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FOX Academy:

Book I - The New Breed

Book II - The Werewolf of Odessa

Book II.5 - The Love Who Spied Me

FOX Academy Flashback:

The Finland Express - Part 2 - Flight to Finland

16 January, 1987

The tour books, what few there are in Russia, generally omit one feature of Murmansk; it has entire neighbourhoods of makeshift garages.

The salt air and the winter chill, combined with the poor quality of the workmanship and metals in the typical Soviet automobile, could destroy a car or truck in a single year, reducing it to a rusted hulk. Considering that an ordinary citizen may have to wait five years for delivery of a new vehicle a means of protecting them was needed. Building materials and permits being equally scarce, the locals had taken to erecting garages on empty land, using whatever supplies were available. A small donation to the local Ministry of State Security representative kept the inspectors away.

Some of the garages were elaborate affairs, homes away from home for the fishing captains and merchants that made Murmansk their base. Nor was it unusual to see a two-story garage made of old ship panels with an armed guard, a warehouse for the local smugglers. Most however, were just large enough to store and work on a small truck. It was in one of these near the airport that the lemur Grigori Mikhailovich Mishin and his mate waited.

The garage was made from an old shipping container. Twenty feet long, eight feet wide and eight feet high, it held the four-door Lada, a wood stove, spare parts and supplies nicely. There was even a padded chair beside a lamp and a stack of foreign yiffy magazines. Nadezhda sat on the chair, ignoring the magazines, watching her husband try to light the fire in the stove. For someone who could send a ton of steel and explosives across half the world on a column of fire he was not having much luck. Still, the heat from the lamp's bulb inside the closed container was enough to keep the worst of the cold away. She folded her arms over her swollen belly protectively.

Shortly past four a.m. there was a knock on the big doors at the end of the container. Grigori abandoned the fire and went to the door.

"Is that you Paulis?" He asked in English.

"You want to hope so. Open up."

Mishin hesitated. "Open the door," Nadezhda said, "before someone sees him and calls the MVD." She referred to the branch of the Interior Ministry responsible for internal security, a rival agency to the KGB.

Grigori turned to her angrily. "It could be a trap. I don't know his voice well enough to tell if it is really him."

From outside, "If it was the MVD they would have lost patience by now and shot the doors off. Now let me in, I can't feel my tail anymore." Mishin unlocked the door and the visibly upset fox entered and looked around.

"You should have started the fire; it's as cold in here as it is out there." The fox strode over to the stove and looked inside. He removed the large pieces of wood Grigori had been trying to light, quickly arranged kindling and paper into a pyramid, and lit the bottom. Within seconds, the fire was going and he added some larger pieces above the flames. By the time he had closed the door on the stove Nadezhda could feel the heat coming off it.

Auvert moved swiftly around the garage, inspecting the supplies, checking the engine and tires of the Lada. It was a newer model, but it had been driven enough to be broken in. That was important; in the Soviet Union, no new car was ever taken far from home for the first few months, until all of its problems were discovered and fixed. The engine pinged as the heat from the stove warmed it.

"Looks to be in good condition." Auvert said. "They drained the oil and the tank and they removed the plugs and the filters but everything we need is on the shelves, and then some. As soon as it's warm enough we'll put her back together and get going."

While they waited, he and Grigori loaded the vehicle. Spare clothes, spare parts, tools, blankets, gasoline and oil went in the trunk. Water and food went in the cab, where the rudimentary heater would keep them from freezing, along with more blankets. Auvert placed a leather satchel that he had brought with him on the small workbench and opened it. Form inside he pulled out wads of roubles and American dollars. Next, he produced two pistols, automatics.

"Glock 17 nine-millimetre." He said. "The latest thing from Austria. The grip and the clips are high-impact plastic. The slide is milled from a single piece of stainless steel. It holds seventeen rounds in the clip and one up the spout. The safety is built into the trigger so you never forget to take it off. Its mechanism is simple enough that it fires reliably in conditions ranging from humid jungle to arid desert to arctic cold." He slipped one of them into his parka and held the other out to Mishin.

"I don't know how to use one of those." Auvert's expression didn't change, but the way he slowly lowered the pistol indicated his disappointment.

"Here, give it to me." Nadezhda was holding out her paw. The corner of Auvert's mouth twitched, as if a smile was attempting to form. "My father was a Colonel in the Motor Rifle troops." She continued, flexing her digits impatiently. "He taught me how to use one." Auvert handed it over.

Nadezhda pulled the slide back to verify whether there was a round in the chamber and then inspected the clip to see that it was full. Emptying the gun, she examined the safety device, tried to pull the trigger without depressing it and found that she could not. Pointing away from her husband and the fox, she took aim at the wall with both paws and squeezed slowly until the firing pin clicked. Satisfied, she reloaded and put the pistol in the pocket of her parka.

The container was hot enough for them to take off their outer clothes and Auvert laid out the tools and parts needed to put the engine back in running condition. "Give me a hand and we'll get going that much sooner." He said as he grabbed the oil filter, drain plugs and a wrench and prepared to slide underneath the car. He heard a rattling noise as the spark plugs were picked up. A pair of boots appeared beside his head and the oily rags that had been stuffed into the holes where the plugs went began to appear on the floor. Looking up between the engine and the firewall, he was not entirely surprised to see the face of the female lemur, the tip of her tongue protruding as she concentrated on threading the plugs in properly.

"Your father teach you how to do that also?"

"According to him, one was not much use to the Motor Rifle troops if one could not shoot and do basic engine maintenance." She smiled down and continued working. Soon she had them all seated and began to tighten them. As she did, she began to whistle.

"What's that tune?" Auvert asked. "It sounds familiar,"

"It's Tchaikovsky's 'Nutcracker Suite'," Grigori answered for her, "popular at Christmas time in the west; but here we listen to the classics all year round." The lemur mumbled something under his breath and Auvert thought that he caught the Russian word for 'ignorant' but he shrugged it off.

Finished underneath, Auvert pulled himself out from under and began filling the engine with oil and the tank with gas while Nadezhda put back the air filters and screwed the covers back down. Grigori leaned against the wall looking irritated. Glancing at his watch, Auvert saw that it was just past six a.m. Outside, the roar an aircraft climbing to altitude penetrated the container as the first flight of the morning left for Moscow.

"The authorities will be looking for us in about six hours, but they should be looking in the wrong direction if all goes to plan. We have a long way to go. Let's ride."

* * * * * * * *

It was still dark at noon, but there was a faint glow in the south indicating that one day the sun would rise again. The four black stallions pulled the empty sleigh easily across the snow. They were in a good mood. Last night the fox that had come to the cabin with their mistress had come out almost immediately and told them that they were to bring him back to Murmansk. Moreover, he said that she had decided to spend the night in the cabin and that they were to return for her only at noon today.

They were simple peasants, strong and hardy but slow to figure things out. They had been selected for Sweet Tooth's sleigh not only for their speed but also for their obedience; they did not ask a lot of questions or tell stories about what they saw. This wasn't the first time she had sent one of her potential lovers packing, although she usually had one of the stallions fill in, but given the choice between possibly angering the mistress by interrupting her or spending a warm night in one's own bed, discretion won hoofs down. Besides, they all had mates to go home to, so they had taken the fox back to his hotel and dispersed until it was time for the return trip.

They were surprised to find their mistress struggling through the snow two kilometres shy of the cabin, headed in the direction of Murmansk. They sped up to meet her and pulled up a few meters away with a spray of snow. When the icy mist settled the lights from the sleigh illuminated her face. What they saw in her expression made then all take a pace back simultaneously.

They looked at each other sadly and hung their heads; it was no use fighting or trying to run, there was nowhere to run to. Nenet Menefer climbed into the sleigh and they sped back to the city as fast as they could.

Two weeks later, the coal mines of Siberia had a fresh new team to haul the carts from the pits. They were hard workers, never bothered the females, and got on very well.

About the same time as they arrived at the mines an artesian in Murmansk finished a commission for a lady. It was made from a pair or carriage lights and eight large bronze balls that had been delivered to him, strangely enough, by the local taxidermist.

* * * * * * * *

Auvert had hoped to be out of the Soviet Union by noon but he could see now that that was not going to happen. Although the Lada was in first-rate condition and had good tires and chains, the going was incredibly slow. Already he had had to rock them off embankments three times and dig them out twice. The only way to make any progress at all was to get in the ruts and drive slowly in low gear.

Once they had crossed the Tuloma River, road maintenance became non-existent. Madam Mishin explained that this part of the Murmansk Oblast was good only for logging and sustenance farming. The only reason the road was ploughed at all this time of year at all was for the logging trucks, which came barrelling around the blind corners sounding their horns. Auvert blessed the dark because he could see their headlights long before he could hear their horns, and they could see his.

After the first few hours, he had asked Grigori Mishin to take the wheel for an hour to allow him to rest his arms; the Lada did not have power steering. Grigori proved to as poor a driver as he was a fire starter and soon had the Lada buried to the windshield in a snow bank. As Auvert prepared to take his place in the driver's seat again Nadezhda slid over.

"Don't tell me," he said, "your father taught you how to drive because one who cannot drive is useless in the Motor Rifle troops." She shrugged and started the engine.

Auvert rode shotgun. He had memorized the geography of the Kola Peninsula, noting which roads were open all year, where the border crossings were, the names of all the towns and rivers. He had traced their route out for the lemurs, in case anything happened to him and they had to go on alone, but he didn't need to consult that map. After a few minutes, he heard a noise from the back and turning to look, discovered that Grigori had fallen asleep and was snoring under the blankets.

Auvert didn't realize that he had given a little snort of disgust until the wife spoke. "He's not as bad as you think, you know. He has some very good qualities."

Auvert wasn't convinced. "Really? He's good at hiding them."

"He is a brilliant scientist, a respected academic. It is just that the system here is so repressive. When we first met in university, he had aspirations of becoming a poet, but when his talent for physics was discovered they cut his arts classes and made him concentrate on practical matters."

"Practical matters." Auvert scoffed, having graduated high school on a technicality. "Your father sounds like a practical man. What does he think of him?"

Nadezhda sighed. "He didn't approve of him, but not for the reasons you think. Father had great respect for those that built the weapons he used in the field, but he was a loyal communist and it was Grigori's complaints about the lack of academic freedom that bothered him." That and his inability to drive, shoot or light a fire she added silently to herself.

Auvert picked up on the mood. "He 'didn't' approve. I take it that your father is no longer with us."

"He died in Afghanistan six months ago. A rebel using a small surface-to-air missile shot down his command helicopter. They told us that it was an American missile supplied by the CIA, but Grigori found out differently. Not knowing that he was the Colonel's son-in-law he was consulted by Army Aviation on how to avoid our own SA-7 missiles, a design that he had contributed to. The report of my father's death was included in the data. He was shot down by one of our missiles, one given to Asian 'freedom fighters' and resold to the 'rebels' for profit." Auvert could hear the disgust in her voice.

"He would have been proud to have a grandson." She continued. "We have been trying for so long." She did not add that she had hoped that producing a son would improve the Colonel's attitude toward her husband. Auvert saw a tear roll down her cheek and decided to change the subject.

"Your English is very good, much better than my Russian. Did you learn it in the West?"

"No. We are required to learn at least one foreign language in school. German is popular, and so is English."

"Know your enemy, kind of thing?"

"I suppose. Lately there is a big push for Chinese teachers."

"Do you get much exposure to the language, now that Gorbachev has opened up a little to the West?"

"Not so much." She sighed. "It is too bad. The few movies they let in have been screened for appropriateness and are only shown along with a lecture on what valuable lessons they have for us." She turned to him so suddenly that Auvert was afraid that they would crash again. "Do you know the movie 'Cabaret'?"

Auvert hesitated to answer. For years, first as a soldier and lately as a member of Canada's most exclusive of espionage agencies, he had kept a secret: his love for musical theatre. He looked at her eager expression and judged that the likelihood of her telling anyone he knew was slim.

"I've heard of it." He had watched it on his Betamax just last week.

"They showed it here last year as an example of western decadence and moral corruption. I loved that movie."

"Liza Minnelli and Michael York, right?" And Helmut Griem, Fritz Wepper, Marisa Berenson ...

"Yes and Joel Grey. I adore Joel Grey. He was so funny! I hope my son grows up to be like him, happy and full of life." Not cynical, gloomy and mistrustful, she added to herself, like someone she knew well.

Ah yes, Auvert thought, Joel Grey, a lemur that was an adept comic. Auvert wasn't a big Joel Grey fan, although he had done a funny bit as a Korean assassin in that Remo Williams movie last year. "He won an Oscar for 'Cabaret'," he told her.

"What's an Oscar?"

Auvert explained. He told her about the movies in contention for the awards that would be handed out soon: the gritty 'Platoon', and the Australian comedy 'Crocodile Dundee'. 'The Color of Money' and 'Top Gun'. He even confessed to watching the animated film 'An American Tail'. To her delight, he managed to sing most of the songs from it by heart.

"That is wonderful." She clapped when he was done. "You have only seen it once and you remember all that? You must have an ear for music."

"I sing like a crow with throat cancer."

"You lack training; but your memory for the tune and the melody! How do you do it?"

"I don't know. I've always been able to sing or whistle back something I've heard. Listen to this." He began to whistle, hesitantly at first, but picking up speed and confidence as he went along. Nadezhda recognized the Tchaikovsky ballet that she had been whistling earlier.

"How was that Madam Mishin?"

"Amazing, and if you are to be our deliverer to the West you should use my first name."

"Very well, Nadezhda."

"Nadya, please. Friends are allowed the use of the diminutive."

"All right. Nadya." Auvert tried it on for size. "You can call me Marty."

She held out a paw and he shook it. "Pleased to meet you Marty."

Neither noticed that the snoring from the back had stopped some time ago.

* * * * * * * *

Nenet Menefer stood waiting in front of Vasyl Timoshenko's desk at the project headquarters. He was talking on the telephone with the KGB in Moscow. After assuring them that there was nothing missing from their offices other than the lemur, he promised them that the lapse in security would be thoroughly investigated, and the guilty punished. He was looking straight at her when he said the last.

After the Werewolf hung up the phone, he pressed his paws together and gathered his thoughts. He studied the saluki while he did. Normally someone in her situation would be begging for mercy by now; she was not even shaking.

"The fox and the lemurs were spotted at the airport early this morning. They flew to Moscow under assumed names at six a.m. They left the Moscow airport together, and disappeared. Every airport within five hundred kilometres of there, every train station, every bus depot and taxi stand, is under surveillance. Teams are waiting outside all the western embassies in case they try to seek sanctuary. When they catch them, as I am certain they will, the fox is sure to talk and your part in this fiasco will be revealed. In order to protect myself I should turn you in now." But I'm not going to, he thought, because you are far to calm for one in so much trouble. He was convinced that she knew something that he did not.

Menefer studied him in turn. She knew that he was not called 'The Werewolf' only because of his ability to change sides with little notice, or because he willing to sacrifice anyone to save himself. He was also a sadist, delighting in finding new and innovative ways to destroy lives. He played on people's greed, wagering on the victim's ability to complete a task that seemed all too simple, at first. He claimed that he always offered his victims a fair chance, that he was always completely honest if asked about the conditions of his little wagers, but he never volunteered information; so the Olympic swimmer who wagered that he could traverse the pond on the Werewolf's estate would be shocked to discover that piranha could survive this far north.

It was not that the Werewolf liked to gamble; on the contrary, he never made one of his wagers until he knew all of the factors involved, making his wagers almost certainties. Nenet was betting that what she had to say would convince Timoshenko to gamble on her. She stood calmly, nothing could change the past, he either gave her a chance or he didn't.

Seeing that the silence was not affecting her, Timoshenko decided to end the game and get to the point. "What do you have to say for yourself Sweet Tooth?"

Nenet winced but took the insult. She had to control her anger until she got within spitting distance of that fox. "They didn't go to Moscow, and something is missing."

Timoshenko's brows joined. "Explain."

"As soon as I returned I had the lemurs apartment and workspace searched. We found this hidden inside a portable record player." She held out her paw, displaying a miniature camera and other apparatus for producing microfilm. "That is not all. We interviewed all of his colleges, quickly and crudely, but effectively. Lately he had been asking for data unrelated to his project: the patrol areas for the SSBNs, the target sets for the SLBMs, technical specifications and schedules. He claimed to be working on a new design of missile that could be launched without the submarine first breaking through the ice. He had the appropriate clearance so his fellow academics gave him access. It is likely that he recorded it all and took the film with him."

By now, the wolf's eyebrows had knotted themselves into a single, worried, unit. Nenet continued, showing him that a solution existed. "They would not have gone to Moscow; it is farther away from any border than Murmansk and watched more closely. As a decoy, however it plays into the KGB's reluctance to venture too far from their comforts. I'll bet that even the local resident agent has returned to Moscow to 'help' in the effort." By his silence she knew she was correct. "A week ago they asked for a travel permit for Pechenga, on the Norwegian border. Two days ago I turned them down."

The Werewolf saw what she was getting at. The plan for their escape would have to have been in place before then. The flight to Moscow was probably a ruse set up before then, designed to distract them while the lemurs fled in another direction, on another means of transportation; but which way now? He motioned for her to continue.

Menefer knew that she had won her gamble. "I've had the border crossings to Norway alerted just in case they try that route anyway. My people are checking all the bus depots, taxi companies and train stations as we speak, but I doubt that they would risk something as obvious and uncontrollable as public transportation. They indicated that they were going to drive to Pechenga, yet neither Mishin nor his mate owns a car."

Timoshenko considered the implications of that, and of what she had left unsaid. "What else do you need to catch them?"

"A list of all of her friends from the institute where she works and access to the files from the MVD offices. If they have left by car, we can put the word out through state security to report but not intercept; they hate the KGB enough to play along and see them embarrassed. Once they are located, I'll need to move fast. Can you get me a helicopter and eight armed officers?"

* * * * * * * *

The two hundred kilometres from Murmansk to the unnamed border crossing with Finland had taken them over twelve hours to drive. After crossing the bay on the ferry they had travelled south along the west bank of the Tuloma River until they reached the P12, a road that did not deserve its designation as a highway. The P12 had led them generally westwards, through small logging communities and past the occasional farm. The only other vehicles they had seen were the kamikaze logging trucks.

They had approached the border cautiously. Auvert's research had indicated that the local Border Guard commander was corrupt, but ultimately loyal to the motherland. They had to tread carefully; smuggling hardwood into Finland to be turned into office furniture was one thing, letting defectors escape was another. Auvert left the lemurs and the Lada out of sight of the guard post and proceeded on foot with the leather satchel, all of the roubles and a large black book. He had left his gun with them.

He was back in less than an hour and he climbed in behind the wheel, putting the mostly empty satchel down on the seat. He drove silently toward the guard post and the stripped red-and-white barrier that marked the border. When they arrived, an officer was standing with the guard. The officer, a brown bear of considerable girth, leaned in and glared at the two lemurs, his contempt was visible on his face.

"These them?" He growled. Auvert answered, his Russian tainted by a heavy American accent that he had not had before. "You go across now. The Finns do not occupy their side at night, but I warn you, they keep watch at the next town, fifty kilometres up the highway, and there are no roads going around them. Goodbye. Good riddance." With that, he stepped back and waved at the guard to open the barrier. He spit at the car as it rolled trough.

"What did you tell him to make him so angry Marty?" Nadya enquired. "He could not wait to get rid of us."

Auvert pulled the large black book out of the bag and handed it to her. She had a little difficulty with the fancy gold lettering on its cover but finally made out the words 'Holy Bible'.

"I told him we were Baptists, yearning for the religious freedom of the west. The border guards hate Baptists, they're always trying to smuggle bibles into the USSR rather than pay the appropriate bribes; and the government punishes them more severely for bibles getting through than luxury items."

They rolled past the open barrier on the Finnish side. Glancing back, Nadya saw the Soviet barrier fall as the officer stomped back into the warm guard post.

"So we are free!"

"I'm afraid not." Auvert said morosely. "We are in Finland illegally. The Finns don't want to anger the Soviets, so if they catch us and find out that you fled there they will put us back over the border there."

"So what is the plan," Grigori asked, "that is if you have a plan?" He added snidely.

Auvert gave him a look that could have frozen lava before answering. "We're heading across Lapland to Sweden. That route has the least number of checkpoints and Sweden's a neutral country. Once we're there we can claim protection for you as political refugees and I can contact my embassy to arrange your trip out."

"Why not Norway, it is closer is it not?"

"The highway north is more difficult and prone to closure because of avalanches. They may also suspect that we'll go that way since you were supposed to cross over near there."

"Do we not have any say in this matter?" The lemur asked angrily.

"I'm afraid not. Welcome aboard the Finland Express. Next stop, Muodoslompolo."

* * * * * * * *

Within five minutes of their crossing the border, the doors to the garage they had occupied that morning blew off. As the smoke and dust cleared, Nenet Menefer strode in at the head of a group or armed wolves. Seeing that the garage was empty she turned to one of the wolves, "Get the make and colour of the car that was supposed to be here out to our friends in the MVD. Have them report on its movements. Make sure the helicopter is kept warmed up and ready to go the instant we hear anything." The young wolf saluted and hurried off.

Nenet walked around the garage, examining everything. The oily rags and the tools left out only told her that the car they had would be in reasonable shape. The empty oil and gas containers matched spots free of dust on the shelves, and more dust free areas indicated that they were well supplied with both commodities. Where could they be? The border with the NATO ally Norway was well covered, the Werewolf had convinced the local military commander to stage a 'readiness evaluation exercise'. Now the area teemed with soldiers from the Leningrad Military District. Leningrad? They could be half way to the famous Baltic port by now. From there, they could bribe their way onto a foreign freighter and be in Hamburg the next day.

She swept the pile of adult magazines, most of them hard-core yiff from Germany, from the table beside a padded chair. As they flew, the cover of the topmost caught the light in a certain way. Nenet shot out her arm and caught it in mid-air. She held it under the lamp and angled it one way them another to recreate the effect. There it was again, lines pressed into the soft glossy cover, someone had drawn something using this magazine as a soft backing so their pen would roll easier on the paper. She held the magazine by the corners and examined the picture.

There, in bas relief across the body of a naked feline sitting astride the massive penis of a bull, was a crude map of the Kola peninsula. A route leading south from Murmansk then west had been added to the natural outlines, as had a dotted line that could only indicate a border.

"Call the helicopter." She shouted to the nearest wolf. "Tell them that we are on our way; and somebody find me a map showing the roads leading into Finland."

* * * * * * * *

17 January, 1987

The first order of business was to steal some Finnish license plates. Approaching the next town cautiously, Auvert parked the Lada in a snow-plough turn-around and pulled on white camouflage. He left them with similar instructions as at the border, but he took one pistol with him this time, screwing on a silencer before departing. He returned within an hour, plates tucked under one arm.

He stopped behind a pile of snow where he could observe the car before approaching and was been surprised to see Grigori sitting alone in the Lada. He was been even more surprised when a portion of the snow bank behind him moved and suck a pistol in the back of his head. Dropping his gun and holding his gloved paws up he turned slowly. Nadya Mishin dropped the white blanket that she had been hiding under and lowered the Glock.

"I was afraid that the police might find us before you got back." She had said. "I did not trust that Border guard commander not to turn us in."

"Let me guess. One who cannot shoot, repair engines, drive and hunt from a hide in the winter is of no use to the Motor Rifle Troops." Nadya, who was shivering too badly to reply, nodded yes. Auvert wrapped the blanket around her and picked her up, carrying her to the car. Once there he ordered Grigori, rather roughly, into the back seat so that she could sit in front closer to the heater. Quickly, he attached the new plates and threw the old ones deep into the forest.

Back in the Lada he stared at her, shivering in the front, frozen tears melting on her face, and then at her husband, sulking in the back, embarrassed for having letting her do it. "I don't know which of you is crazier." He muttered to himself as he put the car in gear and drove on.

* * * * * * * *

It had taken some time to get clearance to fly to the border, but the Werewolf had managed to get permission. Menefer and her escort of wolves were put down on the road close to the Soviet checkpoint. They ran ahead as she strode toward the guard post building.

By the time she arrived, her troops had already roused the guard commander. Overwhelmed by the sudden appearance of the armed wolves, the border guards were huddled in one corner, unarmed, while their chief was escorted into the main office.

"Two lemurs and a silver fox." Menefer snapped. "Have they crossed here?"

At first, the commander refused to speak. The blunt end of an AK-47 convinced him otherwise. He confessed to letting them across.

"Don't worry," he added, "those bible thumpers will be back soon. When the Finns catch them they'll hand them right back to us."

"The Finns are not going to catch them, you fool." Menefer spat at him. "The fox is a professional, some kind of government agent."

"In that case you may need my help." The bear was trying desperately to save his own skin now. "The KGB resident in Lapland owes me a few favours. Let me contact him and he will find your lost lemurs for you."

Nenet thought for a moment. This bear wasn't the type to trust in 'favours', nor was he likely to honour them once they left. "Give me his contact information, as well as the material you are keeping to guarantee his 'favour'. While you are at it, you must have something on your opposite number on the Finnish side that will convince him to clear us through."

"You are asking for a lot. You do have some sort of official status?" The last thing the commander wanted was to be implicated in someone's independent scheme when it backfired, and he could sense something of the sort here.

"You have a private office?" Nenet asked, lowering her voice and stepping up close to the half-dressed officer. "I can show you my ... credentials."

The bear swept and arm toward a door behind the counter and followed her as she stepped around and went inside. The small office had a desk and a safe, the later presumably to hold the bribes until the district superintendent made his rounds. It also had a bed, and from the look of it, the commander took brides in more forms than cash alone. Nenet cringed.

The guard captain tried to make things more presentable. He threw a new and almost clean sheet on top of the bed and kicked his laundry underneath, out of sight if not out of olfactory range. He sat down on the edge and patted a space beside him.

"The information first."

"Not likely, but to show good faith I'll give you the name and number of the resident agent."

After he had done so Menefer leaned out and handed the name to one of her wolves. "Call Timoshenko and check this name out. If it's false come in here and shoot this fat fuck." Smiling, she turned back to the bear.

"Vasyl Timoshenko, the Werewolf?" He asked nervously. She nodded. He gulped, then remembered that he still held the upper hand. The Werewolf wouldn't begrudge him a fair trade. He patted the bed again and Menefer removed her boots and jacket and sat down beside him. He was drooling at the sight of her silken white fur, the swell of her breasts inside her blouse. She rolled her eyes but began to open the buttons on her blouse while he rubbed her thigh through her skirt.

As soon as she lifted her bra to expose her breasts he dove for them, dampening her fur with his saliva as he sucked and licked sloppily, groping first one then the other with his rough peasant's paws. He took her paw and placed it on his groin, where she could feel his already hardened member. She removed it. He put it back again, holding it there until she squeezed it. He was using his teeth now to gently nibble on her neck and the undersides of her breasts, and that gave her an idea.

She released his member and pulled open his uniform shirt, sending buttons flying. He smiled at her aggression, mistaking it for the faked passion the female smugglers knew he liked them to display. He leaned back as she took his nipples into her mouth, sucked them into hardness and gently bit down until the delicate brown tip was trapped between her teeth. She growled in mock ferocity. He growled back, enjoying this game.

While she worked his chest she undid the buttons on his fly, too poor for zippers this one, or too cheap. His penis sprung forth, barely contained by his ragged underwear. She stoked it with one paw and undid her skirt with the other without ever losing mouth to teat contact.

The bear helped her pull down the skirt and the industrial-strength white cotton underwear she had beneath it; she had not dressed for this unexpected occasion. When she was naked, she got up off the bed, releasing his cock, and stood fully revealed before him. She pulled one breast up and sucked on it herself. Her other paw slid across the soft short fur of her belly and disappeared between her legs. When it came back it was damp, and she raised it to her lips, sucked on her digits.

The captain was breathing hard, wearing a stupid smirk like a fat child accidentally locked overnight in a candy shop. His cock stood straight up, quivering. He held his paws out, beckoning her to come closer.

"The material I need to persuade your KGB friend?" He paw lowered again. She put one foot up on the bed beside him and he could see her digits sliding into her, forcing the lips of her sex apart, exposing the pink inside.

"It's in the safe. It's open."

"I'll be right back." She pulled her paw out and let him suck it dry, brushed his face with her breasts as she straightened and turned. She bent from her hips, keeping her legs straight and her tail up to give the commander a view of both holes from behind. She heard him moan as she wiggled while she pulled papers from the safe. There it was, underneath a pile of new roubles. She read it quickly. Oh yes, she gloated, this will do nicely, for the KGB and the Finnish Border guard superintendent as well. She rolled one cheek against the other before straightening up and he gasped at the sight.

She faced him, lifted an eyebrow as if to ask 'what now'. He lay back on the mattress.

"I've always been partial to oral sex, it makes me scream when I come, and I can do the same to you eh?"

"There is always a lot of screaming when I come." She grinned, showing her teeth. "And if you want that in my mouth when we come, why, I'd be happy to oblige."

The bear's eyes went wide with delight and he wet his lips in anticipation. Nenet swung a leg over him and lowered herself until she could feel his hot breath between her legs. Holding his penis with one paw, she bent her head and took it in her mouth as he took his first tentative licks.

He was no expert but she imagined the face of the silver fox Paulis before her as the bear licked around her clit, trying to find the right spot. She thought about what she would do to Paulis once she caught him, how she would strip him and bind him before she sharpened her claws. The image made her moan and wriggle. Mistaking her enthusiasm as the results of his ministrations the bear lapped harder, driving his rough tongue into her slit and up to the sensitive skin between it and her anus. He had accidentally discovered one of her favourite spots and she ground her self against his face to encourage him.

She was hardly paying attention to what she was doing, raising and lowering her head in a slow steady rhythm, but a wise man once said that the worst blow-job any male ever had could still be described as 'fantastic', and the bear was no exception. She worked her throat to keep her lips moist enough to slide on his swollen member, but other than that she occupied herself with thoughts of the tortures she would inflict on the Canadian fox, if that even was where he was from. She'd find out; she would have him begging to tell her. She closed her eyes and growled contentedly, imagining him hanging from chains, with erection as big as one of her stallions, blood and sweat dripping from his body.

The vibrations she was producing deep in her throat were a new technique for the captain, one he was thoroughly enjoying. He put a paw on each of her buttocks and spread them so that he could push his tongue even deeper into her. Doing so brought his thumbs against her tailhole and the sensation as he clenched his paws there added to her pleasure. She could feel her orgasm building. She sped up unconsciously as she neared climax. Had she bothered to notice, she would have noted how his balls seemed to shrink back into him as they gathered themselves for an imminent explosive release.

She bucked her hips so that the coarse fur on the point of his chin tormented her clit, the sting it produced bringing back the flood of memories, the passions recalled, the pain, the pleasure ...

She did not dart her head forward when the fire spread through her this time, she didn't have to.

Timoshenko had warned the wolves about her before they had been sent out, but even so, two of them wet themselves and one discharged his assault rifle into the leg of a border guard when the scream came.

* * * * * * * *

They had driven all day to cross the four hundred kilometres of Finland that separated the Soviet Union from Sweden, although only the faint glow to the south marked it as daytime. The highway had been in better shape than the road through the forest from Murmansk, but now they had traffic, and traffic police, to contend with. They had alternated behind the wheel, even Grigori had managed to take two turns on the straighter stretches, but Auvert had been unwilling to sleep. He had been awake and active, both mentally and physically, for over fifty hours now.

He wasn't the only one who was showing the strain of traveling so far. Nadya Mishin had stayed up with him, singing some of the operas that she had learned from her mother, once an aspiring diva, or whistling the classical music she had learned to play at the Red Army schools for the children of senior officers while Auvert drove. When it was her turn behind the wheel she insisted that he recount the plots of the musicals that he had seen, and sing all the songs from them that he could remember. Grigori sulked in the back while they drove, demanded silence so he could concentrate when he was behind the wheel.

The Lada was demonstrating adverse symptoms also. Despite his topping up the oil every few hours the engine was beginning to run rough and foul blue smoke came out of the exhaust with each shift of the gears. Auvert deferred to Nadya's experience and changed the oil completely on her recommendation at the last change over. It had helped smooth out the motor and the blue smoke had disappeared for now.

Auvert wasn't overly concerned. It was just after eight p.m. and they were entering the border town of Muonio. Now only a short drive south on the E8 and the Torne River crossing separated them from the village of Muodoslompolo in neutral Sweden.

Auvert stopped the car on the edge of the town and got out to stretch. It had grown warmer during the day, rising from about thirty degrees below to just about freezing. He knew that at this time of year this far north there was no day-night fluctuation in temperatures; it looked like they were in for a rare warm spell. That was fine with him. He opened his parka and let the less than frigid breeze carry some of the sweat away.

While he luxuriated in the break from driving, imagining how good a hot meal was going to feel, another part of his brain was cataloguing everything around him and comparing each item and activity to find a pattern the overall picture matched. The sounds around him seemed to fade away as did his smile as that part of brain demanded more of his conscious effort. Scanning the scene deliberately now, moving his head from right to left, the opposite of the western reading habit to avoid skipping important items, he realized what was wrong. There was a line of cars and trucks idling along the highway to the south, where the border crossing would be, and a steady stream of vehicles coming back from the same area along a parallel road that brought them back to the intersection where he had parked.

Waving over a truck with USSR plates and Lithuanian symbols on the cab, he asked what the problem was. The driver, who didn't notice Auvert's accent because of his own, told him that the Finns had closed the border crossing and were searching all the vehicles that approached it. The search was focused on the drivers and passengers, they were not searching luggage. After they exchanged light-hearted obscenities aimed at the Finns and northerners in general the truck driver headed off to find a warm bed or a cold drink, whichever he happened upon first. Auvert considered the implications of the news.

Obviously, the Finns had been alerted, but how much did they know? Could he persuade the local superintendent to let then across with a good story and a fist full of American hundred dollar bills? With the border closed however, the Swedes would be suspicious when they were the only ones allowed across. They may not let them in, and the Swedish border guards were notoriously difficult to bribe. They could be stuck between border posts, until they froze or the Finns dragged them back.

Climbing back in the Lada, he explained the situation to the Mishins.

"A fine mess." Grigori complained. "Now it is too late to go north. We will have to head south, to the sea; pay to be smuggled to Sweden."

"Not so fast." Auvert held up a paw to quiet the scientist. "There is a spot about thirty kilometres north of here where the Finnish highway 21 and the Swedish 99 are less than five hundred metres apart. There should be an ice bridge across the Torne for local traffic to pass back and forth. We can try there."

"I say we go south."

"North."

"Nadezhda Lyubavich, you tell him." He said, turning to his wife. "We should go south.

"Grigori, Misha," She replied, using her pet name for him from their university days, "I've studied the area for my work with the merchant fleet. There is no commercial traffic this time of year until you get to the Baltic itself. That's over a thousand kilometres away." She held her belly. "I don't think that the car or our son will last that long."

Auvert's eyes narrowed. "Has the baby shifted? Are you felling contractions? Spasms?"

"No, no. It is just ... just that I feel we should take the shortest route."

"That would be north then. Even if we can't cross at the first opportunity, the two highways parallel the Torne River most of the way back to Norway. I'm certain that we'll be able to sneak across sooner or later."

Grigori looked at his mate, hoping to appeal to her loyalty, but she dropped her eyes before he could think of anything to say. With a snort of disgust, he took up his usual spot in the back.

"Drive north then, but mark my words. Your certainties will be the death of us."

They pulled out, turning right to follow the highway away from the congested border crossing. Across the street from where they had parked, the attendant at Muonio's only gas station left the sedan he was refuelling and went inside to make a phone call.