Enigma

Enigma (e-nig’-ma): Obscuring one’s meaning by presenting it within a riddle or by means of metaphors that purposefully challenge the reader or hearer to understand.

Espionage kicks your ass. Keeping separate worlds intact with no interaction whatsoever is a challenge that is beyond imagination. My husband is a spy. I was recruited 5 years ago by the CIA “to find out what I could.” I was shocked when I found out he was working for the CIS (Canadian Intelligence Services). I had absolutely no inkling whatsoever that he was a spy. It made me mad that he had been spying for a foreign intelligence agency—it wasn’t as if he was working for the Soviet Union, but working for any country as a spy is pretty bad.

My handler, Mike Hardonne, worked out a code we could use that would be uncrackable. If he wanted to meet he’d say “The nest is empty.” We always met at the same time at the same place. If he wanted me to hand over my latest report, he would say “Let’s go dancing.” That meant we would meet at “The Blue Moon.” We’d dance a slow dance and he’d reach into my dress for the report. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I was aroused by Mr. Hardonne’s groping. Mr. Hardonne was a virile muscular man with blues eyes and a manly tan. My husband, Bob, was a jerk—a bald-headed overweight spy who was about as sexy as a flounder. In my mind I called him “Tubby Traitor.” We had no kids. The only thing we had was a lot of was money.

Bob worked as a janitor at Griffis Air Force Base, near the Canadian border. He worked at night when nobody was around and had keys to everything that ever needed dusting, mopping, cleaning, or polishing. This was just about everything. He specialized, as Mr. Hardonne told me, in defense secrets. The military thought there was always a chance that Canada would invade the US. The US held the largest reserves of poutine in North America in clandestine caches as far south as Pennsylvania. Not only that, lately, the US was working on a top secret project: machine-gun mountable snowshoes for the use of US Marines in the event the US invaded Canada. With a weapon like this, it was estimated by the CIA that Canada could be conquered in one or two days, especially in January.

If the Canadians were to get the secret codes securing the poutine caches, it would be a disaster for the US if Bob handed them over. Moreover, the Canadians were putting nearly all of their intelligence gathering resources into getting the plans for the Machine-gun snowshoes currently being tested at Griffis Air Force Base. The stakes were high and Bob was in the middle of it.

I got a call from Mr. Hardonne. It was the most dreaded coded message in the code book: “The sun is setting.” I was being ordered to terminate my traitorous husband. I had trained for this moment. One problem, though. My husband had been listening in on the phone. But, that’s what the code is for. I told my husband that I knew as much as he did. Obviously it was some kind of crank call. He bought it!

I had been trained to kill by sticking a poison suppository up his butt while having sex. Hr. Hardonne and I had practiced this scenario several times with a placebo. My aim was true.

That night when we were having our ritual weekly sex, I jammed the capsule in. Suddenly he went silent. He was dead. I rolled him off of me and he hit the floor with a loud thud. I called Mr. Hardonne and said “The eagle has landed.” He showed up about 10 minutes later. I packed my things and he whisked me sway to a safe house—a three-bedroom split-level built some time after WWII. I don’t know what they did with my husband’s body.

Mr. Hardonne poured us each a glass of what looked like “Southern Comfort.” When I sipped it, it was maple syrup! Alarm bells went off! My god, Mr. Hardonne was a double agent working for the Canadians! The maple syrup toast was a telltale sign. He said, “Your husband was getting ready to turn. He knew too much. He had to be liquidated. Now, it’s your turn to serve the Dominion of Canada. You can take over your husband’s janitor job and keep my secret. What say?”

I said “Yes.” We headed for the bedroom. I had a backup poison suppository hidden in the waistband of my underpants. As we got undressed, I hid it in my hand. He got on top of me and my aim was true! I rolled him onto the floor and made a call. In the clear, I said “Mike Hardonne is a goddamn double agent. I killed him. Get me the hell out of here before CIS comes after me and kills me.” There was no other way to put it. Secret code be damned! I became a legend in the Agency. They nicknamed me Karen the “Candle” for what I’d done to Bob and Hardonne—more code. They couldn’t resist it.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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