Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

“That’s because they pulled the original man and posted another at the eleventh hour.”

“An intelligence type?”

“No no, some fresh-faced kid. A little younger, a little quicker, perhaps, than the bloke they’d planned to put out to pasture up your way.”

Jack is stung. “Si, it’s still a training base, and a not too shabby one at that.”

“No offence, mate, but we’re talking bugsmashers and Chipmunks, are we not, and this pilot comes to you straight from USAFE.”

United States Air Force Europe . “Wiesbaden?” Jack gets the picture. The American has just come off a tour of duty flying Sabres and F-104 Starfighters — widow-makers. “So what’s the drill?”

“Well, it doesn’t change much for you really, because the American chap hasn’t been given the straight gen.” Gen —general information. Intelligence.

“Why not?”

“I suggested to them that he didn’t need to know yet and, in the end, they concurred.”

Jack doesn’t ask who “they” are. “They” are a committee; it will have sprouted from a branch of American military intelligence, it will have an acronym like countless other committees that proliferate and cross-pollinate in a big bureaucracy, and it might not officially exist. Somewhere there are human beings behind the letters, but they are as transitory as the initials themselves. If it’s indeed possible to deduce the aims of an organization by analyzing its actions, Jack reflects, the aim of most bureaucracies is to confuse.

“So your American friend knows very little,” says Simon. The chain of command will run from Simon, through Jack, to the American. “They suggest you brief him upon arrival.”

“No problem,” says Jack

“I suggest you may see fit to put that off until the last moment.”

Jack smiles. “Whose suggestion would you suggest I follow?”

“No worries if you choose mine, I’ll take any kicks that are coming.” Simon goes on to explain that the American captain will arrive in Centralia knowing only that, during his year as an exchange officer, he will at some point be called upon to perform a special task.

“What task?”

“Well, naturally the Americans will have one of their own escort Fried south of the border when the time comes.”

“So Fried is going to the States.”

“And thanks to the Americans, you now know more than you need to.” He sighs. “I don’t know why I bother sometimes.”

“No harm done, Si, who am I going to tell? I still haven’t told anyone about the time you buzzed the nurses’ residence in Toronto. So what’s Fried going to be working on, jets? Missiles?”

“Rug-hooking, I think.”

Jack laughs and opens the door of the booth with his foot to let some air in. The afternoon is heavy with sun. “So all this American fella knows is that at some point a Canadian officer will contact him and brief him.”

“That’s right.”

“He doesn’t know it’s going to be me.”

“No one knows it’s you.”

Jack removes his hat, wipes the band of perspiration from his forehead, and puts the hat right back on, because the sun pierces his eyes. “No one except Woodley,” he says.

“Who?”

“The CO here.”

Simon sounds relaxed as ever. “No, as I said, I’ve closed the loop on this one.”

Jack pauses. It’s one thing to feel he’s acting as a private citizen helping Simon with a favour. But a foreign officer has been posted here for a purpose of which Jack’s CO is unaware. Still, the man will function as a flight instructor; he’ll step into a position that would be filled by an American in any case. His “special task” will take a day at most. And it’s not as though he’s coming from a hostile country. Simon is still speaking: “… only you and I know where Oskar Fried will be living. Only you and I know him by that name.” Of course. Jack ought to have assumed it was an alias.

“One man to babysit, and one to stand by in the dark until it’s time to escort Fried. Simon, that’s a whole lot of hand-holding.” He lowers his chin, getting the most out of his hat brim.

“It’s overkill.” This time Simon does not sound amused. “There’s no need for this poor Yank to move to Canada, uproot his family for a year, just so he’s in position for a task that would otherwise cost him a day. I don’t like it.”

Jack hears Simon in the instructor’s seat beside him, not sure I like the looks of that . Never anything so adamant as I don’t like it . He feels momentarily disoriented, as at the sudden cessation of an engine, and regains his bearings with a pragmatic observation: “It’s a waste of the taxpayers’ money, that’s for sure.”

“Whenever you increase the points of entry in a mission, you lose control. That’s when you get gremlins.” Simon’s voice is clipped, precise as chalk on a blackboard. “This Yank’s no doubt a good man, but the Americans, in their customary zeal, have increased the target area. The chances of a fuck-up will now likewise increase. It’s sloppy and bloated and it annoys the hell out of me.”

Jack waits for more, but Simon is silent. “We could use you here at the management school, Si.”

Simon laughs and sounds like himself again: “Word of advice, Jack. Number one: If there’s ever another conventional war, join the intelligence service. You’ll be relatively safe, and you’ll know more or less what’s actually going on. Number two: Observe carefully what the Americans are doing. Then do the opposite.”

Jack laughs. “When’s this fella getting here, anyhow?”

“Any day now. Name’s McCarroll.”

“Sorry, I meant Fried.”

“Oh. Shouldn’t be long.”

“Why here, Simon?”

“You’re an inquisitive bastard.”

“I’m interested, I can’t help it.” He leans against the glass, glancing over at the PX. “Listen, you know what I’m looking at right now?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Chicken legs thirty-nine cents a pound, homo milk is on special, and there’s a Red Rocket by the door, drop a nickel in the slot and you can go to the moon. There’s a four-year-old astronaut in it right now.”

“Going stir-crazy?”

“Naw, it’s a great place, just not exactly where the action is. What’s out your window? The Pentagon? The White House?”

“The domino theory in action: I tell you one thing you don’t need to know and you go at it with a crowbar. I’m not telling you a bloody other thing, sunshine.”

“Come on, Si, toss me a bone, you old son of a gun.”

Simon sighs. Jack waits.

“Well, the first factor in selecting this location is you, of course.”

Jack savours it silently.

Simon continues: “Then, as you may be aware, there is your country’s reputation as a way station for weary travellers.”

“You mean refugees?”

“In a manner of speaking. Canada is an easy route to the U.S. In this case, that’s working in our favour.”

“But why park him here, why not ship him stateside straight away?”

“Canada is also both far enough removed from and closely enough allied to Britain and the U.S. to provide haven.”

“Because Fried is working on something the Soviets and the Americans both want,” Jack hazards. “Which means they’ll look for him in the States first. But by the time he gets there, he’ll have a new identity — he’ll be Joe-Blow Canadian crossing into the U.S.” Jack is of course aware that Britain, Canada and the U.S. share intelligence — cooperation among these countries is often smoother than cooperation within them, due to inter-service rivalries. But he has never seen it up close — a case study. “What do we all get out of it?”