“Why me?” I said. “Surely there are plenty of more capable recruits who’d do a better job.”
“I don’t like it when junior officers fish for compliments. I picked you because in the interview last Friday, you said the use of torture was acceptable in exceptional circumstances. I liked that. It shows intellectual courage. Ruthlessness if you will — something the average Canadian diplomat, who thinks compromise and reconciliation are virtues rather than signs of weakness, doesn’t possess. Ruthlessness in my line of work is good. And ruthlessness will be needed in your new assignment. You’re also a brown-skinned Métis — no offense intended. Terrorists love Aboriginal people. Your identity will give you a level of entry into a milieu not normally open to a white diplomat.”
I was offended and a little confused. Burump wanted me in the Department because Aboriginal Foreign Service officers could help Canada live up to what he claimed was its potential for good in the world. When he said that, I thought he had read too many stories in his boyhood comic book collection about noble Indians and half-breeds. And now Longshaft had just told me he wanted me in the Department because I had demonstrated a ruthless streak in the interview, like the Indian and Métis sons-of-bitches in his battalion.
But should I wish to take it, a position as a Foreign Service officer was now mine — but for the wrong reasons. I persuaded myself that if I hadn’t turned my back on the interview board, I would have been offered a job anyway, based on my merits rather than on my race. I reminded myself that I had done well academically — actually better than well — I had been an A student, was widely read, and had learned to speak Spanish quickly and fluently. I took refuge in the thought that I hadn’t asked the board to give me a job because I was a Métis — something I would never do. I told myself it wasn’t my fault that Burump and Longshaft wanted me to work for them because I stood for something that fulfilled their deepest fantasies.
In due course, a registered letter arrived from the Department with the offer and I accepted it, rejoicing at my good luck. But my joy was tempered by a sense of doubt, a feeling that I hadn’t earned entry to the Department on my merits.
4: Courting Charlotte
I threw in my lot with Longshaft and spent the summer on the ninth floor as I prepared myself for my posting to Colombia, set to begin in November 1968. The security guard greeted me with a pleasant “good morning, Mr. Cadotte,” as he unlocked the steel door when I came to work in the mornings. Longshaft’s private secretary, Mary Somerville, now brought me coffee when I called on her boss. My new colleagues included two other recruits, Dan O’Shea and Gregoire Harding, who had joined the Department early in the year and would leave on their first postings in the late fall. I shared an office with them and they initiated me into the arcane world of the Canadian Security and Intelligence community.
More 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