profits were up roughly 35%, no small feat in the current world economy. Thus I argued for, and got, healthy raises for the workers who actually tended the beets themselves.

No bonuses for the managers, though -- they receive handsome wages as well as stock options.

As the meeting broke up, Bohdan leaned over and said, "There's a military guy outside who wishes a word."

"Well, let's see what it's all about."

I left the room, and encountered two people. One was of Oriental persuasion, short in stature, and sporting a uniform festooned with various medals and medallions. The other was a slender female, also Oriental, poured into a leather mini-skirt and cashmere top and wearing what looked to be Louboutin stilettos.

"I am General Phan," the man said, ignoring the woman by his side. "My government would be interested in a sugar beet enterprise, a joint venture, if you will."

"And which government would that be?' I asked, although the penny was beginning to drop.

"Myanmar," he replied.

"I smiled sweetly at him. "You mean, of course, Burma. And I would be happy to begin a negotiation. When might I meet with Miss Aung San Suu Kyi?"

"She is not the government," he said tersely.

"Oh, but she is," I said. "Very definitely. Won the election handily, and has the support of most of the Burmese populace. Were it not for a vicious group of thugs headed up by that creep Than Shwe --"

He abruptly turned and left, dragging the hapless girl with him.

Well, you can't win them all. Particularly when the shit hits the Phan.

(Sorry about that).

On Listening

Just returned from the Scilly Isles, where the puffins go to breed. I was part of an international team tasked with the assignment to establish a super sensitive listening post. The software involved was keyed to pick up linked references involving words such as Al Qaeda, Taliban, Yemen, jihad, Saudi Arabia -- well, you get the point. What was unusual was the algorithm being used in the linkage, an advanced thing indeed, and as the saying goes, if I told you its nature, I would have to kill you. Moreover, the geography was such that the Scillies were perfect for the areas concerned.

Yet all this high tech stuff can, at times, be superseded by the common rough and tumble of daily existence. A case in point.

A few weeks ago, I was in the study re-reading in Martin Heidegger's Being and Time, when a shriek erupted from the den. I rushed over, and found my gardener, Consuela, regarding the television set with a look of pure fury. It was from this incident that a rather important result emerged affecting national security. Only this time for real, not the Bush-Cheney use of the term for purposes that can only be called self-serving.

Consuela had been watching something called Canadian Idol. Given Canada's hockey-mad ethos, I thought this would be a program featuring Wayne Gretzky, or Bobby Orr, or perhaps even Don Cherry. But no. Apparently it is an 'adult' (the term is used with misgiving) version of the children's Tiny Talent show popular years ago.

What had irritated Consuela was a performance that used a song by her favourite pop artist, Avril Lavigne, the pride of Napanee. Also, the fact that Consuela was seven months pregnant, and tended to be irritated about just about anything, didn't help.

By this time her husband Ahmed, my driver and handyman, had joined us, along with Irving, my butler and minder. Consuela had taped the offending piece, and we all watched an absolutely terrible version of La Lavigne's Complicated.

"Wait," said Ahmed. "Play that again." Consuela did so, and Ahmed stared closely at the screen. "I thought so. I know this person. It's Khuram Sher, and he's lying. He wasn't born in Pakistan, and I doubt he's ever been there. I wonder what's going on?"

Long story short, Ahmed peeled the onion a bit, and soon had some pertinent information. This I passed on to CODE Barry of CSIS, who then got in touch with the R.C.M.P. Irving also had contacted a colleague in Mossad, and I, of course, kept Tilly Hatt of the CIA in the loop. And as you now know, three arrests were made in Ontario, and a rather vicious little plot nipped in the bud. So while high tech has its uses, normal alertness and careful listening for the unusual still can play a significant role.

Of course, that's not all that can result from careful listening. I recall a certain fund-raising dinner in Washington to which I had been glad to make a contribution and attend. It was hosted by President Bush (the sane one, not George W.) and was in support of National Public Radio. I was seated between the Kissinger brothers, Henry and Walter. When Henry got up to greet Someone Of Importance I turned to Walter and said, "I note that you have almost no accent, while your brother...."

"Oh," said Walter, "that's easily explained. I listen."

Discuss among yourselves.

A Mosque at Ground Zero

I dearly wanted to avoid this issue, but Sir Harry would have none of it.

"Are they going to build that Cordoba mosque or not?" he barked over the secure line. "And what are the ramifications?"

"As to your first question," I replied, "it could go either way. Depends, as these things usually do, on the money. And more importantly, where the money is coming from. As to the ramifications, which also will bear on the possible construction, how you interpret the symbolism will be the deal breaker."

"What do you mean?"

"It's a bit complicated, but it will be in my report. Along with the invoice."

"Send it by tomorrow. Use encryption code D."

"That's rather elaborate. Something in London gone awry?"

"Fruit not yet ripe for the plucking," Sir Harry stated brusquely. "Now mind. By tomorrow." At which point the line went dead.

Now the real reason I was shying away from the New York mosque issue is that one must wrestle with symbolism and, with symbolism, things can get very complicated in a hurry. Let me give you an example drawn from Northrup Frye's magnificent The Anatomy of Criticism. Frye notes that when a critic of Edmund Spenser's The Faerie Queene encounters St. George, the Redcross Knight, bearing a red cross on a white ground, he has some grasp of the figure. Frye then goes on to state that "when the critic meets a female in Henry James' The Other House called Rose Arminger with a white dress and a red parasol, he is, in the current slang, clueless."

They are symbols, you see, but where one is easily discerned, the other is not.

Which brings us to the proposed Cordoba mosque.

First, let us dispense with the Cordoba aspect. In any symbolic interpretation, one must have at least an idea of what the symbol means. I put out a call to Tilly Hatt, who was currently in New York having a romantic interlude with some Romanian she had met in the Bronx. At my request, she asked a number of New Yorkers -- fifteen to be exact -- what they thought 'Cordoba' meant. Seven simply stared at her blankly, while eight said it was a 1975 Chrysler. (Americans may be no hell on Spanish history, but they know their cars.) So away goes Cordoba, the Moorish capital of Al-Andalus, along with the the Mezquita, (the Great Mosque) and the taking of the city by Christians in 1236. No symbol there.

With 'mosque', however, we are in entirely different territory.

I did some research here, and discovered that prior to the attack on the World Trade Center, Americans held little animus against mosques. Indeed, they thought them quaint, and of course no rivals to those palatial Pentecostal palaces that were springing up everywhere. In short, any symbolism simply escaped them, much like Frye's critic in the Henry James example. After the attack, however, Edmund Spenser's example leaped to the fore. Mosques became to a slew of Americans a symbol of aggression and the slaughtering of innocents, a Redcross Knight gone berserk.

And Muslims wish to erect one near Ground Zero? Madness.

Unless....

1) The funding is entirely by American Muslims, as an act of atonement and an expression of the regard in which they hold America, their pride in being American citizens, and their deep belief in the separation of church and state. (Shut up, Sarah.)

2) No foreign capital to be sought, particularly from Saudi Arabia, whose interpretation of the Qur'an is, to put it bluntly, nonsensical and from time to time, vicious. (The Saudis are not alone in this.)

3) A number of 'meditation' rooms to be available to people of other faiths; that is, a small chapel, a little temple, and perhaps a small shul. I mean, if you're going to atone, do it right.

If these conditions fly, then, as I wrote Sir Harry, the building should go ahead. I am afraid, however, that when it comes to something flying, it will be pigs.

Then there is Newt Gingrich's condition, and I hate to admit it, but part of me (and not the best part) agrees with the old Republican curmudgeon. Newt simply stated that permission to build the mosque be conditional upon Saudi Arabia permitting a cathedral to be built near the Kaaba in Mecca.

Works for me.

Famial Frippery

From time to time readers ask for more information about my kids. I try to keep such information at a minimum, lest this descend into some kind of weird soap opera along the lines of As The Stomach Turns or The Edge of Blight. But perhaps I have been too stringent.

It so happens that time will permit a quick update. Sir Harry and MI6 are pleased with some information I forwarded, and it will take some time to digest. Nothing dramatic, but a well-thought out response to the rain and mud catastrophe in Pakistan. I just called in some markers, and was able to fire off data on certain organizations that would ensure that monetary aid would actually get to those who needed it, rather than see it funnelled into ISI pockets, Islamic idiots or the Taliban. (The organizations are not necessarily mutually exclusive). Better to procure tents, blankets and fresh water than AK 47's, IED's or RPG's.

So...the kids.

Well, Victoria, the historian/actress and youngest daughter, has just left for London to present a paper on the Peace of Westphalia of 1648, the gathering that gave credence to the nation state. Her take on this is that another such meeting is desperately needed -- the nation state has become, in her opinion, a dubious entity. (Discuss among yourselves). After that she returns to New York, and some appearances in Law and Order, SVU, a TV show that employs her almost as much as her favourite, True Blood. I am rather partial to True Blood as well, a kind of Coronation Street on crack cocaine.

My eldest daughter, Isolde, is at the Manor at the present moment. She is a concert violinist, and is preparing for an appearance with the Toronto Symphony Orchestra. She is doing the Tchaikovsky violin concerto, something she states is "a brute" and hence the preparation time. Isolde I have to watch closely. I know for a fact that Sir Harry sees her as ideal courier material, and being Sir Harry, will persist. I am dead set against this, but, not wishing to kill hope entirely, told Isolde that she could do this when Sir Harry gives her her very own Stradivarius.

Sir Harry didn't speak to me for two weeks.

I am glad to report that my youngest son, Mark, has finally outgrown his disturbing predilection to go down a snowy hill on two sticks. Mark was, at one time, being considered for the Canadian Olympic team until a broken leg put paid to that. (Not that I am against skiers. I once had a fantastic bar crawl with Nancy Green and Picabo Street in Salzburg, and then the guys joined us and -- but never mind.)

However, I knew Mark to be ferociously bright, and if you have a talent, then it should bloody well be used. Now Mark is at CERN and involved with the Large Hadron Collider. His last letter to me indicated that her was excited as hell. He was working on his PH.D and just had his thesis accepted, something involving non-locality and the Einstein-Podolsky-Rosen Effect, or EPR as the cognoscenti would have it. More than that, had had had an opportunity to run his preliminary notes by Stephen Hawking when he visited the establishment. Apparently, Hawking had indicated that Mark's approach would fail, but then added that the reason it would fail was fascinating and that he should continue. His point, Mark wrote, was that defining a dead end was immeasurably beneficial to science, for then more promising avenues could be explored. Mark had then blurted out (he always had that habit) "Too bad the same can't be said for politics."

Hawking had then given him a penetrating look, then said softly, "Do let me see your finished paper."

My eldest son, Sebastian, has taken an entirely different route in life. Mark designs and makes clothes, using hemp as his primary material. He has shops in New York, London, Paris and Toronto, and is enormously successful. That may be because he designs clothes that people will actually wear. I myself have three skirts, two jumpers and one "little black (hemp) dress". Most recently, he has had a major coup in New York. He had initially run afoul of the law, in that hemp was viewed as marijuana. That was straightened out with the aid of Mayor Bloomberg, with a little help from myself, and now it turns out that Mark has just won a contract to supply the entire NYPD with hemp-based uniforms, clothing which the officers find far more comfortable and easy to wear than their present ones. What goes around, comes around.

So there we are, and that will be enough of that.

I leave you, however, with a kind of hemp cartoon from the British Magazine Punch sent to me by Mark. Outside a window, you see a gigantic beanstalk with Jack close by. His mother, through the open window, asks, "Well, Jack, are you going to climb it?"

"Hell, no, Ma, I'm going to smoke it!"

Rimshot.

A Conversation on Commissions

There were three of us at the pool, Matilda Hatt, myself and my daughter Victoria. Vicky had just finished shooting a number of damsel in distress sequences for the True Blood series in Los Angeles and was now back at The Manor working on a paper commissioned by the British Historical Society entitled What Really Occurred at the Peace of Westphalia in 1648. Tilly was back from God knows where, and had picked up a nasty bruise on her forearm that she was not talking about. Given that the temperature was pushing 33 degrees C., the pool was the place to be.

Another reason that drove us outside was the fact that two of the Manor's fireplaces needed attention, and various workmen were at present clambering all about, and making a hell of a racket. My driver Ahmed was supervising, and for this I was glad. His wife Consuela, my gardener, was great with child, and he was continually fretting and worrying.

We were all in our bikinis, something that did not go unnoticed by the odd workman's face that would appear from time to time in the Manor's windows.

I looked up. saw one, and muttered, "Bloody better get back to parging, boyo."

"What the hell is parging?" asked Tilly.

I didn't acquire an engineering degree for nothing, and replied, "It's applying a thin coat of polymeric mortar to create a smooth surface. In a fireplace that's necessary because --"

"Now Mum," said Vicky, putting down her history notebook, "let's not get all technical. I mean, I can expound at length on this Westphalia thing as a justification for the Thirty Years War. It did, after all, establish a diplomatic principle of non-interference in another countries affairs that --"

"Enough!" said Tilly loudly. "It's too damn hot for obscure arguments. But I am curious, Victoria, about your little cinematic commissions as a way of making some money on the side.

"Actually, quite a lot of money," I said.

"Well," said Vicky, "I enjoy it, although at times you have to be a little, er, athletic."

"Like being suspended by the ankles over a pit of open fire," I added. "Just your normal cameo role."

"Now, Mum," said Vicky. "That was one of my best. It's a pity there isn't an Oscar category for that type of performance. I mean, I writhed!"

Tilly, who I knew had once been in that very position in an actual situation, just stared at her.

"And look, Mum, I got a gift from the True Blood cast. See?"

Vicky did something with her tongue, and, click, two little fangs appeared.

"Good God," I said.

"Cool," said Tilly.

I had had enough of this, and plunged into the pool. I surfaced, and was soon joined by Tilly. We swam for a bit, then perched on the far side of the pool. Vicky had gone back to her notebook.

"Lord," said Tilly out of the blue, "but Canada is a civilized country."

"And just what prompts this observation?"

"For starters," she replied, "you don't tear yourselves apart over an issue. In the USA, health care, abortion, gun control -- both Democrats and Republicans just snarl at each other. And each year the divide seems to be getting more wider, even more vicious. Yet it doesn't appear to be the same here."

"Not exactly true, Tilly. There was the FLQ in Quebec, and earlier, at the time of WW II, conscription was a big deal. Further back, there was Riel, and the Fenians, but I see what you mean. Actually, what Canada does is rather unique when a divisive issue surfaces."

"And just what is that, precisely?" Tilly was all ears now.

"We borrowed a strategy from the Brits. It's called a Royal Commission. Wonderful thing, really. When an issue looks like it's going to be problematical, the government appoints this Commission, headed up by someone who has an impeccable record, and comprising a number of the great and the good. It is staffed, and then swans about the country for a considerable time, listening to everyone and making copious notes. Later, much later, an Interim Report is issued for yet further comment, and a goodly time after that comes the Final Report. Of course, by this time everyone has forgotten all about the issue, and presto -- problem solved."

"We don't have Royal Commissions," said Tilly glumly.

"You could have, if George III and Lord North hadn't been so stupid. But, as they would say in Yorkshire, that's between summat and nowt. Yet all might not be lost."

"What do you mean?"

"Why not suggest a Presidential Congressional Commission? Get someone who both parties agree is a near saint on the issue at hand, and have equal membership from both Republicans and Democrats. It would also help if they knew something about the issue. Then off they go, listening and taking notes, with everyone saying their piece. Health care would be a natural."

I could literally see the wheels turning in Tilly's head. "You know," she said, I have this contact in Michelle's Secret Service detail. A word in his tinted ear, then to Michelle, then to Barack -- hell, it's worth a try."

"Good, but remember old W.C. Fields on this: 'If at first you don't succeed, try again. Then quit. There's no point being a damn fool about it.'

"I," said Tilly swimming away, "will keep that in mind."

Truth Or Consequences

Having arranged for Ahmed to drive Ayaan Hirsi Ali to the airport, I had time to reflect upon one of her statements. She had indicated that those women who had received death sentences from whatever crazed mullah or imam that had made them were all accused of denying 'The Truth of Islam'. It occurred to me that Christianity had gone through a similar phase in the Middle Ages, where a good auto de fe provided entertainment for all (except, of course, the convicted heretic).

The key word here is 'truth'.

During my Oxford days, I remember an all night, rather wild discussion with my classmates on the nature of truth. A lot was said, from the Churchillian "Truth is so precious she need to be accompanied by a bodyguard of lies" to John Stuart Mill: "It is a piece of idle sentimentality that truth, merely a truth, has any inherent power denied to error of prevailing against the dungeon or the stake." Now my classmates were bright people, and could quote relevant authorities at the drop of a hat. I had had enough, and piped up "It seems to me that Robert Browning has resolved the question once and for all."

"Robert Browning?" said someone. "Simone, you've got to be kidding. When on earth did he ever address anything to do with truth? "

"Hear me out," I said, and began to explain. The argument is a bit protracted, but what follows is the gist of the thing.

Browning had written a number of dramatic monologues that had been well received by the Victorian public. One thinks here of My Last Duchess, Pippa Passes, Andrea del Sarto and the like. Certain critics, however, had taken him to task that all this was 'made-up' stuff, not real, and above all, not true. Wounded in his self-esteem, Browning decided to fight back.

He did this in his (rather savage) extended poem, The Ring and the Book, a work that involves all manner of people and events. The thing encompasses a child bride, an older and rather nasty groom, a disguised priest, a triple murder, four hangings and a beheading. And all of this was FACTUALLY TRUE.

"Finally!" said the critics. "The man has seen the light."

Browning replied, (I paraphrase here a bit) "Idiots! Would it have been any less true if the whole thing were a fiction of my mind?"

That shut everyone up, including my classmates.

And before everyone rushes off to purchase The Collected Works of Robert Browning (a worthy purchase in any event) I leave the last word on this thorny topic to the 16th century writer and philosopher, Francis Bacon. In his essay, Of Truth, Bacon writes "'What is truth?' said jesting Pilate and would not stay for an answer."

Well he wouldn't, would he.

Employing Empowerment Part Two

"This...is impressive Simone."

So said Ayaan Hirsi Ali on first glimpsing Camp Can Do from the air. We were circling the grounds in my Sikorsky S 76 helicopter, piloted by my good friend Hank Grimsby. Hank had just returned from a stint in Afghanistan, and I was delighted to have him back. Even when flying first class , airport security is such that the whole experience too often turns into a nightmare of poking and probing through my stuff, and I have already lost one Cartier watch and a Givenchy leather belt that somehow disappeared during the examination process. Staff at these check points appear to be all from deepest India, and any complaint immediately results in a charge of racism. A pox on them all.

I lease a Lear jet, but don't really trust anyone other than Hank to fly it. So welcome back Hank, and goodbye to all those airport personnel overly afflicted with office. He is also, as you may have gathered, familiar with helicopters. I should mention that after Black Hawks, he considers the Sikorsky a bit of a toy, but the machine can carry 14 people and reach 200 mph. Suits my needs perfectly.

We landed, and Ms Hirsi Ali -- whom I just call Ali -- stared about her, taking in the main building, several smaller structures, the lake at the front and the oval race track running around the water's edge. The exact location must remain a mystery (for any number of reasons, not the least of which is that five of these women are, or were, Muslims, and face a death sentence for wanting to be human beings.) Allah the Merciful again. The others have fled abusive relationships, having realized that court restraining orders weren't worth the paper they're printed on. Suffice it to say that the location involves an investment in a cranberry enterprise run by a First Nations Reserve, a generous leasing price, and a first class scholarship program. The BCR (Band Council Resolution) passed with lightning speed.

At this moment the front door of the main building opened, and 10 women of various ages and sizes emerged. Two were Somalis, who immediately recognized Ali, and were soon rabbiting on in their incomprehensible (to me) language. The others clamored to show me what they had learned.

A third figure emerged from the main house -- the instructor. This was a gentleman by the name of Judd Banger. I had encountered Judd some years before, when he was a leader of the New York branch of the Hell's Angels. We had a difference of opinion. This was resolved at the expense of a broken leg (his) and a bloody nose (mine). Thus we became friends. I presented certain options, one was accepted, and here he was, guiding very timid women into controlling very powerful Harley-Davidsons and doing something useful with his life.

Ali broke free from her Somali compatriots, and as the women went off to get their machines, Ali stated that she had never seen such confidence. "And this from a culture" she continued, "that won't even let the men watch the Soccer World Cup. They have to study Qu'ran. Ridiculous."

I replied, "That's not a Somali thing, Ali, but the religious maniacs in Al Shabaab. This you know."

She nodded ruefully, and then was startled by the roar of five Harleys entering the oval, with two riders on each. The five sped up, and began to circle the track, expertly leaning against the torque of the curves.

"Took some time," said Judd gruffly. "Took some time. Especially the taking apart and re-assembling. But in the end -- well, just watch this."

The cycles, now at full bore, began to weave in an out, and incredibly began to do wheelies.

Ali just stared in amazement.

"And Ali," I said, "do you think that a woman who can control that sort of power is ever going to be put down again? I think not."

"But there are so many --"

"TTT, Ali. Things take time."

Ali was silent for a time, watching the cycles weave and swerve. Then she touched my blouse.

"Simone, do you think..."

"Do I think what?"

"Do you think I could ride one? Just for a bit."

I was caught unawares by the request. Judd wasn't, and asked Ali to come with him. Shortly after, there was Ayaan Hirsi Ali herself, helmeted, clutching Judd for dear life, yet with shining eyes and laughter that rang right round the oval.

Occasionally, you win one.

Employing Empowerment Part One

Now back at the Manor, and delighted to receive and talk to a very special visitor. This was Ayaan Hirsi Ali, the courageous Somali woman who had fled Somalia, thereby freeing herself from the vicious tentacles of fundamentalist Islam. From Somalia, she had gone to the Netherlands, and shortly after, got elected to the Dutch Parliament. But her championing of liberal values resulted in numerous fatwas from the criminally insane imams and mullahs who have hijacked Islam. Bluntly put, the fatwas guarantee a life in Paradise (wherever that is) if she could be caught, tortured, and killed. Indeed, one particularly nasty fatwa aimed directly at her was pinned by a dagger to the chest of murdered filmmaking colleague Theo van Gogh.

All Merciful Allah wins again.

Things getting rather hairy at this point, Ms Hirsi Ali fled to America, where she continues to lash out at the crazed jihadists that have done so much to wreck the Islam that in saner times had made enormous contributions to science, art, health care, mathematics and philosophy. Of course, she has minders, but then, so do I. When dealing with the insane, you must perforce expect the unexpected.

In any event, when Ms Hirsi Ali got in touch, and requested a meeting, I was glad to invite her to the Manor (it is very, very secure) and to learn what she is presently involved in.

She arrived in due course, accompanied by two men who appeared to know my butler and minder, Irving, really well. Interesting that Ms Hirsi Ali winds up being protected by two Mossad agents. But if you think about it for a moment, makes sense. However, speculation here is not what we're about, for she was particularly interested in Camp Can Do located in Northern Ontario.

This startled me, and indicated that this is a woman who does her homework. The camp is not well known (for reasons that will become clear in due course) and the administrators even less so. As readers will remember, I support a number of oddball charities, one of which is a woman's shelter run by the Little Sisters of Poverty and Pain. The nuns involved are atheists, and Holy Mother Church would close the enterprise down in a heartbeat, save for certain information I possess with respect to Church finances and three missing paintings by Rubens. But I digress.

We quickly became Ali and Simone, and over tea and scones, Ali made her wishes clear. She wanted some background on the camp, and wondered if it was possible to visit. Over the next three days, both possibilities became fact.

I explained to her that the idea for the camp came from my own experience as a young girl growing up badly in the back streets of Naples. Fortunately, I encountered a mentor, of which I have only had three. This individual introduced me to the motorcycle. I was entranced, but until I could totally strip it and re-assemble the thing, riding it was prohibited. Took some time, but eventually, wow! I was in control of something that I understood. Maybe for the first time in my life I felt supremely confident.

"Who was this person?" asked Ali.

"A Canadian by the name of Ken Low. He had lost his government job after writing a Liberal Party progress report entitled 'We're Lost, But We're Making Good Time.' Bit too close to the truth, there."

Ali continued. "So this camp has motorcycles?"

"Oh, yes," I replied. Six 2009 Dyna Harley-Davidsons, V-Rods, 1250 cc and with a twin cam 88 engine. Powerful beasts."

Ali's eyes glazed over a bit at this.

"It will be better if I show you. Can you drop by tomorrow, by the helipad? And jeans and a tee shirt should serve." (A plan was forming in my mind, and the sari-like thing Ali was wearing would be rather inappropriate). I added, "Given your background, you will be intrigued."

"You really are passionate about this," Ali said.

"Certainly am. But I also remember my Benjamin Franklin, who thought driving passion was just fine provided reason held the reins. Now perhaps a short tour of the Manor?"

Ali agreed, and away we went. But stay tuned.

The Price of Admission

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not like your Agate Christie once wrote."

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

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

"Marples."

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

"Like your countrymen. And women."

"Now what are you talking about?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Fish Rots From The Head

The Chief of Police called (we get along) all distraught about the way the media was portraying his actions regarding the recent G20 meeting in Toronto. I consoled him with these words from Chaucer, from the Prologue to his magnificent Canterbury Tales:

"And this figure he added eek thereto,
That if gold ruste, what shal iren do?"

Yes, it's Middle English. Deal with it.

What was disturbing the Chief was his receipt of conflicting orders from The Mayor, he of the strong socialist bent. On the first day of the G20 session, the Chief's orders were to 'facilitate' the marching of sundry protesters yelping at everything from First Nations land claims to outrage at the state of Israel having the temerity to defend itself. Thus the police were marshalled to do just that, and succeeded.

Unfortunately, this concentration provided a gap in coverage which was exploited by the vicious and mentally disturbed, who proceeded to trash and burn with gay abandon. The Mayor was horrified, and now ordered the police to stop all this. On the second day, the police did just that, retrieving many perpetrators from within the marching crowds and arresting them. No trashing was done that day, but the howls of outrage from various marchers who were swept up in the mayhem delighted the media, and the Chief was duly blamed.

I made the point to the Chief that he had fallen victim to rotten leadership, and asked him to remember such stellar examples as The Charge of the Light Brigade in the Crimean War, or, during the American Civil War, the actions of any Union general prior to the advent of Grant and Sherman. (In this context it is worth noting that Robert E. Lee killed more Americans than Hitler or Hirohito combined). I also referred him to Barbara Tuchman's fine book on ridiculous leadership, 'The March of Folly'.

The Chief was lighter in mood when he rang off, and I turned to another matter that sort of fits into this area -- the Great Russian Spy Scandal erupting south of the border. This was so bizarre that I called in a marker from a Russian colleague in The Trade, Svetlana Marinskaya. We had become good friends (when we weren't trying to kill each other.)

Svetlana, having determined that the phone connection to The Manor was secure, explained what was going on.

"You see, Simone, what happened is that The Kremlin SIMPLY FORGOT THAT THE SLEEPER CELL WAS STILL OPERATIVE. Vladimir and Dmitri were furious, and heads will roll. Those running the operation were all from the old KGB, and had a nice little earner on the boil. They had a suite of offices in the Kremlin basement, liberal funds for the operation, and of course some of the monies were diverted into several well-appointed dachas on the Black Sea. Stalin and Beria live again, as it were."

"So," I said, "now would not be a good time to call and offer sympathy?"

"Nyet. Definitely nyet. In fact, things are so bad here that a small vacation is in order. Perhaps you could join me? Paris? The Georges Cinq? In three days? And maybe that nice Compte de Rienville --"

"Svetlana, don't even think about it. Besides, he's in Beijing helping me win a sugar beet contract. But a French fling sounds just the ticket. See you there."

And so it transpired. I mean, Mark Twain was never more accurate when he recounted some dialog between a man and his wife, with the man saying, "And note dear, when one of us dies, I shall move to Paris.".

Would have worked better had the woman made the statement, but you can't have everything.

A Little Outing

These days, with a title like that, one might expect some unexpected revelation about the nature of one's sexuality. Not that this matters anymore -- we have come a long way from worrying about the love that dares not speak its name. Indeed, rather the opposite: now it won't shut up.

No, as diligent readers (and which of you are not) will recall, this outing has to do with a commitment made to the good Robert Gates to block a suspected attack on certain delegates to the G20 in Toronto. Actually, not in Toronto, but Niagara Falls.

Apparently several key delegates from a number of countries had expressed a wish to see the Falls. Canada was pleased to acquiesce to the request, and suggested a trip on The Maid of the Mist. From a security viewpoint, this was ill-advised -- a helicopter would have been just fine -- but a number of delegates were insistent, so there the argument ended.

Now for readers not familiar with the various attractions at the Falls, of which the Maid of the Mist is one, let me assure you that this is not Janet Leigh in a shower at the Bates Motel, or a documentary on gorillas and Dian Fossey, but a boat. Two of them, to be precise, with the descriptors VI and VII. (Canadians are nothing if not imaginative).

Each of the Maids are 80 feet long, and can carry up to 600 passengers. Also, a nice touch this, free raincoats are provided. The boats leave every 15 minutes from the Maid of the Mist Plaza (that Canadian imagination again) and go to the base of the American Falls, then into the basin of the Canadian Horseshoe Falls. And that's where trouble could be expected.

Matilda Hatt had been assigned by Gates to work with me on this, a very Good Thing. The night previous to the planned excursion Tilly joined me at The Manor. This provided the time to review the whole situation, and to agree on a strategy.

"There," said Tilly, pointing to a spot on a map of the Falls. "That's the only likely place."

"In the Basin?"

"Has to be. The currents are too powerful at the base of the American Falls. As it is, it's going to be tricky."

"Well," I stated, "you're the one that trained with the Navy Seals. And I agree -- there is no other possibility. Still, how good is the intel on all this?"

"I'm told it is first rate."

"Right. Let's do this thing."

We left early the next morning, and arrived at the Plaza in good time. I was introduced to the officials involved by my CSIS friend, CODE Barry, and after that explained just what the plan was.

"Really?" he said.

"Really."

I changed into a short-skirted waitress uniform, (to irritate the two Saudi delegates who would be coming) and began serving coffee, tea and sandwiches to those who had arrived early. Tilly had gone elsewhere, and, I assumed, had changed into a wet suit and equipping herself with some very nasty hand weapons. Soon all was ready, and we boarded Number VI, which had been commandeered for this particular occasion. My presence was explained as a reward for acting as hostess.

The trip was, in the words of some delegates afterwards, spectacular. I wouldn't know, because my eyes were focussed entirely on the delegates and crew. I was confident that both had been carefully vetted, but you never know in these situations. As we entered the Horseshoe Basin, I grew particularly tense. If we had guessed wrong....

Then I saw it, roiling up at the stern of the boat. A large and growing blood-red stain on the water. One of the delegates from China also noticed, and turned to me with a surprised expression on his face.

"Ah," I said authoritatively, "that's from the Canadian Red Inkfish. Our passage must have disturbed it. Happens all the time."

"I see," he said. "Interesting." He then turned away, but with the Chinese, you are never completely sure just what they are thinking.

We docked, and CODE Barry greeted me. "She's some distance away. One of our helicopters spotted her -- that current is probably vicious. I've arranged -- ah, here it is."

A patrol launch curved into where we were at the Plaza, and soon we were slowly going down the Niagara River, scanning the shore anxiously. Then I saw her, sitting complacently on a rock near the shoreline. "Bloody well took you're time," she shouted as we edged toward her. The she plunged in, and surfaced next to the boat where CODE Barry hauled her in. Her arm was gashed severely, and her wet suit had a big rip down the left leg.

"You look a mess," I said helpfully.

"You should see the other guy. And it wasn't Al Qaeda at all. It was a North Korean. I mean, really. They sink one boat, and then think they own everything maritime. Well, that's one who won't be owning anything Evermore. So the intel was both foul and fair, and I will have a little chat with Robert about that. Now you two can attend to me."

So we did.

A Dilemma Of Horns

The G8 and G20 meetings loom ever closer, and one result is that a number of colleagues in The Trade are in Toronto, fussing about security arrangements for various political masters. I took the opportunity to provide a haven for a selected few at The Manor, and the offer was well received.

A number were entranced by the South African World Cup of Soccer, and there tended to be a daily congregation in my home theatre room, complete with 70" HD television. I don't really follow The Beautiful Game, although I was quite taken by the German side in its 4 -- 0 trouncing of Australia. One of their competent midfield generals goes by the magnificent name of Bastian Schweinsteiger. How could they lose with a name like that? (Serbia knew how -- but that's getting more involved in the matches than I care to.)

I could not avoid, however, the Compte de Rienville's comments on the French team, who are playing like they don't belong. Turns out they don't -- something about an illegal hand ball that sunk Ireland, who should really be attending. The Compte proffered the opinion that the French players were all too conscious of this, and had expected the head of FIFA, Sett Blather -- sorry -- Blatter -- to overrule a terrible call by the referee. He didn't, and consciously or unconsciously they were going to stress the stupidity of that decision. Then he couldn't resist stating that England's play was no hell either, and they didn't even have France's excuse.

But I was far more interested in two controversies that had occurred.

First, the incident of the Dutch orange mini-dresses. What riveted me was that one of the girls was an extremely competent secret agent, (also a friend) and I had to give her full marks for venue access. And no, you can't have her name. The dresses apparently annoyed the hell out of FIFA, not because they were sexually alluring (which would have been understandable given the sheer hopelessness of any aged FIFA official ever effecting a liaison) but that they had a small tag near the hem promoting a brewery that had not been blessed by the FIFA gods. The horror! The horror!

Utter nonsense.

The second controversy brings me to the vuvuzela, that weird horn that is ubiquitous in the stadiums and on the streets. Vuvuzelas are longish in shape, being modelled on the horn of the Kudo antelope, and when blown in unison, create a deafening sound. Indeed, the various stadiums become giant bee hives. Yet I rather like the sound. The bee community is one of the few examples of a command economy that actually works, and besides, they produce honey.

FIFA's answer to the complaints of media broadcasters who felt that the dulcet tones of their commentators were being drowned out was slow in coming (that lot does blather a lot) but was not a bad one. They simply told the broadcasters to use their filters.

Stadium attendees, however, don't have filters. Or do they?

Now when I was on assignment in Western Africa, one often heard the saying 'WAWA' -- West Africa Wins Again. Well, we are a bit further south, but the adage holds. If a noise is bothersome, their are, lo and behold, ear plugs! These usually retail about $1.35, but Africans are no slouches at spotting an arbitrage opportunity, and the price jumped quickly to around $30.00. (I have converted Rands to Canadian dollars -- always helpful, I am). This did wonders for the local economy, something rather neglected in all the "big" projects.

Put another way, the problem of the vuvuzela was overcome by making the point that when on the horns of a dilemma, one can always throw sand in the bull's face.

WAWA.

Sanity and Summits

The Compte de Rienville was staying at the Manor for a time, so life is good. Very good. We were enjoying coffee, fruit and croissants at the pool, and the croissants were unbelievable. This deserves some explanation.

The Compte, at my request, had come with his cook, Marcel, along with the proviso that I not make Marcel an offer of employment, one that he couldn't refuse. I agreed, but after sampling the croissants, realized that I had been too hasty. My own cook, a Mongolian who went by the name of Gul, had been quite satisfactory until there the unfortunate incident involving a propane tank and a yak rump roast. Since this was the third tank Gul had blown up, and given the outright terror he induced in the other staff members, I had to let Gul go.

Oh, well. Shit happens.

At the pool, the Compte and I were having a lively discussion on the approaching G8 and G20 summits to take place in Huntsville and Toronto respectively. Indeed, that is why the Compte was here in the first place. He headed up the security team for the French, and wanted to review arrangements and be able to assure Nicolas Sarkozy that all would be well. This began a long discussion on summits, broken up at the half-way point when I introduced the Compte to a wonderful albeit somewhat acrobatic way to eat sliced peaches. But I digress.

We agreed wholeheartedly on an approach, and the gist of our conversation is as follows.

The gatherings were way too large. Both the Compte and I recalled the scene from the BBC's magnificent Yes, Minister series where the Minister, on a trip to the Middle east and being conscious of costs, asks Sir Humphrey that he hoped the delegation would be a small one. They were having this chat in an aircraft while awaiting takeoff.

"The delegation? Oh, pared to the bone, Minister. Pared to the bone!"

The Minister could not see from his viewpoint on the aircraft the impossibly long line of suits stretching from the plane across the tarmac to a terminal in the distance. Small, indeed.

And that's the problem. Too many people not germane to the purpose at hand. Yes, it is important for the leaders of the world's most influential countries to meet face to face, and come to know one another. Anyone who has played poker knows that. But all the hangers-on, the sycophants, the public relation types, et cetera and so on, well, in our opinion, NOT NEEDED. Better to have just three representatives from each country. The leader, plus a person whom that leader knows is smarter than he or she is, (in the men's case, usually his wife) and a minder who is adept at all things where security is an issue. Add this up: twenty countries, three from each, and you have a maximum of sixty people.

The host countries will therefore only be left with expenses for interpreters, plus safety measures. Moreover, those measures are far easier and a damn sight less expensive to provide for sixty than for six hundred.

This made sense to the Compte and me anyway.

Of course, meeting face to face might not be all it's cracked up to be. In this context, it is wise to remember Macbeth, and King Duncan's words on learning of his betrayal by the Thane of Cawder: "There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face. He was a gentleman on whom I placed an absolute trust."

Happens far too often these days.

Muddle in the Middle East

Curled up in the Study, I was totally engrossed in Stieg Larsson's magnificent Millenium trilogy and the adventures of Lisbeth Salander when I noticed my butler and minder Irving hovering at the door. (He knows when not to disturb me, so whatever this was, it was likely to be of some importance.) I looked up, annoyed.

"Well," I said. "This has better be --"

"Oh, it is. He's on the secure line. Asking for Ernestine. Irving handed me the phone.

"It's me," said a voice.

"Well who else would it be, Sir Harry? No one else has the number or knows the code name Ernestine. Slipping a bit, aren't you? And you are being inconvenient. Did you know that in Stieg Larsson's novels he is actually naming names? And peeling a number of dangerous Swedish onions? I am really beginning to think that his heart attack might have been --"

"Forget that. It's being looked into. Now, as per our agreement, I need an analysis of that Israeli cock-up in the Mediterranean, the Gaza Flotilla thing. Causing no end of trouble."

"I'll get on it." (I really had no choice after receiving a British diplomatic passport from Sir Harry. Just zip through airports, I do.)

"And with speed, Ernestine, with speed."

"Oh, all right." I cut the connection. and told Irving that now would be a good time for cocktails, and that I would appreciate any input he might have. He was, after all, ex-Mossad.

Later in the evening, I had done about all I could do short of interrogating all the players in a small room equipped with certain devices that 24's Jack Bauer would get all excited about. Not possible, of course, but I did the best I could.

I prefaced the report with an anecdote to illustrate the difficulty of any easy answers.

A Canadian was at a Muskoka beach one day, and spotted a weird looking bottle nestled among some rocks. Sitting down on an outcrop, he held it to the sun, and wondered what it had contained. He gave it a rub. Lo and behold a cloud emerged from the top, and a genie emerged.

"No shit!" said the Canadian. "Does this mean I get three wishes?"

"It does," replied the genie. "What is your first?"

"A beer would be nice. Dos Equos if you have it."

"I do." A bottle materialized in the Canadian's hand. "Your second wish?"

The Canadian was now giving this whole thing some deep thought. "A beautiful girl would be nice...."

Immediately a drop dead gorgeous blonde appeared beside him, looking ravishing in Dior, and murmured, "I think I can make you very happy."

The Canadian did not doubt this for a minute, but now was afflicted with a sense of guilt. (This happens a lot to Canadians.) "Well," he said to the genie, "So far I've just thought about myself. What about, say, peace in the Middle East?"

A large map of the Middle East suddenly appeared, and the genie studied it for some time. Finally he said sadly, "Your request is too difficult. But I can, however, grant you another wish."

"Oh," said the Canadian. "Very well then. How about that this year the Toronto Maple Leafs win the Stanley Cup?"

The genie thought for a long time, then said, "Let me see that map again."

All of which goes to show that the Middle East is a difficult nut to crack, and Israel is smack in the middle. The interrupted flotilla apparently was transporting sincere activists who were trying to better the position of Gaza citizens, but also a goodly amount of military hardware and people prepared to use it. This Israel would not allow, although the country had to be aware that in the court of world opinion, Israel is always presumed guilty and then is found guilty.

Irving and I hashed this out for some time. In his opinion, and I concurred, Israel desperately need a coalition of the Likud, Kadima and Labor parties, while marginalizing the radical, fringe groups who are only there because the Constitution says they must be. The three leaders in Irving's opinion have the competence that would enable Israel to regain its earlier, well-regarded standing in the world. As Irving put it, "When he was young, we loved him."

So my report to Sir Harry urged him (and any others he could co-opt) to pressure Netanyahu, Tzipi Livni and Simon Peres to, as the Nike ad goes, JUST DO IT. Go back to the 1967 borders, withdraw from those idiotic settlements, and duck under the covers with Saudi Arabia and Egypt. Won't solve it all -- reasonable, non-violent solutions are not what religious fanatics want, although such solutions do terrify them -- but it is taking a sad song, and making it a little better.

Right, Jude?

A Visitor From The Skies

It was Sir Harry on the secure line.

"Your assignment has changed. The Americans are worried about an aspect of the forthcoming G20 coffee klatsch in Toronto. You should know more very shortly. In fact, right...about...now."

I heard a thump, thump thump. Looking out my study window, I beheld a Black Hawk helicopter descending on the helipad next to the swimming pool. This action had several consequences.

"Irving!" I shouted.

"On it," he said.

I was also aware that Consuela and her cousin Maria were in the pool. Consuela was great with child, and because Toronto was enjoying a mini-heat wave, had taken refuge in the pool where she could move around with relative ease (on the ground, not so much.) I ran outside, cursing the American penchant for the dramatic and untoward.

The girls were terrified, and I could sense Maria's thoughts. She had been recently freed from the clutches of an Arizona gone slightly mad, and was now convinced that Arizona was now reaching out for her. This of course was nonsense -- Sheriff Joe Arpaio's reach had its limits -- but fear can be a very debilitating thing.

The copter had landed, and I made my way to it. The weather being what it was, I was wearing only shorts and a tank top, and was weaponless. I mean, where do you stash a Glock in an outfit like that? Not to worry -- I knew by this time that Irving was at the second floor window, an RPG locked and loaded. Just in case, although I was pretty certain that Al Qaeda or the Taliban couldn't commandeer a Black Hawk and fly it through a very secure air space, and then nicely land the thing. Al Qaeda doesn't land aircraft, they crash them into buildings.

A figure emerged, and jumped agilely to the ground. Immediately after, four soldiers also emerged, and formed a tight perimeter around the person. And now I knew who I was dealing with.

"Ah, Mr. Robert Gates, I believe," I said. "always interesting to receive a CIA visit. Now if you will excuse me a minute....." I went over to Consuela and Maria, and suggested some lemonade in the conservatory. "And Maria, everything's fine. This has nothing to do with you."

They scurried off, glad to be away from the hulking machine and its fearsome guards. I returned and stated, "Did you have to be this dramatic? A phone call..."

"We were checking out security, and this was one way to kill two birds with one stone. So to speak." He looked at me closely. "Hmm. Lady Simone Strunsky. Code name Ernestine. And they said you were a looker. De Rienville is a lucky man."

Bloody hell, but their files were up to date.

"I would also like to extend out appreciation to you," he continued.

"And why would that be?"

"For shutting up about the Bin Laden sanction. It nicely serves our purpose -- "

"I know what it serves," I interrupted somewhat testily. "Helps focus American minds on an understandable target. But just what is this little visit really about?"

"First, would you ask the Israeli to stop pointing that thing? I can see the reflection from here."

I waved at Irving, and he stood down. "Just being careful, Robert. May I call you Robert?"

"You can call me anything you like. Particularly if you agree to a small change in assignment. Oh, and not to worry. Sir Harry has been informed, and agreed."

I wondered what Sir Harry got in return. Probably the course of that Los Angeles class nuclear submarine he had lost track of. He suspected it was heading for North Korea, but wasn't sure. Well, not my concern. Yet.

I said, "What 'small change' are we talking about?"

"We want you to go to Niagara Falls."

"Ah," I said, thinking of Oscar Wilde. "The second greatest disappointment in the life of the American bride."

Gates' mouth twitched a bit at this, although his profession wasn't given much to humour.

"Apparently," he continued, "several of the delegates want to see the Falls, and have requested a trip on that misty boat, or whatever it's called."

"The Maid of the Mist."

"Whatever. But there is word --"

"There is always word."

"There is word," Gates continued determinedly, "from one of our operatives that security in that area has been penetrated. Now I doubt this very much, but this operative has rarely been wrong, although a bit of a loose cannon. She --"

"She?"

"She. In fact, it was this person that suggested that you be involved."

"Matilda bloody Hatt!" I exclaimed. "Might have known."

He seemed a bit shaken by this. Good. Humility is always to be treasured.

"So you want me to take a sniping position on the shore --"

"No. We want you on the boat. If you or our operative --"

"Tilly Hatt"

Yes, Miss Hatt," he said, getting right snappish now. Lord, how Americans love keeping everything all arcane and mysterious. "As I was going to say, if you see anything suspicious, you both are empowered to act." He looked me right in the eye, and I had no doubt what he meant. "And you must persevere, even to the extent of obstinacy."

"And He knows about this?

"He knows."

I must talk to Michelle more.

Good Lord, imagine being given such a carte blanche. After a few logistical details were discussed, he left, and I brooded for a bit on his terms. Perseverance. Obstinacy. Both problematical, as Lord Dundee knew, in that the difference between perseverance and obstinacy is that perseverance means a strong will and obstinacy means a strong won't.

Stay tuned.

Methinks The Protesters Do Protest too Much

It is not often that I disagree with Blake (William, not Hector Toe) but his adage, "If a fool would persist in his folly, he would become wise" fails when certain types of 'protesters' come under consideration. This thought surfaced when I was considering Sir Harry's request to 'keep an eye on' the British delegation' at the upcoming meetings of the G8 and G20 in Ontario. I agreed, but made the point that these meetings were almost impossible to control.

"Rubbish," replied Sir Harry. "You manage quite effectively to rein in Al Qaeda and Taliban operatives when required. Good God, woman, you nailed Osama bin Laden. What's so difficult about coping with operatives from some rather silly fringe groups?"

I explained that those concerned were not operatives in the sense mentioned, but rather deeply disturbed individuals who were incapable of learning from past experience. Many were scuttling along the edge of insanity, in that one definition of insane behaviour is repeating and repeating actions that continue to fail. (Hence my problem with the Blake quote.)

There were, of course, legitimate, non-violent groups who were rightly concerned that world finances were in a mess, wanted action to correct this mess, and were going to make that point vigorously and very, very loudly. Others were concerned about global warming, and thought that this should be more on the agenda than it was. Again, no problem, and if that's all the protests were about, all would be fine, with the added bonus that because the protest actions were handled with a certain amount of civility, they just might result in success.

But that's not what's likely to occur. Not by a long shot. Instead, various individuals will use the occasion to disrupt proceedings as violently as possible. These are people with "Causes", involving a host of concerns that have nothing whatsoever to do with the G20 discussions. (And many of these groups have been infiltrated by thugs, pure and simple.) Some slogans illustrate the 'causes':

"More hostels for the homeless!" (The homeless hate hostels, but the do-gooders are not into end-user surveys.)

"Troops into (______) now!" (Insert whatever country, state or area a recent immigrant sees as needing regime change.)

"Troops out of (_______) now! See above.

"God is watching!" (Perhaps, but He doesn't seem to do much else.)

"Save the (_______)! Insert favourite fish, bird, insect, flower or whatever.)

Well, you get my drift, and my concern expressed to Sir Harry stands. You cannot predict the behaviour of this lot with any degree of accuracy. All you can do is expect the unexpected, hope that those really over the top are few in number, and adopt a first class sniping position.

Sad, really. All these groups want something done for them, but are unwilling to do anything themselves. They have forgotten an often-stated but still valid truth: "IF IT'S TO BE, IT'S UP TO ME."

Here endeth the lesson.