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  If a country fails to tell its own story, its image

  will be shaped exclusively by the perception of others.

  —Evan Porter

  Branding Canada: Projecting Canada’s Soft Power

  through Public Diplomacy

  IAN MCKERCHER

  ISBN 978-1-9991081-1-3

  Copyright © Ian McKercher 2019

  Cover art, design, composition: Magdalene Carson

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction wound loosely around

  historical events and personages. Characters, places, and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  To Alex and Jay Hope,

  who taught me so many life lessons

  Other books by the author:

  The Underling (2012)

  The Incrementalist (2016)

  Contents

  Prologue

  1Mr. Cordiality

  2Treason

  3The Rascals

  4Claire

  5Round Two

  6Quid Pro Quo

  7Montecristo

  8Huey Foo

  9Vice-consul

  10Naked Truth

  11Apartment 606

  12Keogan Lodge

  13Señorita Gonzalez

  14Carlota

  15Murray Street

  16Cartier Drill Hall

  17Morning After

  18Search Warrant

  19Captain Quigley

  20Doppelgänger

  21The Ping Pong Club

  22Dead Rat

  23Puzzled

  24Montreal

  25Kid Baker

  26Stake-Out

  27Exit Orinoco

  28Chateau Breakfast

  29The Long Game

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Ottawa, February 1942

  At twenty-five years of age, Frances McFadden felt eclipsed by life. The job she loved had overpowered her. She found Governor Towers’s pathological pleasantness irritating and the cheerful collegiality of her secretariat colleagues irksome. Sleep was fitful, not restful. Migraine headaches crippled her concentration. While it was completely Presbyterian to be burdened by guilt for sins real or imagined, it was most un-Presbyterian to lack stamina. The self-righteous ghost of her dead mother whispered, “Buck up. You’ll be fine.”

  Desperation drove her to call the doctor. Dr. Wilbur Grace (Ph.D., Economics, University of Toronto, postdoctoral studies at La Sorbonne) welcomed any pretext to take lunch at the Chateau Laurier.

  “I used to thrive on long days at the Bank of Canada,” Frances lamented. “Now I barely manage to endure them. Has my youth dissolved to decrepitude overnight?”

  “Know the feeling,” nodded Dr. Grace. “The Department of Finance regularly grinds me to a nub.”

  “Really? You always look the picture of contentment.”

  “Boyish good humour masks my pain.” Dr. Grace inhaled deeply from his tumbler of iced Macallan. “I escape to my fishing shack in the Gatineau Hills or to Quebec City for antiques and French cuisine. Tops the tank right back up. When was your last holiday, Miss McFadden?”

  “In wartime? You think the Nazis take holidays?”

  “Let the Nazis look after their own mental health. Last holiday?”

  A small sigh.

  “Except for my mother’s funeral, I haven’t had more than two consecutive days off in seven years.”

  Dr. Grace toasted her. “To Saint Frances! A whole new category of martyr — one who burns herself at the stake. You need a respite. You’re no good to the Bank of Canada toasted to a crisp.”

  “But Governor Towers is heading to Florida for three weeks.”

  “Perfect timing. Abandon ship.”

  “When he’s away, he likes me on deck to keep the sails trim.”

  “What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. Pack a bag and hop the next train out of Ottawa.”

  “Where to?”

  “Anywhere will do. Try some reckless abandon.”

  -1-

  Mr. Cordiality

  The Bank work week nominally finished at noon on Saturdays, but Frances toiled past six trying to clear the backlog before her pending holiday. Reckless abandon? Not her defining characteristic, yet a restrained excitement was percolating. Uncharted vacation escapes demanded wardrobe considerations. Mulling options, she trudged homeward through a biting blizzard. “How do I hate the winter? Let me count the ways,” she thought, paraphrasing the Browning sonnet. A man and a dog frosted in white emerged from a snowflake swirl at the corner of Somerset Street. Was it . . . yes! Inspector Hollingsworth of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and his Bassett hound Beauregard loitered under the streetlight. The inspector usually marched his short-legged dog along as though a Sousa tune played on an inner ear. Not an idler. Yet, there they were, snowy statues.

  “Good evening, Inspector. A wintry corner to watch the world go by.”

  “Indeed, Frances. Good evening. I was hoping to see you.” He looked up and down the street before continuing. “What’s that code word you use at the Bank of Canada for dire emergencies?”

  “Culloden File?”

  “Right. After Bonnie Prince Charlie’s ignominious defeat. Well, Frances, we have a Culloden File situation,” he said, pausing to light his pipe. “A man wants to meet you.”

  “Moonlighting as a matchmaker?” asked Frances, bending down to scratch Beauregard’s ears.

  The inspector chuckled. “No. This chap isn’t exactly Mr. Cordiality. It might be less harrowing for you if I can be present to referee.”

  “You play to my weakness — hard-core curiosity. But it has been an arduous day and the balm of a sudsy tub beckons.”

  “Later, Frances. Please carry on home. Wait five minutes, then leave the Balmoral Arms and go down to the Buy-Rite on Elgin Street. Pick up a few things. Just come out carrying a grocery bag. Take the north-bound streetcar four blocks and get off at Knox Church. Head over to the Shefford Apartments on Cooper Street. Apartment 25 is on the second floor. I’ll be waiting.”

  Frances smiled. “Quite a circuitous route. I could walk there directly in four minutes flat, saving time and streetcar fare.”

  Inspector Hollingsworth smiled back. “Mr. Cordiality is a man of extreme and, to my mind, unnecessary caution. However, he calls the shots.”

  The Shefford Apartments was a squat dowager that had aged poorly. Once-elegant woodwork was scuffed with forty years’ abuse. A threadbare carpet stretched down a murky hall and cobwebs flourished in the ceiling corners. The lobby directory identified a Mr. H. Bremner as the resident of apartment 25. Frances took the stairs, walked down the gloomy hallway and knocked.

  Footsteps sounded from within, and Inspector Hollingsworth opened the door on a dim vestibule. A galley kitchen opened off the foyer to the left and Frances could see a sparsely furnished living room to the right. “Mr. Bremner’s tastes appear somewhat spartan,” she said.

  “Travels a lot. Keeps things simple,” said the inspector with another smile which could mean everything or nothing. “Right this way.” He escorted Frances around a corner and through an archway to where two men in uniform sat pinned behind a too-large dining room table. “Miss McFadden, allow me to introduce my colleagues. Major Philpott. Commander Evans.” Commander Evans, in a crisp British navy uniform, stood up smiling and extended a hand. Major Philpott, in illfitting Canadian army khaki, gave a cursory nod as he sorted papers on the table.

  “I’ve just hotted the pot. Can I get you some tea?” the inspector asked.

  “Wonderful!” said Frances. “I picked up fresh bran muffins at the Buy-Rite. We can
picnic.”

  Commander Evans smiled again. Major Philpott had a thin, pasty face and a thick moustache that dragged down the corners of his mouth into a perpetual scowl. He nodded at a chair across the table. “Please be seated,” he declared, in a tone that was more an order than a request. Frances sat, opened the grocery bag and offered the muffins around. Only the inspector partook.

  The major drummed the table with his fingers. “You are Frances McFadden, employee of the Bank of Canada?”

  “I am. And you are Major Philpott of . . . ?”

  “I will ask the questions,” replied the major. “Your initials are F.E.M. ?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your middle name is?”

  “Elizabeth.”

  And Governor Towers’s initials are G.F.T. ?”

  “Yes. Graham Ford Towers.”

  “When documents are typed for Governor Towers, how does your office identify who typed them?”

  “On the bottom left corner the governor’s initials in upper case would be followed by a slash and the secretary’s initials in lower case.”

  “Like this?” The major covered all but the bottom corner of a page that he held out to her showing the typed letters “GFT/fem.”

  “Yes.”

  The major beamed triumphantly towards the commander and the inspector.

  A confusing silence was alleviated by Commander Evans. “Miss McFadden, we are working on some security concerns regarding the war. We were hoping that you could help clarify a few things.” He cleared his throat. “What is your attitude towards the war?”

  “War in general, or this war in particular?”

  “Both,” interjected the major.

  “In general, I think wars are destructive and unhealthy. People die. Soldiers, plus anyone caught in the crossfire.”

  “Would you call yourself a pacifist, then?” asked the commander.

  “Well,” mused Frances, “I’m not an activist. I would not seek out a war.”

  “And this particular war?” continued the major. “Would you describe yourself as a pacifist?”

  “No. This is a war of aggression. Nazi Germany invaded countries without provocation. Canada was morally obligated to join in.”

  “How do you support the war effort?” inquired

  Commander Evans.

  “My work at the Bank of Canada helps with the means to finance the war. I also volunteer at the Red Cross.”

  “What type of volunteer work?”

  “Whatever they need. Packing gift parcels for soldiers. Rolling bandages. Serving cocoa in the soldiers’ canteen.”

  “Anything else?” asked the major. His voice carried a catwith-the-canary smugness.

  “Well, I have visited the prisoner of war camp in Hull several times. I took some peanut butter cookies over for the internees.”

  “You sympathize with enemy prisoners?” pressed the major.

  “I sympathize with people suffering from the war. The Hull camp holds mostly men from the German merchant marine. Miss Pike, the Canadian Red Cross matron, had trouble getting volunteers, so I went.”

  Major Philpott looked down at a file. “And you spoke with a prisoner named Klaus Pohl on several occasions?”

  Frances smiled. “You are very well informed, Major. Yes, Klaus Pohl and Hans Weber. They were both cooks on the SS Ingrid Elvira, a German cargo ship captured by the British navy.”

  “Men in the service of the German Reich?”

  “Cooks are not exactly warriors. Herr Pohl told me that every German male between eighteen and fifty-five was required by law to join a military service or support the war effort in some way.”

  “Why did you choose these particular men?”

  “They speak English. Most of the prisoners don’t.”

  “Did it not surprise you that German cooks were fluent in English?”

  “It did. Herrs Kohl and Weber told me they had each spent a year of their apprenticeship in England while working on their chef’s papers. They didn’t have much good to say about the culinary offerings of British hotels.”

  “What motivated you to visit these prisoners in the first place?” asked Commander Evans.

  “POWs — theirs or ours — are having their youth stolen. They’re held out of the war, but out of life too — away from their wives and children, their neighbours and gardens. It seems a terrible waste.”

  “Do you know anyone in a German POW camp?”

  Frances hesitated, not knowing exactly how much the major really knew. “I have a good friend, an engineer who worked for the Department of Agriculture. He was asked to take part in some sort of clandestine activity overseas. He couldn’t talk about the details. Official Secrets Act. He wouldn’t even tell me where he was. I assumed he was somewhere in occupied Europe. He may have been captured. He may be a POW. I don’t know. He’s a gentle soul. Not very warlike. If he is a prisoner, I’d like to think some German might bake him cookies to ease his time.”

  The major was drumming his fingers on the table again. “How long have you worked at the Bank of Canada?”

  “Since May of 1934.”

  He looked up sharply. “How could that be?” He snorted, like a pig who had truffled out a falsehood. “The Bank of Canada didn’t open for business until March of 1935.”

  “True. I was hired to help set up an archive before the Bank actually opened for business.”

  “By whom?”

  “Dr. Grace in the Department of Finance.”

  “Why?” the major demanded as he scribbled notes.

  “Everyone expected that the first Governor of the Bank would be a secondment from the Bank of England. That the appointee would need considerable background information on Canadian government and financial institutions.”

  “But as Graham Towers of the Royal Bank in Montreal was appointed governor, your services were no longer needed, were they?” The major stretched out the second “were” like a grinding heel.

  Major Philpott was beginning to curdle Frances’s day. “The governor saw fit to keep me on.”

  “Why?”

  Frances paused for self-control. “You’d best ask the governor.”

  Major Philpott shuffled more paper. “What is your current position at the Bank?”

  “I’m Executive Assistant to Governor Towers and Director of his secretariat.”

  “A clerk, then?”

  Frances wondered if referring to the major as “a serviceman” would be as demeaning.

  Commander Evans eased the tone. “You’re not an economist, Miss McFadden?”

  “No.” She cleared her throat. “A clerk.”

  “And what are Bank of Canada clerks paid?”

  Frances’s Presbyterian upbringing did not characterize salary, sexual preferences or bodily functions as topics for banter with strangers. She paused before saying, as politely as she could muster, “May I ask, Major, what business my salary is of yours?”

  The major responded with a theatrical steely glare. “May I remind you that I ask the questions here, Miss McFadden? You would be wise to answer promptly and accurately.” The unstated “or else” in his tone was almost comical.

  “I earn $162.50 a month.”

  “Interesting,” replied the “gotcha” voice again. “Could you explain, then, how a clerk manages to afford a penthouse apartment in the Balmoral Arms that rents for $170 a month?” The major checked some notes. “A three-bedroom apartment with a rooftop greenhouse, gazebo and reflecting pool?”

  The picnic atmosphere had soured. Frances glanced at Inspector Hollingsworth, who avoided eye contact, and at Commander Evans, who wore an inquisitive smile. “I’ve just worked an eleven-hour day, Major. I’m too tired to be harassed about my personal life. Thank you for tea. I think I’ll go home to pack. I’m leaving on holiday next week.”

  “I think you are not going anywhere,” replied the major.

  “I think I am,” said Frances standing up.

  Major Philpott spoke with co
ld fury. “I will have you behind bars in ten minutes if you don’t cooperate with this investigation.”

  He was the caricature of a tin pot despot. Almost farcical, but it did melt Frances back down into her seat.

  “Arrest me for . . . ?”

  “Treason,” he said with a glow of satisfaction.

  “Treason?” Frances laughed.

  After a dramatic pause, the major continued. “Miss McFadden, several Bank of Canada documents of a highly confidential nature have recently come into our possession. Documents with your initials on them.” He smiled a humourless smile. “We believe that these stolen items are evidence of treason by someone within the Bank of Canada.”

  “And you suspect me?”

  “They are your initials. You are in charge of the governor’s secretarial pool. You may be under financial duress supporting a lavish lifestyle. You consort with the enemy. You have pacifist tendencies.” He paused dramatically again. “An incriminating indictment, Miss McFadden.”

  Major Philpott was spared Frances’s eye roll while checking his watch. “I need to get this case wrapped up quickly,” he continued. “I’m about to be posted out of Ottawa, and this godforsaken weather.”

  “You dislike Ottawa winters, Major?”

  “I hate the cold.”

  “Well,” said Frances, “we share one common inclination at least.”

  The major did not smile. “I would like to clear my desk for my successor. If you cooperate, things could go easier for you.”

  “Cooperate? You mean, confess that I’m a thief and a traitor?”

  “We have the evidence. If you own up, the courts will show leniency and we can get on with the defeat of Germany.”

  Major Philpott had it all figured out.

  “Sorry to disappoint, Major, but I did not steal any documents from the Bank of Canada.”

  “There are other members of the governor’s secretariat, are there not?” inquired Commander Evans.

  Frances articulated slowly. “Each member of the governor’s secretariat is completely loyal to the Bank, the country and the king. I am absolutely certain that they would not take documents from the office for any reason whatsoever.”