The Skin Of Our Teeth

The title of this entry comes from a re-reading Thornton Wilder's play, something very much in my mind after my experience of the last two weeks. As you may recall, I was invited (more coerced, actually) to take part in an ultra secret meeting stemming from the American professor Matilda Hatt and I had hurried out of Libya, along with his research findings. The operation was not without costs -- for me, a bullet in the thigh -- but was ultimately successful.

The research was contained in computer memory sticks. I had one, Tilly another, and my employer, Sir Harry, the third. It had become apparent that each stick comprised one-third of the data, and would be useless without being combined. Hence the meeting, and for security purposes, took place on a Trident submarine, Ohio class, submerged -- well, I never did find out.*

It is not in my power to give exact details of what the research illustrated, not so much for security reasons as it is for the simple fact that I had only a glimmer of understanding of what was under discussion. I am not exactly stupid, but there are limits.

Three physicists were in attendance: the professor we had zipped out of Libya, a second from Cambridge, and a third from China. Discussions centered around such terms as 'event horizon' 'black holes' 'anti-matter' 'string theory' and a slew of other terms that escaped me. Tilly, who has a certain way with members of the opposite sex, managed to at least get the gist of what the research was all about. We bunked together (a Trident is not exactly a four star hotel) and this gave us an opportunity to talk.

"How did you manage to get any of the boffins to open up?" I asked her. We were perched on our bunks in shorts and Tee shirts, submarines being a bit warmish.

"Oh," she replied, "they said nothing. But I got to know the Captain."

"No doubt in the Biblical sense," I replied wryly.

"Anything for my country. Besides, he's rather cute. Anyway, what there all rabbiting on about is a new energy source, something about combining matter and anti-matter."

"Tilly, even I know that would explode all over the place."

"Precisely. But the professor has worked out a possible way to contain the energy, and control it. At little cost. Available to all. The Chinese guy was particularly interested in this -- all those idiotic coal mines.

"The oil companies will love such a new source of energy.," I said.

"Not the boffins' problem. And the oil barons can always be co-opted. But that's not all. What has them really excited came about as a by-product to the research. Something to do with anti-matter and magnetism. In short, it may just be possible to bend space, as if you could take a flexible wire and bring the two ends close together. A flight to Mars in about the same time as it takes to go from New York to Rio."

"No shit."

"Mind you," Tilly continued, "the Captain told me the problems are immense, and resolving all the issues will take some time."

"Like about 500 years."

"You may be surprised."

It was then that Wilder's play surfaced in my mind. His thesis, that the human race comes extremely close to catastrophe before avoiding it, seems entirely apropos. Our energy needs were surpassing our ability to meet them. Something, somewhere, would give. Let us hope that again we can escape by 'the skin of our teeth'.

At this point we were informed that the meeting had drawn to a close. Good. I had had enough of close quarters. After signing yet another oath of secrecy, we headed for port.

Before we disembarked, the American professor, who looked somewhat drawn and tired, approached me, and thanked me for my part in the Libyan adventure.

I acknowledged this, then asked him what was next. His reply startled.

"Younger people can take it from here," he said. "I'm too old to be always at someone else's beck and call. Need a new job."

"Any thoughts?"

"Yes. A greeter at Wal-Mart. Then I can say forcefully, "TAKE THE DAMN CART!"

Rimshot.

* Somewhere near Carbis Bay, off the Cornish coast and not near any sea-lanes. The Captain was most helpful. -- Matilda Hatt

Herewith An Hiatus

Tilly Hatt called, all excited.

"I hear your going! Should be more fun than a barrel of monkeys."

"Not really," I replied. "How can two weeks of mental gymnastics be fun? This will be more like a mathematical root canal."

"Spoil sport," Tilly sniffed. "Just think of all those young Brits, the opportunities, the fact that there will be no escape. Fun, Simone, fun!"

What the good Matilda Hatt was referring to was an ultra secret meeting between the CIA, MI6 and a number of scientific specialists. The purpose? To make sense of the material obtained from the Libyan desert. The location? On a Trident nuclear submarine somewhere in the North Atlantic.

When Sir Harry wanted security, he didn't cut corners.

My invitation only came begrudgingly. My engineering degree is more mechanical than anything to do with nuclear fission or fusion, but I did have possession of one of the memory sticks that had been retrieved. Apparently the Professor was not as absent-minded as I had first thought. He had split the data into three, and hence my memory stick was at issue. Which meant that I was at issue.

Tilly informed me that her immediate superior was dead set against my attending. Tilly suspected that was because her immediate superior wasn't allowing her to go. Also, Tilly further mentioned that this woman, a political appointee, was a bit batty in the head. She knew this because the woman always referred to her breasts as "Abercrombie" and "Fitch."

I thought this overly twee, and for a fleeting moment wondered what I might call my own. Given a rather handsome return I had recently engineered with respect to sugar beet derivatives, I thought "Goldman" and "Sachs" might be appropriate. Then the fleeting moment thankfully fled.

The various secrecy oaths I have sworn forbids me to state just what will be under discussion. What I can tell you is that a new energy source is at issue, involving matter coming together with anti-matter. Hence the desert location. Apparently there was a small chance of creating a medium-sized black hole. Acceptable perhaps in a desert location, but not near any large urban area.

This little get-together is expected to last two weeks, during which time I will be incommunicado. But never fear -- I, like General MacArthur, will return. And given that science is the main topic under examination, I leave you with this, from Jacob Bronowski's The Common Sense of Science:

"Science is the acceptance of what works and the rejection of what does not. That needs more courage than we might think."

Discuss among yourselves.

Writing On Rites And Rights

Yesterday, pace The Beatles, really does seem so far away. I had just settled down to write my usual weekly entry, comfortable in my fluffy robe and eager to share with my readers the nature of the material lifted from the Libyan desert, when my gardener and housemaid Consuela burst in and said that I really must see a visitor.

Now these days Consuela is totally absorbed in attending to the recent arrival of her baby, the little girl Maria Aisha. (This name came about owing to Consuela's marriage to my driver and handyman, Ahmed. Consuela was still a confirmed Catholic, and while Ahmed was getting less certain by the day where Islam is concerned -- he has, for instance, discovered Voltaire -- he nevertheless wanted his child to at least reflect his Middle East heritage.) But something had interrupted Consuela's fixation on her child, and I wondered what it could be.

"He's waiting for you in the Conservatory," Consuela said. "He really wants to meet you."

"Who really wants to meet me?"

"The new parish priest at Our Lady Of The Sorrowful Chains. Father Martin."

"Oh, Consuela, I really don't think --"

"You see, My Lady," Consuela continued, oblivious to my hesitation, "he's been to that convent. The one where the nuns don't really believe in the sacraments." She shuddered a bit when saying this.

"You mean, the Little Sisters of Poverty and Pain."

Consuela nodded. "He....has some questions. When he learned that you were the chief benefactor, and that I worked for you, he requested that perhaps a meeting could be arranged."

I threw in the towel. "Oh, all right. But just this once. Tell him I'll be down in a moment. I'm not really dressed for company."

Consuela left, and I headed for my rooms, where I opened my closet and reviewed things. For a fleeting moment I considered my Catholic schoolgirl outfit, but decided that would be a bridge too far. Besides, that outfit only came into play when the Compte de Rienville was in town, and enough said about that. I selected a white blouse, and slipped on a black hemp jumper my son Sebastian had designed for me. Looking in the mirror, I decided that would be quite Catholic enough.

In the Conservatory, I greeted the new parish priest, Father Martin. The man was tall, and very, very thin. I had to suppress a smile when the thought occurred that the man, as he made his way over the flagstones at the front of the Manor, might well have disappeared into one of the cracks.

"Well, Father, welcome. Perhaps some...ah, I see Consuela has already attended to tea."

"Yes, she is a very considerate woman." His voice surprised -- a deep bass with real power.

"That she is. How can I help you?"

He got up from his chair, and began to pace. Since I know from The Trade that silence is the most effective way to encourage talk, I found a chair, sat demurely, and waited.

The man was obviously shaken, and it was some time before he began to speak. "The nuns at the Convent. Not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"I'm not sure. But not what I found. The Sisters are definitely atheists, but they are doing really fine work. They do not force their view on others, and indeed never let on to those who seek their help that they are not quite what they seem. Yet the Bishop would rather they would just go away."

"The nuns might hold the same thought with respect to the Bishop."

A slight smile briefly flitted across his face. Good, I thought. The man had at least the semblance of a sense of humour.

"Yet it somehow is monstrous," he continued. "A Convent is a Godly institution, nuns are, in a very real sense, brides of Christ, and yet they --"

"Minister."

"Yes, they Minister. And do it well. Very well."

I said, "So let's restate the issue. We have some atheistic nuns, who are doing God's work, and doing it very successfully, and thereby supporting the tenets of Catholicism. I fail to see that there's a problem here."

"That's the issue. The more I think about it, I don't see it as problematical as well, although I might wish that the nuns not pretend to be what they are not."

"Actually, Father," I said, "If asked, they will say exactly what they are. Or, put differently, they let others see them as they want to. I mean, you wouldn't want them to be untrue to themselves, would you?"

"I...I have to think about all this."

"Thinking is good."

He rose. "I appreciate your taking the time to see me. When I have thought a bit, I wonder if we might talk again?"

"Certainly, Father. And I pass on to you a little saying I find helpful: "Going to church doesn't make you a Christian any more than going to a garage makes you a car."

At this he laughed.

There is hope for us all.

Electing To Have An Election

It was good to be back at the Manor, and have a chance to recuperate after my Libyan adventure. I limp a bit -- a bullet in the thigh will do that -- and I am sore all over. The latter condition is due to a savage workout with Irving in the gym. He is still angry that I sailed off without his protection, and let me know it, both verbally and physically. Irving was also upset at a gift I had been given by the Compte de Rienville, who had presented me with a gold pendant, at the bottom of which was the very bullet extracted from my thigh, encrusted with six sparkling diamonds. Bless him; the thought of his generosity did much to alleviate the pain I was feeling.

However, a needle-hot shower, a fluffy robe, Schubert, and a serious Grey Goose over ice did much to make things right again, and I can now attend to writing this account.

Elections I gather are much in the news. Egypt, for instance, where they were voting on a referendum with respect to a new constitution. I understand the Egyptians are delighted, the election being the first one in living memory where the outcome was not known in advance. This event, of course, is sending all manner of ripples throughout the Arab world -- if there, why not here? But not all countries are Egypt, and many of the autocratic rulers will fight to the death to keep themselves and their cronies in power. Throw in Islam, currently in its medieval phase, and the situation is murky. Very murky.

Then I learn that Canada is about to be thrust into electoral mode, and one wonders why. The Tories are running the economy well, if somewhat too liberal for my taste, and have committed no egregious sins other than some dubious political ethics, ethics that pale into nothingness when one looks back at the horrific antics of one Jean Chretien and the sponsorship debacle. So why an election now?

Taking a healthy slug of Grey Goose, I gave this matter some thought. Then I had it.

First, I had to answer a question. Why would the Liberals force an election they would almost certainly lose? (In order to upset the Tories, they would have to take all kinds of seats in Quebec, and that's not going to happen. Giles Duceppe will make sure of that.) Therefore, there is another agenda. Put simply, the Liberal insiders WANT TO GET RID OF IGNATIEFF. An election loss makes this possible, and avoids the sturm und drang of the internecine warfare that would occur in a leadership convention.

I'm sure Stephen Harper has figured this out too, but his recently presented budget, while not perfect, nevertheless is basically sound. Could it be saved.?

Maybe.

I reached for my secure cell phone, and called Laureen Harper. (I have a few select women on speed dial, but do not abuse the privilege.) Laureen was furious; an election would put the kibosh on her and Stephen's planned attendance at THE ROYAL WEDDING, something she had really been looking forward to.

"There is one last thing that might be tried," I said. "It's a long shot, but you never know."

"What are you about, Simone?"

"Just this. The cost of an election is roughly $300.000.00. What Stephen could do is funnel that money to the NDP to meet some of their priorities. Jack Layton might, might I say, go for this. It will allow him to save face, and his base would be grateful. So, in a weird way, would the country."

Laureen replied, "It's a bit of a Hail Mary, but I'll have a talk with Stephen. Damn it, I had the dress all picked out. Talk to you soon."

So, as Sherlock would say, "The game's afoot." And this time, let's make sure the dog actually barks.

Dalliance in the Desert, Conclusion

I am happy to report that, although resting flat on my back, things can be said to be looking up. Well they would, wouldn't they?

Nothing like a few days of comfort at the Compte de Rienville's chateau to raise ones spirits. (Plenty of LaTour, the 1996 vintage, didn't hurt either). But now back to my narrative.

When Matilda Hatt, the Professor and myself reached the coastal Libyan town of Ajdabiya, we discovered that it was under attack, and that mass confusion reigned. The Professor was losing it, and kept babbling on about event horizons, black holes, anti-matter and a slew of other esoteric terms. We sandwiched the professor between us, told him to shut up, and made our way as best we could to the docks. This involved a running gun fight with some of Gadhafi's mercenaries, who quickly learned that Tilly and I were no slouches when it came to marksmanship, and after suffering a number of casualties, went off to pursue less dangerous prey.

The dhow was where it was supposed to be. We clambered in, and Tilly, after some effort, got the ancient Perkins engine to work. Looking at that engine reminded me of Bogart and Hepburn in The African Queen, and I could only hope that the engine would work here as it did there.

The Professor had shut up. Either that, or he had gone catatonic.

Slowly, very slowly, we made our way out of the harbour. Tilly knew where we were headed, but had not shared that information with me. This was standard practice in The Trade -- you couldn't be tortured and confess that which you did not know.

A number of things then occurred.

"Shit!" said Tilly. "Look!"

I peered over her shoulder, and saw a Libyan gunboat bearing down on us. Not that big, but a lot bigger than our craft. Tilly yanked the tiller, over-compensated, and fell in.

I reached for her, missed, then grabbed her ankle as she began to drift away on what must have been a severe current. I hauled her aboard, ass over teakettle as it were. She looked up, and calmly said, "I owe you one."

"Two, to be precise."

"Done. Now get down or --"

I yelled as a searing hot flame coursed through my thigh, and realized I had been shot. We were not, I realized, the only ones abroad that day that could shoot effectively.

"Hang on, Simone!" shouted Tilly. "Just hang on. It won't be long. Here, use this." Tilly tore off her blouse. "Use it to stop the bleeding."

The sight of Tilly Hatt in a brassiere seemed to snap the Professor out of whatever mental oasis he had fled to. He grabbed the blouse, and efficiently began to fashion a tourniquet and twist it above the wound. I screamed, partly because of the intense pain, but also because I saw that the gunboat was now levelling a large cannon at us, and I cursed that all this would end by the actions of a thuggish clown like Gadhafi.

Then the gunboat blew up.

"About bloody time!" screamed Tilly. "That's the Navy, always arriving at the last possible moment."

I wondered what she was talking about, when to my right, some 200 meters away, a submarine broached the surface. Nuclear, Los Angeles Class. At which point I passed out.

I learned later that the dhow had been towed to Naples, and my wound attended to by medical personnel on the submarine. I asked to be sent to the Annunziata hospital, and also managed to get in touch with certain people I knew who would assist me. Naples, after all, was my home town, and I have an odd relationship with certain folk best known as 'gentlemen of the South'. Tilly and the Professor had to stay with the submarine, but before she left she gave me her two debts, as promised. Two memory sticks, to be exact. One for Sir Harry, already picked up by his minion Cyril, and the other for me. What those memory sticks contained -- well, that's for another day.

So now back to the real world, and the stunning news about Japan. As I absorbed the magnitude of all that had occurred, I remembered that the most frightening words one can hear from Government are simply, "Stay calm. No need to panic."

Selah.

Dalliance In The Desert, Part II

Still in the hospital in Naples, the Ospedale della Santissima Annunziata, since you ask. I am now up and about, although the ache in my thigh still bothers. Having a bullet removed will do that. The schematic, now on a memory stick, was duly transferred to 'Cyril of the Naples Consulate' as per Sir Harry's instructions, as well as the bill for my hospital stay (Considerable. This is Italy, after all). But I'm getting out tomorrow, and immediately heading for Paris and the Compte de Rienville. I need comfort, and who better -- but enough of this. And not enough of what actually happened, which is as follows.

Tilly had made arrangements to meet in Tobruk, and had also managed to scrounge up a Land Rover at an outrageous price, courtesy the long-suffering American taxpayers. I had previously got in touch with Sheik Khalil al-Mukhtar (not his real name) and secured his clan's blessing for a safe conduct through his territory. Anything for 'Precious Daughter' he said, although five gold ingots from Tilly didn't hurt the negotiation. What had she done? Broken into Fort Knox?

From there, we went south, accompanied by two of the Sheik's men. Tilly and I wore army fatigues, but had condescended to wear hijabs. The Sheik, after all, was meeting us half-way; we could do the same. This didn't stop Tilly from remarking that "Once, just once, I'd like to walk across Arabia in boots, tight sweater and a mini-skirt." I told her she'd get about ten feet before being stoned to death.

At this point the astute reader may wonder about the whereabouts of my minder, Irving. Well, he had to remain out of this particular excursion. Sheik al-Mukhtar would tolerate some things, but not providing protection for an Israeli, and ex-Mossad to boot. This upset Irving no end, and at present he is not speaking to me.

He'll get over it.

The trip to the south was uneventful. Not surprising, there's nothing there except hardscrabble desert. Libya's population is really strung out along the coastal road and, towards the west, the oil fields around Zuara. The current revolt is all happening along that coastal road, so we were at present far from the action. The Sheik's men, however, were very worried. The clans saw any upheavals as bad for business, and Gadhafi was pitting them against each other. In their opinion, a disastrous civil war was all too likely.

This was also, according to Tilly, the opinion of the American State Department (no flies on Hillary) and hence this operation.

When we had gone some 200 kilometers, we reached a small camp sporting two tents housing three Libyans and a tall, rather decrepit-looking person whom Tilly addressed as 'Professor Smith'. The three Libyans were not of the Sheik's clan, but all was well, particularly when one of the gold ingots exchanged hands. The Professor was reluctant to leave his work, but Tilly can be persuasive. "As Al Capone once noted," she said, "a kind word can sometimes get things done. A kind word and a gun always gets things done."

After the Professor had gathered his things, along with some pieces of very strange equipment, we set off, making for the coastal town of Ajdabiya, where we were to leave Libya in a rented dhow. Then the wheels came off.

We had just entered the town when --"

Sorry to report that at this point the Compte de Rienville entered the hospital room, swept Simone up in his arms, and carried her off, much to her delight. She will finish the narrative when she has been, in her words, 'comforted'.

-- Matilda Hatt

Dalliance in the Desert, Part I

Bit late with this entry, but a trip to and from Libya, and a bit of bobbing around in the Mediterranean Sea, does result in some delay. I am also writing this on a laptop in a Naples hospital, having had a bullet removed from my thigh.

Then the phone at my bedside rang. It was Sir Harry.

He was furious.

"What on earth did you think you were doing?" he shouted over the secure line. "I told you to stay well away from Gadhafi. We have things in hand."

I replied, "This had nothing to do with old Moammar. It involved a rescue operation for the physicist working on the X algorithm. The country is in all likelihood heading for civil war among the clans, and the project was at risk."

"It's not one of our projects. It's an American thing. You had no business risking --"

"I got the schematic."

Sir Harry paused, then said, "Well, as the Americans would say, 'No shit.' Perhaps I could send our attache Cyril around --"

"Only if all is well between us."

"All is fine. I'll get on to the consulate right away."

So that was that. Now for some background.

The whole thing began with a plea from Matilda Hatt, my close CIA friend and confidante. She was requesting my help in retrieving a scientist from deep in the Libyan desert. Tilly knew that I had connections in this area, stemming from my late husband's grandfather, Lord Strunsky II.

He had done some great favour in the past to a major Libyan clan, something involving healthy payment for railway concessions. T.E. Lawrence was also a player here, but I never learned exactly what it was all about. Suffice it to say, the clan chiefs were grateful, and had made Lord Strunsky and his progeny honorary clan members.

This meant that yours truly was known to that particular clan as 'Precious Daughter', and was received with great courtesy whenever I visited, something I had done twice previously. I was also off-limits to any of the young men, a situation that eased my mind considerably, albeit not completely. Some of the sheiks were rather attractive in an Araby sort of way....

Tilly knew all this, and also knew that I had access to the area where the scientist was working on perfecting the algorithm.* Events, however, were moving fast. Gadhafi was in trouble, all the clans were on edge, and civil war was becoming a real possibility. In Tilly's words, "We have to get the bugger out. Fast."

But now at the hospital, it's lights out. In my next entry, I will narrate just what happened. And I certainly won't take so long.

* Readers will understand that what is being described as 'the algorithm' has nothing to do with what the physicist was actually working on. I am not Julian Assange, nor was meant to be.

In the Beginning was the Word....

To lunch with a civil servant who has my respect; that is, his policy recommendations to various and sundry Ministers of the Crown are always supported by sound research and imaginative insight, along with a healthy dollop of common sense. These qualities, of course, have been somewhat career-limiting. In his words, his government tenure has been a movement "from total oblivion to relative obscurity." I liked him a lot.

We lunched at my favourite pub, The Gerundial Infinitive, where the beer and ale are kept well, and the chicken pot pie is fantastic. A further plus is the complete absence ghastly piped-in music, or anything else that would distract one from having a conversation.

The civil servant will remain unnamed -- he is still very much at the heart of things, and I am well aware that anything electronic can be suddenly available to anyone. Why this fact continues to escape politicians baffles me. But there you are.

Once we were happily into Guinness and the aforesaid chicken pot pie, I mentioned my curiosity about a recent government document that had become available in this way, a Minister who had scribbled 'NOT' on a funding proposal, after the government agency had argued for just such funding.*

"Now" said my friend, "that is a subject worth examining. I mean, there was an entire novel, and a brilliant one, devoted to just such an issue. Think of --"

"Jose Saramago. The Siege of Lisbon."

"Oh, well bowled, Simone!" (I do have my moments).

"But as I recall," I continued, "Saramago was exploring the nature of language as it relates to reality. Not quite what is going on here."

"Well yes and well no," John replied, in true civil servant fashion. "The Minister's action, her 'NOT' if you will, considerably altered reality for the group requesting funds. But I do admit that The Siege of Lisbon pursues the matter at a much deeper level."

"Still," I said, "The whole thing created quite a stir."

"And as usual everyone missed the point. You see, the Minister had every right to make such a decision. She is publicly accountable, not the government group arguing for the funding. Yes, it was gauche to see the scribbled 'NOT', and very awkward that the document popped up in the public domain, but there was nothing inherently wrong with any of that. What was unforgivable was, to use our word again, not admitting to the insertion. This was a cover-up, and government history is littered with fallen officials who have tried such cover-ups. Watergate is probably the best example, but there are a myriad of others."

After a moment, I said, "It strikes me, John, that 'not' is a very dangerous word."

"It is that."

I continued. "Just look at Arthur Hugh Clough, and 'Say not the struggle naught availeth.' Moreover, one can get tied up in these knots --"

"Stop that."

So I did.

* The reference here is to one Bev Oda, Canadian Minister for International Development. She turned down a grant request from an evangelical outfit called KAIROS, doing aid work in Uganda.

Follow The Drinking Gourd

I received an invitation from the Mother Superior of the convent I support, The Little Sisters Of Poverty And Pain. It was, I was told, "a matter of some urgency", and an early meeting was requested.

Intrigued, I arranged to meet her at the nunnery. It had been some time since we had last met, and I had always found the woman to be fascinating. After all, she had started out as a pole dancer at Fillmore's in Toronto, and then through a variety of circumstances that would beggar belief, wound up running the convent. That all its nuns were avowed atheists only added to its charm.

We met in her office, and she was accompanied by Sister Athena, the person in charge of the convent's finances. (Sister Athena's former occupation had been as an Executive Vice-President at one of Canada's chartered banks.) Now my curiosity was really piqued.

"Are you aware," Mother Superior asked, of the symbol of the drinking gourd?"

"Of course," I replied. Harriet Tubman. The Big Dipper. The Underground Railway. And of course the song. And I trilled,

Follow the drinking gourd,
Follow the drinking gourd;
For the old man is waiting for to carry you to freedom,
Follow the drinking gourd."

"Well," said Mother Superior, "not exactly Renee Fleming, but passable."

"Passable," chipped in Sister Athena unnecessarily.

"And now that that's out of the way," I continued, "what on earth is this all about?"

"Funding," said Mother Superior. "More precisely, lots more funding."

"I already fund this enterprise. Handsomely. Not to mention keeping the Vatican away from closing you down. Why more?"

Mother Superior said, "I will let Sister Athena explain. She has the financial logistics all worked out."

"I'll bet she has." I leaned back in my chair, and learned the following.

Apparently, the convent was in dire need of expansion. Sister Athena had explored the possibility of obtaining three adjacent properties, albeit at a stiff price. This expansion was necessary owing to a program begun by the Sisters to establish an underground railway similar to Tubman's. The purpose was to give young girls and women a chance to escape from horrific family conditions; to wit, being raped by an uncle or cousin, then being accused of adultery, and then being tortured or killed for the "crime". The program was growing in success, and using the underground railway motif in several countries, complete with hidden directional signals, a slew of females were able to flee from their ghastly situations. In short, the convent was swamped with new arrivals.

I was told the directional signals, but you will not learn them here. I and others in The Trade long ago realized that the Internet was a very leaky thing, and wouldn't think of putting anything really confidential anywhere near it. (Take that, Julian Assange!) Why politicians still -- oh, never mind.

Sister Athena also stated that English teachers fluent in Dari, Pushtun, Arabic and Hindi were critical to the program's success. Since such people didn't actually grow on trees and were expensive, funding was needed in this area as well. Yet, as Sister Athena stressed, these teachers were absolutely necessary in order to effect a smooth transition into North American society.

I was a bit gobstruck. This really was a program both useful and imaginative. But just how much were the Sisters requesting?

"One point two million Canadian," said Mother Superior flatly. "I should hasten to add that the figure includes the purchase of two more Cessnas at the Can Do program. Learning to fly really does up the women's self-esteem no end."

"Now your Ladyship," began Mother Superior --

"Shhh. I'm thinking."

A long silence ensued, and then I thought of a way to make this all happen. In the hands of Irving's friend Rachel, The Wraith software could assume control of another computer. It would be neat if she could waltz into old Karzai's numbered account, transfer the requested amount to the Sisters, and make it appear that the funds had been deposited into his brother's account. That should stir things up a bit in Afghanistan, and a number of Afghan women would benefit.

"All right," I said. "It's a done deal. But no queries into the how of it."

Both nodded with alacrity, and then Mother Superior said, "Come. We'd like to show you something."

I was taken to the convent's inner courtyard, where a number of young girls and women were being instructed in martial arts.

"The instructor is Sister Hera," said Sister Athena. "She has two black belts. Karate and Tae Kwan Do."

I watched for a moment, then gasped. "She's teaching killing blows!"

"Of course she is. These women will have to survive on the outside, and a number of them will no doubt be tracked down. The 'family honour' nonsense. And their opponents will go to the wall. After all, if they don't succeed, and are killed themselves, they are still promised Paradise. The 72 virgins and all."

"Although," said Mother Superior wryly, "one would think that after four or five virgins, all the man would want is a pro."

Well, once a pole dancer, always a pole dancer.

Neela

My son Mark dropped in, a delightful surprise. He had been very hard to get in touch with since achieving employment at the CERN Large Hadron Collider near Geneva, and hence my pleasure at the unexpected visit.

There was, of course, more to it than filial love.

Mark had in tow a very attractive fellow physicist, a sweet young thing named Neela Karim, who was in a spot of trouble. Both were worried, and after settling them down with a good helping of Laphroaig, I asked just what was up.

It was a bit complex.

Neela had spent her childhood in Waziristan, and her beauty was noticeable even at a young age. Now in that area of the world, girls were commodities to be used for the benefit of the clan. (For clan read the male members). At the age of ten, she had been promised in marriage to a Pakistan trader operating in London. Neela, now sixteen, was duly sent off, but upon arrival discovered that her espoused had married another (and richer) woman. In Waziristan, the local mullah immediately issued a fatwa against the trader, calling for his death. At this point, however, clan warfare erupted -- something about goats -- and her parents and sundry tribal elders had simply forgotten about her.

Neela quickly made an alliance with another Pakistani family, who, to their credit treated her as a human being. She attended school, and her natural intelligence began to assert itself. In Mark's words, she was "bright as hell" and after her graduation, Neela had posted a paper she had written for her A level physics course. Mark had seen it, and suggested to his CERN colleagues that Neela would be an excellent candidate for one of the three internships that were currently available. Long story short, Neela was accepted, and the sun shone brightly on the land.

Well, not quite.

Back in Waziristan, after a number of people had been slaughtered and the goats returned, someone got around to remembering Neela. One of the clan elders, sixty years old and recently widowed (his oft-beaten wife had hurled herself off a cliff) indicated to Neela's parents that he would deign to marry her, thus bestowing great honour on Neela's parents. Her two brothers were sent to fetch her.

They traced her to Geneva, but by this time Neela had got wind of the enterprise. Mark had some leave time available, and he and Neela had fled, and then plunked themselves down at the Manor. In Mark's words, "Mum will know what to do."

Yeah, sure. Solve anything. Anytime. Anywhere.

Before taking any action, however, I wanted to know a bit more about Neela. I took her aside, and learned the following.

A. She really was extremely bright. (Well, so am I. Big deal)

B. She had come to the conclusion that Islam was a crock, and was beginning to think that all organized religion was a gigantic power and money grab. (I began to warm to this girl.)

C. She was aware of her beauty, but didn't trade on it. (If only some similar girls -- oh, never mind.)

D. She was hopelessly in love with Mark. (Uh, oh. This could be problematical. I will have to have a talk with Mark.)

I next had a conversation with my son, and learned that he was smitten, and was convinced that Neela was his entire universe. Well, these things happen. In any event, I decided to act. I realized that the pursuing brothers would not give up easily, "honour" being at stake and all, and therefore a strategy was necessary.

Now a number of people scattered around the global village owed me favours (and I them). I was thus able to learn that the Karim brothers were still in Geneva. I got in touch with a Swiss police officer with whom I had dealings. A few years ago, I had assisted in bringing down an arsonist who hated Swiss cheese and had burned down a number of stores selling the stuff. He was glad to help, located the Karim brothers through their hotel registrations (the Swiss register everything) and discussed the situation with them.

He informed them that their sister had fallen for a wealthy Mexican, and she had left Switzerland for that country. He gave a forwarding address (the Swiss are thorough) at a palatial villa on the outskirts of Ciudad Juarez, but warned them that it was probably a hangout for one of the drug gangs that currently infest Mexico. I doubted if the Karim brothers would follow that lead up, but if they did, the Mexican drug cartels were just as thorough as the Swiss. Good luck to them.

Still, it would be better if Neela had a new identity entirely. After some help from Sir Harry, who had been pleased at my assessment of the North African eruptions, Neela became a British citizen, with a passport in the name of Beena Patel. At which point we all went out to dinner, and an intense discussion of the where and what of the Higgs bosun.

Well why not?

A New Order In North Africa

Given the recent events in North Africa, I was expecting the call, and was not surprised when it came.

It was, of course, Sir Harry.

"Just what is going on over there?" he said bluntly, while assuming I knew where "there" was, and what specifically was occurring.

"Well," I said, drawing on my Yeats, "the centre cannot hold, the falcon cannot hear the falconer, and a very rough beast --"

"Stop that! I simply want a report, and not one that focuses on the obvious. I can get that from the media. I pay you to go after what is not obvious."

"Will do. And stay away from North Korea. It's a dangerous place."

"How did you -- oh, her, and that WRAITH thing. That we have to talk about some time. Now I would appreciate it if you could get right on it. Bye, now."

Goodness, he even said goodbye. Usually he just hangs up, something which leads me to believe that MI 6 is very, very worried.

Well they have reason to be.

I spent about two hours on the secure line, calling in a number of markers involving an halal butcher in Cairo, an olive farmer in Lebanon and a gold vendor in an Aden souk in Yemen, as well as having a fascinating conversation with a 'madam' I got to know in a Tunis brothel. Sources such as these, once they trust you, will always deliver useful information, and not the 'Will of Allah' drivel shouted out on the street. Or, for that matter, on CNN or Al-Jazeera. So here is my take on things.

The eruptions in Lebanon, Tunisia, Yemen and Egypt all appeared to occur at roughly the same time. This fact seems to have escaped the pundits and analysts reviewing the situation, and it was a fact to which that I gave some consideration. What had triggered all these uprisings? The only thing all had in common was the initial outrage at rising food prices. Hah! There it was, the Gini Coefficient at work. The top 5% of the earners wouldn't give a tinker's damn, but for the
impoverished 95%, it was a matter of life and death.

So the person responsible for all this is Al Gore.

Well, not really. He had just warned about global warming, when he would have been better off rabbiting on about climate change. Nevertheless, climate change has drastically curtailed food production in many places, and farmers take time to adapt to changing conditions. So prices rise, along with anger, and sooner or later there is spillage.

And that spillage that can be very bloody indeed.

[An aside: The Gini Coefficient in America is getting dangerously high. Both Republicans and Democrats should be worried about this; the lowly 95% are exceedingly well-armed. A topic for another day.]

Now to the players in the North African drama.

Lebanon: A thriving middle class and a slew of factions all wanting a piece of the action should be enough to see off Hizbollah. But Hizbollah has all the guns, so things remain dicey.

Tunisia: Tunisians are well-educated, and the middle class is an effective force. Ben Ali has fled to Saudi Arabia, his family elsewhere (including Canada, where they may be sent right back) so things should ease and a new government take shape. If Islamic fundamentalists take charge, however, watch out.

Yemen: A number of my sources saw Yemen as easy prey for Al Qaeda. I am not so sure. Yemen is a tribal society, and clan loyalty will trump lunatic jihadists every time.

Egypt: The biggie. Here two things are of paramount importance, a vibrant and growing middle class (although it needs to grow much larger) and a well-equipped and well-led army (it gave Israel its toughest fight). Those two factors should be able to cope with the Muslim Brotherhood and their call for a 'New Order". Mubarak has already agreed not to run in a future election, and is eying property on the Riviera. We shall see.

And as for the Muslim Brotherhood's call for a 'New Order', I refer them to the words engraved on Franklin Roosevelt's memorial monument:

They who seek to establish systems of government based on the regimentation of all human beings by a handful of individuals call this a new order. It is not new, and it is not order.

Bye, now.

A Productive Tea

To the Old Mill and tea with my good friend Fiona, with whom I had shared a room with at Oxford. I was reading English literature, she was studying tribolite fossils, so we got along just fine. From there I had gone to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, to pursue my interest in Ruhmkorff coils, while Fiona had come to Toronto, and obtained work at the Royal Ontario Museum (it has an excellent tribolite collection). I had stayed in England, and because I was fluent in Russian and Mandarin, was interviewed by Sir Harry (as he then wasn't) and the rest is mostly classified history.

Fiona's interest in tribolites waned, and she then was hired by the Canadian Government, where she now had a Directorate in Immigration, and was to my knowledge being squired about by Code Barry, my CSIS contact. How her expertise in fossils helps her work in immigration policies and programs escapes me.

We dressed up for this occasion. I wore an YSL paisley blouse and a knee-high brown corduroy skirt designed by Vera Wang. My Robert Clergerie boots helped things along. I was, however, particularly enamoured of the skirt -- I had it altered slightly to include a small inner pocket close to my left thigh, just right for a Derringer. I could retrieve and fire the weapon in a split second (practice is always a Good Thing).

Well, a girl in my line of work can't be too careful these days.

Fiona looked lovely in a blue woolen sheath that screamed Donna Karan, and her blue Jimmy Choo pumps were a perfect match. The government was obviously paying well. Recession? What recession?

As we daintily gobbled (possible oxymoron there) delicious cucumber sandwiches and scones laced with large dollops of black currant jam, all washed down with a good Oolong, I learned what is new in the immigration game. Fiona mentioned how important it was to master either English or French, and obtain at least a working knowledge of Canadian history. No news there. What was new was the following.

According to Fiona, Canadian gun control came as a revelation to many landed immigrants, including a fair smattering of Americans. A crime committed was, needless to say, not helpful in obtaining citizenship. A crime committed with a gun was fatal, and even possession was quite enough to incur deportation. And at this point in the conversation, Fiona gave me a hard stare, an action which led me to think that Code Barry had let something slip....

Another hurdle that immigrants had to master was, of all things, queuing. There was an etiquette at work here, and nothing enraged Canadians more than someone butting into the head of a line and displacing those patiently waiting. Not a few politicians have come to grief on this cross, and the practice should be avoided at all costs. Except perhaps where the Sherbourne bus is concerned, given that any number of mental health operations are strung out along its route. The exception, then, that proves the rule.

Finally, bribery in any form was forbidden. This, Fiona stated, was perhaps the most difficult thing for a landed immigrant to grasp. The societies from which they had come often bloody well ran on bribery, and to eschew the practice was very difficult indeed. In Fiona's words, "It had become a habit, and not one easily broken."

"I understand," I said. As the physicist Rupert Sheldrake once commented, 'The universe has habits, not laws.'"

Fiona just stared, then continued, indicating that the Immigration Ministry had reached a deal with the various police forces that when offered a bribe from a prospective immigrant, the cop was to indicate to the person that they had committed a criminal offence. The next time it occurred, a charge would be laid. For the most part, this approach seemed to be working, although Fiona mentioned that the policy was received with amazement by the immigrants.

"But what," I asked, "of refugees?"

"Now that," Fiona replied, "is a different ballgame entirely. Let's talk about that another time. Right now I'm enjoying this, and why ruin a perfectly good tea?"

Why indeed.

Fun With Ill-Gotten Finances

Back from Tucson, and with some time on my hands, I began to delve into Conrad Black's life of Franklin Roosevelt. Curled up on the sofa in my study, sipping a Grey Goose over ice, I began to read. Goodness, I thought, the man can write, and I thought it a pity that Lord Black of Crossharbour had not made a career of teaching and writing history, rather than grubbing around in finance, raiding pension funds, and sneaking financial records out of buildings facing dimly-lit alleys. Oh well, as my mentor once observed, this also applied to Hermann Goering, an acknowledged expert in the poetry of John Keats. Would that he had stuck to nightingales rather than Messerschmitts! Can't have everything, though.

I had barely started when my secure phone line rang. It was Sister Cecelia of a charity I support, the Little Sisters of Poverty and Pain, a gathering of atheistic nuns that have appeared in these pages before. The good Sister is in charge of the organization's finances, and wanted to thank me for the most recent, very large, donation.

"What donation?" I asked. I have a good head for where my money goes, and the Sisters had already received their 2011 allotment.

"Why the funds that you transferred to our account," said Cecilia. "About $300,000.00 dollars. In fact, we've gone ahead and purchased two Cessna Skylanes, and have contracted with a very good mechanic to help us out. The planes will do wonders for our Can Do Program. A woman who can control and fly an airplane... well, just think about it. [See entries for July 15 and 22, entitled Employing Empowerment]. And you didn't have to indicate that the donation was anonymous. After all, since Holy Mother Church withdrew their financial backing, you are our main supporter, although the women who have turned their lives around give us what they can."

What was she talking about? I had done nothing to -- and then realization struck. The funds had obviously been transferred electronically, and I had a very good idea how it had come about. I wished Cecilia well, rang off, and headed downstairs to the computer room.

There I encountered Rachel, hunched over one of her machines. (She has six of various capabilities).

She looked up, said "Hi" and continued to type God knows what on the keyboard.

"Rachel," I said firmly, "we must talk."

"OK," she replied. "I needed a break anyway". She shut her machine down, rose, and stretched her six foot frame, then settled back into her chair. She really was an imposing woman.

I sat down beside her. "Where is Irving?" Lately, they've been inseparable.

"He strained his back. Not serious, but he needs to rest. We were working out in the gym, and he tried to counter Arrow Over The Mountain with Cactus Frozen In Ice. Not a good move."

"No, he should have used Cactus In Coriander. But that's not what's at issue here. What's with the donation to the Little Sisters of Poverty and Pain?"

"Oh, you found out."

"It wasn't rocket science. You do have a reputation."

"Well, this whole thing began with a suggestion from your friend, Matilda Hatt. She thought that if it were possible, it would be of benefit to many if funds obtained illegally could somehow be extracted from their 'secret' accounts, and then given to those who do good work. I thought about this a bit, worked on some code, inserted it into the WRAITH software, and went to work."

"What 'work?' Specifically."

"I took over accounts housed in places like Switzerland, Liechtenstein, the Grand Cayman Islands -- places like that. I then transferred sizeable chunks of cash to Medicins Sans Frontieres, the Red Cross, UNICEF, and other organizations that do positive things. I mean, no point in the money just sitting there, doing no good for anyone."

I paled. "And just who had access to these accounts?"

"Ah," replied Rachel sweetly. "Here's the beauty. The owners of the accounts would be the last to raise an outcry, because they have all publicly denied having such accounts. People like Robert Mugabe, and a slew of other African so-called leaders. People like some hedge fund managers who did a nice skimming job during the recent financial mess. Oh, then there's Tunisia. I just finished taking a rather hefty debit from Ben Ali's account. He'll get a surprise when he taps into his holdings from wherever he has fled to."

"Saudi Arabia. But Rachel, I want you to stop. To be sure, the owners won't scream, but the bankers will be frantic, and banks have very deep pockets. Deep enough that over time they will crack your code, and then this place becomes vulnerable. I already have Al-Qaeda breathing down my neck. I don't want the gnomes of Zurich as well."

Rachel thought for a moment, sighed, and said, "I take your point. But it was fun while it lasted."

"It's always fun until someone loses an eye."

Reappraising Arizona

Sir Harry, my employer in The Trade, had been quiet for some time. This usually meant that either things were very quiet, or he, Cheney-like, had been whisked off to some undisclosed location because things were far from being quiet. As it turned out, he had simply taken some vacation time where he had enjoyed swanning around the Costa Del Sol. (I found this out via Rachel's WRAITH software, which, by means of taking over a computer, allows me to find people, anywhere, anytime. Wonderful stuff.)

"I need a report," stated Sir Harry, never one to waste time in pleasantries.

"Nice tan you've acquired," I replied.

"How did you --"

"Uh, uh. That would be telling."

A long pause, followed by, "Well, we'll put that aside for now. What I want to know is what is going on in Arizona."

I said, "The media is full of what is going on in Arizona. Some of the stories are even accurate. You don't need me on this one."

"Actually, you're right. But I would like to hear an assessment from your contact there."

This stymied me. "What contact?" I asked.

"There was this sheriff you got to know when you were reporting on illegal immigrants. Dupstick or Dipstick or something. He spoke sense then. Maybe he can speak sense now."

I thought for a moment, then it hit me. Clarence. Clarence Dupnik. The sane sheriff in Pima county in contrast to the out of control Joe Arpaio in Maricopa county. (Cf. Appraising Arizona, entry for May 1, 2010).

I told Sir Harry I could have a talk with Clarence Dupnik, but this would necessitate a trip to Tucson.

"Just do it quickly. Use Grimsby if you have to. The Home Secretary is interested in this one for some reason."

I got in touch with my pilot on retainer, Hank Grimsby, and shortly was in the Lear heading for Arizona. I booked in to an inexpensive but clean-looking motel near the centre of town, slipped into jeans, western boots and my 'Truckers For Christ' T-shirt, and sauntered off to meet Clarence, receiving some approving glances by the way. I mean when in Rome....

My outfit certainly impressed the deputies, and I had no trouble getting right in to Clarence's office.

He looked up, took in my appearance, and said "Really, Simone?'

"Helps to pass unnoticed. You OK?"

"I've been better. I enjoyed our first meeting. How is Ms Hatt? And the immigrant woman, Maria, wasn't it?"

"It was. Tilly is doing just fine. As for Maria, she stayed with us awhile, helping her cousin Consuela. Shortly after, she met a young Guatemalan man who was just entering a metal-bashing course somewhere. She decided to do the same thing, and now both are gainfully employed at a Guatemalan auto-body shop. Apparently she is somewhat of a genius at spot welding. Who knew?"

Then we got down to business. I was aware that Clarence had spoken of the need to use the tragic shooting of the Congresswoman, judge and the others -- a nine year old girl, for Heaven's sake! -- as an opportunity to dampen down the fierce rhetoric between the American right and left. He also stressed that President Obama had given perhaps his finest speech ever urging the same thing. Sadly, it doesn't look like pleas such as these will work, and the good Mr. Dupnik made the following points.

First, the National Rifle Association views this as a marketing opportunity, with the NRA urging everyone to acquire more weaponry in order to be more adept at self-defence. (Well, that crazed organization would, wouldn't they?) Secondly, while the Congress cooled down a bit, the radio talk shows didn't, and even Clarence found himself pilloried for trying to calm things down. And then there was Sarah Palin.

Clarence is always fair, and he stated that Palin had begun her remarks in a reasonable and even- handed way. All was fine, and if she had simply signed off at that point, she would have gained stature.

She didn't, and out came the reference to 'blood libel'. Clarence hastened to say that he doubted very much if Palin had the slightest idea of what the term meant, but rather had evolved it all on her own. I tended to agree. Sarah Palin would not be the first source I would go to for data on medieval Europe (although she does seem, from time to time, to hail from the 14th century). Therefore she would have been unaware that the term applied to Jews using children's blood to prepare Passover matzo. The term's usage by Palin ignited a firestorm, and saner Republicans lamented that the Jewish vote was now a lost cause. Not that it was any hell to begin with.

On hearing all this, I leaned forward and said, "Clarence, my good friend, I can state truly that I admire your courage in speaking out, and at least attempting to put forward a position with reason and integrity."

"Yeah," he said glumly. "But the next election for sheriff doesn't look good."

"Oh, you might be surprised. and I brought you a little Russian message."

I handed him a piece of paper. He read it, then said, "A Russian wrote this?"

"Yes. A poet. Yevgeny Yevtushenko."

"I will tape it to my desk. And thank you."

What I handed to him was this:

"How sharply our children will be ashamed taking at last their vengeance for these horrors, remembering in how strange a time, common integrity could look like courage."

Might want to tape that to your desk, too.

Oddities

Well, finally, peace has descended on the Manor. All progeny and guests have departed, save for daughter Victoria, who is involved in a movie and, even as I write this, is happily being stuffed into a culvert somewhere around Stoney Creek. I do wish she would drop this proclivity and stick with her historical writing and research, but she loves doing these cinematic stunts. Makes a good buck, too, but this is all too reminiscent of the fate of Conrad, Lord Black of Crossharbour, who would have been much better off writing history rather than raiding worker's pension funds and various other nefarious fiscal activities. But enough -- unwise career choices is a topic for another day.

The quiet and calm gave me an opportunity to catch up on what has been going on in the world. As I perused some sources, print and non-print, I was struck by the prominence of the weird and unusual.

First, their appears to be some force disturbing the hell out of the earth's fauna. Thousands of birds crash to the ground on Louisiana, Texas, Arkansas, and, for some odd reason, Sweden. Forty thousand crabs wash up on the Thanet shoreline in the U.K., while one hundred thousand drum fish surface lifeless in the Arkansas river. My scientific friends assure me that these things happen from time to time, but still....And it is somewhat of a pity that such a suicidal affliction couldn't be visited upon the slew of religious zealots presently causing mayhem. The world would instantly become a kinder, gentler, and, most of all, saner place.

Then I read of the case of the Florida professor who was turfed from a U.S. Air flight after fellow passengers were worried about a suspicious package he had put in the overhead bin. Suspicious indeed -- the package contained a bagel with cream cheese. In America today, I guess you can't be careful enough.

Next came the revelation that Canada's junior hockey team was deficient in mathematics, a deficiency that cost them the gold medal at the recent competition. Didn't anyone teach these young lads that there are three periods in a hockey game, not two? Really and truly....

Finally, I note that Chinese firms have been drawn to Saudi Arabia, and have been investing in Saudi infrastructure and industry, including a large aluminium smelter in the southern province of Jizan and a railway construction project in Mecca. This involves hundreds of Chinese workers. This last project was of interest, for the Saudis insist that all non-Muslims are prohibited from even being in Mecca, let alone working there. China, however, has long experience in handling such issues, citing Confucious: "When on the horns of a dilemma, the wise man throws sand in the bull's face." Thus China simply converted all the workers to Islam.

If I had been able, I would have cornered the circumcision market. Been on the cutting edge.

So to speak.

Weird. Weider. Weirdest

Yes, a bit late with this note, but A LOT happened this Christmas at the Manor. Here are the highlights.

The Weird.

Daughter Isolde and son Mark were late arriving, and appeared in the company of Irving and his computer maven, Rachel. An odder foursome would be hard to imagine. Even odder was how it had all come about.

It all started at the airport security check at the Vienna Airport. (Isolde is First Violinist with the Vienna Philharmonic). It seems that someone attempted to steal Isolde's Stradivarius while going through the airport security check. As the Strad was being seized by a nasty individual with a straggly goatee (I hate goatees) another hand quickly covered the thief's hand, crushing it and causing the person to faint from the pain. The perpetrator was soon rushed away for medical, and hopefully penal, care. This was Irving in action, and I immediately recognized the hold, 'Tom Thumb On Anvil'. Works every time, although the hand involved would never completely recover. Nice Islamic touch, if you will.

Just how they all came together at the airport Irving put down to coincidence. I thought this was rubbish -- he and Rachel had obviously planned it, thus allowing Irving to look out for my kids. Once a minder, always a minder. Isolde was suitably grateful, but Irving did exact a price: a 2012 date with the Israeli Philharmonic and a performance of Bruch's Violin Concerto.

Weirder

Just as things were settling down a bit, a huge ruckus developed at the front gate. Irving reported the presence of a petitioner who would not go away. Normally Irving would have settled the matter himself -- 'Bone Marrow Over Cranberry' works well in these situations, and leaves no permanent harm -- but apparently the petitioner cited a reference of my immediate neighbour, urging me to see him. Intrigued now, I donned parka and scarf and trotted out to the front.

There I encountered a nice young man sporting a Toronto Maple Leaf cap. I warmed to him immediately, for I am drawn to those who support lost causes. He was garnering support for the Canadian Liberated Urban Chicken Klub, a group that faces certain charges for maintaining backyard chicken coops. He indicated that my neighbour had signed this petition, and had directed him here. Since my neighbour could buy and sell Toronto itself, I wondered about all this. The only connection with poultry he would have would be his collection of Faberge eggs. Then I got it, once I worked out the acronym: C.L.U.C.K.

Wonderful.

I signed the petition, and invited him in for a small seasonal libation. He and Mark, also a Leafs fan, bonded in no time, and happily bemoaned, and bemoaned, and...er...bemoaned.

Weirdest

In my last writing, I mentioned that my gardener and housekeeper Consuela had given birth to a girl. This, of course, while significant, couldn't be termed weird. What was weird was the little girl's father, Ahmad. Their marriage was one between Muslim and Catholic, and the birth of the baby had brought certain decisions to a head. In a quiet conversation with Ahmad, he informed me of the following.

For some time now, he said, he had been outraged what had been occurring in the name of Islam. He finally had determined that the religion had been hijacked, an opinion reinforced by some work in the greenhouse. (Ahmad had been taking over some of Consuela's chores while she was enceinte.) He had been wrapping some parsnip seedlings in discarded newspapers, when he spotted an article in the New York Times Magazine by novelist Hanif Kureishi. It caused him to think deeply, and finally to dispense with religion entirely. I was glad to see another spring from superstition, but what on earth had he read?

Some scurrying around occurred at this point, but the article was eventually produced, and Ahmad pointed to one paragraph in particular. Here it is:

"Fundamentalism is dictatorship of the mind, but a live culture is an exploration, and represents our endless curiosity about our own strangeness and impossible sexuality: wisdom is more important than doctrine, doubt more important than certainty. Fundamentalism implies the failure of our most significant attribute, our imagination."

Can't say it better than that. Happy New Year to all.

Christmas At The Manor -- 2010

This will be somewhat shorter than my usual. At the moment, total confusion reigns. My brats make it a point to assemble for Christmas every year, but so far only Mark, my 'designer' son, is just in from New York, and Victoria was in Toronto anyway, giving a series of lectures entitled "Warren G. Harding. Why?" She also had a bit part in the TV series "Rookie Blue" where she was tied up and dropped from a building. That girl does march to the tune of a different drummer.

My other son Mark had got some leave from his physics stint at the Large Hadron Collider at CERN, and hooked up with Isolde in Vienna, where she is first violinist with the Vienna Philharmonic. Unfortunately, snowstorms ruled that part of Europe, and they had not yet managed to get a flight. Those two can be persuasive, however, and I have hopes.

I am glad to report that the Compte de Rienville was here in good time. The weather was also a factor that was causing Air France any number of problems, but the Compte managed to get himself to Ramstein in Germany, where he managed to hitch a ride with American troops returning to Andrew A.F.B. in the U.S. Two cases of Veuve Clicquot helped his request along, and soon he had reached the Manor after a short hop from Washington. Thus happiness reigns. Christmas without the Compte? Unthinkable.

An unexpected visitor was Bohdan, who supervises my sugar beet holdings in Ukraine. He was on his way to visit some relatives in Saskatchewan (which is 90% Ukrainian anyway) so he should feel right at home. He had dropped in with some disturbing news. The new government apparently saw fit to request a sizeable "gift", without which certain taxes would rise to horrific levels. Now I had straightened out this corruption thing with the previous government in the person of Yuliya Tymoshenko (she of the nonsensical braid) but the new government in the person of Viktor Yanukovych was unaware of any agreements, and wanted his cut.

I told Bohdan not to worry. I had some considerable leverage with Vladimir Putin, who has even more considerable leverage with Yanukovych. Things would be attended to, even if it meant a trip to Moscow. Come to think of it, my colleague in The Trade, Svetlana Marinskaya, had promised a whopper of an evening, and perhaps it was time to call in that particular marker.

Now I have to leave you. My gardener/housekeeper Consuela, with no sense of timing at all, decided to give birth on the spot. Her husband Ahmad was frantic, realizing that things were happening so fast that a trip to the hospital was out of the question. I immediately began drawing on certain skills, gave necessary orders to Bohdan, Victoria and Mark, and renewed my acquaintance with midwifery.

How this all turned out, and the adventure that Isolde and Mark experienced, will have to wait for next week's missive. So for now, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

The Possible and the Improbable

First, the possible.

As the Christmas holiday looms -- I use the verb advisedly -- my minder Irving and his girlfriend Rachel informed me that they were taking a small vacation to an undisclosed location. Undisclosed, because Rachel's development of the Wraith software had the world looking hard for her, and if she were found, things could get, well, unpleasant. Since I was staying at the Manor with the CIA's Matilda Hatt and welcoming my brats home, Irving thought I would be safe.

Rachel also informed me that while attempts to get at Wraith were getting better, it still remained unlocated. The attempts, she added, had increased, probably because she had ramped up the Stuxnet virus, and the Iranian nuclear installations at Natanz and Bushehr were now a good two years behind schedule. Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was in a state of fury, and no end of resources were being applied to trace down the perpetrator. Rachel went on to say that she had created something she termed a 'deflector buffer' that re-routed any hacker-like probings directly to Mecca. "That", she said, "should keep everyone busy for a goodly time."

Now to the improbable.

Tilly wasn't expected for several days . She was, in fact, in Venezuela and involved in something that, whatever it was, would annoy the hell out of Hugo Chavez. Suck it up, Hugo, I thought. Anyway, what Tilly requested was my response to a series of questions. These were relayed over a public telephone line, an action which told me two things: either she didn't give a damn if the conversation were intercepted, or she wanted it intercepted.

The questions concerned all centred on Americans obtaining Canadian citizenship, and went as follows, along with my response.

What changes are involved? [Canada being a constitutional monarchy, the applicant for citizenship must swear allegiance to the Queen] Not a problem, said Tilly. They like Liz, and while some doubts were expressed about Charles, William and Kate were boffo.

What about the system of Government? [The intricacies of parliamentary government must be mastered.] Nonsense, stated Tilly. What Canadian has mastered the intricacies of parliamentary government? Good point.

Anything that has to be given up? [Guns] Hmmm, said Tilly. That could be a deal breaker. To which I replied that Americans never had the right to bear arms in the first place. Just the militia, as detailed in the Second Amendment. Read Strunk's Elements of Style on the proper use of the comma and do some research on the Latin ablative absolute.

Let's move on, said Tilly.

What taxes are there? [Lots]. But you get single payer health care, and no rapacious insurance company acting as middleman and adding no value whatsoever to the process. This, I said to Tilly, is a no brainer.

What about Quebec? Don't they want to secede? [In a pig's eye. Too much money would be lost, to say nothing of the Bloc Quebecois in the House of Commons who would lose their salaries, and quite possibly their pensions. Not going to happen.]

What of the Senate? In America, it's very powerful. [ This is a non-issue, the Canadian Senate being a taxpayer-funded patronage-stuffed old age home. Canadians wait for the day it can be abolished.]

Tilly's last question was a real zinger.

How could an entire state join Canada? [Just ask]. Actually, this would be a very complicated thing indeed, and highly improbable. But I think I was beginning to grasp what was behind all this. America's fiscal situation was horrific, and the only way out was through raising taxes and judicious entitlement cutting. But all legislators, Republican or Democrat, refuse to face up to this in spite of the need, and any number of Americans are beginning to look for an escape hatch. That is, Canada

Now a severe consumption tax, VAT, or whatever you want to call it, is the solution, along with a hefty gasoline levy at the pumps. Oh, The Horror! The Horror! shout the Sarah Palins of the world, who see the solution in lowering taxes and dispensing with large chunks of government. But not Medicaid. And not Medicare. And certainly not the Military. And don't you dare gore my ox!

So we have what I term 'The Two Doctors Syndrome'

A financial paradox.

Sorry. I won't do that again.

Politicians Behaving Well

I was glad to see Sir Harry acted upon my advice, and the "hero" of Wikileaks, Julian Assange, was arrested in the UK, and is now awaiting an extradition hearing. Sweden wants him badly; they take rape seriously there, at least since Stieg Larsson published his Millenium Trilogy, and that should be the end of all the leaky stuff.

Not that there was much to it. I mean, anyone with an ounce of brains knew most of it anyway, and the real effect seems more a matter of bruised egos rather than treasonous transgression. For my part, I can tell you that the real NODIS stuff [*] never saw the light of day. Yes, I have such material, but there I must stop. Anything further would be telling.

Now to some political matters. It is not often that these pages have saluted the politicians for their efforts, but this is the exception that proves the rule. Toronto's new mayor, one Rob Ford, has taken power and acted -- wait for it -- swiftly, honestly, and with a degree of compassion that few knew he possessed. Ford has brought forward for resolution the issues he campaigned upon, has begun to cut unnecessary expenditure, and corrected a grievous wrong. His latter action involved an elderly female constituent in city ward (not his previous one) who had a tree on her front lawn. It was an old one, but she had faithfully got a yearly arborist's report indicating that the tree was in good health.

The city said it must come down. It was on The List, you see.

The woman, thinking she had homeowners' rights, refused to cut it down.

When she returned home the next day, the tree was gone. What was left was a $5000.00 bill for the cutting of the tree. Outraged, she called her city councillor (who never returned the call), and protestations to the city bureaucracy got nowhere. "The tree was," they stated, "on The List."

In Rob Ford's first day in office, he contacted the woman to apologize, and stated that a cheque for the $5000.00 was already in the mail. Well, well, well. I will definitely tender a dinner invitation to the Manor.

Then the Prime Minister, Stephen Harper, who along with a fine Finance Minister, Jim Flaherty have kept Canada well away from sub-prime madness, showed another side of himself. At the Tories' annual Christmas party (Yes, Christmas party, Not a 'Holiday 'party) the good Stephen did a commendable job of singing and piano playing, drawing on The Proclaimers, Neil Diamond, and the Rolling Stones. He showed discretion as well, honouring John Lennon by playing the opening bars to his 'Imagine' without the lyrics. Since those lyrics begin with the phrase "Imagine no religion" this was circumspect. No point in enraging all the bishops, mullahs, imams, priests (or even the Pope), although part of me wished he had let fly. But it was a step.

The only sour note was struck by a Liberal MP, who lamented that Harper had not sung in French. Grits will, however, be Grits.

The there is Laureen, fair wife to the Prime Minister. She saw fit to publicly lambaste the Iranian authorities (read: thugs) for their not releasing Sakineh Mohammadi-Ashtiani from the Evin prison, but instead, in an Iranian act of compassion, altered her fate from death by stoning to death by hanging. Her crime was adultery, with some high judges arguing for murder. This is all rubbish. My sources (which are stellar) tell me that that her husband (three decades her senior) died of a heart attack. How she committed adultery with a dead body remains unexplained by these all-knowing authorities. I suspect someone had it in for her, possibly because she had let a wisp of hair poke out of her hijab. Whatever the reason, the judicial action is a travesty, and good on Laureen for speaking out.

Oh dear, and I was concentrating on politicians behaving well. Sorry about that, but when I hear of the fate of some women crashing into Islamic fundamentalism, all I want to do is engage in some beheading myself. Either that, or head for my bedroom, assume the pre-natal position, and turn the electric blanket up to nine.

* NODIS. No distribution. Ever.

Wiki Whatever

Until recently, I had thought 'Wikileaks' an obscure term having to do with incontinence. I was disabused of this by Sir Harry, who wanted an analysis of the whole Wikileaks mess. He also complimented me -- a strange departure of form -- saying that absolutely none of our messages had surfaced. Of course not; I had taken to heart Marshall McLuhan's insight that modern media had resulted in a 'global village', with all that that entails, both good and bad. The Good Thing about a village is that everyone is aware of what everyone else is doing. That is also the Bad Thing, and therefore one must take measures.

Apparently, as I delved into the subject, I was somewhat astounded to learn that very few members of The Powers That Be had absorbed Dr. McLuhan's insight, and had taken few such measures. Hence all kinds of private communication were now flooding the world, to the chagrin of many and the delight of many more.

What was even more surprising -- the person involved. One might have expected that Lisbeth Salander had somehow escaped from The Millenium Trilogy (as could happen in a Jasper Fforde novel) and was now crying havoc and letting loose the dogs of cyber space. But this was not the case at all.

Step forward one Julian Assange, who is about as far away from a Lisbeth Salander as it is possible to get. (Sweden is after him for rape, and Interpol has issued an arrest warrant.) A closer look gives the following:

1) His parents were travelling entertainers in Australia. When young Julian was eight his mother remarried into 'The Family', a cult whose predilection was to abuse children with psychiatric medication. The marriage soon went to ratshit, and Julian's mother took him into hiding for the next five years, moving the kid 37 times before he was 14. (I am not making this up).

2) Julian somehow discovered an ability with computers, and started a career -- if you can call it that -- in computer hacking. His nickname was 'Mendax', which is I believe 'liar' in Latin, and at least shows a glimmer of self-awareness on Julian's part. He was once convicted for hacking into Nortel, an event that might explain....well, no it won't.

3) His obsession is to embarrass the world's freest countries, and his anti-Americanism is virulent.

Case in point. Julian made known the names of Afghan human rights activists and other personnel who have cooperated with the U.S. and giving out GPS coordinates to help the process along. The Taliban spokesman Zabihullah Mujahid was delighted, saying that the information would be "beneficial" and that "We know how to punish them." (I don't doubt that for a minute.)

A second case in point. Julian published details of the technology used to stop improvised explosive devices (IEDs) from being detonated. He called such IEDs "rebel investments" and noted with glee that for every dollar spent by the terrorists, the U.S. has to spend thousands to defend against them.

As I informed Sir Harry, it is the above stuff that should be concentrated upon. The gossipy stuff should simply be ignored. After all, who didn't know that the Karzai brothers were sleazy and corrupt, or that Hillary Clinton was one tough cookie, or that Vladimir Putin was skimming the profits of Gazprom, or that Angela Merkel could be blunt, or....well, the list could go on. In effect, much ado about nothing, save for the two cases in point mentioned above. All of which prompts a question -- why is this man still alive?

But I refrained from suggesting what we in The Trade call an 'executive sanction'. Why make the guy a martyr? Given that my sources indicate that Julian is presently in the UK, I urged Sir Harry to link up with his colleagues in MI5, grab him, and extradite him to Sweden. A rapist gets little world sympathy, save perhaps in the Congo, where rape is fast becoming a ghastly national sport. Certainly the whole Wikileaks thing would come to a sudden, abrupt halt.

All very depressing, and I felt in need of some soothing, some calm. So I entered the study, poured myself a serious martini, and put on a DVD that always relaxes me. Its title? Why Animals Attack.

Of Art and Airport Security

Every so often, schedules permitting, it is my custom to host a dinner party for my colleagues in The Trade. This is appreciated, the wines being well-chosen, the food wonderful, and no bugs whatsoever in the room. Six were in attendance this time: Svetlana Marinskaya of the Russian FSB; Matilda Hatt of the CIA: Code Barry of CSIS, and of course the Compte de Rienville of the French D.G.S.E. The Compte and I are also -- well, no need to go into that. We were joined by my minder Irving and his companion, Rachel, both recently turfed from Mossad.

Rachel was indeed the focus of attention at the dinner. All had some idea of her contribution to the WRAITH software, but only Irving and Tilly Hatt knew all the details. Rachel was adept in deflecting all queries -- good on her.

We took port and some fine Stilton in the study.

"An excellent repast, Simone," said Code Barry. "A new cook on the premises?"

"No, Henri is still with us. But as you have seen, this has been a catered affair. Henri was giving some support to a new outfit. 'Licious Delight' it's called. Interesting story, though. The former title of the firm was 'Licentious Delight', a restaurant with a small dining room and a much larger set of rooms on the second floor for, er --"

"Licentious delight." This from Tilly Hatt.

"So to speak. But then they had to let their cook go. Apparently he had difficulty keeping his hands off the merchandise. The new cook they hired was a former sous-chef at the Georges Cinq in Paris. Didn't take long after that for customers to realize that the food was the best they had ever encountered, and the news spread quickly through, very appropriately, word of mouth. The owners, not being dolts, made the problem the solution. Licentious Delight became Licious Delight. The restaurant took over the second floor, the girls became servers, and a small catering service was started, the results of which you have just experienced.

"Ah," said Svetlana darkly, "once again the glories of adaptable capitalism. And you, Simone, are a prime example. The pictures in this room must have cost a fortune. Isn't that Klimt's 'The Kiss'?

"And on the far wall," noted Code Barry, "isn't that Vermeer's 'Girl With The Pearl Earring?."

"It is," I responded, "although one of my nieces thinks it's a portrait of Scarlet Johansson, an observation that tells me my niece's education is far from complete. But both the Vermeer and the Klimt, as well as some others you would recognize, are forgeries."

"Appropriate, given what you do," put in Tilly brightly.

"Possibly," I continued. "But I would rather have first rate forgeries than prints. The effort put in and all. Mind you, I once had originals, courtesy of Lord Strunsky's estate. Donated them all to various galleries, and applied the tax receipts to my sugar beet business. Which was nice, but not the real reason I did it."

"And that is?" encouraged the Compte. (A treasure he is.)

"A masterpiece should never be the property of a single person. It belongs to the world. To hide it away is simply the characteristic of a monstrous ego. Don't you think?"

This resulted in a extended silence, finally broken Irving.

"Artists," he said, "spend their whole lives learning to see."

"So do police officers," Tilly added.

"And Israeli airport security officials." This from Rachel.

"Yeah," said Tilly. "The U.S hasn't been doing too well there. Good Lord, I was even requested for a pat down coming into San Antonio the other day. I showed the woman my security clearance, but this didn't register. I asked for her supervisor, but she wasn't having any of this so off we went to the private room, where she fainted. Used Blossoms After Midnight".

"Pressure on the carotid artery. Stops the blood flow to the brain," said Svetlana rather unnecessarily.

"Well," Tilly continued, "this did bring the supervisor, and all got straightened out. But what poor training. Only eight hours! Can you believe it? In my opinion, Israel does it right. Care to comment? Irving? Rachel?"

Irving said, "The training is much more comprehensive, and remember, all security officers have undergone two years of military service. Then comes rigorous training in psychology, pattern recognition and profiling. There's an American saying that sums all this up nicely. Something about observation and seeing, but it escapes me."

I said, "Probably one of Yogi Berra's. He remarked once that you could observe a lot just by watching. But there is another statement that comes to mind, and one that should never be forgotten. Benjamin Franklin was firm in his belief that 'those who would give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty or safety.' So there. Now discuss among yourselves.

You too.



























































"In truth," I said, "they're forgeries. Brilliant, but forgeries. I collect them. I would collect an original masterpiece

Snappish Snapshots [1]

Occasionally, I find it useful and therapeutic to give voice to certain things which are bothersome and very annoying. This involves lancing sundry boils, which, if left unattended, could fester, grow, and warp one's psyche. At an extreme, one might even, dare I say it, become a Republican. Herewith, then, the first series of snapshots.

(1) I note that the Powers That Be have junked the term "global warming" and now talk only of "climate change". Interesting, and no doubt the change occurred when it became obvious that at any given time, half the world was freezing its' ass off. It would be nice if somewhere someone admitted to this.

(2) Vladimir Putin looks and sounds bored. Time for a change, Vlad. Forget ruling Russia, under the rubric 'been there, done that'. How about coming to the U.S. and entering the TV show, "Dancing With The Stars?" As for a partner, I got in touch with Madonna, and she is willing. Ratings would soar, and the money wouldn't be bad, either. Go for it!

(3) Barack Obama has got to stop being all conciliatory and accommodating, and become more forthright. To bring this about, I have sent him my copy of I Love To Lead by Genghis Khan.

(4) Silvio Berlusconi. Enough said.

(5) I see that a number of publications, The Economist and The Financial Times among them, have delighted in the release of Burma's Aung San Suu Kyi from house arrest, and have suggested that she is seeking an accommodation with General Than Shwe and his thuggish colleagues. Wrong! It is the other way round, and the chances of that happening are, well, seen any flying pigs lately?

(6) And finally, an item bordering on the bizarre -- Sarah Palin is giving serious consideration to running for President in 2012. When this news appeared, the reaction of the Democrats was one of ecstasy, their thinking being that such a candidacy gives them the White House for another four years. Not so fast, boys and girls. American voters elected George W. Bush. Twice.

"No they didn't": Al Gore.

Calming -- A Good Thing

It is not my habit to rabbit on about the doings and achievements of my children, save when their activities impinge a bit on my own. I had just finished confirming the delivery of some 1000 sugar beet seeds to the Svalbard Global Seed Vault in the north of Norway, thereby calming my psyche by ensuring that sugar beets would survive any horrific catastrophe, when my eldest daughter Isolde sailed into the Manor, Stradivarius in tow. Also in tow were three rather scruffy guys, along with a cello, a clarinet, and a viola.

Seeing the viola recalled Victor Borge's observation that the only difference between a viola and a violin was that a viola takes longer to burn, a statement that when she first heard it, appalled Isolde. (This occurred when I was in the process of teaching my brats that it could be a cruel world out there. Therefore one must learn to face life with the serene confidence that a Christian feels in four aces, as Mark Twain so well put it.)

What Isolde and her companions wanted was the use of the Manor's sound studio, an area normally off-limits. The studio was very much a factor in The Trade, linked as it is to MI 6, Mossad and the NSA, and where certain recordings and broadcasts were made in the name of mis-information. (The latest broadcast was rather neat, and involved inserting a rendition of Onward Christian Soldiers by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir into Iranian State Radio. I am told that old Ahmadinejad went apoplectic. Too bad.)

Isolde and her companions weren't after anything so dramatic, but did want to make a series of recordings for some outfit called the American Mall Association. I was hesitant about allowing the three lads into the studio -- they really needed a good clothing advisor, and Isolde sensed this reluctance. She explained that her friends were the Jess Trio, one of the best chamber trios in the world, and had come right from the airport, and had to get back to Vienna the next day. Not much time for sartorial elegance.

Well, I always found time for sartorial elegance, but nevertheless relented. I did demand, however, what this type of talent was doing in cahoots with something as banal as the American Mall Association.

"New Zealand, Mum." said Isolde.

This was not helpful.

"New Zealand what?" I asked.

Well, long story short, apparently the Christchurch City Mall had taken to playing classical chamber music over their mall speakers. Prior to this, theft and robbery had been rampant.

"Eighty-six incidents a week in 2008, Mum," stated Isolde. "After the music began to be played, the incidents fell to two a week. Things got calmer. Much calmer. And the musicians weren't even that good. The Mall Association took note the and the Jess Trio was contacted and they wanted me as violinist and I knew about this studio and we've decided on pieces from Vivaldi, and Bach and of course Mozart and maybe Schumann and --"

"All right, all right. Talk about a run-on sentence. But Irving and Rachel will have to supervise. A wrong button in that room could cause....difficulties."

"Who the hell is Rachel?" asked Isolde.

"Irving will explain, if he has a mind to. I trust there is money in all this.?"

"Lots of money, Mum. The cost savings for the Mall stores are significant."

"Good. Then a healthy contribution to the Little Sisters of Poverty and Pain will be in order. For the use of the studio, you understand."

And so it transpired, and no doubt things would get calmer in American malls.

At least until the Ungodly figure out how to hack into the mall sound systems and start blasting out pieces from Iron Maiden, Metallica or anything by Ozzie Osbourne. But for a short while, calmness should reign.

One can but hope.

Too Many Text Messages

Back from Paris, and that was just fine. One can only take so much of street protest, and the French (being French) simply take things too far. The day that I left, a huge protest was being planned on what I think was lowering the minimum wage for workers doing street curb replacement. Or something. In any event, it was time to go.

Back at the Manor, I was confronted with a vast number of text messages, most of which concerned elections, both in Toronto and in the U.S. The following will give the gist of their tenor.

From Hillary Clinton (safely ensconced in Kuala Lampur, and thus far from the madding crowd) a rather neat summary of the American mid-term elections. She saw them in terms of The Three Bears, calling them "Goldilocks elections." That is to say, one half the electorate thinks you've done too much; the other half thinks you've gone too far. This was exactly what happened to Bill, and didn't hurt him a bit when the next presidential election occurred. As I said, a rather neat comment.

From Michelle Obama: "Simone, I know drugs are cheaper in Canada. A good supply of Valium will come in handy right about now."

From Rob Ford, newly elected Mayor of Toronto: "My advisers advise that you would be a good advisor. Could you, er, so advise?" Hmmm. Rob's vocabulary appears a bit sparse, but his heart seems in the right place. I will offer help. For now.

From Laureen Harper: "Isn't it a Good Thing that that nice Rob Ford is the new Mayor of Toronto. But why weren't you at my pumpkin-carving party at 24 Sussex? " Because, sweetie, the Compte de Rienville lives in Paris, not Ottawa.

From Hu Jintao: "Elections? Nonsense."

From Vladimir Putin: "Elections are risky things. One has to prepare carefully to ensure that the result is what you want." Yeah, right, Vlad. Just make sure that the opposition...well... isn't.

So on it went, with any number of messages stating how wonderful it was that they got elected, and how good it would be for the electorate. All this quickly became tiresome, and I lamented the lack of modesty that should accompany any victorious outcome or deed of note. This brought to mind the following statement, an ideal in acknowledging achievement. The words are engraved in a stele near Thermopolyae:

"Go, traveller, and to Lacedaemon tell,
That here, obeying her behest, we fell."

Succinct. And true. And its like sadly missing in today's world.

Selah.

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.