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was going to get to a tour of the city he was mistaken. She drove him directly to the Naden Naval Base located in Esquimalt where he was efficiently processed, photographed, and issued a clip-on visitor ID tag with his picture and a bar-code on it. The security officer who processed him was courteous and professional and urged him in the most emphatic terms not to lose it lest he be shot.
    She led him to a small room with a single bed and all the charm of a prison cell. This was to be his home for the duration of his stay she told him, making it clear he was not expected to leave the base. The window in the room did not open it faced away from the ocean overlooking an outdoor storage area.
    No ocean view for the lowly conscripted scientist, he thought. She left him in the room to get settled and returned a half hour later and took him to a well appointed dining room where he received a decent meal of fresh poached Pacific salmon. They were in the officer’s mess and he noticed other people avoided eye contact with him and no one spoke to him other than the young woman. She told him her name was Patricia.
    The dinner conversation she made matched exactly the warmth and charm of the room they assigned him. The truth was he did not mind, looking at Patricia was not painful even if she was grilling him like a mackerel. When he asked her questions about herself or the work she was engaged in the answers she provided were short and designed not to encourage further inquiry. He realized she had been assigned to pump him for information and this set the tone and temperature for their time together.
    When the meal was over and the mackerel was done, if slightly charred, she glanced meaningfully at her watch and pointed out the time difference between Thunder Bay and the west coast and encouraged him to retire. She marched him back to his room and when the door closed behind him he was sure he heard an extra click. He wondered if she locked him in but did not check the door, he was tired and it would not help him sleep knowing he was a prisoner of the Canadian Armed Forces.
     
    Colonel John Western
     
    At eight the next morning a different woman called and told him she would be there in half an hour to escort him to breakfast. She knocked and unlocked his door ten minutes early. She was older than Patricia and did not offer her name or make small talk as he scarfed down his breakfast. When he was finished she led him to an office where a man in uniform sat behind a gunmetal grey steel desk. The demeanor of the man who stood up to shake his hand was not even remotely friendly.
    He took note of the fact that Colonel Western held eye contact for a long time, long enough to make him feel uncomfortable and when he looked away he realized that was the point. He introduced himself as Colonel John Western, Canadian Forces Military Intelligence Pacific Fleet. He was medium height, dark haired with grey at the temples, and belligerently unremarkable in appearance. Nondescript did not begin to describe the lack of distinguishing characteristics of the man. His uniform did not have markings to indicate which branch of the Canadian Forces he was affiliated with nor his rank. The only identifying item on his person was a white plastic nametag with black lettering pinned over his left breast pocket.
    No picture ID for the chief spook, he thought. There was nothing personal in the office, no pictures, diplomas, golf trophies, memo board, nothing. He assumed it was a room used to interview enemy agents or hostile scientists, which he certainly was. There was no reason to believe the man sitting behind the desk was named Western other than that was how he introduced himself which his plastic nametag corroborated.
    “Please have a seat,” he said.
    He sat in the chair placed before the desk, it was small and metal and apparently designed to be uncomfortable.
    “There is a soldier we would like you to…examine,” Western began and waited letting