FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The Last Seduction of Suzie Wong

A Tale from the Agent's Lounge

As you recall we agreed that if I could prove access to inside information we would talk terms and conditions. I take it that my information checked out; otherwise you guys would be looking less happy and I would be in considerable pain. Come to think of it hurting me might make you happy, so I'll just go with the absence of pain to indicate that I am in Yermolayev's good books for the time being.

Well of course he's your boss! No sense denying it. The Kremlin may call him an Economic Advisor but we both know that he is really in charge of the Intelligence Division that is responsible for turning foreign agents and inserting sleeper agents into places like F.O.X., people like my parents, people like me. You can claim that Russia does not do that sort of thing anymore, but Anna Chapman and the other thirteen or so sleepers the FBI rounded up a few years back were too young to have been put there during the Cold War. So let's not kid each other.

How do I know that Yermolayev's in charge? Partly because I know a bit of his background from my folks. He was a junior officer in the KGB back when they were active, just like his buddy Putin, but he worked with sleeper agents - collecting their reports, delivering orders, debriefing them in neutral third counties, not in nice hotels like this though. Some other clues I've had from open sources, Russian language newspapers and the Internet. It seems that Yermolayev's wagon was hitched to Putin's rising star and he is now one of the few people in Russia that can command the President's ear; possibly the most loyal and trusted of the bunch. Finally, I have heard the analysts and senior staff at F.O.X. grumbling about him. They feel that he has been far too successful in placing double agents in allied agencies and moreover, that he is unreasonably ruthless in eliminating counter-intelligence threats.

Didn't he turn one of the F.O.X. senior agents, the one known as Yellow? Of course you wouldn't know, that information would have been compartmentalized. You can pass on to him though that for years they thought it was the Chinese that had turned Yellow. But from what I've heard I think that Yermolayev turned him first, and then had him offer some of the same information to the Chinese to obscure the trail. And did he not send assassins to take out Agent Scarlet, the triple agent that Sir Wilbur had sent to ferret out the mole ... twice? They almost took her head off the second time. You should hear the Academy doctor talk about how Silver made him sew it back on at gunpoint. They were lovers you know, Silver and Scarlet, despite the age difference.

But again, I digress. I know that you are recording our little conversations and I don't want to waste data space on these trivialities so let's get down to business.

I have information about a plot against Putin that involves people so high up in his government that by rights he should be the only one to hear it, but we both know that that will never happen. Yermolayev is one of the few advisors that can be trusted, so I'm willing to pass it on to him .... in person. No, I have no intention of travelling to Moscow. The allied agencies have infiltrated your government so much that my presence there is sure to be reported. I would never be able to return to Ottawa and take up where I left off, collecting insider intelligence on the enemies of the state. And let me be frank, it was not only what I was raised to do but what I love to do. Nothing I've ever experienced - not females I've bedded or the wives I've wed, not the fast cars or gourmet food, not even the martinis I've quaffed - nothing matches the thrill of operating right under the snouts of some of the greatest spy catchers in the world. Sitting around Moscow getting drunk like Burgess, listening to the news from home like Philby or lecturing on western economic values like Maclean would be the death of me.

I don't want this to be a one-time affair, so Yermolayev will have to come here, and fairly soon. I only took a week of vacation and it's half over now. You, Boris, if that is your real name, why don't you run off to wherever you have stashed the communications gear you use to pass on the details of our little discussions and let your boss know what I'm asking for?

Meanwhile I'll regale your colleagues with another tale I picked up in the Agent's lounge. From a time when cameras used film and telephones had dials and wires. When computers filled a room and self-winding watches were the cutting edge of technology. A story one of the retired agents often told anyone willing to listen after drinking himself melancholy. Even though it is old I think you will find another tidbit of information there that will verify my usefulness.

I've heard this one so often I can repeat it in the agent's own words, just like he was telling it on his own.

Let's see. He always began with "I was working in Asia ..."

* * * * *

I was working in Asia when I met the woman that I knew only as Suzie. No, I won't say where in Asia, or when, or why I was there; some things have to stay secret forever.

She had contacted us on behalf of her brother. He supposedly worked for someone high up in their government, and was willing to trade secrets for a new life in the West. He could not approach us directly, and so had enlisted his sister, who managed a small restaurant, as his intermediary. She had been trying to get foreign investment so that she could expand her business and attract the growing number of tourists in her country, so a meeting with a Westerner would not be too remarkable, even a large black fox like me. Documents were offered as proof of his access and intentions. A meeting was arranged to examine them.

I showed up at the restaurant with a colleague named Nigel. He was a marsupial, not from our agency, but we often worked together in Asia. I was better with dealing with folk, but he could read and speak the lingo like a native. Plus, anyone who might be thinking of ambushing a single agent would think twice when a duo arrived. The opposition was not known for adapting to new situations on the fly.

A young female red panda met us at the door and asked if we were the people from the foreign investment agency. We said that we were and she led us through the sparsely populated restaurant, through a kitchen where two cooks were chopping vegetables for the evening meal, through a sturdy door with a peep-hole and into a small office at the back of the building.

During the walk to the office I had a chance to study her. She was good looking, tall and shapely. Not unusual in the northern part of her country where the work and diet of the miner's breed big offspring. She had high cheekbones, a small black nose, a long puffy tail and red fur that looked as light as feathers; the slightest gust made it fly about. She was dressed in a white blouse and a dark skirt as were most of the women who were in business in this part of the world. The heels of her shoes were taller than average. They made the muscles of her calves stand out and gave her buttocks a pleasing roll.

Her office was obviously also her residence. Again, not unusual in this crowded continent where three generations typically live in a two-room apartment, or less. She had a desk and file cabinet near the door to the kitchen. Two wooden chairs for business acquaintances or staff were positioned in front of the desk. There was a peep-hole in the door, as I noted on the way in, with a fish-eye lens like you see on apartment doors in the West. Probably so she could check up on the cooks. There was a second door with solid locks that possibly opened on a courtyard or alley. An alcove in the back, separated from the main office by a hinged partition with three panels, likely hid a sleeping area. An electric fan that swivelled back and forth was doing its best to circulate the stifling air.

She sat behind the desk and brushed a stray lock of hair back as she introduced herself simply as Suzie, although she might have said Tzu-chi; like I said, language is not my strong suit. The fan blew the errant hair back across her dark almond eyes as it swung through its arc. She ignored it as she produced a blue-trimmed envelope from under the pad on her desk. She pulled a small kitchen knife out of a drawer and used it to slit the sealed envelope before she passed it across to me. I took it and pulled a number of thin, folded papers out. They were written in characters, and bore official-looking red stamps. I passed then to Nigel. He examined them for a few minutes as we sat in silence.

"They are authentic, I believe," he said. "And quite interesting." Nigel tended to understate things. If they were interesting to him they would be fascinating to the analysts back home.

"It looks like we may be able to strike a deal," I told Suzie then. "Of course we will have to send these back or verification. Then your brother will have to give us the details of what exactly he wants from us and what he can provide in return." It was my show now. The negotiation phase could take up to a year, during which time I would demand more and more proof, in order to get as much material as possible in case he got caught before we arranged his exit. I was expecting her to provide some contact information and perhaps suggest a date for a second meeting, but she surprised me by announcing that her brother would be there in an hour to discuss those details with us personally, and would we care for some food while we waited.

I glanced over at Nigel. He tapped the bundle of papers and nodded. The material must be very good indeed. Despite surrendering the initiative to Suzie and her brother I agreed that we would wait, but declined the offer of food.

Nigel had refolded the papers and replaced them in the envelope when his pager went off. It was the type that displayed short text messages. He read it and frowned.

"My wife has been in a motor vehicle accident," he announced. "They have taken her to the Capitol Hospital." That hospital was on the other side of the city, a good hour's drive if he did not get caught in traffic. He stood up and dropped the envelope on the desk. "Let me know how it goes with the brother," he added, and then he turned and left me alone with Suzie.

Being caught off guard twice in as many minutes was a bad thing in this business. I was used to improvising, but it was unusual to do so in a situation like this. My head said to get up and go with Nigel, but Suzie had picked up the blue-trimmed envelope and put it away somewhere when he had tossed it on the desk, and if I left now I would be with empty paws. I had come this far without trouble. I decided to risk it.

"Would you like some tea?" Suzie asked me in English that bore only a trace of an accent. Another revelation. This was fast becoming a record-setting day for surprises.

"Yes. Thank you," I replied. She got up and went behind the partition where she presumably had a kitchenette for her own personal use to make tea. I scanned the room out of habit while she puttered around back there.

It was fairly standard. A rack for shoes and slippers, a chest for clothes. Coats and sweaters hung up out of the way. A calendar with flowers and kittens. It was all fairly impersonal though. There were no mementoes, photos or knick knacks on the desk. Just a dial telephone, a calculator and the rubberized pad for writing on.

My eye strayed back to the door connecting the office to the kitchen. Something about it wasn't right. It took me a while to figure it out, but eventually I got it. It was the peep hole. Instead of a small lens inside a brass fitting for peeking through, the fish-eye lens was mounted on this side of the door. It was set so that someone in the kitchen could observe what was going on in the office. Now why would that be, I wondered.

My answer came a moment later. I heard the partition sliding across the floor and I turned to see that she had folded it back, revealing the alcove. It held a small table with a hotplate and tea service, and a single bed that was neatly made up with white sheets. It was too hot this time of year for anything more. Under the bed I could see blankets and quilts folded away in clear plastic bags, ready for winter.

Suzie had not made tea. She had however removed her blouse and skirt and replaced it with a red silk robe that came down to mid thigh. It was tied loosely at the waist, with no trace of a bra in the narrow "v" that ran from belt to neck. She still wore the black high-heeled shoes and her hips swayed when she walked over to the desk. As she passed the oscillating fan the hem of the robe fluttered like her hair, revealing an absence of other undergarments.

So that was the game.

I studied her face, mostly to keep my eyes off other places. Danger heightens the sexual response in many males, including me, and the brief glimpses through the swaying silk were enough to have a noticeable effect. I crossed my legs uncomfortably and concentrated on reading her expression.

To my surprise I saw that she was nervous, very nervous. It showed in the lines around her eyes and they way the pupils darted back and forth, trying to look anywhere but back at me. Tension showed in the tendons of her neck and the set of her jaw. The flare of her nostrils added fear to the mix. She went to sit on the edge of the desk and almost missed, but she caught herself before she fell to the floor. She gave me a fixed smile that was all teeth and crossed one leg over the other, displaying an expanse of golden furred inner thigh in the process. She trailed her fingers along her leg, up her taut belly and between pert breasts. She finished by pulling the silk away to reveal one dark nipple.

This must be her first assignment, I deduced. She would not be a virgin; the male instructors and leaders at whatever spy school she had attended would have seen to that, but it looked like I was to be her first real seduction. Although her technique was rudimentary her body and natural scent more than compensated for it.

"It is very hot here," she said in a tone so serious I had to choke back laughter. My eyes dropped to the widening gap in the robe and I saw that she had tucked the blue-trimmed envelope inside, just above her right hip.

I was outwardly calm, but my mind was racing. By now the State Security Service would be inside the restaurant, watching through the peep hole, maybe even filming. If I fell for the honey trap the "brother" would probably barge in at the height of our passion and accuse me of rape, and then try to turn me. If I overpowered her, took the envelope and tried to walk out, the security agents would arrest me before I made it out of the kitchen. I could try leaving without it, but having already touched the envelope my prints would be on it. Not that it made much difference; they would claim it was found on me and never let the representatives from my country examine it. The only option seemed to be to play along and look for an opportunity I could use to my advantage.

I stood up. She shied back, startled, like she thought that I would strike her. She looked up at me, biting her lip. When I didn't move she stood up slowly until her eyes were almost level with mine. Like I said, she was tall for her species, and the heels added another couple of inches.

The tell-tale signs of her near-panicked state were all still there, but she glanced at the door with the peep hole and swallowed before stepping up to press her body against mine. She brought her arms up around behind my head and pulled me down to meet her lips. As her tongue entered my mouth her body swayed against me. I'd like to say that I kept my cool and did not respond to her obvious attempts at seduction, but it would be a lie. My lips parted to welcome her, my arms encircled her and pressed her close, and the lump in my trousers settled into the warm nook where her thigh joined her torso. The scent she gave off filled my head. Maybe it was the smell of fear, waking the primordial hunter in me, because all I wanted to do at that moment was to devour her.

After a few moments where our bodies seemed to be joined despite the layers of clothing that separated us, she pushed against my chest and stepped back, forcing my arms open. She turned and walked on wobbly legs toward the bed, untying the knot that held the robe closed at the same time. It gave her a little trouble, and she had to stop by the bed to struggle with it. All the while her body was trembling with nervousness or fear, or both. I really didn't think that she was going to be able to go through with this.

As she fought with the knot I wondered where she had come from, some little mining village in the north or one of the big cities on the coast? Had she been plucked out of the regular school system because of her looks or her language skills, or both? Who had decided that she would join State Security and act as sexual bait? Whoever it was, they had either chosen poorly or done a poor job of preparing her. If I were to step silently behind her up and touch her now she would probably faint dead away.

She finally won the battle and the robe slipped to the floor. She was standing with her back to me, with her banded tail raised, her weight on one leg and the other bent and turned inward. She held that pose for a moment, letting me admire her backside while she tried to calm her rapid breathing. Then she turned and sat down on the edge of the bed in one practiced motion. She patted the sheets beside her and stuck her chest out to make her breasts beckon me, but the look on her face was anything but seductive.

I remembered my first time. Not in this sort of situation, but the first time I had to kill on a mission.

There was a missile plant that may or may not have been making housings for atomic warheads. Knowing for sure would have gone a long way to understanding the state of that country's nuclear weapons program. The parts were all stored undercover, where the satellites could not see, and that meant that someone had to get close enough to get pictures. I got in with no problem, but on the way out a guard that had probably been off taking a leak earlier was blocking my exit. I jumped him and snapped his neck just like we had practiced back at the Academy. Then I positioned him at the bottom of a steep wall near his post, to make it look like an accident. I made my way methodically out along the same route I had taken to get in, got in my vehicle and drove until I was far from the factory. Then I pulled over, scrambled out of the car on rubbery legs, and puked for fifteen minutes.

Suzie looked like I had felt just before pulling over. Now I was wondering if I could go through with this.

"I ... I need a little air," I mumbled, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of my jacket and backing up toward the door that led outside. "You mind if I ...?" I held up the pack and pointed at the door.

"Yes, yes. Smoke outside ... please." A look of relief washed over her, to be immediately replaced by fear and dejection. Her first assignment was a failure. Her punishment would be severe.

"I'll, uh, be right back." I muttered, and I pushed the door open and stepped outside.

I had been expecting an alley, but it let out onto an enclosed courtyard. It was slightly triangular, as wide as the restaurant here by the building but narrowing to a wide steel door at the far end. There was an outdoor toilet, a compost heap, and a small herb garden, as well as a stone bench for sitting in the sun at mid-day. There were no security agents present, but there was no escape either. The walls were at least ten feet tall and long shards of broken glass were embedded in the cement that crowned it. The door was solid and locked with a bolt at least an inch thick. An ancient but effective brass padlock held the bolt in place.

I sat down on the bench and slowly smoked a cigarette while I tried to figure out what to do. At any moment I expected the State Security agents to come through the door after me. When they had not by the time I finished my first cigarette, I concluded that Suzie had managed to convince them to give her another chance at luring me into her bed. I wondered why they would bother. Probably for the sensation that leaking images of the foreign spy in bed with one of their innocent young girls would create. It would take peoples' minds off more complicated issues like the dictatorship, the human rights abuses, their own espionage efforts.

They would have to lock me up but they would probably treat me well, since they would need a healthy spy to show the world how civilized they were about these things. Eventually, after the public lost interest, they would trade me back for the release of a dozen or so of their own agents.

Since there seemed to be no rush, I lit a second cigarette and contemplated the herb garden. During that second smoke I resolved to spoil their plot, even if it meant suffering rougher treatment at their paws. I would still have some trade value, but I would not have to be kept perfectly intact if there was to be no media campaign beforehand.

I had been outside for over twenty minutes when I stood up and strode to the door to the office. I pulled it open, walked in, and headed straight for the kitchen, passing the alcove without looking back. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that the bed was occupied, but she did not call out to stop me as I reached for the door separating me from my fate.

My paw froze in midair an inch from the knob. Something had changed while I was outside. The calendar now hung from the back of the door, covering the peephole. The bolt on this side was also thrown, preventing it from being opened from the other side.

I pressed my ear to the door and heard the faint whir of a motor. A movie camera must be attached to the other side, otherwise they would have noticed that the lens was blocked. She must have been told to give an audio signal when I was firmly compromised, like a scream of fake ecstasy, to alert them that they had the evidence on film. But now the camera was collecting nothing but the picture on the back of the calendar. When her State Security masters found out she would likely be tried and executed for such a traitorous act. I turned to face her, puzzled as to why she had done this.

She was lying on her back in the bed, not moving at all. Her eyes were closed and she had a tranquil expression on her face. She had pulled the sheet demurely up over her breasts but had left her arms outside, straight along her sides. Blooms of red spread out from her wrists, staining the sheets and pooling on the tiles below.

I stepped over to her side. She had slit her wrists lengthwise to ensure that she bled out quickly, with the same small but very sharp knife that she had used to open the envelope. A quick check of her carotid artery confirmed that her heart had already stopped beating. Before losing consciousness she had placed the knife by her side, but she had left two other objects on top of the sheet just below the bulge of her breasts, where they would not get sullied with her blood.

They were the blue-trimmed envelope and a large brass key.

She had placed the key on top of the envelope to hold it down because each time the fan swivelled past the breeze it created made the flimsy paper rustle. It also made her fur flutter about and left it in disarray across her face. I picked up the key, a match for the lock on the garden gate I hoped, and pocketed the envelope. There was a good chance that the information in it was fake, part of a deception, but then again it may be real, since they did not expect me to get away with the papers. Either way, it was the job of the analysts back at the Academy to determine their worth.

With her parting gifts secured, I regarded her serene expression and marvelled at how different it was from the way she had looked before. How she must have hated the role that the State had chosen for her. She would not have had a choice in her assignment, her protests would have fallen on deaf ears. In this country one did what they were told for the good of the state, and did not complain if they knew what was good for them, and their relatives. Suzie's choice was the only way out if you did not have political connections. Did she do it because she loved a guy back home and now felt that she was unworthy? Or because she found the idea of making love to a blue-eyed, dark-furred, long-snout foreign devil too repugnant? No matter, she was at peace with herself now.

I heard the knob on the door to the kitchen rattle tentatively. They must have checked the peephole and were wondering what was going on in the office. I had to hurry before they thought to kick the door in or surround the neighbourhood. But before I left I had one more task to complete. I turned off the fan and arranged Suzie's hair neatly before rushing out to the courtyard.

The key fit the lock. The street that it let out on was almost deserted. A block away I could see the entrance to one of the city's subway stations. The first order of business was to get as far from the neighbourhood as possible before they raised the alarm. I walked quickly, but calmly, toward the stairway that descended to the platform, expecting a flood of security agents to pour out of the courtyard behind me at any instant, but none did. I hopped on a train that was about to leave, not caring where it was headed.

The next subway stop was a major hub for the city's transport network. From there I caught a bus that took me away from the district the restaurant was in. I hopped off near a large hotel and caught a cab back to the far side of the city. There was a car parked at another hotel there that was not registered to me, but one to which I had a key. Once I was safe I swung by one of our safe houses where I had stashed a few tools of the trade. After that I went straight to the Capitol Hospital, where I did not expect to find Nigel attending to his injured wife, but I had to check to be certain.

Needless to say, the rest of my stay in that country was spent in an intimate discussion with Nigel as to why he had set me up, but that is a story for another day.

* * * * *

"... But that is a story for another day." He would end with.

If you check the old KGB files you may find that you lost a double agent named Nigel around the time of that story. Or perhaps he was working for Mao? Either way, I'm sure you'll be able to find out. Meanwhile, we can wait for Yermolayev to decide whether a trip to sunny Rio is in his, or should I say Putin's, best interests.

Anyone else feel like barbecue?