Puss in D.C. and Other Stories

by Pamela Sargent

  “That’s the beauty of it,” Mr. Carabas continued. “Whatever suspicions might be aroused afterwards, no one would be able to prove that it was an assassination. If we’re lucky, the evildoer’s cronies might begin to think that a usurper among them had found a way to administer poison, and never suspect an outside intelligence service at all. And there wouldn’t be any of those blasted hearings with all those windbags in the House and Senate.” He peered at me over his snifter. “But it’s a lot to ask of you.”

  “I might have a problem getting close to the man,” I said. “He’s extremely paranoid, heavily guarded, and has a fetish for personal hygiene.” I had picked up those details while eavesdropping on some roundtable discussions at Agency headquarters.

  “All true enough, but he also has a great fondness for cats. Magnus Ritchard confirmed that with one of his deep cover contacts just the other day, that’s what gave me the idea. Apparently there are cats in every one of the dictator’s palaces and hideaways at all times.”

  “No doubt doubling as his food tasters,” I murmured.

  “That was also in the report given to Magnus,” Mr. Carabas said.

  “My biggest problem might be getting past the other cats without engaging in a territorial dispute. If I end up clawing one of them in a fight, and the cat keels over, that would give our whole game away.”

  Mr. Carabas set down his snifter as I leaped into his lap. “As I told you,” he said while scratching me behind the ears, “this has to be your decision. I’ll understand if you refuse.”

  Actually, it wasn’t the dangers of the mission that gave me pause. If my human handlers could get me into the country and anywhere near the target, I knew that I could accomplish my task. What worried me more was what might happen to me afterwards. My accomplices, and probably others in the Agency, would have to be informed of my abilities if they were to trust me to carry out the mission. Could I rely on all of them to keep my secret? Would I, instead of being rewarded for my success, end up as a prisoner, a caged experimental subject at a government laboratory? Even worse, how could I be sure that the Agency would want to keep me alive after the operation was over? I would, after all, be a loose thread that could tie our intelligence service to the assassination of a foreign leader.

  Another danger, however remote, was that some counterspy planted within the Agency by a foreign power might learn about me. Such a mole might try to do away with me, or might even be foolish enough to think that I could be “turned” with bribes of lobster, live mice to chase, and other such luxuries, but in any case, my life would become much more precarious.

  I said as much to Mr. Carabas.

  “If I could take you on this mission myself,” he replied, “I would, but I’ve been out of that game for too long. I can promise you that I won’t send you in without people I trust implicitly.”

  That was good enough for me. “I’m in, Mr. Carabas.” I curled up on his lap and settled in for a nice long nap, dreaming of my eventual triumph.

  A week later, just before Maury was to receive his law degree, Mr. Carabas suffered his last heart attack. He was already dead by the time two fellow officers found him in his office, slumped over his desk, his ever-present cup of black coffee spilled across his papers. Had he brought me to the office that day, perhaps I might have saved him; a resonant and persistent repetition of meows might have summoned others to his side in time.

  I padded through the house all that night, alone and frantic, fearing for him. Latisha Knowles, our cleaning woman, arrived the next morning at her usual time; Magnus Ritchard rang the front doorbell only a few minutes later.

  “There was nothing they could do for Charles,” Mr. Ritchard said to Ms. Knowles before he had even taken off his coat. “He’s gone—we’ll have to call his son.” That was how I learned of Mr. Carabas’s passing. Whether he ever had the opportunity to broach the subject of my Middle Eastern mission to Mr. Ritchard or to anyone else at the Agency, I did not know.

  * * * *

  Maury flew home immediately to take charge of the funeral arrangements. The Requiem Mass was held at the Dahlgren Chapel on the Georgetown University campus, according to Mr. Carabas’s wishes, but the majority of mourners chose to pay their respects to his son at home rather than attend the funeral itself. I well understood their reasons for avoiding the service. For such a large contingent of intelligence officers, politicians, Cabinet secretaries, and notorious figures who had been forced to testify at Congressional hearings about Agency operations to show up at the Mass might have aroused too much curiosity and attention. Even so, I wished that there could have been more of a crowd, that I might have been present at the rite. Instead, I circulated among the mourners at home, allowing them to pet me and offering what comfort I could mutely, while longing to speak to them aloud about how much Mr. Carabas had meant to me.

  Maury soon discovered that his father had failed to apply his considerable intelligence to his own fiscal affairs. The family legacy that had helped to support Charles Carabas was no more. Taxes were owed, investments had failed, considerable debts had accumulated for the purchases of fine wines, cigars, trips to exotic places, and a library of rare volumes. Consultations with Mr. Carabas’s executors revealed that nearly everything would have to be sold, including the Georgetown house, in order to cover everything, leaving Maury with what can only be called a modest inheritance.

  “Well, little buddy,” Maury said to me one late August night, after the bad news had finally sunk in, “I guess it’s just you and me now.” I was lying next to him, and offered him a few subdued purrs, grateful to realize that he apparently regarded me as part of his father’s legacy. “Don’t know what’s gonna happen, but I’ll always look out for you, Angleton. I know how much you meant to Dad.”

  I rested my head on my front paws as I considered our situation. Maurice Carabas had, unfortunately, not inherited his sire’s considerable intellect. Attendance at one of the country’s finest preparatory schools had not entirely prepared young Maury for his father’s alma mater of Harvard, to which he was admitted only through much covert pulling of strings. He had flunked out of Harvard after two semesters, barely managed to graduate from Georgetown a few years after that, and considerably more string-pulling had been required to get him into a minor law school in the South. That he had finally succeeded in earning a law degree was either a miracle or else a function of that particular law school’s lack of rigor. How he was going to establish himself in the world without his father’s guidance was not a matter I cared to contemplate too deeply.

  Yet Maury, I knew, had some potential. He was, as human beings measure such qualities, an extremely handsome young man. His lack of academic accomplishment had been in part caused by a deep devotion to the pursuits of tennis and golf, but such athletic skills would be useful in enabling him to meet people who might benefit him socially. And he was kind and loyal; he had readily accepted his responsibility for me, with no thought of giving me away or consigning me to a shelter.

  I knew then that I could not keep my secret from him any longer. I sat up, gazed directly at him, and said, “Maurice, there is something about me that you should know.”

  “Hey, you can call me Maury,” he said absently. A few moments later, his eyes suddenly widened and his brows shot up. “You can talk?”

  “I just did, didn’t I? Your father and I used to engage in many long discourses whenever we were alone. I don’t suppose I need to explain to you why we thought it best to keep that to ourselves.”

  He was still gaping at me. “You can talk?” he said again.

  “Yes, I can talk, in English and in other languages as well. Je parle français. Watakushi wa nihongo ga wakarimasu. Ich—”

  “I get the picture.” Maury shook his head. “I always knew Dad was smart, but I didn’t think even he could teach a cat how to talk.”

  “He didn’t teach me how to talk. He was
as surprised as you were when I revealed my vocal talents. What he taught me was a certain degree of eloquence.”

  “Maybe some other stuff, too,” Maury said. “Like, I always knew he was a spook, even if I don’t know much about what he actually did, so I guess he taught you how to keep a secret, too.”

  “That he did,” I said, “and it would be wise of you to keep this one.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that, old buddy. If I told people I had a talking cat, I’d probably end up in the hat factory. Hell, maybe I am crazy, but if it was just me imagining this, you probably wouldn’t sound so smart.” He sighed. “I guess you know what we’re up against, then. Dad didn’t leave me a whole lot. I figure it might be just enough for me to go back to Florida and see what I can set up for myself there. There’s a couple of guys I knew at law school who might be able to find me a gig in Tallahassee.”

  “Is that what you want?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I always thought I’d end up back here, in Washington, I mean. Never really thought about living anywhere else, but we’ve got to be practical now.” He patted me gently on the head. “I said I’d look after you, Angleton, and I meant it. I won’t leave for Florida without you.”

  I was moved, even though the prospect of spending my remaining years in the Florida panhandle was less than enticing. An idea was forming in my mind. “But there’s no reason to leave your home town,” I said, “and seek your fortune elsewhere. There would be far better hunting for you in Washington than in Tallahassee.”

  “Maybe,” he said, “but I can’t afford to live here now.”

  “You’ll have a nest egg after everything’s sold. Would you like my advice?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Use the money to stay in Washington, and leave everything else to me. I’ve learned a few skills that might stand us both in good stead.”

  “Really?”

  I fixed him with a stare. “Just listen to me, young Maury, and you may find out that you have more of a legacy than you realize.”

  * * * *

  Mr. Carabas’s belongings were auctioned off, the house sold, and the taxes and debts paid, leaving Maury with a slightly larger sum than he had expected. We might have invested some of the money, but Maury knew nothing of such matters. I, given the unfortunate example of Mr. Carabas, knew little more than Maury did about finances, but in any case, the plans I had for him and myself did not involve living modestly on a pittance, being bystanders at life’s game instead of players. His father, my rescuer, would have pulled enough strings to get his son set up in a suitable position; in his absence, I could do no less.

  “We have to move out by the end of this month,” I said to him one evening in Mr. Carabas’s library. The built-in bookshelves were empty, all the rare books having been sold at auction, and we were sitting on the floor, since the leather chairs and reading lamps had also been taken away by their new owners.

  “I know,” Maury replied as he fed me an anchovy from his pizza, “but every place I’ve looked at has a rent that’s too high. About the only place we could afford would be some shithole in a really bad neighborhood.”

  “Taking up residence in a shithole would hardly improve your future prospects, Maury. I suggest instead that we move to the Watergate complex and purchase some living space there. It’s come to my attention that there are some apartments available in Watergate South.” I had found that out at the latest auction of Mr. Carabas’s possessions, when one of the buyers had mentioned to another that he was planning to move there soon.

  “The Watergate? That’s way out of our league, old buddy. I can’t afford a place like that.”

  “You have your inheritance,” I said. “That could pay much of the freight, so to speak, and you could borrow the rest, and I vow to you that after the move, you’ll be launched on a most promising trajectory.”

  “I don’t think you understand.” Maury swallowed more beer from his can. “That would just about clean me out.”

  “Only if nothing else comes along, and you’ll be able to sell your place to another buyer in the future.”

  “Which just might pay off whatever I end up owing by then.”

  I accepted another anchovy, then sat back on my haunches. “Maury, think of an apartment in Watergate South not as an expense, but as an investment. If you’re going to get anywhere in the world, you have to position yourself among individuals who can help you. Living at the Watergate will put you in close proximity to some influential people.”

  “And what if nothing else comes along?”

  “Leave it to me,” I said. “You promised to look after me, and I’ll do no less for you. Trust me. After all, we’re both in this together.”

  * * * *

  Maury accepted my advice in the end, largely because he couldn’t think of anything else to do. I assisted him with his application to the Watergate co-operative board; he easily won approval, since I was able to demonstrate, by sitting quietly on his lap during his interview and allowing the board members to pet me, how well behaved a creature I am.

  By the beginning of January, we were ensconced in a one-bedroom apartment with balcony in Watergate South. By early February, with my advice on whom to call and where to submit his résumé, Maury had secured a position on the staff of one of the senators on the Intelligence Oversight Committee, a gentleman who had always treated employees of the Agency fairly and sympathetically whenever they appeared before him. Maury’s salary was small, certainly not enough to cover our expenses, but he was now well situated, with his job and his residence, to meet people who could help him to rise in the world.

  By late spring, however, I was coming to see that more action on my part would be needed. Maury was not the sort of fellow likely to become a trusted and influential advisor to his senatorial patron; indeed, he often brought work home with him, or emailed it to his home computer, so that I could peruse various studies and polls, read constituents’ mail, and advise him on the wording of position papers. Instead of making influential contacts, Maury had made the acquaintance of a number of young ladies, most of them Congressional staffers or interns. From them, he seemed to require only that they be fond of cats and possess a quality he referred to as “bodaciousness.” I spent many a night lying on his bed while he and his companion of the evening slept, trying to conjure up a plan of action.

  “Maury,” I said to him one evening when we were by ourselves, “it’s time to cut to the chase.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, feeding me a scallop from his take-out carton of Chinese food.

  “At the rate you’re spending money on wining and dining and tennis-playing with your young ladies, we’ll be lucky if we have enough money in the end to get to Tallahassee with a low-fare ticket for you and consignment to the cargo hold for me.”

  “But you said I have to make an impression.”

  “Making an impression on young ladies nearly as penniless as yourself isn’t exactly what I meant. You might at least find someone with more substantial assets.”

  Maury looked abashed. “It isn’t as if I’m not trying. I mean, most of the time they’re coming on to me, and I don’t, like, ask them about their bank balances. You can’t exactly expect a guy to say no when opportunity knocks.”

  “I suppose not, but these weren’t the sort of opportunities I had in mind.”

  “Anyway, it never lasts,” he said. “By the time I’m ready to think about getting serious, they’re dumping me and going out with somebody else.”

  “Which means that going on in this way,” I said, “with companions who inevitably tire of you, is both expensive and pointless. We have to take more drastic measures.”

  He quickly agreed to my tentative plan, which was hardly a plan at all. I was hoping only to scout the territory, so to speak, to see if there was any way to bring Maury to the attention of some of
the wealthy and influential human beings who inhabited the Watergate complex. I did not expect an opportunity to do so to land right in front of me.

  * * * *

  Early the next morning, Maury and I left our building, he on foot and I in my carrying case. When he was certain that no one was watching us, he opened the case and set me loose. Since it was Saturday, Maury would be able to wait for me until I safely made my way back to Watergate South.

  “Take care, little fella,” Maury whispered after me as I slipped out of my carrier. “You be really careful, you hear?” He was being far too solicitous. I could easily find my way back, having studied a layout of the complex; in addition, I was wearing an ID tag that I had insisted he buy for me, one that had my name, Maury’s name, and our address and phone number engraved upon its surface. Maury’s father had always spared me the indignity of a collar, but it was best to be on the safe side. If I did get lost, I didn’t want to give myself away by having to ask for directions.

  I bounded across the grass, reveling in my freedom. Only a few people seemed to be out, jogging on the pathway near the Potomac or wandering off with guide books in the direction of the National Mall. Birds twittered in the tree limbs overhead, and I thought of bagging one or two before resuming my reconnaissance.

  Then I spied a glittering loop lying under a shrub. I scurried over to examine the object, and found what looked very much like a bracelet. There was no way to tell if the bright stones of this human limb adornment were of any value or were only cheap imitations, but something about the bracelet attracted me. I rolled around, swatting at it with my paws, and somehow managed to get it hooked around my neck.