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FOX Academy:

Book I - The New Breed

Book II - The Werewolf of Odessa

The Werewolf of Odessa - Chapter 4 - Enhanced Security

After taking a couple of days off to rest and visit the Academy medical clinic Silver was ready to report back to work for light duty. W had said that he wanted him to help shepherd the new recruits during their training, but hadn't gone into details. Silver decided to go over to the headquarters building and ask Tancred 'Tanner' Williams, the Chief of staff, what W had in mind.

He was surprised to find a line up at the front door. Normally the tourists didn't wander into this part of the experimental farm that served as the Academy's cover. When they did they were politely steered back the other way. Should they ask what these buildings were used for, the guards would tell them that they were the home of Canada's elite espionage unit, but in such a way as to seem like they were joking and everyone would go away with a good laugh.

When he got closer, moving cautiously after Tanner's news of the Perfect Stalker, he recognized several of the new students from the photos on their files, though he didn't see the two Americans. A number of FOX employees that he knew were mixed in with them, some Rats from Dr. Gordon's lab, the Lemur Joel from the documents section. Then there were a few unfamiliar to him, a Turtle in the uniform of the ground keeping staff, a Beaver and several others. Silver pushed past them to enter the lobby and headed for the restricted area where the offices of the senior staff, which included his, could be found.

"What gives with the line up?" He asked as he entered Tanner's office.

"Wait a moment and I'll let the cause of the congestion explain." The Chief of Staff pressed a button on his desk and spoke into the microphone attached to his computer. Two minutes later one of the guard staff appeared at the door escorting a large German-Shepherd dog. The Dog wore blue slacks and a blue and white striped shirt with the cuffs rolled back. He had accessorized with a black belt, black socks and comfortable black shoes. Silver didn't need to examine the badge hanging on his belt to know that this was a cop.

"Silver, this is Constable Norman Hirt from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Counter-Intelligence Squad." Silver and the RCMP CI cop shook paws and exchanged polite greetings. Tanner continued, "The Commissioner of the RCMP sent him over when the reports that the Perfect Stalker was on your trail reached them. He is here to help with security." Tanner was being polite but Silver could tell from the way he choose his words that he wasn't thrilled to have an outsider messing around in FOX's backyard.

"While I'm here Gold," the Dog addressed the Chief of Staff with his official codename, "I'd like to bring up the matter of my access again. I still haven't been given a pass for the restricted areas."

"Nor are you likely to get one Constable." Tanner was never this formal, he must really be pissed, Silver observed. "The restricted passes are for those with a 'need to know' about our operations only. That includes your Staff Sergeant in CI, the RCMP Intelligence Liaison officer and the Commissioner himself, but not you. You are here to review the security clearances of the junior and support staffs only, remember?"

"I can't do a proper job if I don't have free access to you, your staff and the security files. Having to order everything to be brought to that broom closet you stuck me in and to be lead around by the paw whenever I want to pee is not acceptable." Tanner wasn't the only one pissed today it seemed. "A workstation in the operations centre with direct access to the files is what I need."

"Take it up with your supervisor. He agreed to the conditions when your secondment here was proposed." Tanner changed the subject. "Can you explain to Silver here what it is you are doing with the staff at the moment, please?"

The Dog frowned but obeyed, as years of RCMP discipline had conditioned him to do. He addressed Silver, crossing his arms over his chest in an unconscious sign of animosity.

"Every employee with less than five years of employment here at FOX, regardless of which agency they may have transferred from or what clearance they hold, is getting a positive ID check and background confirmation. I am doing this myself in the 'office' Gold provided as a third party to prevent any sloppiness, corner cutting or collusion between conspirators. I've already spent a week going over the files of every employee concerned and this is the first group to be interviewed."

"Constable Hirt decided that it would be more effective if everybody showed up at 8:00 am rather than schedule individual appointments." Gold interjected.

The Dog shrugged. "Some take five minutes, others take a few hours. You never know until you look them in the eyes." From his attitude, Silver doubted that there were very many five-minute interviews.

Silver could see now why Tanner was pissed; half the Academy was standing around doing nothing while this intruder leisurely interviewed them one at a time. These inter-agency squabbles were never pretty, and he was glad that he wasn't Gold. This shouldn't affect him.

"Tell Silver about the 'priority' files." The emphasis Tanner put on the word priority made Silver's ears swivel forward.

"While I was reviewing the files I noted several employees that had dubious backgrounds; unverifiable details, questionable associations and outright criminal records." Silver wondered if the CI cop knew about his own youthful indiscretions. "There are a number of employees that I have recommended be terminated outright." Bad choice of words around here, thought Silver. "Gold does not agree with me. So I will interview them, as agreed," this last directed to Gold, "and make my recommendations to the Commissioner."

"Which employees are you referring to?" Silver was curious to know.

"The first is Joel Grigori, a Lemur of Russian descent. There is no official record of his birth or entry into this country. Before starting to work here, he was being investigated for forgery and copyright infringement. On top of all that, he has some rather questionable after-hours activities. Have you seen his web site?"

Silver didn't respond. He felt responsible for Joel ever since carrying him out of Finland as a baby one frozen winter twenty-one years ago. The Shepherd continued.

"Several of your junior agents have questionable sexual habits. Delores Johnson of Calgary was being kicked off the police force there for her promiscuous ways. Your junior agent in the Sudan, one Randy O'Neil, may be a homosexual."

Silver glanced over at Tanner. The tall muscular Fox with the golden coat was openly gay, and had been so even before the Canadian Human Rights Act could protect him from losing his security clearance because of it. Tanner's expression didn't change, but Silver noticed that he held his paws together with just the tips of the claws touching. It was something he did when he would rather be ripping out someone's throat.

"Finally," Hirt continued, unaware, "you have a murderer, child molester and probable drug addict with no verifiable identity called 'Marcel', and no one will tell me where he is."

Now Silver knew why Tanner had brought the cop in to see him. He had recruited Marcel from the streets where he had lived, skateboarding for fun, begging for food and fighting off the predators that preyed on the younger street kids. Silver guessed that the murder referred to was the Bison that Marcel had stabbed when he caught it raping one of the young girls in his pack. The paedophile accusation was a mistaken assumption that Marcel took sexual advantage of the under aged runaways that hung around him for protection; Silver knew that nothing could be farther from the truth. Drugs? What cop wouldn't assume that a skater boy living on the streets took drugs? Silver dismissed it.

Silver touched his snout, a signal to Tanner that he wanted to talk to him alone.

"Thank you for briefing us Constable Hirt. I'll let you get back to your work now; don't want to keep you away from your work at the RCMP any longer than we have to." Gold added. The escort, waiting down the hall came when Gold pressed the button on his desk again and led the Dog away.

"Jesus, where did they find him?" Silver asked.

"I heard that he was being bounced around RCMP HQ, being a general pain in the ass in every section they put him in. It appears that when the opportunity for an outside deployment came up his was the first and only name submitted." Tanner shrugged. "I haven't figured out whether he was sent here to punish him or to punish us. In any event, I wouldn't worry about Joel, Delores or Randy, but we may be in for a hard time over Marcel."

Silver nodded. "Where exactly is Marcel anyways?"

* * * * * * * *

Marcel was in Bern, or Berne, depending on which map you looked at. Much smaller than the more famous cities of Zurich or Geneva, it was nevertheless, the capital of Switzerland. The name 'Bern' meant 'Bear' and Marcel had read in the tourist brochure that the founder, some Duke, had killed a Bear here in 1191. The Bear had been a Mime that was irritating the Duke by trying to escape an invisible box. The Duke gave him an iron one to try out and left the Bear in it for a month. Ironically enough, the Mime was said to have suffered in silence and died before he was released. To honour his commitment to his craft the Duke named the new town Berne.

In honour of its name, the city kept a bear-pit near the end of the main bridge over the Aare River. The pit was full of bears, as befitted its name, and the bears were street performers, mostly Mimes. By ordinance passed in the thirteenth century, only bears could perform within the city limits. The pit was instituted in the sixteenth century to curtail the growing number of assaults on Mimes. The buskers were restricted to the pit, where only those desperate enough for entertainment to look in could see them.

Marcel stood by the rail looking down as a dozen bears, all dressed in striped shirts, black trousers and made-up in white face, tugged on invisible ropes, ran into invisible walls and leaned on invisible bars. Tourists threw buns into the pit to watch the Mimes silently fight over them. Pathetic. He wished that the contact had chosen another spot for the rendezvous. Marcel and bears hadn't gotten along well lately.

With the efforts of most western intelligence agencies focused on finding the Werewolf, W had taken advantage of Marcel's professional skateboarder cover to survey a number of their European contacts. He was now halfway through a whirlwind tour of southern Europe, with strict instructions to behave himself. That hadn't been difficult, his itinerary had him travelling by train most nights, and so he wasn't getting the taste of the European nightlife that he had expected. Afternoons were spent performing at whatever venue they had been able to arrange at short notice and the mornings were spent hanging around popular tourist sites; castles, animated clocks, fountains, waiting for his contacts to show up.

Down below one Bear was laying invisible bricks while another used an invisible sledgehammer to remove the invisible wall the first was building. Marcel became aware of a presence beside him. It was an older lady, an Otter, dressed conservatively in the European fashion, complete with lace gloves and a veil on her hat. Marcel ignored her until she addressed him in English.

"Excuse me young fox, do you know where one may purchase some buns?" She enquired.

Marcel wondered if it was a legitimate question. Smaller than most foxes with delicate features, most people mistook him for a young teenager, and he still dressed the same as when he was a street kid. The combination attracted an unsavoury sort of attention from certain older men. On the other hand, his cover identification was gaining popularity and he was starting to be recognized and approached by the younger set. This Otter didn't seem to fit either category. He pointed over to the little booth by the bridge in answer.

She seemed to have lost interest in the buns however. "I say, are you not that Anthony Fox, 'the Flying Fox' that is performing at our coliseum today?"

Well, what do know, my fan base is expanding, Marcel marvelled. The old lady spoke with a slight German accent and a slur. Probably been drinking too much Jagermeister, Marcel mused, a recent convert to the syrupy-sweet digestif himself. Better get rid of her before she scares the contact away.

"Nope, you must be mistaking me for someone else lady." He replied.

"Oh, but I am certain it is you. Have you visited our mechanical clock in the marktplatz," she continued, "the animated puppets in the Zytglogge are amazing."

Now Marcel was shocked. The old lady had just given the greeting used to identify the contact. He replied with the counter signal.

"Yes, but I heard that it was originally a prison for women who slept with priests; 'Priest's Whores' they were called." Well if she wasn't the contact, he'd know in about two seconds.

"Only until the great fire of 1405, where the 'Pfaffendirnen' were all treated to preview of the hell they were destined for." So, she was the contact, or a historian with a thing for skater boys. Marcel wondered, not for the first time, who thought up these exchanges.

"Do you have any information for me?" he asked her.

"Yes, but not here." She slurred. "I have a room in the old city, not far from here. Let me take your arm to steady me."

She was having a little trouble walking, Marcel noticed. They made their way across the bridge into the old town. Although he had by now toured a number of old cities in Europe and the Middle East Marcel had never seen a town like it. There were no narrow twisting alleys for one thing; all of the streets were at least 60 feet wide, and the main ones 90 feet. Most of the buildings had separate basement entrances below street level and covered arcades of shops above them.

As they went, the Otter explained that the city had burned to the ground in 1405. When it was rebuilt, the city fathers decreed that the streets should be so wide to prevent future fires from spreading. The separate basements were a tax dodge, as homes with accessible basements paid a higher tax back then.

They came to a discrete entrance and Marcel waited while she unlocked the door. He helped her up a flight of stairs that ended in a foyer with several numbered doors. She opened one and motioned him inside.

The apartment was tiny by Marcel's standards, but fully functional. A single room served as salon, dining room and bedroom. The kitchen was so small you didn't have to move to reach anything and the bathroom was microscopic. Marcel could imagine showering, using the toilet and brushing his teeth all at the same time, it was so cramped.

The Otter dropped her purse on the table and stood at the far end of the room. She undid her jacket and hung it on a peg by the bed. Her hat went on a shelf beside it. Stripped of the veil, she didn't look quite so old, well preserved actually. She toed off her heavy leather shoes and sighed with relief. She unzipped her skirt and began to shimmy it off over her hips. What the hell?

"Uh, excuse me." Marcel interrupted her undressing. "You, uh, had some information for me?"

"Yeah, yeah." The otter reached into her mouth and pulled out two silicone forms. She continued without the slur. "Give me a sec to get comfortable here." The skirt and blouse came off to reveal a baggy body suit that went from wrist to ankles. She reached behind to undo the catch and stepped out of the suit. "God that's a relief. You wouldn't believe how hot it is in there." She said.

Marcel stared at the new Otter before him. Slim, medium height, light brown fur with white markings, dark eyes. She had worn a single piece black bathing suit under the body suit and the sweat made it cling to her like a second skin; Marcel could see the outline of the nipples on her small breasts. The suit had also worked its way between her vulva. He looked away embarrassed. She smiled when he blushed and began to peel off the bathing suit.

There was nowhere to go in the apartment where he couldn't see her so Marcel looked out the window onto the street, but he could see her reflection in the window and he couldn't keep his eyes from drifting back to it. She rolled the suit down to her waist and stretched, flattening her little breasts and making their brown nipples poke out. She turned her back to the window and pulled the suit down over her thick tail and rounded buttocks, pausing half crouched to look over her shoulder at him. She straightened and stepped out of the suit before turning to face him.

Marcel was trying to concentrate on the street scene, with little success. The Otter approached him from behind and extending one arm turned him to face her. From this close Marcel could see that she wasn't nearly an old lady, early thirties maybe. Standing barefoot, bare everything actually, in front of him her eyes were on a level just below his. Her fur was slicked down against her from wearing the body suit and the sweat gave her a musky, and not unattractive, odour. Marcel began to sweat too.

"You, uh, are my contact, um, right?"

"Yes."

"You do have some, uh, information for me?"

"Yes."

"So, seein' as you're not shy, why don't you just, um, tell me what it is?"

"Honey," she said placing a paw on Marcel's chest and standing closer. "I work in a bank filled with ninety-year old Swiss guys whose idea of a good time is a regular bowel movement. The guys the agency sends out to see me about once a year are not much better; except that silver-haired guy, he's fun. Bern is nice but it's not Paris, you get my drift?" She had begun to twist Marcel's t-shirt in her paw and she let go suddenly. "I'm going for a shower; you look like you could use one too."

Turning away, she lifted her tail and swayed toward the bathroom, not having any trouble walking now. Her butt cheeks rolled against each other with each step. At the door she paused and spoke without looking back at him.

"You know, I don't work for you guys, I'm an employee of the bank. I get a retainer for keeping my eye out for certain types of transactions but this information you want is extra, above and beyond you might say. I had to fuck one of the bank's partners to get it." Now she looked back. "I would like to think that you'd do the same, but we're fresh out of partners right now. Guess you'll just have to make do." She disappeared into the bathroom and Marcel heard the water running.

Paris or not, Bern was definitely a step up from Nicosia, Marcel thought as he crossed the room, dropping clothes as he went. Inside the tiny bathroom, he let his eyes adjust to the light and peered through the steam that was filling the room. The toilet was beside the door and the sink was directly in front of it. Behind the door, so close that Marcel had to enter and close it before he found it, was a small tub and shower combination.

The shower head was large, round and had dozens of tiny holes so that the water fell like a heavy rain. The curtain hung from a loop of thick chrome pipe attached to the wall in two places near the corner of the room. Marcel could make out the Otter's silhouette through the opaque curtain. Evidently she could see him too as she stuck one paw out and curled up the first digit twice to invite him in. Marcel took a deep breath and entered.

The shower enclosure was larger than it looked from outside, and neither of them was large. She leaned back against the tile wall with the hot water streaming off her slick fur and giggled at Marcel's expression as the water matted his less waterproof coating. She turned him around to let the water reach everywhere and soon he was soaked. He parted the longer hair, usually tucked up under his cap, which had fallen over his eyes and brushed it back between his ears. She was looking right at him, her nose only a centimetre from his. Without breaking eye contact, she leaned in and kissed him.

Soon the kiss deepened and Marcel closed his eyes, letting his paws explore her. Her breasts were small; hardly a pawful, and he had small paws, but firm. The nipples were erect and responsive to his touch. Her tummy was also firm and her hips were narrow, but not boyish. Her thighs were well-rounded and muscular, swimmer's thighs, and he could feel her flex when he cupped her ass and pulled her against him.

She was running her paws through his wet fur, combing it back, and carving patterns in it before the water could wash them away. She ran one paw down the length of his tail, no longer the bushy pride of his backside, but still thick with sodden fur. Her hips were grinding against his, the hot water streaming between them.

She broke the embrace and reached behind her, producing sponge and soap. She held the sponge under the shower and rubbed it with the soap. Soon it was a foamy ball in her paw. Not speaking, she reached down, took Marcel's cock in the other paw and began gently rubbing it with the sponge. Lifting it as it stiffened, she swirled the sponge around his sack and behind, up to his tail. Returning to the front she soaped his cock again.

She continued like that, sponging his cock, balls and ass in turn. The soap made everything smooth and slick, the heat of the water made the sponge soft. Marcel could feel the pressure building down below and his prick quivered with every touch.

She stopped and handed him the sponge. "My turn." She turned her back to him.

Marcel rubbed more soap into the sponge as he pondered where to begin. His balls still ached and it felt like his penis was about to launch free from his body and all he wanted to do was lift her tail and ram it in the first convenient hole, but he forced himself to relax. He drew a line down her spine with the sponge, starting at her neck and ending under her tail. Next, he crossed the line under her shoulders and continued under one arm, across her breasts, under the other arm and back to where he started. He lifted one of her arms and swept the sponge from hip to wrist, then he did the same for the other.

His parts were under control now, the boys had loosened up and his shaft had stopped twitching. It was safe to move in. He pressed his body against her back and started making large circles on her torso, spreading soap from shoulder to crotch. One paw went around under her arm to caress a breast as he leaned down to soap her thighs. She spread her legs when he did, allowing him to continue soaping the inside of her thighs. He reached down as far as her knees, and when the sponge came back up the back of his thumb pressed against her mound. Reaching between her legs, he soaped the back of her thigh and the line between her buttocks, his thumb rubbing against her slit with every swipe of his paw.

At some point he dropped the sponge, but he wasn't sure when. He just realized that he was using his empty paw to spread the soapy water around now. His thumb was inserted in her, rotating inside, the hard bone at its base pressing on her clit. His chin was on her right shoulder and she had lifted the same arm to cradle it. Her head was thrown back onto his left shoulder. She was leaning heavily on him as she had lifted one leg to afford his paw better access. Her tail was up between them and Marcel could feel his cock sliding between her butt cheeks as she rocked to the rhythm of his paw.

They might have gone on like that to the end but the Otter had another idea. Pushing his paw down she turned in his arms. Locking her black eyes on his, she wrapped one arm around his neck and reached down between her legs to grab his prick. Without looking down she guided the tip to her clit, rubbing them together a few times before drawing him down along the line of her slit and in. Once he was fully in she wrapped the arm around his neck and lifted one leg, locking it around his hip, then she did the same with the other.

Marcel fought to find his balance. There was nothing to grab onto or lean back against and the floor of the tub was slippery with soap. He spread his feet a little, wary of the missing sponge, and leaned back to bring their centre of gravity above them. It was like riding double on the board, as long as she moved with him and not against him they would be okay. Flexing his knees to test the position he was satisfied and with a paw on each butt he began to lift and lower her.

She used only her legs to help at first. By leaning back to look into his eyes she couldn't lift with her arms. The sight of her there, water coursing down tight breasts, split by the protruding nipples, and down to warm his cock as it withdrew for each new stroke made his heart race and he picked up the pace. He could feel the inner sheath of her cunt sliding up his shaft when he withdrew, felt the walls inside squeeze it when he drove it in.

She could feel the tip press against the sweet spot inside when she was lowered down onto his prick and the muscles there constricted as if to hold him in forever. Soon the sensation spread to fill her universe. She closed her eyes then and clutched him around the neck, pressing her breasts to his chest and using all of her muscles now to lift and drive herself down, grinding her clit against him and against the length of his shaft as her hips ricocheted back and forth.

The force of their thrusts was too much for their environment. Marcel felt a foot shift on the wet porcelain, throwing their delicate balance off. He grabbed for purchase, getting a paw full of plastic shower curtain, but the metal loops that held it to the chrome ring were too weak to hold them. One by one, they popped open and the shower curtain came down around them. Oblivious to their predicament the Otter continued to hump.

But Marcel wasn't using the cover of a pro-boarder for nothing. The practice sessions to perfect his technique for competition were as tough as the routine the Special Forces trained to, and more likely to break something if he mobbed a trick. Seeing that the chrome ring hadn't budged for the instant their full weight was on it gave rise to a desperate plan. Removing his other paw from her ass, he jumped and grabbed the ring from both sides. With one mighty heave he pulled them up through it and hooked his arms over it. He held on and kept his eyes to where it was screwed into the wall. The distraction kept him from coming for a time.

The Otter continued to pull herself up and down on him, fully in control now that he was occupied. The sensation soon made him forget that they were hanging inside a loop of steel like they were caught inside a giant basketball hoop. He was about to give in and let himself come when she started to breath in tiny gasps and rock her hips even faster. Marcel managed to hold off for a few more seconds but she was too much. His arms tensed and his knees bent with the force of his orgasm and he rolled back, bringing his lower body above the hoop before his legs shoot straight out in ecstasy. As he relaxed and his body dropped his knees caught on the hoop also, leaving him suspended in the centre with the Otter still riding him like rodeo bull.

She gave one long gasping breath as she came, clutching Marcel in a death grip with all four limbs. Coming slowly to a stop they hung there, the shower head knocked askew, water spraying from it soaking the bathroom. When her breathing had returned to normal she looked around at the position they were in and reached down with one foot to turn off the shower. She ran her paw along the hoop they hung from.

"Three points Howard Eisely. Now help me down."

The bathroom cleaned up somewhat and the two of them wrapped in towels, she told him what he had come here to find out.

"The bank I work in, like all of the banks that operate under Swiss law, is very protective of its clients." She explained. "They will cooperate with legitimate authorities if they can show cause to believe that there is something illegal going on, although that may take years to do. Since agencies like yours are more interested in tracing the money than stopping it I can notify them that an account of interest is active without much fear of detection."

"One of these accounts is being used to move laundered money, I'm sure. Since it's clean enough when it gets to us the bank doesn't care, they get their fee for transferring the funds and the interest for the period it stays there, which isn't long so the larger the amount the better as far as they are concerned. The strange thing, the thing that got your treasury interested, was when the flow reversed."

"Reversed?" Marcel asked.

"Reversed. Money used to flow out of North America to Asia to fuel the drug trade. Last year it started flowing back down the pipe and into an account in Canada."

Marcel recalled the case that White was working on had had something to do with illegal fund transfers. "Where is the money coming from?"

"A casino in the Ukraine. Casinos are particularly good place to wash a bunch of money, especially if you have a gaming commissioner or two on the payroll. This one shows all the signs of being a major Laundromat."

"And our people already know where it's going to in Canada?"

"The account yes, but it's only registered to a numbered company so they probably don't know who is behind that end of the pipe yet. I called for a meeting though, because something else has happened with that account recently."

"What's that?" Marcel hoped it wasn't too technical. The details so far were already taxing his financial knowledge.

"It was used to guarantee a million Euro bond and three one-hundred thousand Euro bonds. The bonds were deposited here in another account that sees large payments being deposited irregularly. We were told to keep our eyes out for a million Euro bond going to an account like that."

Marcel knew that the Werewolf had connections in the Ukraine, but he hadn't been briefed on the Perfect Stalker coming into the picture. Still he knew the information was important enough for him to head back to his room immediately and encrypt a message to the Ops Centre. He stood up and began to gather his clothes, wondering how to exit gracefully. He need not have bothered; the Otter solved the problem.

"My name is Sharon, just thought that it was time you knew that, and I hear that you are performing here in Bern for two days?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"Well, I can have that shower fixed by tonight if you're up for another game of one-on-one."

* * * * * * * *

Silver left Gold's office after being brought up to date on Marcel's activities and the effort to collect intelligence on the Werewolf in general. He pursed his lips and began to whistle a bit of Tchaikovsky but stopped when he heard a commotion in the lobby.

Loosening his gun in the holster, he moved to the security doors that separated the lobby from the restricted area and peered through the one-way glass. He took in the scene in an instant and relaxed. Constable Hirt was arguing loudly with a Beaver that was dressed in coveralls. The Dog towered over the Beaver and made aggressive motions with his arms. He was wearing his service revolver in an under-arm holster that wasn't adjusted properly, Silver noted, and the pistol waved about with each gesture, threatening to drop out any minute. The Beaver was holding his ground, fists on hips, leaning into the Dog, and if looks could kill, his should have at least maimed. Several other employees, outside staff by the look of them, were cowering against the wall trying to avoid the police officer's wrath.

Normally Silver avoided contact with the outside staff. It wasn't that he was an elitist, but those that were not retired Academy people had minimal clearances and it was good operational security to keep a low profile around them. Still they were more his people than the Shepherd was; Silver decided to intervene. He punched the button to unlock the security doors and stepped through.

"What is going on here?" He demanded, and was immediately overwhelmed by both the Dog and the Beaver trying to talk over each other, and getting louder all the time.

"STOP!" he yelled in a voice he had not used since his army days. Both fell silent. One of the other workers whimpered.

"Hirt," Silver started with him because he at least knew his name, "what is going on?"

"This Beaver is not cooperating." The cop snarled. "He keeps changing his story."

"That's not true." The Beaver injected, slapping his tail against his thigh in anger. "This idiot keeps calling me the engineer."

Both started yelling at each other again. Silver's brows came together in confusion. Since he shared the assessment that Hirt was an idiot, he went with the Beaver for a clearer explanation.

"I'm the new dispatcher, in charge of the motor pool." The Beaver explained, with an evident Scottish accent. "This guy comes in looking for the new building engineer and immediately assumes that the Beaver has to be the engineer. It's prejudice. Then he hears the Scottish accent and that just cements it in his brain. Doesn't matter what I said, he already made up his mind."

Silver took the files from Hirt's paw in one quick motion and examined them.

"The Beaver, Mr. McPhee, did I pronounce that right? Mr. McPhee is our new dispatcher." He flipped open the next file. "Miss Turnbill, the Groundhog, is the new stationary engineer, and" he opened the last file, "Mr. Dubois, or is it Monsieur Dubois, parlez-vous français M. Dubois? Non? The Turtle, Mr. Dubois, is one of our ground keepers." He slammed the files shut and handed them back to the Constable.

"They all need to go." Hirt complained.

"You mean leave the Academy, cease employment, dismissed?" Silver asked to the gasps of the three. The beaver was ready to dive into it again but Silver motioned him back.

"Yes, at least until this matter with the ... intruder, is all cleared up. Every employee with less than three months of service needs to go; and that includes the students."

Silver could understand the Shepherd's reasoning, if the Stalker or an agent of his had infiltrated as a student or as an employee then getting rid of anyone who had arrived after Silver's escape would help protect him. It would also make trying to trap the Stalker much harder. Armed with forewarning Silver was on his guard and willing to risk his life for a chance to ruin the Stalker's perfect record. Based on that, and the fact that he really disliked Hirt, he would recommend to Gold that all the students and new employees be retained, and monitored.

"Let's go back inside and talk with the Chief of Staff again Hirt, but either stow the pistol or put your jacket on when you're around here."

Hirt went to this makeshift office to retrieve his jacket. The Turtle and the Groundhog were still clutching each other, trembling slightly. Silver approached them and spoke a few words of assurance that everything was all right; no one was going to get fired.

"Lord, where did you dig that tailhole up?" Silver turned to see that the Beaver was still in the lobby.

Where indeed, he thought, and who checked his background?

* * * * * * * *

When he was done speaking to the Chief of Staff Silver walked over to the pistol range to begin his stint babysitting the students. The range was disguised to look like just another barn on the experimental farm, one out of bounds for the tourists. Punching in the code to unlock the outer door, he let himself in and observed the students through the bullet and soundproof glass that separated the waiting area from the live range. It was a small class this time, only seven foxes ... and one Cloud Leopard.

Rusty had them lined up at firing point. Their recruits generally knew how to shoot already from their previous employment, but their skill levels varied from beginner to expert. This first visit to the range was an evaluation session so that Rusty would know who needed more coaching, who could move straight on to advanced techniques, and who was a washout. The agents didn't have to be snipers, but they had to be able to shoot fast and clean.

Rusty moved up and down the line behind the students, stopping to adjust one's grip here, another's stance there. For this exercise all of them wore coveralls, shooting goggles and ear protectors. They each had a stand with spare magazines for the Browning 9mm pistols the Academy used for training; not the newest or nicest weapon on the market but a durable and reliable one when it had to go through a number of different paws and put a lot of rounds downrange.

Silver could tell who was comfortable with the firearms and satisfied with their score by the way they stood, the way they held the pistols and by the way they looked at the targets. Ophelia Sommer and the large Fox, Nelson Knight, seemed to be doing well; both were relaxed and smiling, tails up and enjoying the break from classroom work. Rusty just looked over their shoulders and continued on when he passed their positions. Most of the rest seemed to be doing okay, but Rusty was spending a lot of time with their other American, Kain Algorath.

Silver recalled the details from Algorath's file. His father was the owner of a successful computer company, one of those "one big family" types of places. The company had a fibre optics plant in the Kanata High-Tech zone, just outside of Ottawa. His family kept a house in the golfing community nearby, as it was his father's habit to move them all up there for months at a time. Kain had been born in the Ottawa Civic hospital and held dual citizenship.

Raised in the computer age, surrounded by some of the best programmers, code writers and trouble-shooters in the business, the boy could rip apart and rebuild security and operating software like a pro before he entered high school. Unfortunately, he started doing it over the Internet without the owner's permission.

By the age of 17 he was hacking with the best of them, the ones who were still free at least. He managed to hack into the United States Pentagon, twice, before the NSA tracked him down and pulled him in. Still a juvenile, and not having done anything more serious than leaving photoshoped images of Donald Rumsfeld doing nasty things to Colin Powell on the site, he was offered a five-year apprenticeship at the NSA, a sort of house arrest arrangement. At the end of the term, he was offered permanent employment but he chose to move to Canada, where he initially worked for the Canadian Government, hacking into their computers to test their security then making recommendations for fixing the vulnerabilities he exploited. Silver recalled a similar case in New Zealand recently, one Owen Thor Walker.

On his application to FOX Algorath said he was looking for new challenges. Silver knew that W was after getting the Arctic Fox's technical savvy onto a field team, but if he couldn't shoot well enough to defend himself he would be stuck back here at the headquarters and that was not likely to interest him for long.

The final phase of the evaluation was the combat shoot. One at a time, the students stood at the firing point with their pistol holstered and the safety engaged. Rusty controlled the targets so that they appeared one or two at a time for a few seconds. Most of the targets were red 'bad guy' targets, but some were blue 'good guy' targets. Various species were represented in each category. The students were expected to put at least two bullets into each red target, scoring zero for a miss, three for a wound, and five for a kill. Putting a hole in a blue target was a five-point penalty. They would have to change magazines at least once during the shoot, twice if they wasted rounds.

Rusty let the American Fox shoot first. It wasn't pretty, and Rusty had to restart him several times. By the end he was getting the hang of it, but he was going to need a lot of practice to qualify with both paws before the end of the course. Silver made a mental note to offer to coach Algorath in the evenings twice a week.

The other students fired in order from worst to best, as judged by Rusty during the first part of the evaluation. Rusty scored their targets and marked the score to beat on a board. When it came down to the last two, Sommer and Knight, Rusty had to flip a coin to determine who shot last. Knight won the privilege of finishing up.

Sommer may have been feeling the pressure, but she didn't show it. She stood relaxed and ready with her tail up over her head, the tip pointing wherever her eyes did. When the targets came up, she drew smoothly, forced her arms out toward the target and shifted her whole body to keep her stance as she fired off two crisp shots at each red one she saw. Near the end of the sequence two targets appeared and both were blue, she almost put a hole in the second but pulled her shot at the last instant. She gave Rusty an irritated look but the Combat Instructor was unapologetic, he believed in pushing those that could perform to the limit.

Her score was a respectable 91 out of 100, the best so far. She had scored two wounds and one complete miss.

Nelson took his position with a sneer, deliberately bumping her shoulder as he passed. He flexed his paws, shook his arms to loosen up, and signalled that he was ready. His technique was solid, obviously ingrained from years of practice, and dependable, although Silver noted that he took a little long as he was trying to aim each shot rather than shoot instinctively. He was doing well and looked to beat Sommer. When the pair of targets came up near the end of the sequence he ignored the first and concentrated on the second, confirming that it was blue he began to lower his pistol, and only a gasp from one of his clique alerted him that there was something wrong; the first target was red. Knight brought his gun up fast, too fast, and his first round missed completely. Flustered, his second shot barely cut enough paper to qualify as a wound.

His final score, according to Rusty, was 89, three wounds and one complete miss.

Silver could tell from the way Knight's arms were waving around and the way the cords stood out on his neck that he was arguing the fairness of the shoot. He would have preferred to stay out of it but Rusty saw him watching and motioned for him to come inside. Silver grabbed a pair of shooting goggles and ear defenders on the way in. He had a feeling he knew what the Combat Instructor wanted him for.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce one of the best shots that the academy has ever produced, Senior Agent Silver." There were some polite murmurs from the students. "Now Knight, would you care to repeat what you just said?"

Knight looked uncomfortable but his pride won out over his survival instinct this time.

"This is an unfair test. No one can score perfect when you have to verify each target with so little time left to shoot."

Rusty glanced at Silver then addressed Knight again. "Want to bet on that?"

"How do I know that the sequence will be as hard for him as it was for me?"

"Because you'll program it, your file says that you were qualified to run the RCMP's mechanical range. What do you say, fifty bucks?"

"You're on." Nelson moved over to the controls and started pushing buttons.

Silver put on the goggles and ear defenders; they didn't want him losing an eye or going deaf just practising. He kept his sports coat on, and he hadn't bothered to pick up a Browning, but he signalled that he was ready.

Rusty had set the targets to appear on ones or twos, Nelson had them coming in groups of three and four, but they weren't exposed for any longer than before. The student's eyes flicked to the first targets as they appeared, and missed Silver's draw completely. Silver had re-holstered his Glock before the targets disappeared and stood ready for the next set. When Rusty barked an accusation at Knight Silver waved him down with his off paw and continued the shoot.

Ophelia forced herself to keep her eyes on the senior agent as he drew for the next series. It took her three tries to determine that the holster was behind his right hip, covered by the jacket, and that he was firing before his arm was fully extended. The Glock's safety was built into the trigger so squeezing for a shot also disengaged it. He stood with his feet spread as wide as his shoulders and he crouched as he fired. When the targets were arrayed across the range, he spun on heel and toe to keep his hips and shoulders in line with his aim.

The daughter of a Navy SEAL who thought that every little girl should spend some quality time on the shooting range with him and his Special Forces buddies, she had seen this kind of speed before; but the look on his face, unfocused, like he wasn't even paying attention. She had only seen such an expression once before, on her martial arts teacher's sensei when he came to visit from Japan. The master had taken part in a demonstration, letting five senior instructors attack him simultaneously. He had defeated them all, injuring two of them, and all the while he had stared off into space with the same expression on his face.

On the last series three targets came up along the left side of the range, two of them red, and just as they disappeared, another red one appeared in the far right corner; an impossible angle to cover. Silver didn't swivel, he spun, the gun held low against his chest, and he fired while he was still moving. Ophelia couldn't tell if there was one shot or two.

Silver just stood breathing slowly as Rusty and Nelson checked the targets. Nelson reached into his coveralls and produced a wallet. He gave Rusty two twenties, a ten and another dirty look. Sensing another opportunity to earn fifty dollars Rusty asked him what the problem was now.

"He's got his own personal weapon. We're stuck with these pieces of shit." Knight waved his Browning in the air before re-holstering it.

Silver didn't wait for rusty to take up the challenge. He reached over to the nearest stand and took three magazines for the Browning. As Knight passed him, he reversed his paw and drew the Browning from the startled fox's holster. He inserted a magazine and fired it dry as fast as one could count to ten, changed magazines and fired ten more, changed again and finished the ammunition. The episode had lasted less than 30 seconds. When he was done, he stripped the last magazine out, cocked the weapon twice to clear it, and held it up for Rusty to inspect.

"Clear. Check your target."

Silver grabbed Knight by the front of his coveralls and pulled him to the target. It was a blue one, depicting a large fox in a police uniform. It looked a little like Knight actually, except for the holes. There were three of them, each less than four centimetres across, where ten rounds had ripped away the paper within touching distance of each other. Two of the holes were where the eyes should be; the third was at the junction of the fox's legs.

"Seems to be shooting straight for me." He handed the gun back to Knight.

* * * * * * * *

Rusty shook his head as Silver left the range. My own damn fault for getting him involved, he thought. He had let things get a little out of control and just a tad unsafe for a few minutes there. Why, just before the sequence started he had caught a movement out of the corner of his eye; the Cloud Leopard had her paw on her holstered pistol and looked like she was going to pull it out for a second, and there was a magazine in it! Rusty could have sworn that he had cleared her before she moved back, but ... maybe not. Luckily, she had dropped her hand from the gun as the first target appeared.

Rusty made all of the students clear their pistols again then set them to cleaning them.

* * * * * * * *

The Stalker closed the door to his room and sat down on the bed, forcing himself to remain calm. So close! He could have reached out and touched the principal target! Nevertheless, he had restrained himself. The target had a gun, and there had been too many others about. Still, the thrill of being so close to his prey, knowing that they may penetrate his disguise any moment. He hadn't felt this alive in years.

He pulled out his laptop and turned it on. The start-up routine included a passive scan for surveillance devices that may be able to eavesdrop on his electronics despite their shielding. Satisfied that there were none he set up his satellite antenna below the level of the window and pointing up to a communications satellite that he had access to an encrypted router on. Once he was in communication with his computer back home, he reviewed his notes to date and added his observations for today. He saved the updated file on his home computer.

He broke the link and broke the antenna down to its component parts. The dish became a metal bowl full of personal items again. The cables joined a number of similar looking ones behind the stereo. The actuator, which had a white opaque cap over it, snapped into a base for a table lamp, and it actually illuminated when it was switched on! Now he initiated a routine that would wipe all of the temporary files and history of this session from his hard drive.

The only files that remained was some downloaded music, a few copies of ripped DVDs and some old email files for the personality he had assumed; just what they would expect to find in a random search. He put the laptop away and prepared for bed, willing himself to sleep as soon as he lay down. After all, tomorrow was going to be another hard day at FOX Academy.