than four decades later, the security oath I swore on joining the Department still prevents me from saying exactly what we did. Let’s just say we began each day pawing through bags filled with intercepted diplomatic, military, and security communications, from friends and presumed enemies alike, looking for nuggets of information on the great international developments of the day not available anywhere else. We then spent the rest of our mornings reading assessments sent to us by other intelligence organizations, economic and political reports from Canada’s embassies, scholarly articles by academic experts, and scraps of information from anywhere, secret or unclassified, to put the intercepted information in context. The afternoons we pulled this information together and wrote reports for the most senior decision-makers of government, which, Dan and Gregoire told me, nobody read.
And the reason nobody read our reports, they said, was because our Intelligence partners didn’t share with us the really juicy information they got from their spy agencies. They kept that for themselves, to make their reports exclusive, and thus more interesting, for their leaders. Longshaft had been trying for years to persuade the government to establish Canada’s own spy service to collect the information the Brits and Americans wouldn’t give us, but had always been turned down. But when the FLQ began waging its war of terror in Quebec, the government changed its mind. The prime minister told Longstaff he could run a modest network of spies to collect information on terrorist organizations in Latin America to see if they supported the FLQ. But since there was no money in the budget, he said Foreign Service officers on their first postings would have to do the job.
“Just the same,” I said, “he must have a lot of influence to be able to persuade the prime minister to take a step of that nature.”
“The Guardians were on side and prepared the ground with the prime minister,” Dan said, assuming I knew what he was talking about. But I didn’t and said so, prompting Gregoire to explain who they were.
“It’s an informal group that’s been around for decades in one form or another,” he said. “There’s no entrance requirement other than being unattached politically and a member of the Public Service. In fact, you can’t apply to join. But if someone demonstrates the right stuff — being a progressive thinker seems to be the quality they look for — someone will take note and an invitation to join will be forthcoming.”
“What about excellence, industriousness, high personal ethics, and the like? Where do they fit in?”
“I suppose those qualities are taken into account but being a progressive thinker is more important.”
“And what does being a progressive thinker mean?”
“I suspect it means sharing the world view of the Guardians, but I really have no idea.”
“How do you know those things?” I said. “Do you belong?”
“No I don’t, but its existence has been an open secret in Ottawa for years. Most people in Ottawa think it’s just another Old Boys’ network, similar to other networks of influential people in towns and cities across Canada.”
“Its members come mainly from the Privy Council Office and departments like External Affairs, Finance, Public Safety, Justice, National Defence, and agencies like the RCMP and the CSEC,” Dan added. “They hold no formal meetings, and they don’t circulate agendas or records of decisions taken. Instead, they join the same fishing and luncheon clubs where they mix business with pleasure, reaching informal agreements on the advice to give to ministers and prime ministers in times of crisis. Their influence comes from the fact they’re based in and around the national capital and the political class is dependent on them for guidance. Longshaft may well ask you to join sooner or later … he seems to like you.”
I didn’t tell them I had no interest in joining such a murky outfit and would say no if approached. Neither did I mention I was destined to become one of Longshaft’s spies, afraid my new friends might laugh at me. Being so well informed, they probably knew that anyway but, being discreet, never mentioned the matter to me. They likewise said nothing when other junior officers of the class of 1966, recruited like me to do some part-time espionage work in Latin America, joined us on the ninth floor.
Dan and Gregoire had rented a cottage at Lake Kingsmere in the Gatineau Hills, across the Ottawa River from Ottawa, and were looking for someone to share the costs, so I agreed to be the third. After buying a car and moving in, I discovered the cottage was the unofficial hangout for new Foreign Service officers. Every Saturday afternoon, twenty or so classmates, together with their wives, girlfriends, and friends, would come with their bathing suits and supplies of food, beer, and wine to swim, dance, and talk until late in the evening.
Those who had joined up early in the year briefed the newcomers on their headquarters assignments. The new recruits listened with deference to the words of our experienced colleagues hoping to pick up some pointers. Everyone was proud to be a member of the Department and we talked about the things we would do to make the world a better place. Some said they wanted to help stop the spread of nuclear weapons. Others wanted to end Third World hunger. Still others wanted to save the planet from environmental ruin. Nobody said they wanted to be an intelligence analyst reading the private mail of other countries or a secret agent spying on Latin American revolutionaries.
It was at one of those parties toward the end of the summer that I met Charlotte Lefidèle. She wasn’t a Foreign Service officer and I don’t know who brought her, but as we sat around a campfire on the beach, I saw her looking at me. I smiled and she smiled in return. I got up and joined her, asking her in English if she was alone. She answered in French saying she was. When I answered in French, she said she’d been looking at the Foreign Service officers to see if she could identify the Quebeckers by their appearance. “And you,” she said, “are a Quebecker.”
When I asked her why she would waste her time that way, she said it was just for something to do. “I don’t know anyone here, and the person I came with left without me.”
“Well you’re wrong … I’m a francophone Métis from Ontario.”
“Then I guess Quebeckers look like francophone Métis,” she said, laughing. “I’m not a Quebecker either. I’m Franco-Ontarian from Ottawa, although my mother comes from Quebec City. But let’s drop the subject. Tell me, what do you do? Are you a Foreign Service officer?”
The light wasn’t good and it was hard to read her expression, but I had the impression I had just passed some sort of test when I said yes. “Could you give me a ride back to the city,” she said. “I’ve no way to get home.”
A few days later, we had lunch together in a small restaurant in the market area of the city, and I saw her in the light of day. She was older than I had initially thought, but made up in sophistication what she lacked in good looks. She ordered escargots for her first course and I did the same, even though I wasn’t enthusiastic about eating the slimy little things. She ordered steak tatare with a raw egg yolk on top, but I couldn’t stomach the idea of eating raw hamburger and ordered a well-done steak and french fries. She told me a Beaujolais would go well with escargots, steak tatare, and steak. I ordered a bottle and she drank most of it.
I told her I had gone to the University of Ottawa before joining the Department. She said she had attended the same university “a few years earlier,” had written the Foreign Service officer exams, but had not received a job offer, and had settled for a job as a nursery school teacher. I told her I had lived in Penetang before Ottawa, and she said she had once visited Martyr’s Shrine to pray at the Stations of the Cross, but hadn’t had time to visit my hometown. She told me she had lived in Ottawa all her life but her passion was travel, especially to Mexico and Cuba, which she had visited many times, learning
