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“Well Michael, I’ve been thinking about you,” he said, “and I want to be absolutely frank.” A long pause. “You’re very clever but you’re rather lazy. So I see two paths as being open to you. In my opinion you should pursue journalism or espionage.” And then we walked on in silence.

I suppose it should have been more obvious, but perhaps the good professor had over-estimated by alleged cleverness. I only understood the code, read the invisible ink, later that week when one of my roommates told me nonchalantly that, “Some bloke came round last night asking questions about you. He said it was about a job in the civil service and asked if you had a girlfriend. We said you did and he asked if it was ‘a bedtime relationship.’ It was hard not to laugh.”

This, remember, was 1980, and being gay was still an issue in British as well as Canadian society, and could expose people to blackmail. I hadn’t applied for any job, and “civil service” was obviously a euphemism for another service altogether.

Still, I took my career advisor’s opinion to heart … and became a journalist. The walk and the conversation blurred into the cloud of memory. I left Britain in 1987 after I married a Canadian and the professor is, alas, no longer with us.

The third time I searched his name on the Internet my computer froze. Surely just a coincidence

But over the years certain facts began to emerge that even a double agent couldn’t fail to observe. I found out recently that one of my university contemporaries, a likeable young man who when I knew him was on the political left, had apparently just retired after serving for 25 years in British intelligence at a very senior level. We corresponded and he told me, “I’ve been watching your career with great interest.” He was probably just being polite but the third time I searched his name on the Internet my computer froze. Surely just a coincidence.