Conversations with My Father: Spy vs. Spy Edition

MY FATHER: Just turn left at the end of the alley instead of right . . . That’s it.

ME: Okay.

MY FATHER: Oh say. See this house here? Right where this cross-street ends? I’m nearly one-hundred-percent sure that it’s a government safe house.

ME: Oh lord Jesus.

MY FATHER: No, strike that. I’m one-hundred-percent sure it’s a government safe house.

ME: You really, really, really watch too much television.

MY FATHER: Why couldn’t it be a government safe house?

ME: Why should it be a government safe house?

MY FATHER: Just look at it. Just look.

ME: Which of the CSI shows put this notion into your head?

MY FATHER (hurt): They have to get the ideas for the CSI shows from somewhere.

ME: They aren’t getting them from the street behind your house.

MY FATHER: Look at those big SUVs parked in front of it. What do you think of that?

ME: I think the people who live there are fond of Ford Durangos.

MY FATHER: They’re big security vehicles with dark windows and they’re probably armored.

ME: Those windows aren’t dark! I can see right through them!

MY FATHER: They’re where the government safe house agents sit.

ME: Then why are they empty?

MY FATHER: They’re inside, guarding the occupants.

ME: I don’t think . . . oh god, this is making my head hurt.

MY FATHER: Think about it! This would be a perfect place to have a quick escape route when their cover is blown. All they’d have to do is hurry the people they’re protecting to the armored cars, then drive up Robin Hood Road to the on-ramp where they’d have access to both 64 or 95.

ME: Although there’s a certain weird logic to that, I really don’t think . . . Have you ever seen anyone going in or coming out?

MY FATHER: I saw a woman ‘going to work’ once.

ME: I can hear your air quotes. Was she wearing a dark jacket and slacks and a white shirt?

MY FATHER: Well, no, but. . . .

ME: Because that’s what the FBI would wear.

MY FATHER: That’s what they want you to think. You know nothing about the art of disguise.

ME: Oh, okay, Disguise Master. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you go up to the front door and knock and ask if they’re a government safe house?

MY FATHER (with scorn): You think they’d say yes? You know nothing about how these things work.

ME: Do you really think the government would set up a safe house on Whitby that is so obvious that the nosy retired history professor with poor eyesight from around the corner would be able to identify it?

MY FATHER (loftily): I happen to be a very observant concerned neighbor.