CHAPTER SEVEN

Fraser waited patiently, gazing out the window as the sun set behind a steel and glass skyscraper, its rays making the building look as if it were ablaze. He held his breath. Even in this city of crowded skyline and busy streets, there was unexpected beauty that touched the heart. He watched as the colors flowed from flaming reds to golden-pinks. As he brought his attention back into the room and to its other occupant, he saw the halo effect formed behind Inspector Thatcher, as she sat at her desk. Her oval face, its contours softened by the play of light, reminded him suddenly of a Rafael Madonna.

The effect was ruined when she hung up the phone with a bang. "Idiots!" she said, then looked up sharply at her junior officer.

"Yes?"

"Visas ready for signature, sir." He handed her a neat stack of papers, clipped and sorted. She signed each in turn and handed them back to him without comment.

He proffered another file. "My analysis of the findings of the Joint Commission on Energy and Environment in the Midwestern Great Lakes region, as you requested," he said. Thatcher squinted at the first page, then looked up at him.

"Your conclusion, Fraser?"

"We should accept the energy protocols, but further testing is needed on the environmental impact studies, particularly as it relates to fish populations."

"I tend to agree. Very well. I will pass it on to Ottawa."

"The monthly administrative report," he said, handing over another file.

"Anything I should know?"

"I am recommending that we change pest control contractors. The quality of the service has declined markedly in recent months. I believe the firm may be overextended. I took the liberty of obtaining comparable estimates from three reputable alternatives in the event you wished to cancel the current service."

She took the file from him. "Your preference is marked?"

"Yes, sir."

"Anything else?"

"A request from the President of Northwestern University to attend an international forum on the Phase II integration of the NAFTA accords, and a second from the Chicago Area School District to participate in their annual World Cultures Day."

"Your thoughts?"

"I recommend your attendance at the first event, sir. The other attendees are officials at your level. Your calendar is clear." He handed over a file. "It's a high profile event. There is a formal reception following at the Four Seasons Hotel. Black tie."

"And the second?

Fraser handed her the last file. He hesitated a moment. "I recommend Constable Turnbull attend, sir."

"Turnbull is on report," she said, shortly. "You go."

"Yes, sir." He paused. "If I may, sir. World Cultures Day features a particular emphasis on the foods of the participating countries. While I would be honored to attend and represent our nation again, I must point out that Constable Turnbull is far more qualified in the culinary arts. I believe he would be better able to showcase the quality and variety of our national cuisine." He looked earnestly at her. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

Thatcher nodded.

Fraser rubbed his thumb over his eyebrow. "There is a ... uh ... rivalry of sorts among the other cultural liaisons in the city, that, while it can be described as friendly competition, nonetheless involves some rather significant wagering." He paused. "Obviously, this does violate Illinois anti-gaming laws. However, the local authorities turn a blind eye inasmuch as it's in the spirit of international cooperation and cultural exchange and half the proceeds are donated to the school district." He added, "The Spanish Deputy Consul's paella has been reigning champion for the last several years."

Thatcher was interested. "How did we do last year?"

Fraser looked grieved. "Last place, sir."

"What was our dish?"

"Pemmican, sir."

Thatcher frowned. "Turnbull can do it. Dismissed." She pushed herself away from her desk and stood.

Fraser was still standing there.

"Something else, Constable?"

"Yes, sir." He stood stiffly at attention. "There is a problem ... or rather, a ... situation ... or, perhaps, circumstance is the better ..."

"Spit it out, Fraser." She glanced at her watch. "I have a dinner engagement."

"Yes, sir." He looked straight ahead, hands behind his back. "There is a mystery –"

"A mystery?" she countered. "About what?"

"Maple syrup."

"Maple syrup?"

"Yes, sir. Canadian maple syrup."

She sat back down. "Explain."

He covered the salient points. When he was finished, she frowned.

"So ... your 'mystery' is the appearance of premium Canadian maple syrup through black market channels here in Chicago when there is no concomitant disappearance of said Canadian maple syrup to account for it. "

"Succinctly stated, sir."

"And your basis for concluding that the maple syrup served at the Nobility Diner –"

"The Patrician Grill," Fraser corrected automatically.

"And your basis for concluding that the maple syrup served at the Patrician Grill is, in fact, the Quebecois Dark Reserve?"

"Taste," he said.

"Taste?"

"Yes, sir. I tasted it."

She looked at him, suspiciously. "Tell me, Constable. What is your experience with the Quebecois Dark Reserve before allegedly tasting it at the Patrician Grill?"

"I tasted it once before, sir. When you ... uh ... 'imported' a supply for the Deputy Assistant for North American Trade Relations."

She fixed him with a steely gaze. "Can your conclusion be independently verified?"

"Not at this time, sir. I was initially able to obtain a sample from the Patrician Grill. However, that sample was ... lost ... before it could be analyzed. And, according to the proprietor, there is none remaining. The syrup from the alley last night could not be collected, and was probably too contaminated for sampling, regardless."

"And why are you telling me all this?"

Fraser blinked. "As my superior officer, I thought you should be informed of these developments."

"Very well. I am informed." She stood up again.

Fraser was still standing there.

"What?"

"Sir, I would like to pursue a line of inquiry, but thought it best to obtain your permission before proceeding."

She looked at him, expectantly.

He cleared his throat. "As I am sure you are aware, sir, the vast majority of the world's supply of maple syrup is produced in Quebec."

"Of course."

"And most of that is cached in the province with the Federation of Quebec Maple Syrup Producers."

She narrowed her eyes. "You mean, the Global Strategic Maple Syrup Reserve."

"That is the popular name, I believe, sir. But I prefer –"

"Don't go there, Fraser," she said, coldly.

"Sir?"

"Are you not about to suggest that you contact the Federation and inquire if they are missing any of their syrup, including the province's prize Dark Reserve?"

"Yes, sir. I was about to suggest that, sir."

She placed both her hands on her desk and leaned toward him. "Do you know how politically sensitive the subject of the Federation is?"

"Well, I –"

"It's highly controversial. The provincial government and a private organization in partnership to regulate the price and supply of a commodity?!" She fixed him with a steely eye. "The conservative factions call it a cartel and condemn it as a restraint of trade. Some of the more liberal factions want to eliminate the private federation and put it all under government control. The maple syrup producers are nearly split in two on the issue. People have come to blows!"

"I understand the rationale behind the regulations, sir. And the arguments against them. "

"Do you? Yet, you still want to ask the Federation if they're properly keeping track of the millions of gallons of maple syrup that have been entrusted to their keeping by government mandate, or worse, whether they're commandeering the private supply only to engage in American black market operations for personal gain?"

"I wouldn't have put it that way, exactly, sir," Fraser said, his face reddening.

"And, you want to open up this proverbial can of worms on the basis of your comparison of maple syrup at a local eatery against a one-time taste of the Reserve at this Consulate. A maple syrup, I might add, restricted to intra-provincial sale that I brought in via the diplomatic pouch." Her tone was positively glacial.

"Yes, sir. I mean, no sir. I mean –"

"Request denied." She flapped a hand at him, disgustedly. "Dismissed."

"Thank you, sir," Fraser said, turning smartly on his heel and exiting her office. He stood in the hallway for a long moment, collecting himself. Then, he heard the bells of St. Andrew's ring the hour. Moments later, Turnbull came through the front door, stamping his feet. His cheeks were red and his nose dripped. He looked oddly bulky from the layers of clothing he had on under the red serge. Like a sated tick, Fraser thought, looking over his shoulder.

He descended the stairs quickly, meeting Turnbull halfway. He grabbed his overpadded arm and steered him back down the stairs and into the kitchen. He gestured at the young officer to stay quiet, then returned to the hall. The Inspector flew down the stairs like an avenging Valkyrie, all resemblance to a Renaissance work of art obliterated. Fraser retrieved her coat from the hall closet and held it for her. She shouldered into it without a word, and stormed out the door, leaving a blast of frigid air in her wake.

Turnbull poked his head around the kitchen door. "Is it safe, sir?" Diefenbaker was right behind him, hiding behind his legs.

"Yes," he replied, distractedly, staring at the front door. "Oh," he turned to Turnbull, "the Inspector assigned you to represent Canada at World Cultures Day, Tuesday next."

His face lit up like the sun. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Am I still on report, sir?"

"Yes." At Turnbull's crestfallen face, he added, "Perhaps, she will reconsider if you carry out this new assignment with distinction."

"Yes, sir! I will!" He paused. "Uh, what is World Cultures Day, sir?"

"I'll get you the information. Suffice to say, you'll have to cook something representative of Canadian cuisine." He turned toward the stairs.

"What should I cook, sir?"

"Anything you'd like," he said, then added, "Except pemmican."

Turnbull made a face. "As if." Then, realizing who he was talking to, he added, "Although, I'm sure it's yummy, sir."

Fraser was lost in thought as he returned to his office. His plan to investigate the source of the black market Reserve and related syrups through the Federation was a non-starter. He had to admit that the political situation back home had never crossed his mind. He smiled, ruefully. Political correctness was not his strong suit. His exile in Chicago was proof of that. As the chief consular officer, the Inspector wasn't wrong to take political realities into consideration. She may have just saved him from a transfer to Baffin Island. Well, as appealing as such a prospect might be, Fraser would just have to come up with Plan B.

He opened his desk drawer and withdrew the scrap of navy blue nylon that Dief had snatched from 'Dave.' The patch, sewn on to the nylon fabric of a jacket, was an oval with lettering circling the edge in green, blue and red. Some parts of the letters were missing due to the tear; some were missing due to fraying on the surface of the badge. Age did that, he surmised, not Dief. He reached into the drawer again, removing a large magnifying glass. He sketched the outlines of the remaining letters on to a piece of paper and made several photocopies. Then, he experimentally filled in the torn parts of the letters to fit, alternately keeping and discarding his trials and errors. Finally, he was confident of his results. Some letters were still missing, due to the fraying, but he had a start:

" _EMPER PA S."

He smiled, appreciating the irony as he thought of the hours of study he had spent at Latin and Greek at his grandmother's insistence. It served him well as he filled in the blanks:

"SEMPER PARATUS."

(Translation: ALWAYS PREPARED.)

"Thank you, Gran," he whispered. He could almost hear her voice in reply, "You're welcome, Benton," then, the inevitable "I told you so."