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Left for Dead

A Tale from the Agent's Lounge

Back so soon, Boris? I suspected hat you had a room nearby set up for secure communications with Moscow and your promptness confirms it. Plus I take it from the look of frustrated anticipation on your face that you have been ordered not to harm me for the time being. Reading faces was something I learned as a bartender, by the way, not from F.O.X., although they did help me hone the skill.

So Yermolayev is interested enough to keep me around for awhile longer? I realize of course that my freedom, perhaps even my life, depends on continuing to provide inside information and proving my loyalty to Mother Russia. I am prepared to do both, but the latter will have to wait until I can speak to Yermolayev ... alone.

So, is he on his way or does he need more intelligence to tempt him out of his hole? Why did I put it that way, you ask? Because like any spy master he must fear assassination. Isn't one of Clausewitz's tenants of war to take out the enemy leaders before a big operation? No? Sun Tzu perhaps? Machiavelli? Anyway, someone said it. And I know that Yermolayev believes in it because of a recent incident at the Academy.

You may think that all of my stories were ancient history and you would be correct, to a point. But they were meant to be verifiable to prove that I had access. Now that Yermolayev is interested I can reveal something more up to date, something you don't know.

Something involving the recent assassination of Silver.

* * * * *

"Hey, watch it lefty!"

The speaker had addressed the large silver fox coming through the wrong side of the double doors of the airport without really looking at him. If he had the cold blue-grey eyes, the vertical scar running through the brow over the left one and Silver's perpetual frown might have deterred him. Silver, the Chief of Staff and senior agent for Canada's most secret of secret agencies did not react. He was used to the hostile stares and the occasional rude gesture or comment when he used his left paw for things most other creatures did with their right, interrupting the flow of the citizenry in the process. In this case he merely sidestepped the fellow and continued on his way to the arrivals lounge of the Ottawa International Airport.

Silver had not used the wrong door entering the airport because he was left-pawed. He wrote with his right paw and wore his watch on his left wrist like ninety-five percent of the sentient creatures, but he used his left paw for many common tasks; like drinking coffee, carrying an umbrella, eating, and many others. It was a force of habit, a habit grown from a conscious effort to keep his right paw free to draw his gun at a moment's notice.

After years of practice the habit had become ingrained. When he walked his right arm did not swing like the left did, it stayed close to his hip to shorten the time it took to draw his gun because the extra split second could be crucial. It was called the 'gunslinger's walk' and he had survived several shoot-outs during the cold war because of it. Many agents that lived through that era had that particular habit, including the current president of Russia, who had been a KGB agent working the same territory as Silver in the eighties. They had even traded bullets at one point, each wounding the other with a snap shot before retreating; neither wanting to kill the other enough to risk exposure at the time.

But there was more to it than the walk. Always on the lookout, Silver kept his shooting paw free by using the left one for everything else. That was where his habit came into conflict with the public, because it was a right-paw world, as any lefty could attest to. Controls for automatic dispensers were on the right, buttons for elevators were on the right. Indeed, most things were designed to favour the right-pawed.

Even the language was prejudicial to lefties. The Latin word for left was sinsiste, but it also meant unlucky in that language. The double meaning survives in most modern European languages. In English sinister is synonymous with evil. In French gauche means left as well as awkward, while the word for something to one's right, a droit, became the English word for skillful - adroit - similar to the Latin word for right, dexter, which became dexterity. And it did not end there. There were lots of expressions indicating the inferior nature of something if it on the left - left-pawed compliments being the most common one, like "I like the way your huge snout covers your hair lip!"

One was trained to walk on the right and when you came to double doors you were expected to go through the one on your right by pushing or pulling it with your right paw. Doing differently could cause accidents, especially in fast-paced pedestrian zones like restaurant kitchens and public transit stations. More than one commuter had been left for dead after being smashed against a wall and crushed behind a door when they least expected it.

Using the left paw on the right-side door was awkward and could interfere with his draw so Silver used the left side door instead. It was not only easier; it also threw off anyone waiting to ambush him by providing a second's extra cover. Of course, pedestrians coming through from the other side tended to get thrown off their pace when they found their way blocked by a large silver fox in a sports coat that moved with the determined force of a battleship. Some went as far as to comment on his level of intelligence and once a large wolf in a gang jacket attempted to shove Silver out of the way and was left nursing a broken wrist for his effort. But most were satisfied with giving him a dirty look or an exclamation of frustration, as in the most recent case.

Silver went to the coffee shop and ordered a small black coffee, fishing the coins out of his pocket with his left paw and carrying the cup away in it also. He sat at one of the small tables that gave him a good view of the arrival lounge, unfolded a leather case holding a tablet computer and settled in for what could be a very long wait.

He was there to see if he could spot someone very much like himself. Intelligence reports from an informant in the Kremlin had indicated that a high-priced assassin would be arriving by plane in Ottawa sometime that evening. As Canada was hosting a meeting of North and South American Foreign Ministers the next day it was assumed that one of them was the target, but it was impossible to be certain which.

Intercepting such a creature would normally be the job of the RCMP, but there was no description to go by; no age, no species, not even which gender the assassin was. At the weekly Security and Intelligence Working Group meeting the Deputy Commissioner of the RCMP had expressed doubts about their ability to identify the killer, and since the reports did not mention who the intended target was it would be therefore almost impossible to stop the assassination.

On the premise that it takes one to know one, Silver had volunteered to join the surveillance effort, assigning several FOX agents to back him up. Things had been quiet around the Academy lately and it would be fun to get one up on the national police force.

From where he was sitting he could see both the domestic and international arrival areas, and he recognized several of the RCMP Watchers covering the latter. He nodded to George, an innocuous looking weasel that had had been with the Watchers for over thirty years, and George nodded back. A rabbit leaning against a column near Silver caught the exchange and his whiskers twitched in curiosity as his gaze shifted between the fox and the weasel. Silver surmised that the rabbit, who he did not recognize, must be a new member on George's team.

The Watchers had the international arrival zone well covered, which was fine by Silver. The RCMP had assumed that since the assassin was a foreigner that he or she would arrive on an international flight, so they put their best team there and left an inexperienced rookie to cover the domestic arrivals area. But Silver thought otherwise. He expected the assassin to enter Canada at one of the smaller airports that had international connections and take a regional flight to Ottawa, perhaps under a different name; it was what he would do.

Silver believed that the assassin would be wearing clothes purchased from a Canadian retailer, have their fur trimmed in a style popular here and be carrying a cell phone registered to a Canadian citizen whose address matched that on their identification, just in case airport security was doing enhanced checks. In short, they would change everything about themselves that they could to blend in, but he or she would have a harder time dropping their habits, so Silver had arranged for a little reflex test.

One of the baggage carousels was out of order and being worked on by a short black fox with his red ball cap on backwards. Silver swept his gaze over the mechanic without pausing because he did not want to draw attention to his agent. There were several more scattered about the airport on the various levels. A grey wolf dressed as a guard kindly directed passengers to the security screening area. A blonde vixen holding a welcome sign frowned at the arrivals board as a fictitious flight from Moose Jaw was delayed yet again. An older grey fox stood by the working baggage carousel looking frustrated because his bags had not appeared. All three were positioned where they could observe the arrivals area and Silver.

The informant had only been able to give them a general window of time for the assassin's arrival - sometime Monday evening - so both Silver and the RCMP had set their surveillance up early. Both were equally aware of the possibility of counter surveillance, and the RCMP Watchers rotated through their stations within the airport at irregular intervals. On Silver's side the grey wolf was relieved by an arctic fox with a stock of dark hair. The grey fox finally gave up waiting for his luggage and wandered off to the baggage office to lodge a complaint, but a female feline in a face concealing head scarf took his place. The blond vixen left when the arrivals board declared the flight she was waiting for cancelled, but a tall muscular golden hued fox arrived to wait out another delayed flight.

Throughout it all the black fox in the red ball cap continued to curse and bang away at the innards of the malfunctioning baggage carousel, but he was buried so deep inside it that he surely had no view of arriving passengers.

Planes came and went as Silver nursed his coffee and read the news on a tablet he held on his lap. He had a clear view to the escalator and the handicap elevator which were the only two means of descending from the arrival and departure gates. He surveyed each arriving passenger with his excellent long vision, seeking clues as to their intent. Any that looked around the welcome area as they descended he dismissed automatically. Those that stared straight ahead and avoided eye contact with everyone else he suspected of being guilty of something, but not of being a world class assassin because such suspicious behavior tended to attract the interest of the security officers and professionals avoided doing it. Those that glanced around casually, but managed to take in the whole arrivals area he paid closer attention to. The ones whose eyes darted back and forth between the isolated individuals in the baggage area he studied by using the high-density zoom camera on his specially modified tablet.

One creature, a large mixed breed male canine showed defiant signs of being a hired gun. He swept the area continuously, searching for anyone paying undue attention to him and noting the exits. As he passed by the disassembled carousel Silver pressed a button on his tablet. A moment later a black paw appeared, fumbling near a tool bag for something just out of reach. The tool fell to the floor, making a loud bang when it struck the tile. Most heads in the room turned toward the sound, except for Silver's and the canine. The canine did however go into a crouch facing the most likely threat vector and his right paw disappeared under his open bomber jacket.

Silver saw a bare patch on the wrist of the canine and zoomed in on it. Fur was growing back over a area that had been shaved and tattooed. The tattoo was familiar to Silver - a winged sword. The symbol was used by the KGB back in the old days, but the dog was too young to have been in that organization. The symbol was currently used by certain Special Forces units, the ones that did not operate clandestinely.

Silver's thumb hovered over another button but he decided to wait. The canine straightened up and finally turned to look at the black fox in worker's coveralls that had hopped out of the machinery to retrieve his wrench. Then the canine stood by the other carousel to wait for his luggage.

The bags that the canine pulled off consisted mostly of black plastic cases with security locks and seals, one of which was long enough to hold a sniper rifle. His last bag was a camouflaged backpack in the pattern used by the Canadian Special Forces. Once he had everything balanced on a cart he headed for the exit.

Silver's team gravitated toward that direction also but the big fox did not give signal for them to follow, so they soon went back to their seemingly aimless meandering. It would have been a gutsy move, Silver thought, posing as one of our own military snipers to infiltrate, but even the Special Forces soldiers had to go through the same security routines as any hunter or shooting competitor did to get their weapon on a civilian aircraft and the risk of being exposed as a fake was too high.

The rabbit, which was back on station near Silver for the Watchers didn't seem to think so, as he began speaking into his wrist and moving to follow the soldier. Silver saw George looking his way, rather than at the departing canine and Silver shook his head slowly from side to side like he was stretching his neck. George scratched his temple and must have spoken without moving his lips because the rabbit stopped abruptly looking confused. Silver, not bothering to check if the Watcher's team leader was looking at him, put his paw to his mouth and grimaced as if the coffee had burnt it. George saw the gesture from the corner of his eye and understood, if the opposition had any counter-counter-intelligence personnel here the rabbit was burnt. The weasel inelegantly picked his nose as he mumbled instructions to his team. Locking dejected, the rabbit left the airport only to be replaced with a slightly older and probably more experienced skunk dressed like a janitor.

Silver had his agent dump his tools twice more over the next four hours with no positive results.

It was getting on to midnight, the upper end of the window they had told the assassin would arrive in when a plane from Halifax came in two hours overdue. The maritime city was known as more of a destination than a jumping off place but Silver knew that a number of international flights terminated there because it was just within the range of mid-sized regional jets and the landing fees were much cheaper than in Montreal or Toronto. Direct flights from there to Ottawa were rare, and often cancelled due to weather or lack of passengers. Still, Silver supposed, had it come in on time it would have been right in the range they were expecting, so he decided to wait.

There were only about thirty passengers on the flight and most of them arrived at the escalator to the baggage area at the same time. Silver used his enhanced tablet to study their faces and almost missed the elevator doors as they opened. Having written off the group on the escalator as a threat he switched his attention to the creature that was limping off the elevator.

It was a wallaby, by all appearances, and it was walking with the help of a cane held in its right paw. It was wearing thick glasses that distorted its eyes but it did not look particularly old or feeble. Silver knew ex-soldiers much younger than him, however, who needed similar aids after being wounded in theatre or hurt in training; the Academy hired such veterans for the static posts on the security force. And having been wounded many times himself Silver knew all about things like catheters and mobility aids.

Which was why he was interested in the wallaby. The cane it was using looked particularly thick and sturdy, sturdier than necessary for the amount of weight that the marsupial was putting on it. Also, it was favouring its right leg, the one on the same side as the cane. That was a common mistake that anyone who had taken any sort of therapy for a leg injury would avoid - canes should be used on the side opposite that of the weak limb.

Silver studied his tablet as he swung the special camera around and zoomed in on the wallaby. He was wearing a heavy wrist watch, but he was wearing it on the right wrist, the way a left-pawed person would keep it from scraping the page when they wrote. Most marsupials were left-pawed, Silver recalled an Australian colleague mentioning, advising him to watch out for that paw in a fight with any of his kinfolk.

The wallaby went to the active carousel where the rest of the passengers were waiting for their luggage to appear. Instead of sitting on one of the nearby benches, as someone with a lame leg might do, or standing with his weight on his good leg near the as yet immobile belt, the wallaby wandered around the carousel. Silver, who appeared to be sitting slightly sideways to the baggage area and engrossed in his tablet, smiled. It was a habit of his to wander around in this manner also because it allowed one to look all around without the obvious swinging of the head. The thick glasses and constant myopic blinking would also conceal the movement of the eyeballs as they darted from one possible threat to another, but thanks to the extreme zoom on the tablet Silver was able to pick it up.

When the luggage came the wallaby leaned its cane on the side of the carousel and pulled its bag off with its right paw. The bag had wheels and a short leash, which the creature placed in the same paw before heading toward where the rental cars were. Silver noted that its left paw was always free, and never far from his hip ... just like a gunslinger waiting to be ambushed.

There was one final test. Silver signaled for the tools one more time. When they clanged to the hard floor his head came up and turned to the sound just as all others did ... almost all. He pursed his lips in apparent disgust as the sloppy worker cursed and jumped down to retrieve them. Then he went back to his tablet, where he rewound the video of the wallaby's reaction.

There was no audio, but Silver knew the instant that the tools hit the floor because the heads in the background turned in that direction. Not the Wallaby's though. The first thing that it did was to slide its right paw along the shaft of the cane as the left took its place on the hook. By the time it swiveled its whole body to face the unknown treat it was gripping the cane like a rifle; probably, Silver surmised, because that is what it really was - a short barreled single shot rifle. The metal body of the cane would have hidden any working parts from the x-ray machine, if the security guards at the Halifax airport had even bothered putting it through.

He had seen enough. He closed the video after taking a screen shot of the wallaby and pressed a portion of the screen to send out a different kind of signal with the image attached. All of the FOX personnel inside the airport began drifting away from the wallaby, but not toward the exit. There was a different team waiting to pick up the marsupial outside.

George, possibly the best surveillance operator in the country, noticed the sudden burst of aimless activity and cocked his head at Silver while his eyes deliberately rolled away from the wallaby all the FOX agents he had identified seemed to be avoiding. Silver nodded once then went back to looking at his tablet. George whipped his nose. Likely getting his own people onto the wallaby too. No matter, Silver shrugged, one of their teams would find out where the assassin was staying and after that it back in the paws of the RCMP - counter terrorism was their job, not FOX's.

We just step in when they get in over their head, Silver reminded himself, like tonight.

He gave the wallaby a good fifteen minutes to clear the terminal before heading home himself. While he drove he thought about the East German shepherd who had pointed out his own habit of walking with the right paw steady by his side while he let the left one swing. Now when he traversed foreign airports, where the threat of attack was low but the chances of being observed were high, he made a habit of swinging his right arm as much as the left. He also wore slightly tinted glasses to obscure the intensity of his blue-grey eyes.

He did not give another thought to the wallaby as his headlights cut a swath through the darkness, building a tunnel of light leading him home, because as far as he was concerned F.O.X. was finished with the affair.

He was wrong.

Despite the late night Silver went to his office at the usual time the next day, mostly because he wanted to share the ride in with his mate and their son, who they dropped off at his private school on the way into Ottawa. His schedule was not too busy so he was able to go to the Combat Training Centre and spar with some of the students. That along with weapons practice and extreme gardening were the only form of exercise that he ever took and he hated to skip a session.

Back in his office he approved a number of administrative tasks, made a few operational decisions and reviewed the performance reports of the junior agents. The agency had expanded in recent years and there was a need for more staff as well as more operational teams and one of the junior agents would be promoted to senior agent status based on these reports. He was just considering the file for the cheetah Geno when a knock came on his door.

That's unusual, he thought as he called "Come in." Violet, the poodle with the purple punk hairdo that was filling in for the wounded Miss CC usually just yelled through the door when she wanted something from him.

Violet entered and closed the door behind her. She was looking subdued and a bit afraid, another uncommon occurrence.

"You have an unscheduled visitor." Violet said in a low voice and without swear words, for once. "The Deputy Commissionaire of the RCMP, and she's not in uniform."

Silver sat back and processed the information. The Deputy Commissionaire was the senior uniformed member of the national police force, a career cop and Silver's opposite number at the RCMP. A female doberman, she was a formidable officer and a fanatical defender of the RCMP's image. Silver could see why Violet, who had a poor history with the law, would be anxious; especially since the DC never went anywhere out of uniform. It was rumoured that she even slept in it. Her unannounced visit must be a delicate matter indeed if she did not want the force implicated in it.

"Show her in." He told the poodle in a voice that did not reveal his intense curiosity.

Once the doberman was seated and violet had closed the door on them Silver offered her a drink, which she declined. Then he asked what business had brought her to the Academy.

"There has been a development in the assassination case."` She began. "Thank you for helping identify him at the airport, by the way."

Silver nodded and waited silently for her to continue.

"We've had the shooter under surveillance with a warrant from a federal Judge. Since he's a foreigner in the employ of a foreign power we were able to get the full suite - A listening device in the wall of his hotel room, electronic monitoring of his phone and intercept of any signals coming in or out. Early this morning the Signals Intelligence boys got a hit on an encrypted message. They weren't able to decrypt the text but they did unscramble an image attached to it. We believe that it is a picture of the intended victim."

"And why bring this to F.O.X.?" Silver asked, suspecting that she was going to ask for help in figuring out where the hit was likely to take place. After all, it takes an assassin to know how an assassin thinks. But he wrong again.

"It's a picture of you, Silver. You're the target."

The revelation shocked Silver somewhat. Things had been quiet lately and there were no international criminal organizations or secret terrorist societies with a particular grudge against him or F.O.X. hanging around, not that he was aware off. Yet one did not send an assassin of this calibre after someone lightly.

"Any idea who sent him or why?" He asked, although he suspected that she did not.

She did not surprise him when she admitted that she did not. "But this changes things." She continued. "Our mandate is Domestic counter-intelligence and counter-terrorism, not international espionage. After discussing this with the Minister we feel that F.O.X. should take the lead, given the circumstances. Of course we stand ready to contribute whatever resources we can, in a supporting role."

So that was why she had come in civilian clothes, Silver deducted. She was passing the ball to F.O.X. So that the blame would not fall on her force should anything go wrong. Not that he blamed her or disagreed with the transfer of authority.

"Did the Minister realize that she will have to provide waivers for us to operate on Canadian soil?"

The DC produced a grey government envelope stamped SECRET from inside her blouse and passed it to Silver. "Of course."

Silver gave the papers inside a cursory check. They transferred the warrants for electronic surveillance and intercept to F.O.X. effective immediately. Messages were probably coming into the Operations Centre as they spoke.

"Very efficient." He commented and then he stood to signal that the meeting had come to an end. "Let me know if you hear anything from your sources, will you?"

She smiled at Silver in the way a snake smiles at a cornered mouse. "Of course and oh, by the way, the information on your movements and schedule must have come from someone inside your organization, a mole, perhaps? In any event, counter-intelligence is still RCMP responsibility so we will be looking into it. I expect that you will be equally cooperative with our team when it arrives?"

Having had some experience with their CI investigations in the past Silver was tempted to refuse, but he could not. What she had said was true, the RCMP had jurisdiction, at least until the Director could make a case for an exemption to the Minister, but that was not likely to happen before the assassination.

Silver saw the Deputy Commissioner to the door and she left with a smile and a cheery wave. She could afford to be happy, he thought as he watched her go, she's just saved her department a lot of heartache and potential embarrassment. On the other paw if there was indeed a double agent inside F.O.X. the Academy's reputation would suffer considerably; not to mention his personal chagrin should the assassination prove successful.

Silver sat down and flicked a switch indicating that he did not want to be disturbed under any circumstances. He leaned back in his chair and tented his digits in front of his muzzle as he contemplated the implications of the recent revelation.

That he was a target was not as important as why he was a target and who had made him one. He did not have any living enemies that would want to take him out just for the hell of it, as far as he knew, so the assassination was likely a prelude to some larger operation. It was doubtful that the assassin would know what it was though, so the most important thing was to find out who he was working for. But again, the killer probably did not know that either. He was likely working through a broker.

Too bad they didn't contract The Perfect Stalker for this operation, he mused, because he had replaced the reclusive assassin with his own killer and had taken over the duties of the broker. They had prevented a number of political assignations simply by claiming that the Stalkers schedule was full and warning the intended targets, but when the victim was a criminal or an enemy of the state he let the assassination go ahead just to keep the Stalker's reputation up. But life is never worked out so perfectly he told himself, and continued to analyse the problem.

They may intercept his next communication with his broker and then, if they were lucky, trace it back to the client. But the next communication was likely to be the message confirming that the mission was successful, and that did bode well for Silver.

Remembering what the DC had said about his schedule being compromised Silver checked his calendar to see if he could not figure out where the hit was likely to take place. He studied the schedule while thinking what he would do if he was taking this person out.

Knowing where a person lived or worked or would be at a given time only got you so far. Apart from having a bullet-proof car, Silver varied his route and timings daily to no set pattern. The house was surrounded by woods that were filled with sensors, alarms and booby traps. He had a parking space out of public view and entered the office by a back door, avoiding the main entrance. As the Chief of Staff he often attended administrative meetings and symposiums but it was just as likely that the Director or the Chief Operations Officer would go in his place. Besides, they were always being rescheduled or relocated at the last minute. Taken together there was too high a degree of uncertainty to make it worthwhile. A public event would be better, but Silver's duties did not include attending public events.

It would have to be something at a fixed time and location, Silver mused, something the target was not likely to miss. And it would be soon, the longer an assassin lingered the greater the chance of discovery and failure.

Silver left his work schedule and concentrated on his personal entries. He had included several non-work events on his calendar as placeholders, reminders to the Executive Secretary not to schedule anything else on his behalf at those times. They included family trips, School assemblies, recitals and concerts he had tickets for at the National Arts Centre, known locally as the NAC. He surveyed the entries and within seconds his eyes fixed on one.

Of course, he thought. If they know anything about me at all they will know how I feel about that particular annual event. And he would still attend, but Vikki and Leslie were going to be disappointed to miss it.

Silver picked up the phone to inform his mate that he would not be home for the next two nights, and that their family outing to the NAC was cancelled.

"Can you tell me why?" She asked.

"Not yet." He relied, knowing that she would understand the need for security but that she would be worried for him all the same.

After mutual expressions of affection and a promise to make it up to her and their son he hung up. Then he leaned back in his chair once again to contemplate the thought of a mole inside F.O.X.

The next night found him the lone occupant of a small Loge on the Mezzanine level of the NAC. He, his mate and their son were subscribers to the classical music program and he had bought the whole Loge for the sake of privacy, although sometimes they invited friends and colleagues from the Academy to join them, but not tonight.

Tonight was the annual performance of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture. It was a long piece and was usually preceded by other selections of the Russian composers' works. The main feature of the performance was a number of small cannons that were positioned in front of the orchestra. When the 1812 Overture reached its crescendo, representing the defeat of Napoleon by the Russians, the conductor would trigger the cannons to fire. The cannons would flash several times each, emitting fire and smoke and a convincing 'boom' each time. Red and yellow spotlights would weave about, and the stage would be transformed into a battle field, right down to the smell of the gunpowder.

What better place to discharge a firearm? The only one likely to notice would be the conductor and he would probably put it down to faulty timing on one of the cannons.

Silver sat alone in a chair at the front of his box, resisting the temptation to scan the shadowy ceiling for signs of the shooter. Outwardly he was calm but inside the tension made his heart thrum. Even though he was certain that he was in no danger during the first half of the performance he hardly noticed the orchestra playing some of his favourite Tchaikovsky pieces on the stage below. At the intermission he went to pick up a glass of dry white wine that he had pre-ordered and drank it in the lobby before returning to his seat.

He was not the only creature in the hall feeling nervous. Up amongst the black painted sound baffles that kept the music from echoing too much the assassin was waiting with growing tension. The wallaby had served with the Australian Special Forces before going rogue and he had heard of the silver Canadian fox from his colleagues in the allied services. They said that he could shoot the balls off a fly at fifty meters with that old Glock he carried and they were not the types to exaggerate someone else's accomplishments. But the wallaby was dressed all in black to match the background and the only exposed fur, that around his eyes, was dyed black. His heavy cane, now extended to reveal a breach and trigger and with a scope mounted, was equally dark. It could only fire one shot at a time but one shot was all that the wallaby ever needed, especially at this range.

Tension mounted in both creatures as the 1812 overture wound on. Passages representing Napoleon's march on Moscow gave way to a lively passage depicting the battle, which the French almost won. But a choir representing the prayers of the Russian people ushered in the woodwinds depicting the onset of the Russian winter and the starvation of the French troops. Finally the Russians began to pursue the retreating French army, capturing their artillery, and on cue from the conductor the final battle began. Up in the rafters the wallaby drew a bead on the silver fox's where he was sitting straight up in his box, his head turned slightly away from the assassin as he looked down on the stage and occasionally consulted his program. The wallaby lowered his aim to place the crosshairs just above the target's left eye.

The music swelled and the first volley of cannons fired. The wallaby was so wound up that almost pulled the trigger when they roared. It was a good thing that he did not as his victim, equally startled, dropped his program and disappeared below the front of the Loge to retrieve it just that second. Through the smoke and swirling lights he saw the fox straighten up to resume his place in the chair; back stiff, head tilted down, paws resting on his lap.

The shooter steadied his breathing, reacquired his target, waited for the smoke from the cannons to clear, let out half a breath and then held it as he gently squeezed the trigger.

There was no great explosion of blood and gore; the wallaby had not been expecting one. The bullets he was using were made of lead, bad for the environment but excellent for spreading inside soft tissue, especially when they had a hollow centre with a small drop of mercury in it. The deceleration as the bullet penetrated the skull drove the mercury forward and that in turn made the bullet shatter, sending bits of lead through the target's brain on several different trajectories. Instead of blowing the back of the victim's head off the result was catastrophic damage inside the skull causing instant death.

The assassin continued to observe the Loge looking for signs of life. When none came after a full minute he disassembled his rifle and returned it to its cane configuration. Then he made his way back out through the roof, replacing the lock he had picked on the service hatch to gain access. Moving with confidence in the dark he hopped from one level to another until he was able to drop down to the public sidewalk in a dark corner. Then he reassumed his feeble shuffle as he made his way to the nearby transit station and caught the first bus going anywhere.

Having purchased a transit pass at a tourist kiosk the wallaby was able to hop off the bus and onto another every few blocks. He wore a fake hearing aid connected to a battery powered emergency services monitor and for almost thirty minutes the chatter was routine. Then a call came to dispatch an ambulance to the NAC, followed shortly by a call for the police to attend the scene. A few minutes later the paramedics called in requesting that their patient be declared dead, providing details of the lack of vital signs and describing a penetrating head wound as the apparent cause of death. The body was to be left in place until the police forensic team was done with the scene.

Only then did the wallaby pullout the disposable phone he had bought at the same kiosk and call a number he had memorized.

His call was answered with a grunt. "It is done." He said and then ended the call. At the next stop he stepped off the bus and headed back the way he had come. He opened the phone and removed the SIM card, crushing it between strong digits before dropping it down a storm sewer grate. The phone went into the next trash can. After walking two blocks with no sign of trouble he headed to the bus terminal, where he had stored his baggage in a locker. He already had a ticket for the midnight bus to Montreal, with which stopped the international airport before heading downtown. By the time the sun came up he would be in the air on his way back to his home base in Eastern Europe.

Back at the NAC the Maître D' of a popular Russian restaurant was sipping a glass of wine at a small table across from the Mezzanine Loges. There had been quite a commotion after the performance when the usher had checked the Loges to see if any needed tidying up. A pair of paramedics had arrived shortly after, followed by the police. Detectives and technicians had followed. The bear had been questioned; along with everyone else enjoying an after show drink on that floor. When asked for identification he had produced his local driver's licence, rather than the Russian one he used in Moscow when he reported in to the Intelligence Directorate.

He told the officers that he had been in the next Loge but had not heard or seen anything unusual. No, he did not see anyone go in or out Loge in question, except for the first responders, of course. He agreed to wait for the detectives before leaving. He was not in a rush.

The bear was still sitting in the corridor when the police photographer left and the forensic team was finished taking their samples. The detectives came out and began questioning the potential witnesses again. Behind them the Russian could see the three paramedics struggling to get their gurney back out through the door. The one in the front, a short black fox who was wearing his Ottawa Emergency Services cap on backward cursed as the wheels collapsed and the body shifted forward. The second attendant, a blonde feline with a bust bursting out of her uniform grabbed for the feet but only succeeded in snatching the sheet that covered the body. The small fox had to grab the corpse by the shoulders as it slid out from under the sheet until the third attendant, a long snouted canine of some kind, a collie perhaps, could get through the door and kick the wheels back into place.

They had the body covered up again in an instant, but not before the bear got a good look at the empty unblinking stare of the silver fox's eyes and the small black hole just above the left one, right where the scar he had been told to look for was. The scar extended up and down from the hole, and the glassy blue-grey eyes were also a match. The bear produced a burner phone of his own and punched in the same number the wallaby had used a little earlier.

"Hello Dear." He said when he heard the grunt. "I'm going to be a bit late getting home, someone has been hurt at the symphony."

He disconnected without waiting for confirmation. Had the silver fox been alive he would have used an entirely different code phase. He put the phone back in his spacious pocket, slipping the SIM card into paw out of sight of the officers standing watch over them. When he pulled his paw back out it appeared empty. He wrapped the small wafer inside his napkin and stuffed the paper into his empty wine glass. Holding the glass up he signaled for one of the waiters to take it, declining a complementary beverage offered as compensation for the unfortunate circumstances.

Down on the street the ambulance raced toward the Ottawa General Hospital with its sirens blaring and lights flashing. With the little fox driving it changed lanes and ran lights with hardly a pause. In the back the tall canine and the busty feline had to grab the straps in order to keep from being thrown about. Fortunately the body was firmly strapped to the gurney, which was locked into the floor of the careening vehicle.

The tall canine attendant leaned forward into the driver's space. "Cut the lights and the siren, Marcel, I'm supposed to be dead, remember?"

Marcel, aka Agent Ebony, cursed that he never had any fun anymore but complied. In the rear his mate and junior agent Geno undid a couple more buttons in the overly tight uniform blouse so she could breathe again. Beside her the third attendant pulled off floppy prosthetic ears and foam muzzle inserts that changed the shape of his vulpine snout. Then he popped the brown contact lenses off from his blue-grey eyes and peeled the fake fur that was covering the scar on his left brow. The dye that had changed his silvery facial fur into something more collie like would have to wait until he could use the executive shower at the office.

Geno was wearing ear buds which were plugged into the kind of military radio that the paramedics definitely did not use.

"George and his team were able to keep close enough to the bus to intercept the wallaby's call." She reported. "They noted where he dropped the card and the phone for recovery later. George says storm sewers are poor disposal points unless it's actually raining. Kain Algorath confirms that he was able to intercept the call from the NAC also. They were both to the same number. He's running it through some of his tracing software and expects to have a location for whoever was running this show by the time we get back to the Academy."

Silver knew that they had also recovered the SIM card from the NAC because he saw the bear slip it into the napkin in the wine glass and give it to Kyroo Echos, a F.O.X. Agent disguised as a waiter. Zac Ember would follow the bear and pick up the phone after he dropped it. Not that they needed the hardware to locate the creature behind this plot, but the counter-intelligence guys would appreciate the hard evidence should they ever decide to roll the bear on an espionage charge. That reminded him of something.

He pulled the sheet covering the head of the assassin's victim down and contemplated the hole in the left brow, straight through the eye would have been better but with the head tilted down this spot was a good second choice. Silver gripped the head between his paws, flexed his powerful arms and twisted. The head came off from the body with an audible click. He stuffed the head in a plastic bag that Geno was holding out.

"Get that to the techs as soon as we arrive." He ordered. He doubted that they would recover any useful evidence from it but they could certainly rebuilt it and have it ready for the next attempt on his life, which he was certain would follow when whoever ordered this one found out that he was still alive. Meanwhile, he would treat himself to a little time off while his mate and son when through the charade of mourning their loss, buying time for them to trace the calls back to the controller.

Maybe I can get some work done around the house, he thought. There were a number of jobs he had been putting off because he was too cheap to hire a contractor to do them but could not find the time to do himself. This would be the perfect opportunity to catch up before the cold weather set in. Just the thought of it made him feel better, less worried about the future. He looked down at the artificial body double he had swung up into his chair at the NAC while he hid behind the low wall. It was wearing one of his old tuxedos, and it was a good fit. He patted the broad chest affectionately.

"You know," he told it, "not just any body can do your job."

They kept up the charade by unloading the ambulance at the Academy's private hospital and initiating the protocol for the assassination of a senior official, knowing that the assassin had likely escaped already, counting on it in fact. When the bogus ambulance left Silver went with it, switching to a nondescript rental driven by another trusted agent on the edge of town. He had them drop him off several kilometres away from his isolated house and made his way home cross-country.

The next day found him removing the old rotten deck from behind the house. The swimming season was over and he wanted to have a replacement built around the above ground pool before it snowed. He was making slow progress though, as his mate Vikki noted from where she was watching inside from the sun deck. There was something different about the way he was working and it took her a few minutes to figure out what it was - he was doing everything with his left paw.

She called out through the screen. "Why are you doing everything with your off paw?"

"Practice." He replied. "In case my right is incapacitated or I have to pretend to be left-pawed to throw off surveillance."

"You're not supposed to go to the field anymore."

"You never know."

She watched him for a few more minutes in silence. From prying up the old boards to pulling out the rusty nails, each move was deliberate and slow."

"It's going to take forever to finish at that pace." She noted.

Silver paused and wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm. "I've only been at it for an hour but it's already going faster than when I started."

Vikki moved closer to the screen and let the robe she was wearing fall open. "I asked the school to let Leslie stay in the dorm with his friends for a week .... due to a death in the family."

Silver looked over and noted the open robe, and that she had removed her prosthetic arm - a sure sign of carnal intent.

Her lone paw drifted down to her groin. "I have something that could use the attention of a slow paw." She said, rubbing herself.

He put down the crowbar and stood up. The sweat made his chest fur stick to his broad torso, partially obscuring the 'Zee'-shaped scar. He jumped from the partially dismantled deck to the platform outside the sunroom and stepped inside. She spread her arms wide to receive him. Lips met lips as his left paw slipped up between her thighs to rest on the warm damp mound at their apex.

"I took a week off work too." She mumbled as she nibbled on his ear.

"Damn." He said, as his digits slid inside her. "This deck really is going to take forever."

* * * * *

That was only a couple of weeks ago, and the Academy has made a pretty good show of pretending that they are covering up for the Chief of Staff being killed. Even the RCMP, who have been looking for an active mole are convinced that Silver is dead. But I know otherwise.

How do I know that Silver is alive? For one thing, Violet ordered a bottle of Silver's favourite single-malt scotch for the executive office bar, even though the one in there was half full last time I looked. Williams doesn't drink the stuff and the brand is too obscure for guests. Then there is the fact that Vikki ha not torn the tailholes out of every analyst and agent in the place in her effort to find out who killed him. She is the senior agent in Silver's place and she is acting with the cool calm deliberateness that Silver displays when he is really, really angry - totally unlike herself in other words.

But the real reason that I know he is still alive is because of the bits and pieces of a major operation that is being mounted. You see, since the attempted assassination Kain Algorath was able to trace the calls though a number of cut outs to an office in Moscow, one used by the Intelligence Director, Yermolayev, himself. The RCMP was also able to link the bear back to the FSB and when faced with charges of espionage and accessory to murder he decided that he would rather work for us. That's a free bit of information for your boss, not part of what I really want to talk to him about.

As for your hired assassin, I hear that he met an untimely end the other day - tripped and choked on the blood when he bit his tongue off. What are the odds of that, eh? I can't swear to the veracity of this next bit but there is a rumour going around the Academy that Silver has a out of agency assassin on retainer, someone as good as the Perfect Stalker they say. Someone who specializes in making assassinations look like accidents; but that is beside the point.

So, let's assume that Silver knows that the hit was ordered and orchestrated by Yermolayev. Given the consequences of taking out a senior intelligence official he could only have gotten the go ahead from Putin himself. You can image how upset he would be about that. I mean, he disliked you guys before that but now ... Anyway, let's just say I'm glad I'm not in their shoes.

I don't know why he ordered the hit but the gossip around the Agent's Lounge is that you're about to mount a big operation against the Canadian government in retaliation for the sanctions we slapped on the Rodina and our support for the Ukraine in your little proxy war with them. You wanted Silver out of the way because he's screwed up so many of your little schemes in the past. No, don't bother denying it; you guys are about as subtle as a bull in a china shop. Yeah, I know that's a stereotype but we're not here to address my state of political correctness.

What I am here to discuss is the plot against the Kremlin that Silver has launched from his hiding place. But as I said, I will only discuss it with Yermolayev himself, because I can't trust you amateurs as far as I could throw you.

Straps and a ball gag! Seriously? I do that shit for fun. You better face the facts kiddo, you'll never get me to reveal my secrets to you. I have nothing to lose and no one to go back to. Yermolayev is the only one who can give me what I want, what I crave - recognition as Russia's longest lasting and most successful deep agent. I've put my time in the trenches, I've served those smug capitalistic bastards and smiled while when the cheap bastards forgot to leave a tip and it's about goddam time that someone acknowledged the work I've been doing.

Sorry, I get worked up a bit sometimes. You guys do what you have to do, I won't hold it against you. But when you're done and you realize that it's Yermolayev or nothing I get to say 'I told you so!'.

Jesus, do you have to have to tie those so tight? I'm going to lose circulation in my .....