Licence to Kill

I have three passports. Canadian. American. British.

This sounds considerably more glamorous than it is.

James Bond had one British passport and was given a licence to kill. I have three passports and, so far, all they have given me is the opportunity to stand in more lines.

Still, with relations between Canada and the United States becoming increasingly testy, I have begun wondering whether my unusual collection might finally become useful.

If Canada and the United States stop speaking to each other, I can represent both sides.

If Britain gets involved, I can represent them too.

I could conduct the entire peace conference without leaving my chair.

“Canada, what do you say?”

“I object.”

“America?”

“I object to Canada’s objection.”

“Britain?”

“Would anyone like some tea?”

This reminds me of an encounter I had about thirty-five years ago at the Vancouver airport.

I was flying to Los Angeles after a difficult trip from Edmonton involving delayed or cancelled flights. I was tired, mildly confused and at that stage of air travel when you no longer care where your luggage goes as long as you don’t have to carry it.

Passengers were having their luggage checked when I encountered a young Canadian Customs officer.

He was perhaps twenty-five, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and extremely alert.

I was not.

For reasons known only to him, he decided I required investigation.

“What were you doing in Canada?”

“Looking after my mother and her home.”

I handed him my Canadian passport.

He studied it.

There were quite a few European stamps in it, which apparently made me more interesting.

“What do you do?”

“I’m a writer.”

He frowned.

“What kind of writer?”

“A pretty good one.”

This did not improve matters.

“Would I have read anything you’ve written?”

“Maybe. Tell me everything you’ve read and we’ll find out.”

At this point I believe he concluded that civilization itself depended upon teaching me a lesson.

“Why are you going to the United States?”

“I have a home there.”

“Do you have a work visa?”

“No.”

Aha.

I could see the machinery beginning to turn.

“Then you could be working illegally in the United States.”

“I have a U.S. passport.”

This cheered him enormously.

He leaned forward.

“Do you have it with you?”

“Yes.”

“Show it to me.”

I handed him my American passport.

He seized it, examined it and looked at me as though I had just produced the plans for the invasion of Quebec.

“How long has this been going on?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Let me check the date.”

I reached over and took my passport from his hands.

That was apparently the moment I went from writer with few credits to Jack the Ripper.

His eyes blazed.

He snatched the passport back and grabbed my wrist.

“We have you now!”

I looked at his hand.

Then at him.

“What are you going to do with me? And take your hands off me.”

He summoned another Customs officer.

Before the young fellow could explain the international criminal conspiracy he had uncovered, a voice behind us said:

“I’ll handle this.”

The man who stepped forward was older. Greying hair. Immaculate uniform. The unmistakable appearance of someone who had been doing the job long enough not to enjoy doing it unnecessarily.

He walked me toward the boarding area.

“Have I done something wrong?” I asked.

“No, Mr. Summers.”

“What was all that about?”

“He just started here.”

I thought about this.

“How could you tell I hadn’t done anything wrong?”

“Your demeanour.”

Then he wished me a pleasant trip and disappeared.

I liked him enormously.

His name was Inspector Nail.

When I got home, instead of writing an angry letter about the young officer, I wrote a complimentary letter to Canadian Customs about Inspector Nail. I explained what had happened and praised the calm and professional way he had handled it.

His superiors wrote back and thanked me.

That was thirty-five years ago.

Since then, I have complicated matters further.

I now have a British passport too.

Which means that if the young Customs officer is still working and happens to encounter me again, I can hardly wait.

“What citizenship are you?”

“How much time do you have?”

“Canadian?”

“Yes.”

“American?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else?”

“Funny you should ask.”

And out comes Britain.

At that point I expect alarms to sound, steel doors to descend and Inspector Nail—now approximately 107—to emerge from retirement and say:

“It’s all right. I’ll handle this.”

There is, however, one question my three passports have never answered.

James Bond was British and Her Majesty’s government gave him a licence to kill.

I am now British.

I am also Canadian and American, which ought to count as advanced training.

Bond has been doing this since 1953. The poor man must be exhausted.

Surely MI6 needs a little bench strength.

I don’t want to replace him. That would be presumptuous.

I’d be happy to fill in on weekends.

My eyesight isn’t what it once was, I don’t particularly like guns, and if the villain runs away, he’s probably going to get away.

But I have qualifications Bond never dreamed of.

I can enter three countries and argue with myself in all of them.

So I am thinking of applying for 00 status.

Given my age, I assume my number will be:

0084.

Licence to kill?

Probably not.

But after three passports and thirty-five years of practice, I think I’ve earned a licence to confuse Customs.