Chapter Text
The reception area had four chairs, a rubber plant that was most likely artificial given the lack of natural light, and a faded framed photograph of the Ottawa skyline that was slightly crooked. Shane Hollander had been sitting in the room for eleven minutes. He knew it was eleven minutes because there was a clock on the wall and he had nothing else to do except watch the clock and try to decipher what he was doing there. The receptionist had taken his name, given him a friendly smile, and asked him to take a seat. She had not looked at him once since. Shane had straightened the photograph in his head three times. He hadn’t touched it, of course, although his fingers itched to. Instead, he fidgeted with the notebook and pen on his lap. He considered opening the notebook to write, but his mind was blank.
Shane wondered how it was possible for his mind to be blank and overthinking simultaneously. Yet here he was.
The building he was in was on a street he didn’t know, which was unusual. He had grown up on the outskirts of Ottawa, and even though he had left the city to go to university in Montreal, Ottawa was home. He had moved back after his convocation in June. The street, he supposed, had nothing worth knowing on it, so there would have been no reason to come here, certainly not for a child or a teenager, unless he was accompanying one of his parents. It was a boring street with boring buildings. This building housed an insurance company. A dentist. And whatever this office was, on the third floor, with no signage. Shane scanned the office yet again, but like all the other times before, found no clue as to the business that was carried out here.
Professor Hunter had given him an address and a time, and told him to wear something sensible. Shane had worn his best jacket and borrowed a navy-blue tie from his dad. Looking around the office, he had probably interpreted the instructions correctly. It seemed like a navy-blue tie kind of office. He had almost borrowed his dad’s leather briefcase as well, but was glad that he hadn’t. Instead, he held his notebook and pen on his knee.
Shane thought about asking the woman behind the reception desk what they did in these offices. He thought about asking why he’d been told to come here. He thought about asking what—or who—he was waiting for.
To distract himself, he tried thinking about stamps instead. During much of the summer, Shane had spent a disproportionate amount of time and money thinking about stamps, researching, and starting a collection. He’d joined the Ottawa Philatelic Society, and attended the National Stamp and Coin Show, obsessively trying to track down a Three-Penny Beaver, until his interest in stamps had abruptly died for no reason, leaving him wondering where the obsession had come from. For the last few weeks, Shane had felt disinterested in everything, and wondered if he would ever feel interested in anything ever again. He certainly didn’t want to think about stamps any more. Instead, Shane looked at the crooked photograph.
Thirteen minutes. The clock had just ticked over to minute fourteen when movement at the door behind the receptionist caught his attention. The door opened, and a woman stepped out. Shane registered several things in quick succession: an enviably precise posture and a presence that suggested she was always the most competent person in the room. Glossy black hair, and perfectly manicured nails. A black blazer, a cream silk blouse with a bow at the collar, a houndstooth skirt. She dressed like someone who made decisions. Yet she couldn’t have been much older than him.
Shane stood quickly, unsure of what to do. Should he shake her hand? Should he smile? The decision was made for him as his pen and notebook tumbled out of his hands onto the floor.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, stooping to pick them up. He dropped the pen again. “Sorry.” Dude. Stop saying sorry, he told himself.
The woman strode across the office, extending her hand. He retrieved the pen and stood, just in time to shake it. “Shane Hollander?” she smiled. “Rose.”
“Rose…?” he trailed off, expecting her to supply her family name.
“Just Rose.” Subject closed.
“Would you like some tea? I’m afraid we don’t have any ginger ale,” she added apologetically. Shane shook his head, frowning "No thank you." He always ordered ginger ale at a bar or cafe, but had never been offered it before. How would she know he drank ginger ale? He filed that away with the other questions.
“Please, Mr Hollander, come this way,” Rose said warmly, gesturing to the open office door.
“Thank you, Lorraine,” Rose said to the receptionist, ushering Shane ahead and closing the office door behind her. He had also never been called Mr Hollander before. Not by anyone apart from his sarcastic grade nine teacher when Shane had raised his hand to point out there was a mistake on the blackboard.
Shane hovered in the middle of the office—he seemed to have spent the entire day in a state of awkwardness—wondering where she expected him to sit. There was a large mahogany desk near the window, positioned so that Rose would have her back to the window as she worked. Not that there was any sort of view. Third floor, looking at nothing but the building opposite, which appeared to be vacant. There was a chair in front of the desk, but there were also two dark brown leather lounge chairs on the other side of the room, a small table between them and a manila folder sitting on top.
Shane stared at Rose helplessly. He had no idea what to do with himself.
“Please,” she said, indicating one of the lounge chairs. The leather squeaked as Shane sat and tried to get comfortable. Impossible.
The rest of the office was entirely unremarkable. A calendar on the wall, with nothing written on it. A filing cabinet. A bookshelf with what appeared to be legal reference texts and nothing personal. Nothing that would tell you about the person who worked here.
Looking around for something to focus on, Shane’s gaze settled on the lamp on the table next to him. It was the only thing in the room that held any suggestion of style or personality. The base of the lamp was ceramic, cobalt-blue and iron-red glaze, the shade a luxurious cream raw silk. Imari, Shane observed. During his anthropology studies at McGill, he had briefly strayed from his ethnographic research on the Ainu people of Hokkaido, to spend a few weeks immersed in Japanese ceramics.
“Thank you for coming, Mr Hollander.” When Rose sat down, she glanced at the lamp for a moment and her expression shifted. Not quite a smile, but close. As if she had noticed him looking at it and had been waiting to see how long it would take him. Was this a test?
She seemed to know exactly how to sit in these ridiculous chairs. Neatly, on the edge of the chair, with her ankles crossed. Shane wished he could mimic her, but that would be equally ridiculous. He attempted a relaxed air, leaning back into the chair, only to be immediately swallowed by it. Pulling himself forward, he finally settled with his hands resting on his knees. Still holding the notebook.
“Professor Hunter speaks highly of you,” Rose continued, ignoring Shane’s discomfort. “He says you are the finest student he has had pass through the Anthropology Department in years.” Shane could feel his cheeks going pink. Professor Scott Hunter had been Shane’s mentor for the past four years at McGill, and hearing this praise secretly delighted him. He had worked incredibly hard on his dissertation, which had absolutely nothing to do with wanting Professor Hunter to look at him with approval. Shane was fairly certain he was neither the first nor the last student whose sexual awakening Hunter had been quietly, entirely unwittingly, responsible for.
He expected Rose to ask about his dissertation next, or his research on Japan, or maybe even Scott Hunter. What he didn’t expect was her next question: “How long have you been collecting stamps?” Shane opened his mouth and then closed it again. “I wasn’t - I don’t collect them,” he said carefully. She raised a brow. “I was researching them.” He finished lamely.
Rose regarded him with an expression that suggested she did not see a distinction in the same way that he did.
“I was doing some research during the summer,” Shane stammered. “A personal project. I’m not doing anything now.” And immediately regretted his words. It made him sound like a slacker. He supposed he was a slacker. He’d had almost five months since graduating and still hadn’t found a job.
“You have some unique interests, Shane,” Rose said neutrally. “May I call you Shane?”
Shane nodded dumbly, but said nothing, while he frantically scrambled to make sense of the situation.
How would she have known about the stamps? Hunter wouldn’t have mentioned it. They had exchanged a few letters since Shane had left Montreal; Shane telling him he had been busy catching up with old friends from Ottawa - a lie - and doing some research - not a lie - but he had not mentioned the stamps. Shane recalled the last few months - the library books, the catalogue he’d bought, three letters he’d written to the philatelic societies, the coin and stamp fair that he’d visited in Mississauga. But why would she be interested in that? He didn’t even have any very interesting or valuable stamps.
While his brain worked overtime trying to figure out the puzzle, Rose watched him with interest.
“I suspect you are a poor liar, Shane Hollander,” she said gently. “But we can work on that.”
“I have a proposition for you,” Rose continued. She folded her hands in her lap with a neatness that made Shane feel strangely guilty about his own posture. He immediately straightened. Where was this going?
“It isn’t a conventional job. It requires discretion.” She met his gaze. “Someone with particular attention to detail. And a significant amount of patience.”
She paused. “And a willingness to become very interested in something other than stamps.”
Ah - this was starting to make sense. She must be a fellow anthropologist. Maybe she wanted him to work as a research assistant, conduct some interviews, fieldwork maybe... But why would she want him to be a good liar? That went against all of his academic ethical guidelines.
“What kind of something?” he said finally.
Rose studied him. “Intelligence work,” she said at last. “For your country. Specifically, for an office that doesn’t officially exist.” She let that sit with him for a moment. “Professor Hunter believes you are exactly what we need, and I am inclined to agree with him. While you have been researching stamps, we have been researching you, Shane Hollander.”
Shane sat in confusion. He was fairly sure she was expecting a response. He had never heard anthropological research described as intelligence work before. And what—
“You would be working for Canada,” Rose clarified, seeing that Shane still had not grasped her meaning. “As a spy.”
“And what-” his throat had gone dry, and it came out strangled. “-is this office called?”
“Liaison des Opérations Officieuses Nationales.”
Shane stared at her in disbelief. “L.O.O.N? Is this a joke?” Rose frowned, as if noticing the acronym for the first time.
“I can assure you, Mr Hollander - Shane - it is not.”
“Why me? What did Professor Hunter tell you? Is he a spy?” Now that he had started asking questions, the floodgates were open, and they showed no signs of closing. He had so many questions.
Rose laughed. “So many questions! Don’t worry, Shane, we will get to all of them in due course. But no, to answer one of them, Professor Hunter is not a spy.”
“But why—” Rose cut him off with a wave of her hand.
“Why you?”
“Yes.”
“We have done our research, as I explained. Professor Hunter knows we are looking for-” She waved her hand around, as if she could grab the word out of the air. “Talent.”
“Talent.” Shane sputtered. People had described him in many ways during his childhood and his adolescence. Boring. Clever. Annoying. Serious. Never talented.
If Rose noticed Shane’s surprise, she didn’t show it. “Professor Hunter talked about your fieldwork and said you had an unusual ability to assimilate yourself and were highly observant.” She picked up the manila folder from the table next to her, and glanced at the notes inside. Shane longed to see the contents. He knew better than to ask. “And he mentioned your paperwork is meticulous.” She returned her gaze to Shane and gave a slight smile. “He did not mention that you are also quite handsome.” Shane blushed. “But I imagine that’s another reason he believes you would be a useful asset to the Canadian government.” Rose drew a piece of paper from the folder, and put the rest of it back on the side table.
She held the paper out to him. Shane took it with a “thank you.” It was automatic. He probably would have thanked her if she had told him it was his death warrant.
It was a single page. Dense type, legal language, a line at the bottom for a signature. Shane read it carefully, which took longer than Rose probably expected. He always read everything carefully.
“A non-disclosure agreement,” he said, looking back up.
“Yes.”
“Before you’ve told me what I might be disclosing.”
“Yes.” There was that almost-smile again. “That is entirely the point, Shane.”
Shane looked back down at the paper. He thought about his apartment, which was his parents’ basement. He thought about the stamp catalogue on his desk, which he had not opened in three weeks. He thought about the fact that he had no job and absolutely no idea what he was going to do with the rest of his life.
He picked up his pen.