Lucky 3

I discover that we resemble a university, in publish or perish. Even with years of service, no promotion without publication. To make Captain, you need your years and either one full length novel or 2 novellas. Major, your years and 6 novels or 12 novellas.
Why? No one ever says officially. My guess is to sop up excess downtime out on site, a way of keeping you away from excess booze and/or drugs. There is no particular amount you must make, just get published.
Friday evening I sip one drink as the stories rage. Prof blows a smoke ring, admires it, looks at her questioner, "ok, I guess you do deserve the truth. My first novel sold 48 copies. Publisher didn't bother with a money order, just sent my royalties in postage stamps. If I had it to do over, I'd think bout being a cop."
Everyone laughs.
"Seriously girls, stay outa novels. Too much work and risk. Far easier to get 2 novellas published than one novel. More profitable too."
"Why is that?"
"People are busy. A novella tucks in a pocket or purse easier, gets read on Metro or waiting for the meeting to start. Novel tends to sit at home with vague promises of 'some day'. Also, a novel costs what 3 novellas do. I mean go stand in a bookstore, you'll see 6 novellas sold for each novel."
"Oh."
"In Antiquity, was mostly novels. Ancients musta had bags of time. Not us, I mean not the people out on the street. Us in here, we got bags of free time."
A lab instructor laughs, "yep, Army or Time Corps, modern day equivalent to the convent."
"Go on," a student guffaws, "convents didn't have booze."
"Is that a fact now? Ever hear of sacramental wine?"
"I shoulda picked Navy. Hear they get a daily rum ration."
Prof laughs, "ask Jasmattie bout that. She knows of people who can drink 4 larges of rum. Has a few fun stories."
All eyes turn in my direction. I keep it humorous, stay outa obeah.

Monday I am summoned to Prof's office. She sits flanked by 2 strangers, one an obvious espionage type, one looking financial.
"Right Jasmattie, you must understand how it works. No one is compelled to take any one particular mission. You see, we aim to find good matches."
I nod.
Financial type asks various questions on my past reading, as the spook stares and makes me uneasy.
Prof then continues, "I understand you prefer a Canada mission."
I brighten up, "oh yes ma'am, very much so. Good experience last time. I like them."
Finance gives a thin smile, "I'm afraid this trip will be a little more boring. You won't stand on the edge of civil war. We want a look at the federal Department of Finance."
"Ma'am with all due respect, aren't there enough archives for that? Is it worth a trip?"
She laughs, "good, exactly what I wanted to hear. I need not worry you are too shy to speak plainly. So what do we want? The numbers alone just do not jibe. See, in circa 2000, Canada was year after year running surpluses and paying down national debt. At the same time, most European Union countries and the USA were struggling with absolutely intractable yearly deficits. We want to know, why the difference?"
I ponder a moment. In baseball parlance, this is a fastball right over the middle of the plate. Tailor made to bash a homer outa the park. But boring, forget getting a novella off it. "I see ma'am, and what would my duties and cover story be?"
Espionage grins, "the easiest way through a door is at low rank. You'll be a cleaner who works for a private company, does finance HQ. Dayshift, you'll overhear lots."
You bet I will, but I already know the answer. Canadians were, by and large, more respectful of authority, less rebellious, stood still for a lotta ridiculous tax increases. Whereas the French or Italians would put 300,000 demonstrators out on the street.
Prof asks, "so, want time to think? Don't be shy, if it's no, there are other missions to choose."
Now in the great scheme of things, you don't get many fastballs over the plate. May as well unload on it, "ma'am, I'll be glad to take it."
I adjourn to the library and ponder. My instinct says it's Mulroneyism. So, start with 1984 as your baseline, last year of a Liberal budget. Then chronicle all the dirty tricks. De-indexation of exemptions. Goods and Services Tax. Deducting Canada Pension and Unemployment Insurance from the bottom of your income, instead of the top. Removal of the employment expense deduction. Supposedly simplifying by changing from 11 tax brackets to 3, but in actual fact sheer naked greed.

I get a tiny bachelor apartment in Ottawa and go about my job. I overhear zip of any importance, but still come back with a handheld jammed with data. I hugely enjoy my sojourn, just cannot get enough of those oh so civilized coffee houses. And no, I ain't no Mata Hari spy. Everything I bring back is freely available to any Canadian student or journalist.
I find myself bored itchy, longing to go on tour again. They really were nice people.
My report focuses on the yearly rate of tax increases during the Mulroney era, 1984 to 1993. I compare it to all over western countries during the same period. The table alone gives eloquent evidence, no editorializing needed on my part. The authorities are hugely pleased with my writeup.
But still, I am as far away from getting published as ever. Really hard to do a tax thriller, be a real snoozer. Besides, with the Empire rate of tax being so high, I doubt if I would get permission to write something like that.
One morning I awake with an idea. Do a novella thriller on cigarette smuggling from USA to Canada. Bet it would get past the censors. After all, cigarettes are equal in price everywhere these days, so there is no incentive to smuggle. I zip off an e-mail to the authorities. A week later, they reply. No, no objection at all, very quaint and historical, permission granted.
Writing proves to be the perfect antidote to my bored itchy state. I invent a seedy cast of bikers, separatists and the Indian Reserve near Montreal. The bikers need dope money; the separatists are seeking to finance their cause and the Natives want booze. I throw in a few cabbies and prostitutes who peddle cigs to their customers. Last but not least, a provincial Cabinet Minister who gets caught in flagrantis with his camper full of smuggled cigarettes. But with a twist - he and the one of the hookers were shall we say transacting business at the exact time of the arrest.
One month after submission to the censors, I get my reply. Approved as written, no need for change. Now the hard part, find a publisher.
The biggest crime publishing house, which usually avoids other crime (9/10 murder mystery), gives me a chance. It sells just over 1,000 copies. I get a royalty cheque and a warning to never bother submitting anything else to them. Too bor-ring, say readers, too much history lesson and not sufficient sex.
I am first in our class. Most have not even started writing yet. I become a mini-celebrity, as people bounce ideas off me, in mess or common room.
In conversation, I admit to a cop friend just how bad it was with my publisher. She smiles gently, "you see Jasmattie, it's just prejudice. The believe only murder cuts it. But hey, everyone here liked your story. Your characters come alive well. You'll get published again."
"Thank you so much."
"Now I got this idea, Satanic cult, ritualistic murders, now ..."
At the end, I smile, "I know just the publisher for you."