From Russia With Fur

by Rene Fomby

  “You mean they killed him?” I blurt out, quickly realizing just how stupid that must make me seem to these two well-seasoned professionals. Maybe Tommy was right, after all. Maybe I am way out of my league. Treading in waters where no dogpaddle is going to save me.

  “It sure looks that way,” Q’ute answers, turning back to her keyboard and typing away. “We don’t know a lot about the inner workings of SPECTER—they’re one of the most secretive organizations on the planet—but the best intel we do have says they’re headed up by this guy.” One quick paw pat and instantly a picture of a particularly ugly feline flashes up on the wall behind her.

  She turns her head to stare unblinkingly at the picture. “This is Vladimir Kitin, a long-time agent of the old KGB, and possibly one of the most brutal felines you will ever meet.”

  Now I am totally confused by all this. “But—but, he’s a cat! I thought Tommy said the KGB—”

  Q’ute turns back to peer at us over the top rim of her glasses. “Was a dogs only organization,” she finishes for me. “Well, yes it was. And now, so is SPECTER. With just one singular exception. And that’s what scares us all so much about this guy. A cat leading an organization dedicated to killing all cats, all around the globe? He must be quite ruthless, indeed.”

  I stop to study my new enemy, plastered up on the computer screen wall almost ten times life-size. “But what’s up with his chest? That’s got to be one of the grossest things I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen my humans stark naked on more than one occasion, so I know my way around gross—”

  Q’ute’s smiles have turned pretty grim over the last few minutes, and she’s wearing one of her worst right now. “Mind you, we don’t have a lot of intel on Kitin, just rumors, mostly. And it’s sometimes hard to separate the truth from lies he’s cooked up himself just to puff up his image. But here’s what we think we do know…”

  Q’ute Branch, 1:30 p.m.

  A

  quick paw click, and a map of Russia fills the wall in front of us. Q’ute quickly zooms in, focusing in on a small section of the country in the far southwest corner. “We believe Kitin was born roughly ten years ago in an area near the now-abandoned town of Pripyat, in northern Ukraine. That was the site of a catastrophic nuclear accident that took place back in 1986, a meltdown and explosion at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant. It wasn’t actually a nuclear explosion per se, but the resulting uncontrolled destruction of the plant spread deadly radioactive material across more than 100,000 square meters, and less lethal but still dangerous radioactive isotopes across all of Europe.”

  That completely floored me. “Wow! So I guess they evacuated the entire area, including the animals, right?” This was the first I’d heard of any of this. The Churnable Nucular plant? And I don’t know how big 100,000 square meters is, but it had to be most of a neighborhood, at least. Maybe several neighborhoods. “So how did Kitin’s family get left behind?”

  “That’s just the thing, Moose,” Q’ute explains. “At first, the Russians didn’t evacuate anyone. They just pretended nothing at all had happened, until workers at a nuclear energy plant in Sweden started showing up with radioactive dust on their clothing. The Swedes were quite fastidious about that sort of thing, and it didn’t take them long before they determined the suspect nuclear material was blowing into Sweden from the Ukraine. Once the cat was out of the bag, so to speak, the Russians finally fessed up and started evacuating Pripyat and the surrounding area. Evacuating the humans, that is. The animals they mostly left behind to fend for themselves.”

  That news hit me in the gut like a sucker punch. “You’ve got to be kidding me! That’s—that’s—inhuman! Even for them!”

  Q’ute nods, a sour look now smeared across her face. “I’d have to agree with you, Moose. Nevertheless, that’s how they handled the crisis. And, even worse, they didn’t completely abandon the area, even the humans. They left large numbers of soldiers behind to attempt a cleanup operation, and a skeleton staff of humans stayed behind for many years to run the one remaining nuclear plant that was still operational at Chernobyl, a plant they continued to operate for almost fifteen years. So, as incredible as it seems that they turned their backs on all the animals, they clearly valued the electricity the remaining plant provided over the lives of even their fellow humans.”

  Tommy finally speaks up. “Skeleton staff? I bet they were all just a bunch of skeletons after being exposed to all that radiation. But—” He motions for Q’ute to put Kitin’s picture back on the wall. “Clearly, as deadly as the radiation was, some of the animals still managed to survive—”

  “They did,” Q’ute agrees. “And I’d show you some of the pictures from all that, but seeing as how it’s just after lunch—”

  “Yeah. Let’s skip that, why don’t we? But still, this Kitin fellow, what happened to him?”

  Q’ute uses a laser pointer to circle Kitin’s chest on the wall screen, and I’m glad there weren’t any cats present in the room, or we’d have had a catastrophe of our own. Just saying.

  “Vladimir Kitin is a member of a feline breed commonly referred to as Russian Blues, very popular in that country. Russian Blues are characterized by distinctively bright green eyes, pinkish lavender or mauve paws, and two layers of short thick fur topped by a blue-grey coat.”

  Kitin’s paws aren’t visible in the picture, but his eyes were very striking and extremely green, and the fur below his waist was thick and very blue. But above the waist was a completely different story. His chest, arms and face were completely bald, like he’d been in a bad fire or something. I tell her so.

  “Yes, well, something obviously went amiss with his upper body hair, but we don’t think it was a fire that caused it. More like radiation-induced alopecia, or a genetic defect that popped up in his family due to all the background radiation. But whatever caused it, Kitin appears to have embraced his baldness, and he runs around half-naked every chance he gets. Wears it like a badge of honor, I suppose.”

  Well, he may be proud of it, but I hope I never catch any of that alley peaches stuff, is all I’m saying. I mean, I don’t like to brag or anything, but you can ask anyone, I’m one good looking canine, that’s for sure.

  But Tommy’s talking again. “So he emerges from the radiation zone, and somehow signs up as a field agent in a violent dogs-only evil syndicate. How exactly did that work out?”

  Q’ute nods and throws up a small organization chart on the wall. “Apparently, the KGB was not completely dogs-only after all. As you can see, they maintained small splinter cells employing a variety of other types of animals. We think the other animals joined because they’d been promised some kind of protection in the end, when the KGB took over the world. Or maybe they had family members being held hostage back in Russia. At any rate, these non-canine agents were critical to gathering intelligence on other groups of animals, intelligence that was then critical to the organization’s long-term goal of systemic world-wide genocide. To wiping out all the other animals who could ever challenge the global canine hegemony. Dogs ruling the entire world.”

  Tommy is rubbing his chin. “So that was Kitin’s entry point, and he used that to leverage himself to the very top of the entire organization. The top of SPECTER. He has to be pretty ruthless, indeed.”

  “Yes,” Q’ute agrees. “He’s apparently left a long and bloody trail all the way from Moscow to St. Petersburg. And now—to our fair town.”

  Tommy’s still rubbing, lost in thought. “So what is his real game plan, then?” he mumbles, mostly to himself. “And how does that all tie in to Boss Dawg throwing his collar into the ring to fill President Boomer’s shoes?”

  “Yeah, and why did you say this is the most important election in PETSEC history?” I ask, mostly to myself.

  Q’ute flicks a paw in Tommy’s direction. “I think you can answer that question better than anyone.”

  I turn to face Tommy dead-on. He’s stopped rubbing his chin now and has both paws
laid flat on the table in front of him. “Well, that’s a long and complicated story to work through, but I’ll give you a quick synopsis. Uh, I don’t know how much you’ve kept up on all the politics within PETSEC—”

  A quick shake of my head answers that question. I’ve been pretty much out of the loop regarding any kind of animal-on-animal political in-fighting my entire life, and I’d pretty much like to keep it that way. Tommy goes on.

  “As you know, Moose, Fat Tony is set to break through a glass ceiling at PETSEC that has existed ever since the organization was first founded. For well over a hundred years, every single president of our organization has been a canine. There’s never once been a feline—or any other breed of animal—serving in that position. Or even as vice president. No exceptions. And over time that has resulted in a significant rift in the organization, a resentment of the historical canine leadership by all the other animals, animals who feel they’ve all been left out in the cold, their unique needs largely ignored.”

  “And now a cat is finally up for election,” I suggest. “Fat Tony.”

  “Exactly. It’s a move many are hoping will help mend some of the broken fences that have been accumulating over the years, help cure a kind of cancer that’s been eating away at the agency. A cancer that’s contributed greatly to the rise of organizations like the KGB and SPECTER, I might add. And the eventual collapse of long-standing relationships between the various PETSEC offices all around the world.”

  “And you really think Tony’s the answer?” I ask, thinking back to all of Tony’s blatant double-dealing.

  Tommy shakes his head ruefully. “I’ll grant you he’s not the perfect candidate. And he’s probably not the candidate I would have chosen. Especially now, after our conversation earlier today. But—he’s the only candidate all the other cats can rally behind. They’ve made it a clear cat versus dog issue. So I guess we dogs and cats don’t really have a choice right now. The only other option left to us is to throw in for some other non-dog breed. A rat, maybe. Or a squirrel.”

  Just the thought of a squirrel running PETSEC sends a shiver down my spine. For the second time today. So, okay, I get it. There are worse alternatives than having Antonio Shapiro running PETSEC for the time being, until a better option can step up to the plate for us. “So, Tommy, Q’ute, how exactly does Boss Dawg figure into all of this? And why is SPECTER suddenly showing up in our back yard, just days before the elections?”

  Q’ute flicks off the computer wall projection and sits quietly for a few seconds, thinking. “Before Boss Dawg entered the race unexpectedly, Fat Tony was the only candidate running, so he was a shoo-in for the job. And that was all carefully planned. You see, the dogs have a small but significant electoral edge over the cats and all the other animals in PETSEC, and it’s hard to nail down exactly how any of them will wind up voting, whether they’ll stay on board with the idea of a cat at the top of PETSEC’s global operations, or remain committed to the old, ultimately self-destructive status quo. In fact, according to the latest polls there are a great many dogs out there who think things have gone way too far in terms of animal equality, equal rights for all animals, regardless of breed or gender. A frighteningly large percentage of canines would actually like to roll things back a little, return to the so-called glory days when they were the undisputed lords of back yards everywhere on the planet. So—with Boss Dawg’s name on the ballot, and SPECTER clearly making some kind of play to disrupt the election, Fat Tony’s chances of winning are rapidly evaporating, even as we speak.”

  “So that just means we gotta stop talking about all this, and start doing something,” Tommy says, pushing his chair back and standing up.

  But I’m not quite ready to leave just yet. I still have a few more questions for Q’ute.

  “Much as I’d like to hit the ground chasing after cars, the problem I’m having is where exactly do we need to start chasing. Which car exactly do we target? And, even if we manage to find these Russians, what then? From what you’ve just explained all too clearly, these are some pretty bad dudes we’re messing with, worse than the Crimson Canines even, and I barely escaped that group of trained killers with my fur still intact, so there’s that. Anyone got any ideas on how we’re ever going to survive the day?”

  “Short and to the point, Moose,” Q’ute notes, and I quickly decide not to take that the wrong way. Tommy’s sitting back down now, and Q’ute is busy popping an image of a medium-sized long-haired black canine up on the wall.

  “This is a very recent picture we have of Julia Strange, the founder and titular head of Kitty-Leaks. As you can clearly see, she is a rather striking example of a classic Himalayan feline.”

  I couldn’t really tell a marmalade cat from any other fluffer feline, but I decide to keep that to myself for now. Anyway, Q’ute is still talking.

  “Strange is a fugitive from justice, wanted by several European countries, but currently she’s hiding out in the Consulate General of Ecuador, located on Wabash Avenue about halfway between the river and Millenium Park. My best guess is, the Russians are behind the hacking of our pee-mails—they’re pretty much the only group capable of cracking our encryption—and as part of their dirty tricks they’ll be trying to get the hacked pee-mails to Strange and Kitty-Leaks, to be distributed to the media just in time to embarrass PETSEC and Fat Tony right before the polls open on Tuesday. They’ll probably target the transfer of the stolen files for sometime late Monday. That’s the way I would do it, early enough to affect the outcome of the vote, but last minute enough to prevent us from mounting any kind of an effective response.”

  “But—what could possibly be on those pee-mails that would make any difference?” I ask, still completely perplexed by all this.

  Q’ute cuts her eyes in Tommy’s direction. “Uh, I’m not sure I can say. It’s all pretty top-secret stuff, details about our plans to manipulate the election to make sure a cat finally wins, and about certain—peculiarities regarding Tony’s background. I just know about some of it because I had to go back in and pore over all the backups after the data breach…”

  “Moose knows,” Tommy assures her. “And so do I, for that matter. Fat Tony fessed up earlier today.”

  Relief washes across Q’ute’s face. And something else. Something a little foul, like maybe what she saw in the pee-mails didn’t exactly sit well with her.

  “Okay, well then both of you know that Tony’s not exactly who he’s been made out to be. And ‘made out’ is a pretty accurate description of what actually happened to create his public persona. But I think you can see how that story might not play out well with the general electorate. Especially an electorate that has its own reasons to distrust a cat. Reasons going back thousands of years, if not longer…”

  Tommy cuts in sharply. “Yeah, that the establishment candidate is about as Italian as SpaghettiOs. And how the closest he’s ever been to a hero is at the sandwich shop.” Tommy stands up again, getting ready to leave. “But the sad truth is, our only alternative to Anthony Shapiro right now is Boss Dawg. Who I’m sure has worked out some kind of sweet deal with the Russians, to somehow split the power between them. And the city. So I guess that means it’s time to hold our collective noses and vote for the lesser of the two evils, and live to die another day.”

  Q’ute flicks her tail in agreement and stands up herself. “I guess your first target, then, would be the Ecuadoran Consulate, where Julia Strange has taken refuge. But—before you go, I’ve got a few toys my people have dreamed up that might help to balance the scales a bit between you two and the Russians. If only a little bit.”

  “Every little bit helps, at this point,” Tommy tells her. “Even the smallest edge might spell the difference between success—or death. And personally, I’d much prefer the former.”

  I’m kinda hoping for success myself at this point. Seriously going with curtain number one.

  Ecuadorian Consulate, 2:30 p.m.

  I

&nbs
p; ’m not exactly sure what I was expecting from the Ecuadorian Consulate, but a mid-sized office building right across the street from a Dunkin’ Donuts was clearly not it.

  We’re standing right in front of the donut shop, hiding behind an electrical pole and checking out the front entrance with a dental mirror. “So, Tommy, it seems we won’t have to scale some twenty-foot walls to get in after all. Easy peasy.”

  “Yeah, but also easy peasy for the Russians. And a twenty foot wall would have at least given us a chance to jump the Russkies from outside of the consulate. Now things could get a little more dicey.”

  I hadn’t thought of that angle. I suppose that’s why Tommy’s the superhero on this particular mission, and I’m just his trusty little sidekick. In the meantime, Tommy seems to have come to some kind of decision on how best to proceed from here.

  “Okay, doesn’t look like we’ve got much choice, we’ve gotta head inside and reconnoiter the place up close. But that presents us with a rather large problem. I’m experienced enough in spycraft to get in and out with nobody being the wiser. But a dog and cat going in together, that’s a whole ‘nother kettle of fish.”

  I’m not really sure what a pot full of fish has to do with any of this, but I can see Tommy’s concerns about the two of us just strolling in, side by side, like two thousand years of dogs and cats being mortal enemies never happened.

  “Okay, Tommy, I agree. Why don’t you go in first and check things out on the ground. Or, rather, check things out four floors up. Meanwhile, I’ll hang out here and keep a sharp eye out for any Russians that might try and sneak inside.”

  “Good plan, Moose. I’ll be back in a few. If you don’t hear from me in thirty minutes, though, don’t try and be a hero or something stupid like that. Get back to HQ and line up reinforcements. Got that?”

  I wag my tail okay, even though I’m not totally buying off on that idea. I mean, if Tommy gets himself in serious trouble up there, the longer we wait to rescue him the worse his chances are of getting out in one piece. If I learned anything from the Southside Prison caper, it’s that you’ve got to keep your options flexible if you’re gonna have any hope of succeeding. Like that ancient Shar-pei philosopher once pointed out, no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy. Or at least I think it was a Shar-pei. Could have been a long-haired dachshund, now that I think about it…