A cracked recording of a parrot voice. “Yes, sir. You will see the space for the passport number here in the registration form. It is a law that all foreigners must register their passport numbers.” Memories of an Empire widespread, a Commonwealth contracting, surged wildly through Tony’s mind. “But I’m not a foreigner. Not really. Canadian.” Scenes from a war movie seen recently on television shot by. “You weren’t asking our chaps for passports when we were here after the Dieppe raid.” He began filling out the form furiously. French Canadian, that’s what, subtle touch there. Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres, name memorized for an art history exam long since dust, his own Washington address for want of better inspiration, Quebec, Canada. Had he spelled Quebec right? Too late now to worry; he pushed the form back across the desk with a flourish. A key appeared, victory was his, the Dieppe raid successful after all the years. “That will be ten pounds, twenty-five with breakfast.
