Note to file. Subject interview, Patrick McGowan, 174 Clarence Street, Ottawa, Wed Oct 21, 1957, 18:30.
The dining room of the old Victorian house hung heavy with memories of an older era and curios that spoke of a home back in the Midlands of England, from where the proprietors of the house had emigrated. The walls were whitewashed, although these days faintly coloured with the smoke of tobacco and misbehaving oil furnaces. Dark wood trim and plate rails circled the room. Toby mugs, peered out from their vantage, complimented with brass horse buckles and delftware scenes of Dutch canals. The residents of the household sat around the solid oak table, none especially communicative, some perusing the newspaper folded beside them, some half-listening to the newscast from the radio droning in hushed tones from kitchen, all intently eating their meal of roast beef, peas and mashed potatoes, which was a staple at the establishment. As the residents trickled away, following the desert of custard, which could be sweetened with strawberry jam if so desired, the remaining diners felt a little more relaxed and ready to exchange general pleasantries.
“Thanks again for the rum,” Alison ventured to Ron, who was sitting opposite, still in his collar and necktie, which was required for tea, as the landlady always referred to it. “I hope that wasn’t your last bottle. I’ll go to the Liquor Commission Saturday and buy you a new bottle.”
“No trouble at all,” Ron said with obligatory politeness. He was conscious women such as Alison had a certain hold over him – he could never say no. He was also aware of a certain coolness she had towards him, a half-conscious indifference to his existence she carried around. He put it down to the difference in their ages and the fact he had a job with few prospects. Initial flirtations had been politely rebuffed. The conversation halting into an awkward silence, he took his leave, which left Patrick and Alison alone at their end of the table.
“How was Forbidden Planet?” Patrick sweetened his tea and stirred.
“Bien. It was based on Shakespeare’s Tempest, which raised it considerably above the usual space alien fare.” Alison rearranged the teacup on its saucer, secretly wishing she had something stronger to aid the digestion. “But I didn’t realize Andrei had been transferred to a new project. The subject matter made him feel a little uncomfortable.” She gave Patrick a reproachful look for not keeping her in on details such as that.
“An interesting premise, though,” Patrick said recalling the favourable reviews he had read. “A technological device outlives the civilization that had created it. Sort of chilling, when you think of it.”
“Professor Johnson says all these space alien movies reveal deep-seated cultural anxieties. Just as motifs like Dracula and Jack the Ripper reveal Victorian anxieties over strangers immigrating from distant shores, so too the Americans have a complex of annihilation by invaders with superior weaponry.” Patrick didn’t seem to want to pick up on that thread. “I can scarcely believe there’s a UFO project, at least here in Ottawa. Honestly, is there nothing better for Defence to worry about? Or is that cover for some other top-secret project?”
“I wish,” Patrick said with his usual reserve when matters of the Department came up. “In certain circles, if the Americans do something, then we have to do the same thing, no questions asked.”
“Poor Andrei, trying to figure out how to communicate with something that doesn’t even exist. That sounds like a dead-end career path. Is there no way to get him out of there and into something more promising?”
Patrick shook his head, resignedly, having asked himself the same question about his own job prospects recently. The doorbell rang, and being closest to the entrance, it fell to Patrick to answer it, the landlady having started into the sink full of dishes noisily.
Patrick opened the door, the street was dark beyond the porchlight, a chill breeze pressed its way inside. Patrick was face to face with RCMP Constable Leduc, who, despite them having met a few times previously, held out his identification shield. Not wanting to leave him standing in the cold, and conscious of the tenants still on the main floor, Patrick motioned him upstairs, but not before quizzical glances came their way from Alison.
Constable Leduc entered the room – their previous meetings had been at RCMP Headquarters – and looked around puzzled and intrigued by the array of electronic equipment. “Wow, that’s quite impressive. Anything to do with work?”
“No, mostly old hobby stuff. Shortwave radio.” Constable Leduc took out his notepad and looked around, trying to make sense of the array, which was more extensive than shortwave base stations he had been trained in.
“Who are you in contact with?”
“Mostly old acquaintances from my time up north. Newfoundland, Northwest Territories.” Constable Leduc’s gaze had turned to the communications log, which was open beside the chair. “I’d rather you didn’t poke around the papers. There may be some in here with military classification. Not those.”
More notes on the pad. “This isn’t a very secure room.”
“Nothing that secure stays here. Only stuff for a meeting tomorrow, in my briefcase.” Patrick nodded, noting with relief it had been left properly locked. “I’d rather not have to file a report with the Military Police. You know how they can be.” Patrick nodded for him to sit in the guest chair and took his place protectively at the desk.
“Who’s the looker? She with you?”
Patrick thought quizzically for a second, then realized he must be referring to Alison.
“Oh, that’s my cousin. She lives here as well. We were just finishing supper.”
“Nice gams,” Patrick remembered the momentary glimpse of her profile, her legs stretched out underneath the table, shoes kicked off.
“I doubt you’re here to speak to me about my cousin’s gams.”
“No, right. I wanted to review some of the details on your application for clearance for Goose Bay.” Patrick sagged momentarily at the thought of the reposting. Constable Leduc took out some papers from his coat pocket, which had been folded clumsily, unfolding them with a noisy impatience. He scanned the pages, as if not especially familiar with their contents, but looking for something. “Ah yes, here. Have you recently been in contact with anyone from the Soviet Union? And your answer, Not outside academic conferences.” He looked at Patrick, apprehensive at the notion of academic conferences, as if Patrick might start speaking Latin at any moment. “Tell me more about when and where.”
Patrick shifted his weight, but then felt he might be sending the wrong signal, as if he were squirming. He squared himself. “They’re often at scientific conferences. They’re as interested in atmospheric research as we are. They publish articles in the same journals, and cover many of the same research topics. Science is supposed to be open, and international. Although lately, I must admit, more and more gets reviewed and stamped classified these days.”
“So the name Ivan Saknovsky sounds familiar?”
“Yes, we met him at a conference on Stratosphere research in Verona a few years back.” He immediately regretted saying ‘we’.
“Have you met him again?”
“No, not since.”
“Are you in communication with him?” He looked suspiciously at the shortwave equipment. Patrick shook his head. He was a mathematician. More in Andrei’s sphere – he checked himself from adding that information.
“He’s of interest to us. Apparently, he attends a lot of conferences, many in North America. We need to know if he ever makes contact.” Patrick nodded, trying to exude an air of cooperation. The pen scratched noisily at the notepad. “Any others you can remember?”
Patrick shook his head. “I mean, I can look back at the attendee lists. These are public conferences. There was one who gave atmospheric data from high altitude flights. I’d have to look up his name.”
“But you’re not still in contact?” He scanned the papers further, but raised a topic that was not part of the clearance form. “Do you know any homosexuals?”
“No,” Patrick said, but failed to sound convincing. “I mean, not that I know of. They say most of them keep the fact well hidden.”
“So, there is someone you suspect?”
“Not really. I mean, maybe some in the Fine Arts Department at the University. But artists are supposed to wear colourful clothing and look bohemian. Who knows?”
“Do you know why we have to ask? As you say, they are good at keeping it well hidden. Many of them are even married, as a cover. But they pose a serious security risk. Lonely souls, often starved for company. They can easily fall victim to blackmail if their secret becomes known. Foreign embassies know this and look for people who have this weakness. They know how to exploit it. Draw them into covert liaisons.” Patrick became aware that he was under a scrutinizing gaze. He thought momentarily about blurting out the musicians, as if that would create a diversionary scent, but kept his cards close to his chest.
“So you’ve never knowingly had contact with a homosexual. I‘ll put that down?” His pen perched at the ready at his notepad. There had been whispers about people at McGill, secret dances, fraternity parties where men acted in plays in the role of women. He nodded, wondering how long he had hesitated, wondering which part of the question he was nodding at. “Do you have anything against Americans?”
Patrick took a small breath, puzzled at this turn in the questioning. “Not especially. I mean, they can be loud and abrasive at times. Especially the military types. It comes with the territory.” Memories flooded back from Val d’Or. When groups of the American flyers came through, the girls at the Widow Lachasse’s often nursed bruises for weeks after. One Cree girl had been found face down in the lake under suspicious circumstances. Their military status always shielded them. “I try to make it a point to not take jobs down there. I’m proud as a Canadian.” Patrick thought back over his days in Ireland. There was a similar vein of anti-English sentiment lingering among the old men outside the shops and taverns, on days when his mother would take him to town. Nothing terribly distinct from the atmosphere of anti-French sentiment that suffused the towns of Eastern Ontario. Nothing terribly distinct from the anti-Irish, or anti-Catholic sentiment Patrick occasionally found himself face to face with.
Constable Leduc looked at his notepad. “Let’s see what I’ve got. No, no, no,” his pencil trailed down several pages, indicating he had written down considerably more than that. He gave Patrick an accusative look, as if he was fully familiar with the attitude of non-cooperation. “That’s it, I guess. Bon voyage and have a nice time in Goose Bay. I’m sure the winters there can’t be worse than the winters here.” They shook hands, Patrick couldn’t help but notice it was decidedly limp-wristed; they proceeded together in an awkward silence down the stairs and to the front door. “Keep in touch. And let me know if you hear of anything unusual along the lines we’ve been speaking.” He handed Patrick a printed card with his office phone number.
Patrick was left alone in his room a while to wonder at his own sense of patriotism. If he was being non-cooperative, for what reason? Who did he feel he was covering for? A few Russian mathematicians at the international conferences? A few musicians and bohemian artistic sorts? But he was quickly roused from these thoughts by a tentative knock on the door. Lighter than usual, but unmistakably Alison’s. The one with the gams.
“Are you alone now?” Alison looked tentatively into the room. Patrick was going to motion her inside, but noticed she was bundled up in her coat and a scarf. “I was just going to stretch my legs. Feel like a walk?”
“It felt like quite a steady breeze outside,” Patrick knew the wind was shifting and a system was moving in.
“Bundle up properly and you’re good for any temperature.”
Patrick was amused at the truism which came from someone who had never been near the Arctic Ocean… or Labrador Current. “Give me a sec,” and he gathered up his coat, scarf and hat. It was a Russian-style fedora, which was stylish in academic circles, oozing an aura of Fleming-esque romance and danger.
Outside, they headed in the familiar direction of Major’s Hill Park, which was close enough to make a quick retreat possible if the weather turned. It had a view of the Ottawa River and the Inter-Provincial Bridge. They were sheltered from the worst of the wind on the By Ward streets, but exposed to the full blast once they came to the river. Alison turned up the fur-trim of her collar with a determination not to be driven back. “He didn’t look like one of your regular colleagues.” Alison ventured.
Patrick knew the walls were thin and wouldn’t keep secrets from prying ears.
“RCMP. Wanted to go over details of my request for clearance at Goose Bay.”
“Were they asking about Andrei?”
“Not directly. They seemed to be circling around the territory though. I can’t think of why else they’d be asking routine questions that I’ve already answered.”
“So they suspect Andrei of something? I wonder what?”
“I think they’re on a fishing trip. He can’t really shake that Russian surname, even though he keeps reminding everyone he’s Polish.”
“If that’s all they’ve got, they’ve got nothing.”
“Well, ’tis like when they rounded up the Japanese during World War Two. The rules are different during wartime.”
“But we’re not at war.”
“Close enough to a war footing. They’re not seconding me to Labrador for rest and relaxation. They’re scared. And desperate. They might well round him up in a dragnet.”
“Seriously?” Now Alison’s instincts were really piqued. “If they do round him up with no legitimate reason, that’s a story in itself.”
“It’ll blow over soon. The Americans would have done us a huge favour, if they had launched their satellite first.”
“But we can’t leave Andrei hanging out to dry. Shouldn’t we do something?”
“Like what? Besides, suppose they have something on him we don’t know about? Wouldn’t we be complicit if we interfered? I’m not suggesting turn him in. But I don’t need to drag my entire career down over an academic association.”
“Well, he’s more than that, is he not?” They fell silent for a few moments, but Alison’s mind kept churning. “We need to be sure that they’ve got nothing.” They looked across the expanse of the dark river, to the lights of Hull. “Suppose…” she said hesitatingly, formulating a plan in her mind, “the four of us went out and caught some live music in the Glebe: you, me, Tracy … and then back to Andrei’s place for a nightcap.”
“Is this a double date?”
“Mais non. Just four friends. Then you and Andrei go for takeout Chinese. Take Tracy with you. I’ll say my heels are killing me and stay behind.”
“What does that accomplish?”
“It gives me a few minutes to snoop around.”
“You’re only going to find UFO reports. They’ve ta’en way most of his security clearance.”
“That’s the plan. We’ve got to know he’s clean, that we can trust him.”
Patrick wasn’t warm to the idea, but knew that once Alison was on a trail, there was no turning her. And she retained a residual sense of authority over him he couldn’t shake. Besides, what if she were onto something? Something meaty to get her out of the Ladies’ Pages. If they had nothing, and rounded Andrei up in a dragnet anyway, that would be an obvious case of arbitrary authority. A violation of habeous corpus. He knew she sensed herself in the middle of a story and wasn’t going to be stopped on his say so. What if things did degenerate into another McCarthy witch-hunt? Forewarned is forearmed, as his aunt was fond of saying.
“Okay, I’m cold now. Let’s head back.”
