subconsciously or otherwise, believed that the American media, like its universities and entertainment industry were the major leagues. Most Canadian writers, professors, and actors were, de facto, minor league. That widespread sensibility was fed by the fact that so many of our best and brightest went south for better money and larger audiences. For anyone who didn’t, an implicit doubt was left hanging like an unwarranted dangling participle. Maybe the public was right. Maybe I was, by nature, a second-string journalist. Maybe had I been first-rate, I would have moved to the States as well. But then I was here, possibly chasing down a killer who was still at large. Had I left I would probably only have added to the swollen rat pack inspecting the Clintons’ footprints for muck.
CHAPTER FIVE
After a two-coffee, instant oatmeal breakfast, I checked my answering machine. Gina had called again. I decided I would phone her later when I had something more positive to communicate. I put a call through to Joe Gibbs. He had gotten a green light to co-operate from the Rector. I gave him a list of some of the things that I wanted. He said he would try to have some of it ready by late afternoon, some the next day, and some probably never. I asked him to do his best. We agreed that I could pick up what was available between three and four o’clock that afternoon.
I had just put down the receiver when the phone rang. Gina, I thought. I was right. I suggested she come over around lunch time. She sounded grateful. I went down to the corner store and bought the ingredients for a salad. When she arrived they were sitting on the kitchen counter.
“Do you know how to make a salad?” I asked.
“Of course,” she replied. But she did not look enthusiastic. Finally something we had in common, I thought. Neither of us liked the chore of preparing meals. I told her what I had requested from Joe Gibbs. I also told her about my phone call to our Washington correspondent. But I postponed telling her about my meeting with Naomi Bronson.
“So when do you expect to hear from Washington?”
“Not for a couple of days.” But I was wrong. Shortly after lunch Haylocke called. I took it in the den. Gina followed me in and sat expectantly on a spare chair.
“Came across some interesting stuff,” Haylocke said.
“That was fast.”
“Yeah. For once, my contacts were at their desks and not at some interminable meeting. All they had to do was enter the right access codes and blip, blip, up came all this arcane data on their personal monitors. The contemporary computer is truly a marvel to behold. At any rate, there was indeed both a CIA and an FBI file on Professor Bull and his project, and your guy, Monaghan, warranted a minor footnote in both of them. But no more than that. I don’t think they considered him very important. But that was not the most interesting stuff,” he paused. His laconic drawl could not hide a smug satisfaction.
“So, what was?” I prodded.
“Well, get this, first, who do you think filed the CIA reports on Monaghan and Bull?”
“Who?”
“A Professor Symansky.”
“Steve Symansky?”
“Yeah. Bet you didn’t expect that when you put his name on your list, did you?”
“No,” I exclaimed, “I assumed he was one of the dissidents.”
“He probably gave everyone that impression. It turns out he was a paid CIA informer. But only a minor cog, according to my source. At first, he was paid to keep tabs on any American professors in your neck of the woods who were active in the anti-Vietnam War movement. He also filed some reports on that terrorist independence movement you had up there. What was it called?”
“The FLQ?”
“Yeah, that was it. But here’s an interesting tidbit, In that connection he filed a report on Monaghan’s wife.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope. I gather she had money. She gave a substantial cheque to the political wing of the Quebec independence movement and
CHAPTER FIVE
After a two-coffee, instant oatmeal breakfast, I checked my answering machine. Gina had called again. I decided I would phone her later when I had something more positive to communicate. I put a call through to Joe Gibbs. He had gotten a green light to co-operate from the Rector. I gave him a list of some of the things that I wanted. He said he would try to have some of it ready by late afternoon, some the next day, and some probably never. I asked him to do his best. We agreed that I could pick up what was available between three and four o’clock that afternoon.
I had just put down the receiver when the phone rang. Gina, I thought. I was right. I suggested she come over around lunch time. She sounded grateful. I went down to the corner store and bought the ingredients for a salad. When she arrived they were sitting on the kitchen counter.
“Do you know how to make a salad?” I asked.
“Of course,” she replied. But she did not look enthusiastic. Finally something we had in common, I thought. Neither of us liked the chore of preparing meals. I told her what I had requested from Joe Gibbs. I also told her about my phone call to our Washington correspondent. But I postponed telling her about my meeting with Naomi Bronson.
“So when do you expect to hear from Washington?”
“Not for a couple of days.” But I was wrong. Shortly after lunch Haylocke called. I took it in the den. Gina followed me in and sat expectantly on a spare chair.
“Came across some interesting stuff,” Haylocke said.
“That was fast.”
“Yeah. For once, my contacts were at their desks and not at some interminable meeting. All they had to do was enter the right access codes and blip, blip, up came all this arcane data on their personal monitors. The contemporary computer is truly a marvel to behold. At any rate, there was indeed both a CIA and an FBI file on Professor Bull and his project, and your guy, Monaghan, warranted a minor footnote in both of them. But no more than that. I don’t think they considered him very important. But that was not the most interesting stuff,” he paused. His laconic drawl could not hide a smug satisfaction.
“So, what was?” I prodded.
“Well, get this, first, who do you think filed the CIA reports on Monaghan and Bull?”
“Who?”
“A Professor Symansky.”
“Steve Symansky?”
“Yeah. Bet you didn’t expect that when you put his name on your list, did you?”
“No,” I exclaimed, “I assumed he was one of the dissidents.”
“He probably gave everyone that impression. It turns out he was a paid CIA informer. But only a minor cog, according to my source. At first, he was paid to keep tabs on any American professors in your neck of the woods who were active in the anti-Vietnam War movement. He also filed some reports on that terrorist independence movement you had up there. What was it called?”
“The FLQ?”
“Yeah, that was it. But here’s an interesting tidbit, In that connection he filed a report on Monaghan’s wife.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope. I gather she had money. She gave a substantial cheque to the political wing of the Quebec independence movement and
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