Mr. John Martin, the desk officer assigned to Ab’s project at the Canadian International Development Agency office in Ottawa, was a medium-sized man with pale skin and a face that Ab could never remember the moment he wasn’t looking at it. His desk was behind a movable partition in a huge, fluorescent-lit room full of movable partitions. He was carefully going over the financial statements as Ab sat in a chair across the desk from him.
“I’m afraid that the supplies, the needles and syringes and so on, definitely can’t be covered. You should have applied six weeks in advance if you wanted special permission to go beyond the contract.”
“I didn’t know six weeks in advance that there would be an epidemic for which I would need the supplies.”
“Yes, well, the government is coming down hard on us now for fiscal responsibility, so, well, that’s how it is. If you don’t like the rules, talk to the Prime Minister.”
“I may do that.” It was a lost cause. For what? A few syringes out of pocket.
“And the trip home, well, there are some problems. You see, you were asked to leave the country for becoming involved in local political matters that should not have concerned you. And that could be considered a breach of your contract, in which case we may not be able to cover all your expenses to come home.”
“I was investigating the murder of a friend, and a fellow Canadian.”
Mr. Martin looked up momentarily from his papers and adjusted his glasses. “Oh, George Grobowski. I believe the official report said it was a case of anthrax. Very sad, that.”
“Actually, he was stabbed through the neck directly into his heart. A Balinese-style execution.”
“That wasn’t in the report.”
“Do you mean the autopsy? Was there one? Did anyone see the body even?”
“I’m afraid that was not possible. We can’t be sending pathologists on junkets all over the world, and we can’t have bodies full of anthrax being shipped around the world, can we?” He smiled up at Ab.
“Yes. Anthrax. A very convenient diagnosis for a coffin full of rocks.”
The desk officer pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Yes. Well, we can’t choose how we die, can we?”
Ab stared at him. “I shall put the details in my final report, the murders, the attempts on my life, etcetera. Then you’ll have it in a written report.” He smiled, broadly. “Maybe I can sell it to a magazine too. Shall I mention your name?”
“Yes, well, in the meantime I shall see what I can do to get your travel claim through. But I can’t promise anything.”
Ab stood up and left the office.