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Tales from the Agent's Lounge

Epilogue: Inside Job

Well, that was thoroughly unenjoyable. I don't think that I've ever had such a vigorous or complete cavity search, and I've been done by some of the best. A little redundant though, considering all the x-rays you took. By the way, Boris, you could use a claw trim.

After the torture the last couple of days it was almost refreshing though. You didn't even try to be gentle, and I know why. You know about my little 'hobby', don't you? Oh, don't frown like that. Being tied up and punished can be quite liberating. You should try it some time. It is probably easier to take than the crap you have to put up with from your boss in Moscow.

<whack>

Ah, now, you see your expression along with that unfocused slap tells me a lot. Not only that I hit a sore spot but that you're afraid of your boss finding out how you feel. Don't worry about it, from what I know about Yermolayev he probably knows all about your resentment. You can rejoice in the fact that you must still be useful since he hasn't sent you to Siberia or had you killed yet. Now you just need to figure out how to stay useful given the dangerous secret you are privy to. What secret? The fact that there is a sleeper agent inside F.O.X. that Yermolayev thinks could be useful, otherwise I'd be dead or in Siberia instead of wired up to a lie detector.

Yermolayev is in the other room watching us, isn't he? I figured that I would meet him today; why else search me so thoroughly? That and the fact that you're wearing a clean shirt for a change. That you are pissed at him for coming over here and taking over a case you thought of as yours came through in the way you conducted the search. And even a Thud like you can figure out that the only reason he would order such a search is because he takes what I have to say very seriously; seriously enough to consider being alone in the room with me, even though he is still suspicious that this might be some sort of elaborate set up. I don't blame him. Silver is the sneakiest, most manipulative creature that I have ever met.

Silver, however, is not a chess player, which Yermolayev is well aware of, and he doesn't think more than three steps ahead. Sure, he might sacrifice a pawn like me to take out a bishop like Yermolayev but he would never consider risking a knight or even a rook; he doesn't have the resources to spare. But inside information can be as valuable as an extra queen on the board, and the chance that what I have to offer is real has enticed your boss out of his safe place in Moscow; exposed him, made him vulnerable. I know how he feels - I play chess too.

You know that what I'm saying is true. I can tell by the way the needles are hardly moving on the paper. So for the benefit of Yermolayev's piece of mind let me say this - I am not here to assassinate him. I just want to go back to F.O.X. and continue the work that I have been doing for Russia. And yes, I do have valuable information for him regarding a plot against Putin himself.

There, see? Hardly a tremor on the needles. Want me to tell a few lies to confirm that your machine is working? Okay, I am a great lover. Oops, no reaction. Guess I really am a great lover.

<whack>

Jesus, will you cut that out? See how the needles are moving now? That's because I'm pissed. Give me a minute to calm down. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts. Okay. Now, here is a lie - I am a loyal citizen of Canada. Ah, there they go. Off the page almost. I hate making martinis - another seismic reaction. Convinced?

No, I didn't mean you, I meant Yermolayev. Is he convinced? Probably not seeing as you are still here and he isn't. Maybe he is wondering about my motives for contacting you now. Let me say this while the machine is still hooked up, I'm here because of a poodle named Maria. F.O.X. sent me and her into an ambush totally unprepared. A Group called SPIRIT may have carried out the attack but I know that the blame really lies on someone inside the Canadian agency - a silver toned son-of-a-bitch of the highest order.

Sorry, I'm making your machine freak out. I've heard that strong emotions can sabotage the readings. I'll try to calm down.

There, that's better.

Speaking of sabotage, did you know that the term originated in France when mill workers protesting poor conditions threw their wooden shoes, known as 'sabots' into the gears? Anyways, that's what I've heard.

F.O.X. and its allied agencies have a long history of sabotage. Before Canada had an independent espionage agency they were part of the British Special Operations Executive, the S.O.E. During the Second World War, sorry, the Great Patriotic War as you would call it, they used sabotage to interfere with the Nazi supply chain. Abrasives in the lubricants, explosive materials disguised as coal to destroy train engines, land mines disguised as cow flops on supply routes. They could make explosives from the contents of an average kitchen and rig a timer from a jar of dried peas. The first Director of F.O.X., a walrus they refer to as "W" was an S.O.E. operative and later became the Commanding Officer of one of the commando squadrons.

The old walrus brought his expertise with him when F.O.X. was formed. Sabotage is still one of their major roles. Before they discovered my past and made me a bartender I learned a lot about the art.

It's best to have someone on the inside, a disgruntled scientist or engineer, but an infiltrator can work just as well. Of course, the best saboteur is the unwitting one, W used to say. An exploding briefcase makes a great Christmas gift for someone who works in the data centre you want to destroy.

But W considered the use of explosives to crude as well as too obvious. A bit of computer code can have a much more directed and devastating effect. You just design something that will destroy a project or even an entire industry and you put it in the paws of an innocent insider. Maybe you give them a corrupt DVD at a trade conference or leave a doctored USB stick in their parking lot. Stuxnet was supposed to have been introduced into the Iranian nuclear program in a similar manner. It destroyed all their centrifuges before they knew what was happening.

You laugh, but the Motherland has not been immune to this method of attack. Ever hear about the Farewell Dossier? No? Well I bet that your boss has.

According to an American that used to work for Regan named Thomas Reed the KGB had a unit known as Line X - a technical Intelligence gathering unit under embassy cover as part of KGB Directorate T. There was a KGB Colonel named Vladimir Vetrove who turned double agent and worked with the French DST to send 4,000 secret documents to the west, including the identification of 250 Line X operatives in the west. According to Reed the CIA mounted a counter-intelligence operation that transferred modified hardware and software designs over to the Soviets.

Basically they doctored the designs for new oil and gas pipeline technology, including the control software, and let the KGB steal it. It was rigged to show that it was running at full capacity when it was well below tolerance. Of course they noticed that the volume delivered didn't match the volume it claimed to be pumping but the Ministry of Energy Officials blamed it on corrupt officials skimming some off the top for private sale - a common enough practice in Russia then and now.

When the time was right they sent a signal through a compromised computer that increased the pressure way beyond capacity across the system. I hear that the resulting fireball could be seen by astronauts in the Space Shuttle. With no oil or gas exports the USSR economy was ruined and with no way of transporting the domestic supply dissension rose and the collapse of the Soviet Union began.

No, I have not seen the file myself, but Fidel Castro referred to it in a speech he made in 2007. His country was hurt by the lack of oil flowing from the USSR too.

Pretty sneaky, eh? There are dozens of other examples, but I'd just be wasting time repeating them. So just let me say 'Yellow Orchid'.

* * * * *

Yermolayev, a black Russian terrier, was indeed listening in on the interrogation in an adjacent room. He was trying to decide whether it was better to smuggle the old fox back to Moscow and drain every ounce of information from his scrawny carcass or send him back to F.O.X. with a shopping list of intelligence requirements and see how much he could get before he was eventually, inevitably, caught and executed by the Canadians.

Or, he mused, I could just have him killed now.

As the inheritors of the old KGB files Yermolayev's people in the Foreign Intelligence Service, the SVR, had know about the second generation sleeper, of course, but had written him off as untrustworthy due to his sadomasochistic tendencies. They believed that the pressures of remaining undercover in the decadent western environment had warped his mind. Not surprising given his weak intellect.

Yermolayev did not consider very many creatures to be his equal. The black Russian terriers were a mixed race, breed from the healthiest, most intelligent and capable canines as part of a genetic engineering experiment. They were large, strong dogs with thick curly coats but their working dog appearance was deceptive as they were also incredibly intelligent. Much more than any common breed or species, Yermolayev told himself.

The fox known as Silver, for example, was not much more than a common thug, a Thud as the sleeper had colourfully put it. Yes, he had a certain animal cunning, but his continued survival and constant obstruction to Yermolayev's plans was more a matter of luck.

The spy master recalled the exploits of the old British walrus, Sir Wilbur when the sleeper mentioned him. Now there was a worthy adversary, a chess player worthy of the competition. A master of the triple- and quadruple-agent ploy. But F.O.X. had gone downhill since his death. The new Director was a deviant, an openly gay fox who allowed Silver to staff the agency with the worst sort of perverts and weak minded street brawlers, the hiring of this failed sleeper agent being a case in point.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a paw striking flesh coming through the speakers. Good help was hard to find everywhere, he conceded, but to let a field agent run the agency, how audacious!

The big silver fox should have been let go at the end of the Cold War. But then again, the same could be said about the annoying squirrel that was curtly president of Russia. Putin was another example of what happens when you let the riff-raff run the show. At least being Russian Putin had a better sense for political manipulation. It was almost bearable working for him .... almost.

His thoughts went back to the sleeper, whose parents had taken the surname Muzzle when they were infiltrated into the west and who they had named Gray. They would have done better naming him Steve or Robert or something else more common, Yermolayev thought. Giving a sleeper a distinctive first name was a mistake, it made one memorable, and that was to be avoided when one was trying to fit in. Maybe that was why he fox became a deviant, he wondered, reminding himself to bring it up with the SVR psychologists when he got back to Moscow.

The sleeper had grown to resemble his name though. Now in his early sixties the old fox had a gray muzzle, and maybe he was more mature in other ways. The latest reports from those tasked with keeping an eye on F.O.X. indicated that he had settled down with the paraplegic poodle who used to be the Executive Secretary there. As he alluded to she had been crippled in an ambush organized by a free-lance criminal terror group called SPIRIT, an ambush that the sleeper barely survived himself.

The lie detector had a second display here in the next room and Yermolayev was an expert on reading the results. When the fox was talking about the ambush it had displayed strong emotions, but they were truthful emotions. Gray Muzzle did indeed blame someone in F.O.X. for the ambush, and it was easy to guess who. But good intentions - and Yermolayev, being Russian, counted revenge as a good intention - were not enough. A double agent must display real value to justify the risk of keeping them in place.

Yermolayev had just about decided what to do, but was stuck between kidnapping the fox or killing him now. He certainly did not need to send Gray Muzzle back undercover - what useful information could the bartender possibly provide?

So far nothing that the sleeper had given them was what might be considered as 'actionable' intelligence. Yes, it confirmed some things that they had suspected, but even the revelation that Silver had survived the assassination attempt was old news; satellite imagery of the fox's lair showed the deck behind his house gradually disappearing and a new one being constructed. Electronic hacking of the executive assistant's computer, the real source of the information used in the assassination, also showed that the Chief of Staff had accessed the system after he was reported dead.

But then he heard the words 'Yellow Orchid' spoken with obvious emphasis.

The term was a codename for a CIA plan to take down Putin back when he was first elected as President of Russia. It involved exposing all of Putin's illegal financial dealings. Yermolayev, only a section head back then, had learned of it through a double agent he had placed high in the CIA Operations Directorate. The plan was never put into action though, partially because the risk of exposure was so great, partially because his double agent influenced the decision makers into believing that Putin would be good for the West for the two-terms Russian Presidents could serve. Of course the Americans mistook the two-term limit be the same as the one their Presidents served under - an absolute limit - and not as two terms in a row, as it was written in Russian.

Putin served his two terms and then transferred most of his powers to the Prime Minister's office, which he became for a term before running for President again. He would run again soon and was certain to win. Then at the end of his fourth term as President - who knew? Maybe he would remove the limits altogether or declare himself Emperor.

The important point was that in order for the sleeper to have found out about Yellow Orchid the plan must have been shared with the CIA's allied partners, MI-6, F.O.X and D.I.N.G.O. And the old fox had mentioned having access to the Top Secret archives through his canine wench.

Wheels began to spin inside Yermolayev's head. Having all the Western agencies shared files would be a treasure trove of information. Moreover, it would give him access to embarrassing information that the Westerners held on certain key figures in the Russian Government, information that would simply be denied as false news if the CIA released it, but it could be incredibly damaging if it was exposed by someone with credibility in Russia, an outraged former ally, for example.

Yermolayev had clawed his way to the top of the Intelligence agency by knowing more about everyone else's sins than they knew of his, but the one creature in Russia who held the keys to more closets full of skeletons than him was Putin. As a KGB agent before the fall of the USSR and the head of the FSB, the Federal Security Service afterwards, Putin had dirt on everyone and anyone that had dirt to hide, and none of them dared to speak out against the grey squirrel lest they come down with a sudden case of radiation poisoning. Having something on Putin would not only elevate Yermolayev into the magic circle of the most corrupt officials, where he could wallow in the kind of dirt he loved - dirty money - it may even prove to be a path to the Presidency itself.

But it would be a difficult path. His thought that Putin might declare himself Emperor was more than just a jest. Putin had already surrounded himself with the pomp and glitter of the Romanovs and he had recreated the National Guard, a sort of Praetorian Guard tasked with protecting Putin and his political cronies, even against the army itself if need be.

The leader of the National Guard was a great brown bear named Victor Zolotov - a former bodyguard of the Mayor of Saint Petersburg when Putin was Deputy Mayor there. The big bruin had become the wiry squirrel's sparring partner and later, after the head of his agency died of mysterious radiation poisoning, he became a bodyguard for Putin. Zolotov had been implicated in a number of suspicious deaths, many by radiation poisoning. Now in addition to being the head of Putin's private army he was on the influential Security Council. He was a Thud - Yermolayev quite liked the term - but a loyal one. He would have to be eliminated before any move could be made on Putin.

Sergei Naryshkin, a borzoi or wolfhound, the titular head of the SVR and Yermolayev's boss, was another matter. He was another of the Saint Petersburg cronies but much less deadly than Zolotov. He was a career bureaucrat and not a professional spy like Yermolayev. He was loyal, but only to a point. Yermolayev thought that he could be swayed into supporting a change if there was a good reward in it for him.

A third friend form Saint Petersburg was the current head of the FSB, an arctic fox named Alexander Bortnikov. Bortnikov had been in the KGB with Putin in Leningrad before the squirrel jumped into politics and the name of the city was changed back to Saint Petersburg. He had served under Putin in the FSB and was appointed as the head of the agency by Putin's puppet, Dmitry Medvedev. Yermolayev considered the arctic fox slightly more intelligent than most of the Saint Petersburg group and therefore more open to suggestion. But how much could one really trust a former KGB agent?

That left the last member of Putin's Saint Petersburg club - the current Prime Minister, Dmitry Medvedev. Medvedev was a bolonka, a bichon-type of canine that had a history as courtiers during the Imperial era. The Prime Minister had an academic background but had befriended Putin when they both working for the Mayor of Saint Petersburg. He had been a loyal supporter of the Machiavellian squirrel, acting as Prime Minister during Putin's fist two terms as President and appointing Putin as Prime Minister when he took over as President. It was he who had conceded some of the Presidential powers so that Putin could continue to rule the nation from the Prime Minister's office.

At the time the acknowledged plan was for Putin to slowly pull back from public life and transfer the powers back to Medvedev, but few dictators ever retire willingly and Putin was no exception. He stepped forward during the economic crisis of 2008 and ran for president again in 2012, with Medvedev willingly stepping aside. Perhaps the bolonka thought that Putin would retire after one term but now it looked like the squirrel would have enough of a majority after the next elections to rewrite the constitution and remove term limits altogether, effectively making him President for life.

Yermolayev considered Medvedev. Outwardly he appeared just as loyal and content to play second fiddle as before, but the spy master knew that the taste of power he had during his single term as President was probably enough to make the bolonka an addict. Having corrupted enough foreign officials in his time Yermolayev knew that while an addict may be able to resist their drug of choice for a long time they eventually succumbed if you dangled it in front of their snout long enough.

He had never been friends with Medvedev, but it was high time he got to know the bolonka better, Yermolayev told himself. The Prime Minister was known to have a weakness for hard rock bands like Lead Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, Pink Floyd and the like, preferring to have his collection on the original vinyl. Yermolayev made a mental note to have his agents scour second-paw record stores for rare editions of the genre. Christmas was coming up soon and a thoughtful gift would make a good introduction to what would hopefully be a productive relationship.

Having half-formed a plan in his head, Yermolayev considered the reliability of the sleeper and the risks involved in sending him back into the fox's den.

The lie detector results had been very definitive - Gray Muzzle was not a loyal Canadian, he blamed F.O.X. for the crippling of his lover and he wanted to continue working for the Rodina - but was that enough?

The fox had been raised from birth for this role but he had abandoned his mission for the pleasures of drink and sex, deviant sex in Yermolayev's straight-laced opinion. But on the other paw so had most of the KGB when the USSR collapsed. At least Muzzle had not written a book about it, and he had attempted to contact the SVR on his father's old radio.

That had been Muzzle's mistake, leading to his exposure at F.O.X., but the Canadians did not seem to think that he was a serious threat to their security. Maybe that was a mistake too. As was sending the half-trained bartender and the gun toting poodle out on minor missions together. Yermolayev would never let lovers be partners in the field, yet F.O.X. seemed to do it all the time. He shook his head at their decadent western ways.

Now, what was the downside? If Gray Muzzle was caught -again - they would likely execute him this time. They would want to avoid an embarrassing trial as there was no gain in admitting that they had knowingly let a former KGB sleeper into their agency. Claims of Russian spying would just be background noise, even if true. And with Muzzle dead there was no one to expose Yermolayev's plan to suck information out of the allied intelligence agencies, so there was no personal risk to him.

All-in-all the possibility of great reward seemed to justify the risk. Yermolayev flicked a switch on the recording device and spoke into the microphone.

"Clear the room, I'm coming in."

* * * * *

The lumbering bear known as Boris disconnected the fox from the lie detector at Yermolayev's orders and removed the listening devices from the room on his way out. Yermolayev took a seat on the far side of the room, well out reach of Gray Muzzle, just in case. The fox had been searched thoroughly for weapons. He had been poked, prodded and scanned for metal objects. He had been x-rayed all over for hollow teeth that might contain poison and surgical pouches that may conceal ceramic knives or guns. His claws had been examined and clipped short as a precaution. His coat had even been combed in case he had hidden a fibre garrote wire in the long fur.

Once the head of Foreign Intelligence Operations for the SVR was satisfied that they were alone and no one was listening in he turned to the somewhat battered fox.

"Why do you come to us now?" He asked.

The fox took a deep breath and looked the terrier straight in the eyes as he answered. "The failure of the plot to assassinate Silver prompted me to act. That and what I found out about Silver's plan for revenge."

The terrier could understand why the silver fox would want to get back at the country that tried to kill him. He wondered if he knew that it was he, Yermolayev that had ordered the assassination? And an unsanctioned assassination at that. Yermolayev had done so not only because the F.O.X. agent had been a pain in his ass for twenty years but because he had been ordered to mount yet another campaign to destabilise the American economy and disrupting the flow of goods between them and their largest single trading partner was vital to his plans.

It was a plan that had failed twice in the past five years because of F.O.X. interference. First they had bankrolled and provided technical assistance to the insane platypus that wanted to flood North America but Silver's mate had foiled that plot. Then they hired Bloedrye, the leader of SPIRIT, to destroy the Canadian oil supplies. The SVR had even faked evidence and had Bloedrye give it to that ill-tempered killer rabbit Ruth Pawstone in order to distract Silver during the operation but it had not worked. While F.O.X. agents dealt with the threat to the Oil Patch Silver had faced her down, proved his innocence, recovered his son and had gone on to track down and kill each and every member of SPIRIT, including Bloedrye and the three former KGB agents that were actually working for Yermolayev.

Part of that plan had been to ambush the couriers carrying documents SPIRIT needed to carry out the plot. This fox and his pet poodle had been the couriers. Gray Muzzle had survived because the bullet meant to stop his heart got lodged in a metal-lined tablet cover the poodle had given him for his birthday. She was not so lucky; she had been crippled by a bullet in the spine.

And now this fox blames Silver for putting her in the line of fire, Yermolayev chuckled to himself. I wonder what he would do if he knew that the real mastermind behind the attack was sitting right in front of him? He was tempted to gloat, but like the chess master he was, he kept all signs of emotion from his face.

"What kind of revenge is this Silver creature planning?"

"He intends to pass information about several of Putin's key supporters to the President through an intermediary to sow dissension and distrust. He wants to play on Putin's paranoia to distract and undermine him. Once he has eliminated the President's own most loyal supporters others not so loyal, and more fearful for their personal safety after seeing the others disposed, will move up to take their place. Silver will provide the newly empowered ones with information of Putin's illegal activities from the Yellow Orchid file while feeding Putin information questioning their loyalty. Eventually they will remove Putin from power just to save their own skins. He will be stripped of his authority and protection, shamed and humiliated."

The fox paused. "I have memorized the information from the Yellow Orchid file as proof of my commitment. It relies heavily on records held here in Russia. Once Putin knows what the westerners have on him he can set about destroying the proof so it cannot be used against him."

While studying the classics in school Yermolayev had learned that the Greeks believed that every great person had a character flaw that would eventually be their downfall, and that paranoia was one of them. That was why the squirrel surrounded himself with sycophants of lesser will and lower intellect - as a buffer against the ambitious. And Putin was the only one that could remove that buffer.

It was not a bad plan, even if it was spawned by a Thud, Yermolayev told himself, and it had a fair chance of success. Of course, it would work much better if it was orchestrated by someone on the inside, someone at the second tier with no apparent ambition playing the part of Iago - someone like him.

"Who are the officials that Silver intends to target?" He asked.

The old fox looked up and to his left, as right-pawed folk do when they are recalling something they have seen or read. "There was Medvedev, Naryshkin, Bortnikov and Zolotov on the top of the list. I believe that there were a couple of others from the Cabinet there also."

"But not my name?"

Gray Muzzle shook his head. "No, Silver had no plans to ruin your reputation through information leaks."

The old fox's body language and tone proclaimed the truth of his statements. Yermolayev made up his mind. He would get the information that the fox had memorized now - just in case the old fellow had a heart attack or was captured after returning to Canada - and have him send the rest later. Although he had once considered it a remote possibility he had come prepared with a clandestine radio and code book for the fox to take back with him.

Yermolayev pulled his chair in close to the fox. He had a perfect memory and would not need to record or write down what the sleeper had to tell him. At the same time, he did not want the local agents who may have their ears against the walls in the connecting room to overhear what was said.

"Tell me what you know." He ordered.

Gray Muzzle seemed to sense the need for privacy and pulled his chair in also. He was about to speak but he choked, and his chest heaved several times as he fought to catch his breath.

"Forgive me." Muzzle said as tears came to his eyes. "After all this time I had given up hope of ever fulfilling my mission. And now to be here, with the greatest spy the Rodina has ever produced ... it is a bit overwhelming."

Yermolayev could not help but smile at the flattery. I will have to get used to this kind of adoration when I take command of Russia, he thought.

The sleeper's throat worked a bit more, suppressed sobs, Yermolayev supposed. Then his face showed a hint of pain, followed by relief. The fox smiled, leaned in close to Yermolayev and opened his mouth ....

... but not to speak. Instead of words a thick purple gas billowed out between his jaws. Yermolayev tried to jump back but the old fox already had a surprisingly strong grip on his shirtfront and he held the terrier there as the dense cloud surrounded the Russian. Yermolayev tried to hold his breath, but the fox grabbed him by the balls and squeezed, forcing him to gasp in pain.

If Yermolayev was expecting a quick death he was mistaken. In fact, there was no pain at all; just a peaceful feeling of warmth and cooperation that came over him.

Gray Muzzle released the Russian after his grimace of fear had settled into a blissful smile. He had spent a week with a famous magician learning how to swallow a gel ball containing the gas and hold it just below the junction of his throat and his esophagus and another week learning how to bring it back up on demand. Yet he had almost choked on it at the crucial moment because his mouth had gone dry with fear as the moment of his revenge approached.

The gel enclosure and the gas inside it were invisible to x-rays, ultrasound and most other forms of medical sensor. It was clear, as was the gas before exposure to the air, and when immersed in a glass of water it was all but invisible. Muzzle had left it in a tumbler of tap water every night beside his bed and swallowed it anew every morning before the interrogation sessions.

The gas was an advanced form of truth serum that not only made the subject speak the truth but also left them open to suggestion, as if hypnotized, but with one big difference - hypnotized subject will not do anything against their moral code while folk exposed to this drug would do anything that they were told - anything. Muzzle had taken enough of the antidote to last several weeks before leaving Ottawa.

Yermolayev looked like he had received a good dose but Muzzle need to be sure before proceeding. He unzipped his fly, pulled his limp member out and stood up in front of the bemused spy master.

"Suck my cock." He said as if offering a cup of tea.

A small frown crossed Yermolayev's face but it was soon replaced with the accommodating smile. "Certainly." The terrier said as he got down on his knees in from to the fox and opened his maw wide.

Muzzle jumped back and repacked his equipment. The Intelligence reports on Yermolayev had him as being straighter than an arrow. "I've changed my mind. Let's just talk a bit, shall we?"

Yermolayev git back in his chair. "Certainly. What do you wish to talk about?"

Gray sat down also. He began with the questions Silver had given him to ask. "Tell me who put the hit out on Agent Scarlet back in the nineties."

"I did."

"And who was responsible for the attempt to flood central North America?"

"I was."

"And who was SPIRIT working for when they tried to incinerate the Canadian oil reserves?"

"Me again." Yermolayev confirmed proudly.

"And who set Ruth Pawstone after Silver's family?"

"Me, of course."

"And who provided the information for the ambush of the couriers in Belgium?" Muzzle's voice had taken on a hard edge.

"I did. You and your girlfriend were lucky to survive. My orders were to kill you both." Yermolayev waved a digit at Muzzle as if to chide him for a poor performance.

Muzzle had been warned that the drug would make the subject talkative, and that he might hear things that he did not want to know. He grit his teeth and carried on with his instructions.

"Listen to me carefully." He told the Russian Spy chief. "When we are done here you will act as you normally would to your agents ...."

"Like a tailhole?" Yermolayev suggested helpfully.

"Exactly. And you will tell them that you have decided to send me back under deep cover."

"With the radio and codes I brought from Moscow." The Russian added.

"Yesss ... with everything I would need to send information back to the SVR. Then you will return to Moscow and go to this website." Muzzle spelled out the site on the dark web that he had memorized and made Yermolayev repeat it. "Good. There you will find evidence against Putin's four closest friends, the ones we discussed earlier, the Saint Petersburg clique."

"It real evidence or forged?"

"Does it matter?'

"No, not really."

"Right. The evidence will indicate that the four are planning a coup. You will find circumstantial evidence corroborating this in your SVR files, I am sure. You will bring all of it to Putin as a loyal servant of the state who wants nothing more than to see the strongest leader the Rodina ever had continue in office. In addition to those four we will provide evidence against a number of other cabinet members and some economic disinformation that you can sow amongst the confusion that the witch hunt for the supposedly disloyal cadre will cause."

Yermolayev nodded with respect. "A cunning plan. Did Silver think this up?"

Muzzle had no idea, but sensed that an affirmative answer would wound the black terrier the most. "Yes, all by himself."

Yermolayev winced. "Taken out by a novice. How shameful."

"Don't worry about it; you won't remember hearing about it after the gas wears off, even though you will be compelled to follow my instructions none the less."

"May I ask a question?"

"Yes."

"How did you fool the lie detector, and me? Are you that good an actor?"

Muzzle's lip curled in a cold, heartless smile. "No, I was telling the truth the whole time. I am not a loyal Canadian citizen, because I am not Canadian; I'm a landed immigrant. And I do believe in the work that I am doing for Russia - I believe that removing people like you and Putin is the best way to bring Russia back into the fold of righteous nations and preserve world peace. Otherwise it will destroy itself like the Soviet Union did, perhaps taking a few other countries with it. And I really do blame a silver toned asshole in F.O.X. for what happened to my darling Miss CC."

Muzzle stroked the grey hairs around his face and ears, hairs that looked silver against the dark markings of the red fox. "I blame myself. If I had not insisted we stop for waffles Miss CC and I would have had both paws free to fight back." He sighed and looked up at the ceiling, remembering the party poodle in her prime. "She could move like the wind and fight like a dervish. I'm sure that if we had carried on with our mission as planned she would have made those tigers suffer much more than she did."

He looked across at the terrier, who was drooling a bit. "Finally, I said that I was not here to assassinate you, and that is also true."

A grin spread across Yermolayev's face,

"But Silver did allow me a little leeway to make a few suggestions of my own." Muzzle moved even closer so that he barely had to whisper. "After you have passed on all we have given you to pass, you will write a note professing unrequited love for one of your male colleagues and leave it under a rock on the roof of the SVR headquarters. Then you will walk to the edge and jump off."

A frown cam over Yermolayev's face.

"Will you do as I ask?" Muzzle said, worried that the drug may be wearing off already.

"Yes." Yermolayev replied hesitantly. "But there is one thing. Can I use Leonid Chekov in the note?'

"Who is Leonid Chekov?"

"He is a very intelligent analyst at SVR headquarters. He is very fit and considered handsome. It is just that I do not want my wife and children to think that I was having homosexual longings for some inferior creature."

"Fine, use him if you want. And one more thing ..."

"Yes?"

"As you are falling. Please feel free to scream out the name 'Maria'."

The terrier looked puzzled for an instant and then beamed in recognition. "Maria! The poodle who was shot!"

"Exactly. Now let's go over it all one more time to make sure you've got it all.

* * * * *

Gray Muzzle arrived back in Canada on a direct flight from Rio to Ottawa. He went through customs and immigration just like everyone else on the international flight. His Canadian passport declaring him a landed immigrant passed muster with no problem because it was authentic. He was a little nervous as the customs agent examined the Russian shortwave radio which was disguised as a high end digital camera. But the SVR technicians had scuffed it up enough that it did not look new; otherwise Muzzle might be in trouble for failing to declare imported electronics.

F.O.X. could have arranged for him to bypass all that but they wanted to keep the charade of Muzzle being a double agent up as long as possible; so if the SVR had an agent in the airport they did not want him to see Muzzle getting the VIP treatment.

Muzzle had left his car in the long term parking lot and he took the shuttle there. There did not seem to be anyone watching him but it was hard to be certain. The shuttle dropped him off in front of his car and no one else got off there, but Muzzle pretended to fumble with his keys as he watched it drive off, in case another passenger got off nearby. His car, which had been between a couple of sedans when he left for Rio, was now wedged in between two large panel vans. Muzzle skittched sideways between his car and the van on the driver's side. There was barely enough room. As instructed he dropped his keys to the ground when he was just about to get in. He cursed theatrically and bent to retrieve them.

When he was out of sight between the vehicles he felt two paws grip his ankles and pull him under the van. More paws grabbed his clothes and pulled him up through a hole cut in the bottom of the cargo compartment. Before he could catch his breath another creature, wearing identical clothing and made up to look like Muzzle slid out the hole only to pop up beside his car an instant later with Muzzle's keys in his paw. The other fox got into Muzzle's car, found the parking receipt in the sun visor where Muzzle had left it and drove off.

"Who was that?" Gray asked the agent who was closing up the hatch in the floor.

"Zac Ember." Kyroo Echos answered. "He was closest to you in build and it was easy to extend his muzzle and ears to make him look more like a fox. He's going to drive your car to Miss CC's Condo and take your luggage up there. He'll spend the night on her couch and we'll switch the two of you around again once you've reported to Silver."

The van leapt forward, made a ninety degree turn on two wheels and charged the exit gate. It must have been equipped with a transponder because the barrier lifted just before the van roared through. Another two-wheel turn and the van was headed out of the city, toward the countryside where Silver made his home.

"Who's driving?" Muzzle asked when the ride had settled down enough to safely let go of the seat in front of him.

"Marcel."

"Shit."

It took over an hour to arrive at their destination as the van made several last second turns and doubled back a few times to make sure they were not being followed. When they got to the darkened bungalow in the country Marcel pressed a button and the garage door slid up to allow them inside. No one moved until the big door had closed again. Then Kyroo let Muzzle out and lead him to a door giving access to the basement.

"You've been here before?" The younger Arctic fox asked.

"Yes, a couple of Christmases ago, when Silver and Vikki had everyone over for drinks."

"He's waiting for you in the living room."

Muzzle went through the laundry room, up the stairs and turned right to enter the living room. There was a fire burning in the fireplace, which made the room comfortably warm. The ceiling lights were turned down low and the curtains were drawn. Silver was sitting in a corner staring at a large wooden board that was half covered with white and black stones.

Muzzle moved over to where his boss was sitting. He sat on the couch when the big silver fox waved a paw at him absently without taking his eyes from the board. Up close Muzzle could see that the board was dived into tiny squares by a number of lines inlaid into the heavy wood. Each stone, black or white, sat on a junction of two lines. The stones were clumped into groups, sometimes almost surrounded by the stones of the opposite colour. Of in one corner a lone white stone was sitting all by itself.

Silver finally placed another white stone on the board. Then he turned to his tablet which was sitting beside it and entered the move on the screen. Once it was acknowledged he sat back and looked at the old red fox.

"I take it that Operation Reduction was a success?"

Gray licked his lips before answering as his mouth had gone unexpectedly dry. "Yes. As predicted Yermolayev remained in a suggestive state for about an hour and afterwards remembered nothing. He issued the instructions he was given almost word for word and personally saw that I was equipped with everything a double agent needs. It is all in the suitcase Embers took to Miss CC's."

"Yes. Kain Algorath and some of our techs were waiting for it there. Everything seems legit, no booby traps, no fakes, and the codes check out against what we already know. We'll have you start transmitting disinformation in a couple of days."

Silver's tablet pinged and he looked down at it. He frowned and placed a black stone near a concentration of white ones. It was obvious to Muzzle that in another move or two the black stones would completely surround the white and it did not look like there was anything Silver could do to stop it.

"What are you playing?" He asked.

"It is called 'Go', an ancient Chinese game of strategy."

"Is it like chess?" Muzzle was an avid player.

"Like chess on steroids. The object is to control the board by surrounding or cutting off as many of your opponent's stones as possible. Stones on the board are 'Live'. Those stones that are grouped together in such a way that they can't be surrounded are called a 'Life', any that get cut off or surrounded are considered 'Dead' and removed from the board."

Muzzle lifted his chin to indicate the tablet. "Who are you playing?"

"A fellow in Beijing named Chen. He is the youngest creature ever to achieve the 9th Dan, at age seventeen no less. He is not the world's best player, perhaps, but he is a wonderful innovator and teacher."

Muzzle did not ask how Silver, the Chief of Staff of a western intelligence agency, came to be playing Go online with a Chinese national. He assumed that it was above his clearance level. So instead he asked how the game was going.

"I'm losing, as usual, but there is still hope." Silver replied, tapping the lone white stone as he said it.

"Is that some kind of special play?"

Silver smiled at Muzzle. "This kind of play is called a reduction. You place a stone far enough into the opponent's area of influence to reduce the amount of territory they eventually get, but not so far in that it can be cut off from friendly stones outside. One can build on it to form a new Life or use it to put enemy stones in peril. Chen has been helping me to perfect this particular gambit these last few months."

Gray Muzzle took a second to absorb that information in light of the name of the mission he had just completed - 'Operation Reduction'. It did not take a genius to figure out that he was the stone placed deep into enemy territory to put key pieces in peril.

Muzzle swallowed, his throat was drier than ever. "Does it always work?"

"No." Silver admitted with a shake of his head. "Sometimes it gets cut off or surrounded and is declared dead. But even then it can be a useful distraction. In such circumstances they call it a 'sacrifice', wherein you allow a stone or a group to die in order to carry out a play in a more important area."

Silver was still smiling, but Gray felt his testicles trying to withdraw back up into his pelvis. He recalled something that he had said for Yermolayev's benefit, about Silver not being a chess player and therefore not able to see more than three moves ahead. He had been told to use that line in his mission briefing and he had wondered why at the time. Now he was wondering again. He was told that Yermolayev was a Chess master, and he knew that they could see five to seven to ten moves ahead. But the game of Go was unfamiliar to him.

"How many moves ahead can a Go Master see?" He asked around the lump in his throat.

"Ten to fifteen, especially in a game with a lot of forced plays like reductions and sacrifices."

Silver did not say anything else and Muzzle did not know what else to say. The silence was only broken by the crack of embers falling from the logs in the fire.

After what seemed an eternity Muzzle decided that there was nothing to say, really. He had completed his mission and survived ... this time.

"I'll just go home and see how Miss CC is doing then, shall I?" He suggested.

"You do that." Silver said as he turned to focus his attention back to the Go board. "And get some rest, we'll need you both back in the field soon enough."

Somehow, the prospect of putting his life on the line again made the old fox's heart glow warmly.

"You got it, Chief."