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You wouldn’t believe where CSIS had its secret Hamilton offices.
The local marijuana emporium, Up in Smoke, was constantly being closed and re-opened as a result of court battles over Canada’s jellyfish marijuana laws. The grubby, stoned patrons out on King Street in front of the store barely batted an eyelash as the hulking agents escorted me up the narrow stairs to the offices above the dope shop.
The building was an old turn-of-the-century brick apartment with a lot of character—creaky floors, poorly insulated, and with ornate iron heating grates that let a substantial quantity of dope smoke up into the office.
I found myself surprisingly relaxed during the interview.
In fact, it was all pretty funny.
The agents sat facing me across a steel table. They appeared to be the same ones who had tailed me a week earlier. They were both tall, wearing crisp black suits. They had neatly manicured hair. Highly polished black shoes poked out from the cuffs of their trousers. They looked as if they’d stepped off the set of Men in Black.
One bright light dangled above the table. The garbage can was filled with the remnants of Tim Hortons donut boxes, 7-Eleven chili dog wrappers and numerous candy bar wrappers.
Agent Smith (I’m not sure which one) spoke first. “Mr. Love, for how long have you known Steven McCartney?”
“Since grade school.”
“When did you last hear from Mr. McCartney?”
“At our high school graduation prom.”
He looked up from his notes and levelled a piercing gaze at me. “How can that be, Mr. Love, when your columns reveal a detailed knowledge of Mr. McCartney’s activities in the last twenty years?”
Hot shame flooded my body. Suddenly my mind was clear. I knew what I had to do. I had to end this.
I swallowed nervously. My mouth felt pasty. “The thing is, none of this is true. The columns, I mean. I made it all up. I haven’t talked to Steven since Grad. He might even be dead. I just wanted to ... I mean, he ... you know?”
I looked pleadingly at the Agents Smith. Surely, they would understand. I felt a great sense of relief that I had finally come clean and this nightmare was coming to an end.
But they stared at me, unblinking and impassive.
“Mr. Love, we expected you to deny your involvement with a suspected terrorist. But I think it’s time that you understand the consequences of non-cooperation. Agent Smith?”
The other Agent Smith slid a manila folder across the table towards me.
Paranoia rose up inside me. A terrorist? What could these granite-faced grim reapers have on me?
With a shaking hand, I opened the folder. It was worse than I thought.
Four yellow parking violations, unpaid since 1985, stared up at me accusingly.
“Mr. Love, do you know what happens to people who don’t pay their parking violations?” The shadow of an evil smile played at the corners of Agent Smith’s mouth.
The question hung in the air, like the dope smoke wafting out of the floor vent.
Suddenly, it occurred to me that I didn’t know. Why didn’t I know? Did they go to jail? Did they “disappear” like Steven had disappeared?
“I’m sorry, I must have forgotten about them! H-how much do I owe you?” I started to reach for my wallet.
Agent Smith put up his hand. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Love. In fact, I think that you will find there are many benefits to cooperating with CSIS.”
Across the steel table, he slid a Boston Cream donut on a Tim Hortons napkin.
We all eyed the donut, its icing glistening under the lamp.
It was now obvious to me that I had no choice. I had started this lie, and I was going to have to continue it because they wouldn’t believe the truth.
The sad thing was that I was kind of looking forward to it.
