Mr. Jones

by Margaret Sweatman

  Chuck took his seat beside the ambassador, leaned his elbows on his knees, and said, “Conventional weapons have gone the way of the dodo bird.”

  “I’d never tell your prime minister what to do — ” the ambassador said, and Chuck interrupted, “Just try it,” and everybody laughed.

  The ambassador paused, generously acknowledging Chuck’s wit before continuing. “Like I said, it’s not our goal to interfere in your national affairs. But this, my friends, is international. It calls for a statesmanlike decisiveness —” Again Chuck interrupted and finished for him, “Somewhat lacking in your chief —” The ambassador smiled indulgently at Chuck’s un-diplomatic candour and resumed, “A decisiveness and, if I might add, a forthrightness in delivering on a promise.”

  The Ottawa journalists squirmed at this suggestion that their country wasn’t playing straight. Somebody grumbled, “It’s a damned disgrace.”

  Chuck scratched his head. “I admit I’m at a loss. The uranium comes from you. Makes more than a billion dollars in Canada, creates a lot of jobs for Mr. Diefenbaker’s voters. But when it comes to loading it into the Bomarcs, Diefenbaker is suddenly a virgin.” He smiled at them all. “Kind of retroactive.”

  The officer who’d greeted Wilson and Jones at the door now spoke. “We can’t protect you without your full cooperation. That means nuclear, that means we go prepared for maximum war. That’s what it means to live in the twentieth century. It’s absolute madness to have all these empty cannons sitting up here with the Russians aiming nuclear missiles at you right now as we speak. Don’t kid yourselves. Your prime minister is a hypocrite of the first order.”

  There was a brief shocked pause, and then another of the US air force officers said, “Yeah! Where the hell did you guys get a nerd like that?” He spoke so lightly, the insults bounced off the company, and they all laughed. “He’s a big nerd!” the officer repeated indignantly, and everyone laughed harder.

  This broke up the party. It was getting late. They began to stand and collect their coats, thanking Chuck for his fine hospitality. “We’re not all bad, are we?” Chuck asked. “I often get the impression you Canadians think we’re some kind of monstrous, mammoth obliteration of your precious identity. All we want is some help in protecting your north from a nuclear holocaust.”

  Emmett was wondering exactly why Wilson had brought him here when he saw a familiar face on the other side of the room, obscured by the other men as they were leaving. Then he saw him clearly. Wearing a bomber jacket, and the same, winking smile. A visitor from a bigger place. He caught Emmett looking. Jim Smith, Aoi’s employer in Kobe and the man who’d so effectively presented him with his job as “consultant” for the Americans. Mr. Smith was making his way toward him.

  Emmett began to speak closely into Wilson’s ear, “Nice of you to bring me along. I’d appreciate a lift back to my car in a few minutes.” Wilson saw Mr. Smith approach; he stiffened eagerly, but Emmett nudged him to leave. “Wait for me. I’ll be along shortly.”

  “Okey-dokey, I’ll be right outside,” Wilson said and went.

  Jim Smith was reaching for Emmett’s hand, introducing himself vigorously, “Emmett, right? We met in Japan, remember? Commerce, right?”

  Emmett politely corrected him. “External Affairs.”

  Smith snapped his fingers. “That’s right! Nice to see you again.” He took his arm. “Something I’ve been wanting to ask —” leading him aside.

  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you too,” Emmett said. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight. Just seems too lucky.”

  “Anything to make you happy, Mr. Jones.”

  “Look. I want you to know. I’m not in the game anymore.”

  “And I want you to know, the stuff on Cuba is pretty unremarkable.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Change of heart, have you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’d be taking a pretty big risk, trying to wriggle out of this one. Lot of people riding on you.”

  Emmett could feel the sweat between his shoulder blades. But he said, “Nobody’s going to like it when they learn that the CIA is pushing around a Canadian civil servant.”

  “You won’t get a chance to say much, if it comes to that. Besides, we’ve got a long memory. Some time in the future, when you think it’s all blown over, maybe you’re even retired with your gold watch for good service to the Canadian government. Maybe you and your wife are on your way to your daughter’s wedding, something like that, your lovely daughter in her wedding dress in the backseat. Then, boom, a freak accident.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “It’s a crazy world.”

  “I’m through. And if you hurt my family, I’ll kill you.”

  “I do what has to be done.”

  “If anything happens to me or to my family, they’re going to know all about you.”

  Smith smiled. “Maybe your government will protect you, just like they did the last time.”

  Emmett backed away, saying more loudly, “Thanks! Glad everything worked out.” Smith watched him go, his face set in a small smile.

  He took the stairs two at a time, his heart pounding. He would protect his family, he would protect his son. He went outside to find Wilson sitting in the car. Rain was flooding the streets. He got into the car. Wilson took a look at him and asked, “You okay?” Emmett said he was. Wilson said, “They were pretty insistent I get you here tonight. I thought it was because they wanted somebody at External to hear their take on your prime minister.”

  Emmett looked away. “That’s probably it.”

  Wilson went on, “Somebody sure needed to speak with you.” When Emmett didn’t respond, Wilson drove awhile, then asked over the drumming rain, “What do you think?”

  “About?”

  “The coup.”

  “Kind of an exaggeration to call it that.”

  “I’ve seen some nasty situations that started small, like tonight.”

  “Yeah. But this is Canada.”

  “Friendly.”

  “That’s right.”

  “How’d you come to know Jim?”

  “I’m not going to tell you.”

  Wilson gave him a quick look and smiled. “Worth a try. Always a newspaper man.”

  “That’s all right.”

  They were close to the Sparks Street club. Wilson asked, “Still taking pictures?” Emmett didn’t answer. Wilson said, “Okey-dokey.” There was a sharp crack of thunder. Emmett told him, “Just drop me off here and I’ll walk to my car.”

  Wilson refused, the streets went stark with sheet lightning. Emmett gave him directions. When he pulled up beside the Alfa, Wilson whistled. “Beautiful. They paying you pretty good?”

  “It belonged to my wife’s father.” He got out of the Edsel and leaned down to thank Wilson for an interesting evening.

  Wilson nodded thoughtfully, studying him. “Yup,” he said. “You’re more than you pretend to be.” He gazed around at the empty parking lot. He looked old and rumpled now. “There’s something here I can’t quite figure out.”

  Chapter Eight

  Emmett made a call. After he’d made the call, he did the usual things: taking a bus to the suburbs then doubling back by a different route, he bought a newspaper, folded it backward, and tucked it under his left arm, he went through the motions spurred by the belief that this was the last time. It was now April 1962. He hadn’t had any pushback since telling Jim Smith he was finished working for the Americans. He’d sent a letter to Aoi, asking, Is James well? and received no letter in return, other than a spring term report card from James’s private school. He wondered if maybe he was clear of the CIA. Now it was time to rid himself of any expectations from the Soviets.

  The meeting didn’t go as he’d planned. Sure, it was pleasant enough; his Russian contacts were always pleasant. It came to him over the subsequent days, as the impression of his cheerful contact wore off and his position came more clearly into focus:
there were those who believed that the decision to leave the service of the Soviet Union was not his to make.

  It was a new contact, yet another replacement. He calculated that this was his fifth since he started, twelve years ago, at the same time he’d joined External Affairs. Each man was as pleasant as his predecessor, sympathetic, admiring of Mr. Jones’s commitment to the cause.

  “You must understand,” Emmett interrupted, “I have absolutely no faith in your government. I have no faith in any government on the planet.” He was tempted to go further, to explain to the Russian that it was his lack of faith in government that had started him on the path of being a spy. He’d been inspired, lured by the promise, the ideal of a stateless society. He suspected that the Russian would laugh heartily.

  The man, whose given name was Oscar, smiled, real amusement in his eyes. He had thick black eyebrows and a generous moustache, like a shorter, chubbier version of Groucho Marx. Emmett reiterated that surely it must be obvious, no man could support a government that planned to obliterate millions of people.

  “But there are no such plans, Mr. Jones! This is wild talk!”

  Emmett said he could no longer be sure of that.

  “Well, if we are pushed — ” Oscar shrugged philosophically. “But you will talk sense to your prime minister.”

  “Yes, but not for you. I don’t work for you anymore.”

  “I understand. When you’re alone like you are, it’s hard to resist the propaganda. But you must be assured —”

  So it went, and then they shook hands, this man Oscar with great warmth and a happy sense of silliness that Emmett had never before seen in a Russian contact. “You’re a brave, heroic man,” Oscar said, his smile indicating that no such thing exists.

  “I quit. Get it?”

  Oscar laughed indulgently, wiggling his Groucho Marx eyebrows. “Let the world go to hell in a handbasket!” He’d adopted a New York accent.

  Emmett walked across the street, caught a bus, and rode it till it looped and came the other way. The bus driver, watching him in his rear-view mirror, thought it must be a bankrupt, or a man who’d just confirmed his wife’s infidelity — the blank face, the shock.

  His friend Wilson started to travel up from Duluth to Ottawa often during the federal election campaign that spring, and they’d have a few drinks. Wilson refrained from asking Emmett more questions about his relationship with Jim Smith, though he teased him about how tough it was for a reporter to endure unsatisfied curiosity. Wilson did ask Emmett a lot of questions about Prime Minister Diefenbaker. “I hear he hates Kennedy’s guts,” Wilson said.

  “I hear it’s mutual.”

  “I also hear he’s crazy. Actually mad.”

  Emmett told Wilson unofficially, “The prime minister’s just a bit frantic for affection. I think he’s secretly, deep down in love with Kennedy. Envious. Jealous. Kennedy’s handsomeness and charm suck the joy out of Dief.” He trusted Wilson to steal his words and refashion them into his own. Wilson had to keep things pitched sharp for his editors.

  The election went badly for Diefenbaker, but he survived with a minority. June 18, Emmett and Suzanne watched the results on television, and invited Dr. Kimura to watch it with them. “Poor Dief,” said Suzanne in delight every time his party lost a seat. “Oh! Poor Dief.”

  When he’d lost fifty seats from his once majority, she brought dinner on a tray into the living room so they could watch TV while they ate. Lennie lay on the carpet and observed her mother’s pleasure with narrowed eyes. When the last results were in and the government had held on but Diefenbaker had lost ninety-two seats, Suzanne brought forth champagne. “What a terrible night for Dief!” she said and she even poured Lennie a half-glass.

  Kimura was offended that the election had resulted in a minority government; it would be a weak government; his instincts were to respect power, despite his solitary, peaceful nature. “You are a strange woman,” he observed, “who cheers for the bad fortunes of her country.”

  Lennie stiffened.

  Suzanne quickly drained her champagne, poured another, and said, “We’ll all be fine. It’s always fine.” These days, with the bomb shelter stocked and ready, with a generalized sensation that the sky is falling, that the end of their lives would be quick and violent, all this had inspired giddiness in Suzanne — she felt that she was sliding helplessly, a toboggan run, a plummet. She was having dizzy spells, and the liquor would quite likely make her sick to her stomach later, when Kimura had gone home. “You’re fine, aren’t you, Kim,” she declared. “You’re becoming a business man! What could be more fine than that?”

  “What’s this?” Emmett asked.

  “Oh, you know, darling, Kim’s gone into business.”

  Emmett asked what this meant.

  “I’m still a doctor.” Kimura crouched to put his hand on Lenore’s forehead. “You’re getting drunk!”

  “Am I?” Lennie asked. So this is what they’re always doing. It felt good.

  “I’ll always be a doctor. But can’t a doctor also be an entrepreneur? I’m investing in a company. We’re going to import medical equipment from Ohio. Very good machines for anaesthetics.” His voice had quickened with excitement.

  Emmett and Suzanne agreed; that’s a good business for a doctor to be in.

  “I’m always a doctor. But I have a partner who’s not. Still, I think he’s a very decent man.” Kimura slowed, his attention strayed to the window and the green dusk. It was nearly solstice and still light outside. “A smart man,” he said quietly. “Someone you know.”

  Suzanne so wanted to be gay. “How nice! We’ll have him over!”

  “You might not think it’s nice. Someone from your past, Emmett. A man you knew very well. But he’s retired now.”

  Emmett asked who he was. “A tired-out External drone?”

  “Not tired. Perhaps disillusioned. Not External. The RCMP.” He made himself look Emmett in the eye. “Very high up in Intelligence.”

  “Morton,” Emmett said, “is not retired.”

  Kimura’s face revealed his uneasiness. “Yes, he’s retired from the Mounties now. Did you know he has five children? He can’t afford such a family on what they pay him. And they frown on any man who tries to do business on the side. So he quit.”

  “Who’s Morton?” Suzanne asked.

  Lennie sat up. The Rabbit. “The man with the pink eyes.”

  Emmett realized that Lennie was thinking of her birthday a few years ago when the little man who hated the sun had arrived to collect him, the day when Morton had pretended to give him all his files. “Another man,” he told her.

  Kimura said, “His eyes aren’t pink, they’re brown. Are you mad at me, Emmett? For colluding with your enemy?”

  “You mean Robert Morton. The spy from the RCMP?” Suzanne paled. “How dare you?”

  Kimura had felt Suzanne’s anger before. “But he’s retired. He’s started a new life. And a business venture that will make a lot of money. Me. A rich man without children. I’ll have to give it away!”

  Suzanne was not to be deterred. “Don’t you realize what he did?”

  Kimura said to Lennie, “Shall I give my money to you?”

  “No, thank you,” said Lennie. She held her empty glass like an egg and went to take it to the kitchen.

  “How did this happen?” Suzanne wanted to know. “I can’t believe you’d work with that awful, awful man.”

  “I think it was his job you didn’t like,” Kimura said. “Not the man.”

  “He spied on us!” But a tremor ran over her. She had spoken of John, “us,” her instincts went first to John. Robert Morton was listening on the phone, it made a clicking sound when he tuned in.

  Emmett saw fear in her eyes, and then she crossed her arms and she was uncontrollably angry because she’d cornered herself and it made her righteous. She said, “How can you even think of colluding with that snake!”

  “That’s enough!” said Emmett.

  His scol
ding, masculine correctness did what it always did to Suzanne: it triggered tears.

  Kimura helplessly offered, “I’ll cancel the deal.” It was apparent by his limp voice that the deal was not to be cancelled.

  Emmett asked, “When did he quit the force?”

  “I don’t know for certain, but it was more than a year ago.” Kimura looked miserable. “Two years ago, I think.”

  Then it was soon after Morton had pretended to return all the Jones files.

  Lennie had come from the kitchen. She stood at the doorway to the living room in her stork pose, one socked foot tucked up against her knee. She was ten years old. Once she’d been skinny, but now she’d grown slender; gawky had become graceful; her bony face was striking. She had a beautiful mouth.

  Lenore caught her father looking. Emmett had come to expect a childish reprimand, a rolling of the eyes, but what he saw was forgiveness. Austere and impersonal forgiveness. She turned away and climbed the stairs toward her own room.

  Suzanne began to apologize, “I don’t know why it hit me like that. It was the shock. I’m sorry, Kim. God, I fight with you, don’t I?”

  Kimura, bewildered, reassured her, it was all right, it was just passion, “the passion of an artist,” he called it, putting it beyond reason. “I wouldn’t like you any other way.”

  “He was such a bogeyman in my mind,” she said, adding ruefully, “I’m falling apart.”

  “Oh, I hope not!”

  Emmett listened. Had Robert Morton gotten frustrated with the bureaucracy and decided he’d make some easy money? Five children would be expensive. He was a smart guy, a loner. What better way to fight communism than to make a fortune selling anaesthetic equipment?

  One more thing troubled him. “How did you come to know Morton?” he asked Kimura.

  Kimura’s eyes went to the TV. He hesitated. “A mutual acquaintance. Happenstance.” He stared at the television, feeling Emmett study him.

  In the silty darkness, the election results were final: Diefenbaker’s government had squeezed by with a minority. The summer of 1962. The bomb shelter was stocked with tomato soup, nail polish remover, and a broom for sweeping radioactive dust.