Mark, There's a Beagle in My Bedroom!

by Michael Ciardi

There’s an old urban legend that urged drivers to check the backseat of their cars before getting inside. But Kip just worked a twelve-hour shift. And besides, wasn’t such folklore designed as a scare tactic to dissuade nubile women from traveling alone? It certainly didn’t apply to middle-aged men dressed in pirate gear—or did it? Before Kip started the car’s engine, he felt the weight of a shadowed hand latching onto his shoulder. A hushed voice emanating from the backseat sounded familiar to him.

  “Your mom’s dog died—seriously? Is that the best excuse you could come up with?”

  Kip pivoted toward the man. A jolt of adrenaline dashed through his brain. “Mark, what the hell is going on? And why are you in my car?”

  Mark glanced out the car’s rear window toward the main road. He ducked down from view as an approaching vehicle’s headlights flashed on the pavement. “Shhh.” Mark planted his index finger against this bushy mustache. “Keep your voice down. It’s time for you to learn the rules of this game.”

  “What game?” Kip huffed. He then yanked away from Mark’s grasp. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I’m about five seconds away from calling the police.”

  “Whoa, drop your anchor, Captain Kidd. The police won’t help you. You’re not the most convincing marauder, you know what I mean?”

  Kip’s cheeks flushed pink, but he wasn’t sure if this reaction was triggered by embarrassment or anger. “Look, there’s obviously something crazy going on in your life. But what do you want from me?”

  “I guess the beagle didn’t get around to telling you everything. That’s good. It’s nice to know you can still trust a dog—unlike most people nowadays.”

  “Is that dog some kind of a joke or something? Why did you leave me alone with him this morning?”

  “You needed to hear what’s going on straight from the dog’s mouth.”

  “You mean it’s all true?” Kip searched Mark’s steely expression, inspecting his features for any chink that might’ve exposed his fraudulence. “That beagle is really part of some kind of spying scheme by a government agency?”

  Mark remained crouched in the car’s darkened interior, adjusting himself as comfortably as possible against the armrest. Another pair of headlights flickered on the street, causing him to flinch. Kip detected his nervousness. “Why are you acting so paranoid?”

  “Who’s acting?” Mark said.

  “Is someone following you?”

  “Probably.”

  “Who?”

  “Kip, you ask smart questions. I guess it’s time I explain who I really am.” Mark brought his fingers to his lips and peeled a fake mustache from his upper lip with one swipe of his hand. He had only a thin line of dark stubble beneath his disguise. And although it was dark, he still sported his mirrored sunglasses.

  “Looks like we’re both in-costume tonight. You don’t resemble Tom Selleck anymore,” Kip said.

  “As long as you don’t tell me I look like that guy from Canon, we’re fine.”

  “Is Mark Flyer even your real name?”

  “It’s the only one you’ll ever need to know me by,” he replied.

  “I take it you’re not really a chef either, huh?”

  “I can’t even make toast. Thank Wegmans for the dinner you scarfed down on that first night.” Mark was visibly unashamed of being a fraud, which gave credence to the notion that he truly was some type of undercover operative. Even if this was the situation, Kip didn’t want any further part of it.

  “Listen,” Kip suggested. “Maybe you shouldn’t tell me anything else. Why don’t I take you back to my house, where you can get all your stuff together and then just leave? I’ll pretend I never even met you or your talking beagle. Your secret is safe with me.”

  “But you’ve already taken time off from work. Why did you clear your schedule if you didn’t intend to help?”

  “Maybe I need a vacation. Anyway, I’ve changed my mind. I’m too old for this.”

  It was unfeasible for Kip to access Mark’s reaction; he still masked his eyeballs behind mirrored lenses. Instead of answering him, Mark hoisted a medium-sized manila envelope from the seat. He drummed his fingers repetitively on the paper, drawing obvious attention to the packet.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s for you,” Mark said. He then held out the bulging envelope toward Kip’s retracting hand. “Everything that you’ll need to complete your mission is inside.”

  “My mission?” Kip didn’t know whether to laugh or urinate on himself. Because he just had his car’s upholstery cleaned, he chose the former. “I feel like I’m in the middle of an episode of Mission: Impossible.”

  “More like Get Smart, but we’re splitting hairs, right?”

  “Is that a dossier?”

  “It’s sure not a brochure for Disney World.”

  “But I already told you that I’m not doing this, Mark. Whatever it is you think I am, you’re wrong. Look at me! I’m dressed like a gosh damn pirate and sell mattresses for a living. Does that sound like 007’s credentials to you? Trust me, I got nothing on Bond. Can you imagine me introducing myself at some swanky cocktail party, where I swagger in dressed to the nines and say, ‘I’m Hinkle, Kip Hinkle.’ It just doesn’t jive.”

  “Before I started working as a spy, I sold used cars from a lemon lot in Poughkeepsie,” Mark said. “Real espionage isn’t like what you see on TV or the movies, Kip. Most secret agents have jobs you’d never link to spying. They’re gas pumpers, cashiers, florists, or shade tree mechanics. Sometimes they’d even host television talent shows with big gongs. They sit on PTA’s, and go to church just like you and me.”

  “I don’t go to church or sit on PTA’s.”

  “Whatever. The point is, you’re perfect for this assignment for precisely the reasons you believe you’re not.”

  Kip suddenly felt insulted. “You think my life is pretty boring, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’d use the word normal.”

  “Well, I may not be the most exciting guy in town, but I got some pretty cool stuff going on, you know?”

  “Of course.” Mark yawned to accentuate what they both already knew.

  The cruel truth, whether Kip wanted to admit it or not, was that up until this moment, watching paint peel from a weathered silo generated more entertainment than his lifestyle. A reflex in Kip’s hand caused his fingers to latch onto the envelope with the swiftness of a trout snagging a spinner. Just clutching the crisp sleeve of paper in his hands made his voice drop an octave. Mark had hooked his man; it was like scooping a guppy out of a fishbowl.

  “Okay. Tell me everything I need to know.”

  “Shortly after the cluster bleep known as 9-11, I was hired by the government to oversee a covert division of agents. We called ourselves MUTTS.”

  “MUTTS? Let me guess, it’s another acronym, right?”

  “You learn quick, Kip. There are two things you’ve got to be good at if you want to make it in Washington. Number one: spending other people’s money, and number two: creating acronyms for anything you want secretly funded.”

  “What do the MUTTS do?”

  “We’re Mobile Underground Transponder Tracking Specialists.”

  “That’s a mouthful; it almost deserves an acronym. So I assume you’re also part of Project FIDO that Bruce told me about?”

  “You’re looking at its architect,” Mark said. “I initiated FIDO and was responsible for managing the dogs, which included decoding and compiling the data in the Class IV microchips. That’s where I met Bruce 5.”

  “And that’s when you learned Bruce could talk?”

  “Bull’s-eye. By accident, that beagle was implanted with a Class V transponder. After I learned about the dubious intentions of these microchips, I wanted to get out of The Agency.”

  “Why didn’t you just quit?”

  “It’s not that easy. You can’t just submit a letter of resignation and tell the government that you’re done spying on the Ame
rican people. This is a lifetime gig, and if you break the contract, they break you.”

  “You mean…?”

  “That’s right—you don’t get to pass Go or collect your two hundred dollars.”

  “They’d put you in jail?”

  “If you’re unlucky. Option one is kinder. The torture methods they’ve used on defectors in the past make waterboarding look like a pie-eating contest. In comparison to where they’d send me, Gitmo would be like a Club Med vacation. Capisce?”

  Kip sensed his sweaty fingers slipping on the envelope. Maybe it wasn’t so bad being a humdrum worker-bee at Bed Mania after all. He almost tried to return the envelope to Mark, but then reconsidered. The chance of anything like this ever coming down the pike toward him again was remote at best.

  “So you and the beagle are on the run now?”

  “Yep. The MUTTS ordered a cold extraction of the beagle’s chip. Unfortunately, such a procedure terminates the host.”

  “How?”

  “Cyanide. Each Class V microchip contains enough poison to kill a three hundred pound human in less than two minutes. The transponders are implanted as permanent fixtures. If tampered with, they’ll pop like ticks beneath the host’s skin, thereby releasing the cyanide. Only a demagnification process can safely fry the chip. You see where I’m going with this, don’t you?”

  “I think so. You’ve risked your life to protect Bruce.”

  “I love dogs, Kip, but not at the expense of my own tail. This is far bigger than Bruce or me. It’s about the preservation of our own species as we know it.”

  “It all sounds like a loony conspiracy plot.”

  “So did the Holocaust when people first learned about it.”

  Kip felt as though he had just been socked in the belly with a brass-knuckled fist. He was just beginning to comprehend the ramifications of implanting such transponders in people. What he didn’t know yet, of course, was why Mark sought his assistance at this stage.

  “I still don’t understand why you need my help,” Kip said. “I don’t know hardly anything about this technology. How come you came to me?”

  “Before I fled from the MUTTS, I managed to temporarily disable the tracking device in Bruce’s microchip by electronically jamming its frequency signal. It bought me some borrowed time, but not enough to get complacent. I’ve traveled by dark, and I’m currently en route to a converted bomb shelter to have Bruce’s microchip neutralized. But our pursuers are gaining ground on us fast. I suspect the chip’s GPS mechanism implanted in Bruce is at least semi-operational by now. I can’t take the risk of being captured with the beagle. That’s where you come in, Kip. It’s your assignment to get Bruce to that bunker. We’ll reconvene at that destination tomorrow.”

  Chapter 12