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ROGUE SWORD

Chapter 1 - Nature Abhors a Vacuum

Silver made his way carefully through the tangled streets of one of the few neighbourhoods in Berlin to have survived the allied bombing in 1945, the reconstruction during the Soviet occupation and the construction boom of modern Germany. He was heading to the safe house designated for the meeting on this blustery evening. It had been an upper middle-class residential area in the eighteenth century, but now the two and three-story town homes had been converted into specialized shops and offices for the lawyers, architects and engineering firms who could afford to keep the heritage buildings in a state as close to the originals as possible, as required by law. In true German fashion the shops and offices were closed promptly at six pm, and the streets were deserted. Even the motorists avoided the narrow, crooked streets in favour of the faster boulevards constructed in the years since the war ended.

The old buildings served to buffer the noise of the vibrant city that surrounded them and the ancient trees blocked the view of the modern structures with their garish lights, but an unseasonably cold breeze managed to penetrate the neighbourhood. Silver flipped up the collar on his trench coat to protect his neck from the chill and pulled the broad-brimmed felt hat he wore lower. He looked around casually, as if checking the street signs, but he was really looking for signs of anyone following him. The weather, the silent, darkened buildings barely visible in the gloom of the late-autumn twilight, plus the mystery and security surrounding this meeting reminded him of the cold war days. The illusion would have been perfect if it were not for the sight of a discarded Starbuck's cup with its smiling mermaid logo peaking out from under a nearby hedge.

Seeing no sign of followers Silver moved on. He had memorized his course to the meeting place, and several possible escape routes should it prove to be a trap, before leaving his hotel room. Whoever had picked the location had chosen wisely; this quarter had no long sight lines that would allow a surveillance team to linger back, or parallel roads that they could get ahead of one on. And although many of the offices had discrete stickers in the widows declaring that they were protected by monitored alarm systems, there were no security cameras covering the streets. That did not mean that his host had not placed a few surveillance devices around the meeting site as a precaution against uninvited guests, Silver reminded himself, but that was to be expected. Once you committed to attending a meeting like this you had to accept certain risks, and having your image captured on high-definition video was one of them.

Of course, in this dim light, with only his silver speckled snout sticking out from under his hat and between the upturned collars of his coat the image would not be very useful. All other possible identifying marks were covered. His unique grey-blue eyes were dimmed by a slight tint on the lenses of glasses he had chosen for the evening, the scar running through his left eyebrow was covered by the brim of his hat, and the paw with the puckered burn mark was hidden inside the coat's pocket. Even his silhouette, normally that of a tall, broad-shouldered fox, was muted by an artificial slouch and slump that gave him the indistinct appearance typical of any elderly canine on his way home on a chilly night.

Halfway down the next block there was an apparently abandoned building with its windows painted over from the inside and a sign in German advising that a florist would be opening soon. The cardboard notice looked to be at least ten years old. There was a pedestrian path between that building and the next that led to a small park nestled behind them, a relic from when this was a residential neighbourhood. Silver shook his head as one suffering from age-related stiffness in the joints might, and used the movement to check both ends of the street before he turned to follow the path. He immediately picked up his pace, straightening up and striding along at twice the speed he had been going on the sidewalk. Within twenty meters, long before anyone lurking back at the intersection could reach the pathway, he ducked through the hedge that surrounded the abandoned shop.

Silver paused to listen for signs of pursuit but other than distant indistinct traffic noises the night was silent. Satisfied that he would not be followed into the safe house he walked over to a side door and pulled it open carefully. If this whole setup was a trap this was when the attack was most likely to come. He slipped inside the building and closed the door behind him, thumbing the lock to prevent or at least deter an attack from behind. He then stood perfectly still with his mouth open and his ears forward to catch the slightest sound while he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. It did not take long; Silver had particularly good night vision.

He was in the front room of the shop, a room that occupied most of the ground floor of the building. It was organized as a display area, with dusty shelves lining the walls and a service counter along the back wall. There was a door behind the counter that probably led to a work shop and an office, but it was closed. In the far corner, where the bay windows would have let in the most light, had they not been painted over, there was a small table with several easy chairs arranged around it. The middle chair was occupied, but it was too dark to make out the person's features. Still on the alert for danger, but not sensing any from the figure in the chair, Silver took a step in that direction.

The fur on the back of his neck prickled as his foot left the floor, and before he set it down again the change in the air behind him told him that he was under attack. He reached for his gun with his right paw while using his forward momentum to turn and block with his left. But whoever was behind him anticipated the move and kicked the Glock from his paw before he could bring it around on target. Despite the numbness that the kick inflicted Silver brought his empty right paw up and around while his left sought purchase on the attacker's clothes. Gathering a fist full of cotton and fur, he pulled the assailant in as his wounded paw shot out, the two meeting somewhere in the middle. A muffled curse, a spurt of hot wet fluid and the coppery smell of blood told Silver that he had connected.

Silver retracted his arm for another shot but he had his feet knocked out from under him before he could launch another blow. Raising one leg as he fell he managed to flip his enemy over and the assailant's weight carried him around too until he was on top again. He locked his legs against the attacker's sides so that the attacker could not go for his own gun. Silver spied his Glock sitting on the floor near the group of chairs, ignored by the seated figure. Twisting around he tried to reach it, but his attacker had a firm grip on Silver now and was driving in blows of his own. It was all Silver could do to block them with his numb arm while he struggled to free himself. They locked arms, each struggling to get a limb free to land a punch or reach for a weapon.

They continued to grapple, rolling about in the middle of the room while the silent figure regarded them from the shadows. By now Silver knew that he was fighting another fox, one whose fighting style was very familiar. Silver fought for time, time for the feeling to return to his right paw. After two more minutes of wrestling he tested it, flexing the digits between blows, but letting it go slack again when he struck, as if it were still useless. As soon as he was sure that it would not fail him he went for his knife. He pulled a double-edged stiletto from his sleeve and brought it down and across in a powerful slashing motion. At the same instant that his blade touched fur, he felt his own neck hairs being sheared off as sharp steel passed through them.

The room was suddenly illuminated. The seated figure had pulled the chain on a small antique table lamp. It was dim, the light barely reaching the corners of the room, but by its light Silver could make out every detail of his assailant, whose barred teeth were only centimetres from Silver's own.

"Call it Red!" His attacker demanded.

"A tie." The figure in the chair announced. It too was a fox, and it was dressed in wool and tweed. It lit a pipe as it regarded the two _vulpes vulpes_on the floor holding knives to each other's throats. The blades had stopped just on the point of drawing blood.

"Ah, nuts." The fox below Silver snarled as it threw its dagger at the seated one, who avoided it by leaning to one side adroitly without missing a puff on his pipe. The knife stuck in the window frame behind his chair. "I had you by half second." The fox complained as Silver withdrew his own blade and stood up before offering his paw.

"Careful, Blue, or you'll damage your own safe house." He told his attacker as he helped him up off the floor.

"Naw, those windows are bullet proof. The knife would just have bounced back and stuck in Red's thick British head." The attacker spoke with an American accent. He went to retrieve his knife while Silver stooped to pick up his Glock. "You always go for your gun first, White. It's a fault." He told Silver as they settled into chairs on each side of the British fox. Over the years they were about even for their little impromptu sparring matches.

"And you always fall for that flip, Blue." Silver answered, not minding being addressed as White. The three foxes were each representatives of their Nation's Secret Service agencies. The code names they used had been adopted by their agency liaison officers during the Second World War. At that time the Canadian Flag had been based on the British Ensign, and was predominantly red, white and blue, just like the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes, so the three colours were used. The British MI6 representative was given the appellation 'Red' as an allusion to the British Red Coats. The American OSS liaison, and later the CIA, took 'Blue', for the Revolutionary Army's blue uniforms. As denizens of The Great White North, the Canadian Foreign Operation eXecutive, or FOX rep was given 'White'. Although these three were old friends they still used the official code names when on business, especially when others were involved, and from the number of chairs Silver presumed that more guests were expected.

He was proven correct when they were joined by a kangaroo he recognized from their Australian sister agency and a boar with a German accent who Blue introduced as an agent from the BND. With all of the chairs occupied they were ready to begin.

"So," Red addressed Blue between puffs, "Why did you call us here?"

The American pulled a tablet computer out from a satchel he had left by his chair and initiated a series of steps to unlock it and connect to a secure server. At one point he scanned his retina and then attached a sensor over his heart. Another sensor went on his temple. "Latest technology." He said. "There is no local memory. Everything is streamed from a secure satellite connection and disappears if the connections are cut or the operator is terminated." He tapped the sensor over his heart. Then he indicated the one on his head. "It can even tell if the operator is under duress. Totally secure

The other three were obviously impressed. Silver was not. "We have a guy who can crack that." He said casually.

"Sure, sure."

"No, really." The Canadian pulled an envelope out of his jacket and passed it to the American. Red slit the security seal and pulled the contents out, scanning them quickly.

"Shit! How did you break that code! How did you even get enough of a sample? You're not supposed to monitor us. That's against the agreement!" Silver indicated that the CIA agent should continue reading. The next page contained a report from FOX's resident super hacker, Kain Algorath, an American ex-patriot Arctic fox who was now plying his trade north of the border.

"He was in deep undercover online with an Al Qi'ada hacker cell and had to prove himself to get to the next level." Silver explained. "They were already working on it. Don't worry, he only took the low-level stuff listed in that report, things they could find out from other sources, and made sure that they could not duplicate his method. Still, you might want to patch the code or whatever it is you do to fix those things." He waved a paw to fill in for his lack of technical terminology. The German boar snickered and lit a cigarette that smelled like it was made from dried camel shit. Silver was familiar with the brand from his time here during the cold war. He shifted his chair to avoid the fumes.

"Yiff me, but the Director is going to be pissed, and I'll be the most convenient target to take it out on. Thanks buddy." Blue frowned as he slid the papers back in their envelope and put it safely away in his satchel.

"If it will help, we'll let you take them out when the time comes. Good publicity for the agency." It was not a big concession, since FOX did not have the long-range weapons the CIA did, nor enough agents to launch an assault that deep into Al Qi'ada territory. They would have passed it over to the Americans or the British in any event, but doing it this way would soften the blow to Blue's agency.

The CIA fox chewed his lip and imagined how he could play this to his boss. "Okay. Thanks. Anyway," he said as he turned the tablet to face the others, "let me explain why we are here."

He turned the tablet to face them and graphics filled the small screen as Blue spoke. It was a map of the world showing the nations that were known or suspected to have nuclear devices, and those who generated electricity from nuclear reactors. "There are over 3 million tons of highly enriched uranium and 1 million tons of plutonium in the world. Enough to make 125,000 nuclear bombs. Since 1993 there have been 419 cases of stolen or smuggled nuclear material worldwide, that we know of." A number of red dots appeared on the map. Most of them were in Russia. "And we have only located 90% of the material we know is out there. Even harder to track, however, is the technology that makes building a nuclear weapon possible. There is just too much dual-use technology, and too many borders to monitor to keep it all out of the wrong paws."

"But there is one essential element of the nuclear cycle that we do have a good handle on," he continued, "the people with the know-how to put it all together and build a bomb that will work without the benefit of testing."

None of this was news to the group. Nuclear weapons programs were notoriously difficult to hide and test detonations impossible to cover up. They were not very friendly for the environment either. Even those countries that did own nuclear arsenals and had not signed the test ban treaty preferred to test new designs with computer models, but someone had to think up those designs, and build accurate models to test them. It is a surprisingly small group, everyone in it knew everyone else, and so did the secret services of the world. They tracked their own scientists' movements to see if they were selling secrets on the side, and that of foreigners to see who might become the next nuclear power, and prevent it if they could. Keeping the nuclear club small made it easier to control, but a few brilliant minds was all it took to start the ball rolling, so one of the few ways to deter another nation from becoming a nuclear power was to eliminate anyone smart enough to develop the technology on their own. Iran, for example, had lost several of its brightest nuclear scientists recently to bombings and drive-by shootings. They pointed their digits at the Israelis, the Americans, the Russians, and even the Canadians, but so far no one had admitted to ordering the assassinations.

"I don't know if any of your agencies have noticed," Blue continued, "but persons with such knowledge are dropping like irradiated flies, at rates much higher than normal. Seven of our brightest minds have died of undiagnosed diseases or extraordinary accidents since the last Iranian scientist was killed."

Silver frowned. "We're had a couple of our glow-in-the-dark boys die under suspicious circumstances recently." He told the others. "The RCMP security branch has investigated but found no evidence of foul play." Canada was one of the few countries capable of building nuclear weapons that had never done so, but they contributed to the race to build the first nuclear bomb before Hitler's scientists did, and they still shared the secrets of their nuclear armed allies. Losing a scientist with such knowledge would have been a great concern for the group, but these two had not disappeared, they had simply died. "One was killed while hiking near his home in Chalk River, the other drowned in Lake Ontario while canoeing during a thunder storm. The thing was, neither had been known as an outdoorsy type."

"We've lost three in the last year." The boar noted. "Two in the same autobahn collision; they ran into each other, although neither lived or worked near the site of the accident. The third choked on a martini olive in one of our state-run brothels. He was alone at the time, as he had not yet chosen a companion, and it was his first visit."

"We had a fella from our Nuclear Research Institute die recently too." The Aussie chipped in. "Bit by a blue ring octopus, one of the most deadly seas creatures in the world. Shame too, first time the bloke had ever stepped a toe in the water according to his wife."

Red tapped his pipe against the heel of his shoe to loosen the tobacco before engaging in an elaborate re-lighting ceremony. When he was done he stared at the roof and spoke. "I suppose that you know about our four chaps?" Blue confirmed that he did indeed know of their deaths. "I don't suppose that it could all be some kind of extraordinary circumstance? Like a run at your Vegas Craps tables, eh?"

Blue shook his head. "No. According to our actuaries nuclear scientists are dying faster than Alaskan crab fishers and Mexican drug gang members combined. There are others too, in China, Russia and Pakistan. It must be directed. And what is worse, whoever is doing it must have the help of one of one of the top Scientists remaining."

The photographs of all the dead scientists appeared on the screen. As they watched more images appeared, those of nuclear scientists still living. After a moment lines appeared that connected the photos. Silver recognized that it was a Social Network Chart, used to determine the connection between members of a particular group, and quite often used by intelligence agencies to identify the leaders of a group for targeting. Most of the western scientists were connected to each other, the same for the eastern ones, but a dozen or so were connected with both groups. With a swipe of his paw Blue isolated this group.

"Someone is eliminating the world's best nuclear scientists, and whoever it is has been in contact with the Iranians. At first we thought that it was simple revenge, killing our scientists in retaliation for the deaths of theirs, so we increased the surveillance on our people and advised your security agencies to do the same. But when advisors from their so-called friends started to die off too we became suspicious and concentrated on the substance of their communications. They were encoded, with an algorithm almost as unbreakable as the one White's guy just trashed." He gave Silver a nasty look. "When we managed to decrypt some of it we discovered that whoever is killing these scientists is also passing their secrets to the Iranians, or at least enough of them to start the negotiating process for the entire package. That package, as it stands, contains nearly enough information to produce workable, deliverable, reliable nuclear warheads."

"Providing you have the material." The German pointed out.

"They have it, or soon will have, because part of the package contains new ways to enrich Uranium and extract Plutonium from their current reactors."

"Once they have the information, why kill the scientists? Why risk exposure by leaving a growing trail of bodies behind? That's what I can't figure." The kangaroo shook his head as he pondered the question.

"Because they have cornered the market, as our American friends say, haven't they?" His British colleague looked to the American for confirmation.

"Exactly. The package contains designs based on theoretical work that even the deceased scientists' employers had not been advised of yet. Not only did killing them prevent the subjects from talking about who they discussed their work with, it also prevents anyone else from recreating the designs. We don't even know what signs to look for to trace the process or find the facilities they will be built at. If this sale goes through Iran will possess the world's most sophisticated nuclear weaponry."

There was a pause while the group contemplated the implications of that statement. Then Blue pointed to the screen again.

"They must have the help of someone from this group. Someone the rest knew and could trust enough to discuss their work with. Someone smart enough to understand what they were saying and take it to the next level. One of these scientists has gone rogue. And we have to stop them before they complete their package and deliver it to the Iranians."

Silver studied the group more closely. Many of them were Europeans, with a pawfull of Latina Americans and Africans thrown in. The rest were Asians. There was only one Canadian, and the caption under his picture indicated that he was working for the UN's International Atomic Energy Agency, at its headquarters in Vienna.

"You need our help." The BND representative guessed, his tusks lending his knowing smile a touch of menace.

"Yes. None of us have the personnel required to cover all of these scientists, and we can't risk letting any slip through our paws. I propose that we divide up the world. The Aussies get most of Asia. The Brits get Western Europe and Latin America. The Germans take Eastern Europe and Africa. We'll handle the Middle East and South America. The Canadians, with their more mobile teams, will take whatever the rest can't cover."

The plan made sense to Silver. Each of the other agencies were well established in the areas they had been assigned, with expert teams already in place. His agents, however, could travel much more freely on their Canadian passports. No one ever seemed to suspect a Canadian of anything; that was why so many other agencies used fake Canadian papers to cover their agents' movements. As a group they mumbled their assent.

"What ya going to call this operation, mate?" the Aussie asked. "Got a cover name for it yet?

"Not yet. But we have number of code words to describe nuclear incidents, accidents and the loss of a device," Blue began, "perhaps we can us part of one of them."

"Whatchya got to work with?"

"Let's see. A BENT SPEAR is a nuclear incident, like dropping a bomb on the tarmac while loading it on the plane and just sits there, while a BROKEN ARROW is a nuclear accident, when the bomb actually goes off as a result of the accident. An EMPTY QUIVER is the loss of a nuclear weapon, like the one lost in the Mediterranean Sea in fifty six. Oh, yeah, a FADED GIANT is a radiological accident, like Fukushima."

"Wasn't there a ROGUE SPEAR in there somewhere?" Red injected. "Something to do with nuclear weapons held by non-government groups? Wouldn't that fit?"

"That was a Tom Clancy invention." Blue informed him. "But we do have a similar one: DULL SWORD. It represents an incident involving nuclear components or delivery systems. That includes personnel issues, like the lack of the technical expertise needed to develop or deploy a weapon, or the defection of a person with enough knowledge of our weapons to provide the enemy with counter measures to them."

"Whoever it is, this fellow is not dull." The boar pointed out. "This one is one sharp strudel."

"You mean a sharp cookie." Blue corrected.

"You eat what you like and I'll eat what I like."

"I agree with our German colleague." Silver spoke up. "Not about the dessert part, but that this enemy is too dangerous to be dubbed a 'Dull Sword'. The term might lull our agents into complacency." He turned to Blue. "You said that whoever it was had gone rogue. Why don't we call the operation to track this individual down 'ROGUE SWORD'?" Around him, the others nodded assent. Blue nodded too.

"Alright then, so be it. I dub this Operation ROGUE SWORD. But before we all go our separate ways, let me warn you, we've already lost two operatives trying to get close to this group. They have an active security force and they tend to shoot first and offer martinis later. I recommend using teams, with a shooter covering your operative wherever they go."

There was some further discussion about possible approaches and tactics but the meeting was clearly over. Each of the liaison officers was anxious to get back and report to their Directors. But, in order not to draw attention to the house, they left at ten minute intervals in the reverse order that they had arrived. Except when it was Silver's turn Blue held him back and indicated that Red should leave first. After he was certain that their British colleague had left the vicinity he turned to the FOX agent and asked "How is that other little task we asked you to take on going?

********

It had already been dark in Moscow, some 1500 kilometres East of Berlin, for over an hour, but inside Moscow's Sheremetyevo International Airport Terminal E it was difficult to tell. The international zone was well lit and active at all hours with a number of Western restaurant chains and bars that offered beer and vodka twenty-four hours a day, every day. One could even rent small rooms by the hour, but they were poorly insulated and it was nearly impossible to sleep in them. They were, however, the perfect place to spend a short layover with the partner of your choice. That thought was in many a male mind as Geno strode through the terminal.

The FOX agent had flown in from Ulan Bator on a false passport and had tickets onward to Helsinki, a flight that was due to leave in under an hour. As usual, the busty Polish cheetah was dressed to show off her natural assets. Her breasts were barely contained by a tube top with several strategically placed holes that exposed enough of her cleavage to prove that she was not smuggling anything larger than a grain of rice between them. Her flat, smooth midriff was bare from there to the waistband of the tiniest of denim shorts, ones that clung to her well-rounded buttocks and outlined her sex better than a fresh coat of paint. Her shapely legs were also bare, except for a pair of pumps with six-inch heels that accentuated the muscles of her calves and thighs. Flashing green eyes, several piercings, and an overly large antique silver cross that swung back and forth above her outthrust breasts only added to the image of sex on the hoof that she projected.

At the other end of the terminal another FOX agent's flight had just landed. He projected quite a different image. He was a short black fox that looked to be still in his teens. He was dressed in baggy clothing, a red t-shirt, old saggy jeans that exposed several centimetres of underwear, a loose shirt open at the front and a red ball cap worn backwards. The only things that looked new were the shoes on his feet, a rather expensive brand of skateboard sneaker. He slouched along with his paws buried deep in his pockets and a scowl on his face. Older travelers turned up their noses and looked away, but some of the younger generation admired the aura of distain that he managed to convey and the effect it had on their parents. A few even nudged each other, pointing out the fox's resemblance to the famous skateboarder, Anthony Foxx, but Foxx always wore his signature line of clothing, or so they believed, so it could not be him, could it?

Marcel, with no last name, also known as agent Sable, did indeed use the guise of a professional skateboarder to cover his movements, and the money generated by the royalties from the clothing line and other products helped to keep FOX's budget down in these austere times. Marcel was not traveling on his Anthony Foxx passport today however; he was using a diplomatic passport that claimed he was the son of a low-level functionary at the Canadian Embassy in Astana, the capital of Kazakhstan, returning from a holiday in Madrid.

There are always a number of FSB agents, Russia's security service, in the international terminal, checking to see if any Chechnian terrorists or Putin rivals are trying to sneak in. Lately, however, their numbers had tripled, due to the presence of a special guest who had been living in Terminal E for the past month or so. That guest was one Edwin Rainshelter, a former US government technician with a clearance who had decided that he could not condone the surveillance methods the three-letter agencies were using to gather intelligence at home and abroad. He had gathered a fair amount of data from the most secure computers before going public. But rather than stick around to face the music after releasing it, he decided to flee the country of his birth and seek refuge in countries that were not considered exactly friendly to the USA.

Many attempts had been made to get close to Rainshelter. The CIA, MI6, the Mossad and CNN had all tried but all had failed. The FSB kept the grey squirrel from North Carolina confined to one room and, except for his lawyer and Furryleaks sponsors, kept all others out. The room, a former airline VIP lounge, had its own washroom, so he did not have to venture out to answer the call of nature, and the FSB brought all of food in, after checking for poison. Two agents were always stationed inside the room, and another two were stationed just outside. In addition, the usual contingent of two agents was wandering about the terminal, checking out the arrivals and transiting passengers for signs of suspicious activity. These agents excelled in facial recognition, and they recognized the FOX agents right away. They reported their find to the local headquarters.

The regional supervisor had of course heard of the pair. They had been responsible for the assassination of the founder of Furryleaks in a Polish prison a couple of years before, a fact that was still being covered up by claiming the kangaroo was hiding out in a foreign embassy in London. "Keep your eyes on the short one." He advised the airport contingent. He is the assassin. The cheetah is just eye candy, to distract you."

"She can distract me any day." One of the agents mumbled to his partner. She was very hard to ignore, his partner granted, but for twenty rubles and a bottle of vodka he agreed to follow the fox, and so they split up.

The guard who was following Marcel chuckled to himself. His partner was not aware that the big, burly bear was gay, and that he would have volunteered to follow the cute little fellow without the added incentive. But while he may fantasize about strapping the little black fox across the back of an overturned chair before having his way with him he knew that he had no chance in real life. According to the regional agent the Canadian spy was unabashedly straight. Too bad, he thought, checking out Marcel's ass when the assassin bent over to tie his shoe, a shoe which did not need tying.

A trained agent, the bear recognized the action as a counter surveillance move. The Canadian was checking to see if he was being followed. The Russian decided to make himself obvious, to let the fox know that they were onto him. He touched a digit to his brow in a mock salute when he was sure that the fox was looking at him. The gesture had an immediate effect. The fox began to move through the terminal, using every technique in the book to throw his follower off. But there was nowhere to hide in what was essentially a glass box, and the Russian kept up easily. After thirty minutes of playing cat and mouse, the Canadian settled into a seat at the gate for the flight to Kazakhstan, and commenced to glare at the bear that leaned against the ticket counter and never took his eyes off him.

The bear checked in with his partner. "My pigeon has gone to ground. How's it going with you?" He said into the radio microphone mounted on his lapel.

"Not so exciting. The pussy wandered around at the far end of the terminal for a while and then went into the restrooms. She must be taking a huge dump; she's been in there for almost ten minutes."

"You want to call in a female agent to check it out?"

"Maybe. No ... wait. Here she is. She is moving to her gate now too. They are boarding already. She is already in line."

A speaker above the bear announced that the fox's flight was boarding also. What amateurs, he thought, how did they expect to get close to the squirrel with so many FSB agents guarding him?

The two Russians watched their respective charges board their flights and waited until the planes had left the runway before going back to their patrol. "That cheetah was sweet, Micha. Thanks for following the other one. I'll bring the vodka over to your place after our shift."

"No worries, Timur." The bear replied absently, absorbed in the image of lifting a bushy black tail to reveal the glistening puckered hole underneath. "It's the least I could do for a friend like you."

Over at the gate for the Helsinki flight, a female badger turned to her male co-worker, a lemming, and made a disparaging comment about the way the busty cheetah had been dressed.

"Dressed?" The lemming said dreamily, images of great meaty globes drifting through his mind.

"She was scandalous!" The Badger chided. "Besides, did you not think that she had a huge snout, for a cheetah?

"Snout?"

* * * * * * * *

Up in the rafters of the terminal, hidden by the false ceiling that concealed the conduit for the buildings heating and cooling systems, Geno waited for the FSB agents to get bored and fall into their routine again. She and Marcel had been well aware of how many FSB agents were in the terminal, and where they were stationed. As soon as the pair in the lobby had split up they had gone into an elaborate routine designed to convince them that Geno was trying to lead them away while Marcel tried to slip in and kill Rainshelter. Their intent was quite the opposite. While they focused on keeping Marcel away from the lounge the squirrel was holed up in she had boldly walked into the female washroom, stuck a paper she took out of her purse on the inner door indicating that it was closed for maintenance and occupied the handicapped stall.

A second after she had closed the door one of the panels on the hanging ceiling had slid back and a female of similar proportions to her had dropped into her stall. It was FOX's resident agent in Moscow, the vixen Delores "Baby Doll" Johnson. But other than her head, the busty swift fox did not look like a fox at all. From neck to toe she was covered in a skin tight cheetah suit, one that matched Geno's markings to a T. She was also dressed identically to the Polish feline.

"How was your day?" Geno inquired as she donned the black coveralls that Delores gave her.

"Not too bad. It's warm up there, so I waited in the nude after crawling over from the washroom in the arrivals lobby. I only put this silly cat suit on a few minutes ago."

"Ohh, that's a sexy image." Geno commented. "Amazing the way that you can stuff all that fur on your tail into that narrow tube. But your ass looks great in those shorts."

"Thanks. I might buy a few pairs after the heat from this wears off. I know a few Russian generals that would enjoy peeling them off." Delores could not carry out this mission herself and remain the resident agent. She had driven to the Finland border without trying to evade the FSB surveillance team, and then snuck back into Russia with the help of a Border Guard Commander who had a taste for large breasts. After taking Geno's flight to Helsinki she would wait a couple of days and then drive back to Moscow, for all appearances out of the country when the hit went down.

Delores popped in a pair of green contact lenses and then pulled a cheetah mask over her face. Her own hair had been cut and dyed blond to match Geno's. Geno helped her to adjust it and then she lifted the antique cross over her head and slipped it around the fox's neck. "Take care of this." She stepped back to check out the disguise. "Your snout is too long." She commented. "Even with the padding it still looks canine."

Delores held a bunched up handkerchief in front of her nose. "Terrible smells in this airport, don't you think? They should clean the ductwork."

"That will do." Geno smiled. "Not that that lecher of an FSB agent will ever look at your face. Damn, even I want to fondle those tits."

"Maybe the next time I'm back in Ottawa." Delores winked, and then she pointed at the open panel. "The bag with what you need is in the rafters. Good luck."

"Thanks." Geno had said, and stepped into the cradled paws of Delores who had then boosted the feline up through the hole. As soon as the ceiling panel had been slid back the disguised fox had left the restroom, recovering the bogus maintenance sign as she left. True to expectations, the eyes of the FSB agent waiting outside never made it higher than the cross that bounced between the globes of flesh he was so attracted to.

Geno decided that she had waited long enough. She began to make her way carefully between the steel girders toward the restroom in the VIP lounge where Rainshelter was staying. They had toyed with the idea of poisoning the water but there was no guarantee that he was drinking it, or that the FSB wasn't testing it, but no matter what fluids he was taking in they eventually would have to come out, so Geno settled herself right above where the toilet stall would be. She pulled a syringe out the bag that Delores had left for her, and injected the contents into her thigh. Then she dug around in there until she found a lipstick tube, and applied it to her mouth. Afterward she settled down to wait for the squirrel to hear the call of nature.

A little over an hour had passed when Geno heard the door to the restroom open. She peaked through a gap in the ceiling panel and confirmed that it was Rainshelter, and that he was alone. Even more fortunate, he was heading for the lone toilet stall and ignoring the urinals mounted on the wall opposite. Geno waited until he was seated and engaged in the function the stall was designed for before she slid the panel back and dropped to the floor in front of him. "Shsssh. Don't cry out." She advised him, emphasizing her order with one paw on his mouth and the other at his throat. She spoke with an affected accent, as if she had only learned English later in life.

He half stood and his eyes went wide behind his black-rimmed glasses. There was a loud splash and a foul smell arose to indicate that her sudden appearance had brought his mission in the stall to an abrupt conclusion. Geno grabbed a paw full of paper from the roll beside her and passed it to the stunned squirrel. "You'll want to wipe that up." She advised him. "No, don't get up." She pressed him back down onto the seat. She wanted him seated with his pants down because his vulnerable position gave her the psychological advantage.

"W- who are you? What d- do you want?" The American fugitive managed to stutter.

"I am an agent with the Foreign Department of the nation of Venoslivia." She produced false identification from the pocket of her coveralls and waved it under his snout. Venoslivia, a Latina American country, was infamous for its anti-American stance, and one of the few that had publicly offered the squirrel asylum. The leader, a volatile, outspoken opponent of US imperialism, was a cheetah. Cheetahs practically ran the government there, and Geno's ancestors were distant relatives of those cheetahs. "Our leader is willing to give you asylum, but it must be kept secret until you are safely in Venoslivia. I have fake ID, tickets, boarding passes, visas and a passport for you. There is a flight that goes via Myanmar and Papua New Guinea to avoid American airspace and that of their allies, and we have been holding it for you, but it will leave thirty minutes after I leave you. You must decide quickly."

The squirrel was no dummy, despite his unwise choice of hosts, and he was beginning to gather his wits. "Why do I have to decide now? I have applied for temporary refugee status here. I can take up to a year to arrange for safe passage to your country or any number of others."

"Don't fool yourself, chico. Putin does not want you here any more than the Americans do, otherwise you would already be relaxing in the FSB's very private but terribly uncomfortable guest house. The Moscow government is aware of this offer, and insisted on the utmost secrecy so they could have plausible deniability. You don't believe me? Call your 'lawyer', he'll tell you." Geno pointed to the cell phone clipped to Rainshelter's belt. Everyone knew that the Squirrel's lawyer was really an FSB handler. She watched calmly as he initiated the call.

"Edwin, my boy, I know why you are calling." She heard before he lowered the volume and began whispering into the device.

Several kilometres away, a technician from Moscow Telephone and Telegraph who had recently spend several entertaining hours with a busty swift fox, had seen the warning indicator he had installed on a certain number go off and he had dutifully rerouted the call to a satellite transponder. Once the call was complete he would set about erasing all traces of it from the system. Doing so would earn him another three hours with the luscious and compliant vixen. He had no idea that the transponder he had routed the call to was linked to a voice actor at a certain farm in Canada's capital city.

Rainshelter terminated the call after listening for several minutes. "He confirms your story." He said. "But I am still not convinced that it is the best option."

Geno shrugged and began to replace the papers. "No nose off my skin if you decide to stay, but what more do you need to know?"

"What are your conditions?"

"We have no conditions."

"You don't want me to promise not to leak any more information?"

"No you can leak all you like. El Presidente thinks that it would be good to pluck a few of the Eagle's tail feathers."

"You are not going to try to make me reveal where the rest of the information is stashed, and the codewords to access it?"

"No. That is your business."

"You realize that I have a fail-safe back-up, a trusted agent who will release the information should I die or disappear?"

"I'm sure you do. It is good insurance against the Americans trying to assassinate you once you are our guest." Geno was, in fact, certain that Rainshelter had a back-up, because FOX's resident hacker, Kain Algorath, had isolated the signals that were coming from the squirrel's laptop at regular intervals and traced them back to a journalist in London. Kain had already planted malicious code inside both computers. The instant the Squirrel left Russian airspace all traces of the records he had stolen would disappear. If that alone would have ended the crisis they would have destroyed the records already and been done with it, but after studying the dissident's profile their staff psychologist was convinced that Rainshelter would have a third cache hidden somewhere where only he could get at it. There was also the possibility that that edition contained even more valuable information, information that Rainshelter could use to bargain for his freedom, or his life.

The squirrel was still puzzled. "How can I trust you? You could be a CIA assassin."

"If I was sent by the Americans to kill you, you would be dead by now and I would be on my way out of the airport."

"This offer could be a trap, a ploy to kidnap me and take me back to the states. How can you prove it is not?"

Geno shrugged. "I can't, chico. Now I have to go." She straightened up and prepared to leap up through the hole in the ceiling. A whimper from below stopped her.

Rainshelter was shaking. Tears dampened the fur below his eyes. "I don't know who to trust anymore." He sobbed.

Geno leaned down and took his grey head in her paws. "Look into my eyes. I promise you that this is not an attempt to spirit you back to the USA. No one is waiting to kill you when you land. Now, do you want the papers or not?" Rainshelter, who had boasted to the press about his ability to read people and tell if they were speaking the truth or not, stared back for a long moment, then he swallowed and nodded his head. She pulled the package out of her coveralls and laid it gently on his lap. "Goodbye, freedom fighter." She kissed him hard on the mouth, stood up, grabbed the top of the stall, and was gone.

Geno did not leave immediately. Instead, she took up a position over the door to the VIP lounge where she could observe Terminal E through a pinhead camera shoved between the ceiling tiles. When she saw Rainshelter come of the bathroom and begin packing his effects in his backpack she keyed a transceiver that sent out a signal to the FOX Operations room where Kain Algorath and the Planning Officer, the grey fox Bill 'Professor' Hanlan, were waiting to initiate either the next step of the plan, or assist in her extraction.

Down below the FSB guards on each side of the door put their paws to their ears as a message came in over their radio circuit. "Acknowledged." The most senior replied as Rainshelter approached him, boarding pass and fake passport ready. "Headquarters informs us that arrangements have been made for you to fly out immediately. We will escort you to the gate through the service corridor, so that no one will see you leave, and then remain on duty at this room to give the illusion that you are still here. Are you ready?" He asked, just as the final boarding for the flight to Myanmar was announced."

"I'm ready." Leaving the pair of guards outside the door, the inner pair took the squirrel through a door behind the abandoned bar which led to the flight line. It was a route politicians and rock stars had used in the past to avoid the press.

Once Rainshelter was on his way Geno packed up her gear and headed for the female restroom. There she waited until it was empty before dropping into the handicap stall. She stripped off the coveralls, the tube top and the shorts and donned the conservative clothing she found in the bag. A wig, shaded glasses, and a fluffy tail cover completed the disguise. The bag with its incriminating contents folded into a bundle that she strapped across her abdomen under her coat. She now looked like a pregnant feline of indistinct breed. She adopted a slight waddle as she left the stall and made her way to the sink where she washed off her makeup before proceeding to the gate where a flight to Warsaw had been stalled for some time due to unexplainable computer problems. Another touch of the transceiver and the problems mysteriously disappeared. The flight was cleared for boarding.

Geno settled into her window seat. The other two seats in her row were occupied by a female tatra sheepdog and one of her puppies. Three more puppies occupied the seats across the aisle. They were all bouncing up and down, making it difficult for their mother to fasten their seat belts, and clamouring for drinks, food, games, and to be taken to the washroom. Geno sighed; it was going to be a long flight.

She leaned her head on the dark oval of glass and thought about what she had just done. She had not lied to Rainshelter. No one would try to take him back to the States to stand trial, too many embarrassing facts about the intelligence collection programs might come out in a public trial. And no one would try to kill him after he landed, because he would already be dead by then. The lipstick she had applied was a powerful neurotoxin, which she had injected the antidote for before applying it. He would go into a coma during the overnight flight to Myanmar and arrive quite dead, where the terribly secretive and isolated government would probably react with their typical silence. But eventually the news would leak out. But by then Geno would have changed identities and returned to Canada, with some of Marcel's favourite Polish beer.

Perhaps the Russians would suspect FOX and take it out on the next prominent Canadian coming through that gave them a hard time. Geno recalled seeing a poster at the airport for a concert by the insipid little teen idol, Justin Beaver, to be held in Moscow next week. The little jerk was always giving customs and airport security a hard time. Perhaps there was justice in the world, she thought.

"Going home to give birth?"

"Huh?" Geno was caught off guard. The question had come from the sheepdog, and it had been in Polish.

"Going home to give birth? You look like a Polish girl to me. Not like one of those stuck-up Russian sluts."

"Uh, yes Polish. That is ... I am Polish, yes." That was the nationality on the papers Geno currently held, as well as her true heritage.

"I thought so. Me too, although I suppose you could tell." The tatra sheepdog was native to Poland. The female and her pups all had the distinctive white coat of purebreds. "My husband works in Moscow, at the embassy. We are going home to visit my parents. This is my youngest, Adelajda," she pointed to the pup between them, "and my three boys, Alexy, Bartosz, and Cezary. This is your first I'm guessing? Yes? I knew it! What about you? Where does your husband work?"

Geno had a cover story prepared, and began to reel it off, but she was soon interrupted by the pup in the seat between them, who wanted to know why the cat lady had such a big belly.

"This one," The sheepdog pointed at the young female pup, "was almost born on this same flight three years ago. I should have taken my doctor's advice and flown home earlier. What are you expecting?"

Geno was taken off guard again. She had been staring at the little girl, who was almost unbearable cute with her big brown eyes and red polka dot ribbons in her hair, and thinking of what kind of baby she and Marcel would have, if foxes and felines could breed. "Uh, a cheetah?" She mumbled.

The matron laughed. "No, silly. I mean do you know if you are having a boy or a girl?"

"Oh, ha! Yes, of course. I was just making a little joke. We, uh, don't know. I mean ... we decided not to find out during the, uhm, ultrasound. Either is fine for us." As she spoke, little Adelajda climbed into her lap and curled up. The pup began stroking the fur on Geno's arm. Something in the vicinity of the cat's heart went tight, and an empty space she had not known was there was filled with warmth. But she knew the warmth would not last.

"Good for you. Some things should remain mysteries. Let me tell you about my fist pregnancy ...."

All through the flight, Geno could feel the heartbeat of the little girl against her chest, and by the time they landed in Warsaw, her own heart was beating in sync with it.

********

The capital of Canada is an unassuming little city in Eastern Ontario that is famous for its green spaces and lack of nightlife. Tacked onto the southeast corner of the small downtown district is a large open area consisting of fields, gardens, and an arboretum known as the Central Experimental Farm. Besides the Department of Agriculture, which maintains a research facility and the agricultural museum on the site, there are several other government organizations with facilities there. Natural Resources maintains a seismic station in the old Dominion Observatory, Health Canada occupies an office building, and there is even a Naval Reserve Squadron tucked away in one corner. All of these tenants are identified by large standardized government signs that state the function of the building and the Department that occupies it.

But there are a dozen historic buildings and barns that are simply identified by numbers: Building 47, Building 55, Building 82, etc. In the official records they are listed under such names as "the Swine Improvement Centre" and "The Pest Control Centre" or simply by the names of little-known public servants past, "The Suanders Building" and the "Michelle C. Comeau Building", for example. Most folk assume that these are occupied by branches of Agriculture Canada, while Agriculture Canada functionaries assume that these buildings are being rented out to other agencies. And they are, just not any agency that they have heard about.

Dispersed among the dairy barns and experimental marijuana greenhouses one in the know can find the facilities for Canada's secret service, the Foreign Operations eXecutive, also known as FOX. The people that work there refer to it simply as "The Academy".

FOX is a self-contained agency. All training and technical support, medical services and amenities are handled in-house by personnel cleared to the highest levels and sworn to life-long secrecy. The agency has its own secretaries, groundskeepers, electricians, mechanics and cleaners, most of which double as security staff. Of particular concern is any interaction with agents that were not fully in control of their mental faculties, such as those suffering from post-traumatic stress, on pain medication, under aesthetic for dental work, or when drinking themselves blind between assignments. To cover these circumstances the agency has its own doctors, dentists, nurses and bartenders. Only FOX staff were allowed in or near the FOX buildings.

The executive suite of FOX is particularly restricted. Besides Tancred "Tanner" Williams, the Director, and Silver, his Chief of Staff, the only individual with unrestricted access was their shared secretary, the French Canadian party poodle Mademoiselle Chienne-Caniche, known simply as "Miss CC" to those who could get away with it, and there were not many who could. The leggy, well endowed, and often scantily dressed poodle was a martial arts expert, the third best shot with a pistol in the agency, and drop-dead gorgeous. Besides her secretarial duties she was the Director's personal body guard and the security officer for the executive suite. Anyone wishing to see Williams or Silver had to get past her first, and she personally supervised the cleaners and other staff when they were working in that area.

Williams had stayed up through the previous night in the Operations Centre, supervising the Rainshelter hit while the Chief of Staff was away in Berlin at the mysterious meeting the American's had called. After all their agents reported that they were clear and that the mission was accomplished the big, muscular golden fox had retired to his chalet in the Gatineau Hills where a bottle of fine wine and a certain lemur were waiting by his bed. Silver had spent the night in Berlin and was now on a plane to Montreal, where he his car was waiting for him.

With Silver and the Director away Miss CC decided that it would be a good time to have the executive suite cleaned from top to bottom, but not by her. Such tasks were carried out under her supervision by the regular cleaners or students that earned the wrath of the training staff, and, occasionally, by other employees that needed a little "corrective action". That was the case today, as one of the bartenders had recently been caught misusing agency assets.

Miss CC, dressed in a short, tight, black skirt that revealed half of the twin black spots that adorned her buttocks, a sheer white silk blouse that did nothing to hide the fact that she was bra-less and black shoes with spiked heels, watched the bartender as he vacuumed the carpet in the Director's office. The bartender, with the unfortunate name of Grey Muzzle considering the premature whitening of the fur that he suffered from, was dress for the occasion in a frilly white apron, high-heeled pumps, and a maid's bonnet. Other than that, and a large pair of silicone breasts that were strapped to his chest, he was naked.

Grey was holding a large advanced cyclone-action vacuum and inexpertly trying to maneuver it around the antique furniture. Miss CC was holding a long leather whip and expertly applying it to his butt whenever he bumped or chipped the Director's desk.

After suffering half a dozen stings of her whip Grey shut off the vacuum and turned to face her. He stood with his fists on his hips, one leg slightly ahead of the other and with his head cocked forward, a perfect picture of determination in a lacy apron and bonnet.

"Miss, CC," he said sternly, "my love," he added in a softer tone, "this really must stop." The whip flicked out again and one of his white whiskers was snipped off a centimetre from his snout. Grey stood his ground. "This is totally unfair. The punishment does not fit the crime. There was no due process. And these shoes are killing me." He lifted one up to show her where the strap was rubbing his ankle raw.

"For what you done, Eet is scant ... quell est le mot? ... Juice-tice.. She responded in a thick French accent.

"Oh, come now. Was what I did so bad? It was not a felony or even a misdemeanour, just a ... a guideline that was crossed."

"You 'ad took a picture of my titties while I was sleeping and convinced Joel the lemur to let you make a model of them on the Academy 3-D printer." She used the butt of her whip to indicate the globes she had forced him to strap to his chest.

"I've offered to reimburse the Academy for any materials used in the process."

"Eet ees an eenvasion of my privacy, and a very nasty thing to do. Dirty boys who do such things need to be punished."

"But you did not even give me a chance to present my case!"

"This ees not one of your Connecticut Yankee courtrooms with zee rules and processees." Miss CC had access to all of the personnel files, and she was aware of his background. "This ees the Academy!"

Grey could image a sergeant-major of the French Foreign Legion making a similar pronouncement. But unlike the Legion, the Academy was unionized. "I have the right to present my case to the Labour Relations Board. I demand to see my union rep!"

"I am your union rep. Consider your case reviewed and rejected. Now, back to work, and remember," she said as she flourished the whip, "every chip gets zee whip." Her toothy grin was truly evil, evil in a way only poodles could be. Grey wondered why he found them so damned attractive when they did that. Despite the soft spot in his heart, and the hardening of another organ, he pressed on with his argument.

"But I'm a bartender. I've never had to operate anything bigger than a blender. This stupid vacuum has all these knobs and protrusions and gadgets attached to it and these desks and credenzas are too low. They were built a hundred years before electricity was invented, when serfs were employed to pick dirt off the carpets with their teeth." He saw her eyes narrow with evil delight. "Now, now, don't get any ideas. Our dental plan doesn't cover that. But CC, love, It's impossible not to bump the furniture with this monstrosity."

"You will just 'ave to theenk up a way not to." Miss CC said with mock sympathy. "Unless you would rather pick zee dirt off with your teeth?"

Grey thought furiously. He had come to the Academy a year ago hoping to become an agent, but he had not quite made the cut. Something to do with being a sleeper agent for the KGB I'll bet, he thought. Instead of liquidating him, or wiping his memory or whatever they did to failed candidates, they had kept him on as bartender in the senior agents lounge. He had already passed the trustworthiness and reliability tests and his knowledge of cocktails was second to none. Another plus was that he was very sympathetic; someone had to listen to the often lonely agents pour their troubles out after a few stiff drinks; it was almost a form of therapy. But Grey would not have made it into the Academy if he did not also have a keen mind and the ability to think on his feet, even while wearing uncomfortable high-heeled shoes.

Grey cleared his throat. "I have an idea, but I need to take these ... uh, breasts ... off, Please?"

Miss CC was curious. She nodded consent.

Grey hurriedly doffed the silicone chest piece. He had to move quickly, before she got bored. He would only have one shot at this. Grey had designed the straps to attach to a sexless mannequin that he found in the storage room of the combat range, but the body of the vacuum was about the same dimension and roughly the same shape, so he was able to attach the twin globes to the appliance without too much trouble. After a quick check to make sure that they would not come off under pressure he straightened up, switched the vacuum back on, and drove it straight at the Director's antique desk.

Miss CC gasped as the heavy vacuum closed in on the delicate wood of the desk's front panel, and then she cried with delight as the vacuum bounced off it, the silicone accoutrements first squashing, and them rebounding to drive the vacuum away. Grey aimed it for a three-hundred year old secretariat, and once more the fake breasts acted like a boat bumper to deflect the device. Grey released it, and the power assisted wheels propelled it slowly around the room, its trajectory altered with each contact between wood and silicone. Miss CC put down her whip and clapped her paws in delight.

"Bravo, mon cher. For your reward, you can take off that ridiculous outfit."

Grey stepped up against her and leaned forward until his paws were on the desk, forcing her to lean back until she was almost lying on the large green blotter. "I'd rather take off something of yours."

"Boldness ees often eets own reward." She purred, wrapping her long legs around his waist

Grey tried to ignore the now well endowed vacuum as it bumped against his legs and began to undo the buttons on her blouse to reveal the original goods. "You never asked me why I made a copy of your bust." He said as he freed one downy white breast and idly thumbed the pink nipple. He felt it respond to his caress.

"Okay, I'll bite."

"You often do. I was meaning to talk to you about that."

"Why did you take a photo of my titties and 'ave that perverted lemur make a life-sized model of them, heh?"

Grey had taken the hardening nipple between his lips and was sucking on it lightly. He released it. "For that I will need to show you something on my phone. Okay?" He pointed to a side table where his clothes were stacked neatly folded. With a pout, the poodle spread her legs to let him retrieve it. Grey, whose apron had developed a distinct tilt, strode quickly across the room. On his way he shut off the vacuum, which not only was load and distracting , but had cornered a standing lamp and, with the pole nestled between silicone hooters, looked to be attempting to hump it. He withdrew his cell phone from the pocket of his trousers and made his way back. Once safely between Miss CC's legs again he switched the phone on, thumbed an icon on the screen and passed it to her.

She frowned at the screen. "It's a massage table." She said. Her French accent had completely disappeared.

"A custom made massage table." Grey declared. "I know how you complain about the flat tables in the gym, how hard it is to get comfortable with your head turned ninety degrees sideways and your, uhm, breasts squished. This one will have a hole just the right size for your snout and two depressions in the, uhm, chest area. I found a mannequin just your size, except for the, ah, chest dimensions, and I needed the, uhm, rubber mammeries to make accurate measurements. It was supposed to be a surprise for your birthday, so I could not just wrap a tape measure around you without you getting suspicious." Or having my wrists broken, he thought. Miss CC did not like to be restrained, and looping anything resembling a rope or a leash around her was sure to bring a violent reaction. "I've been saving my tips for a year to afford it." He admitted, blushing. "I thought, you know, that if, maybe I could give you your massages after your workout. When you're all sweaty and ..." Grey paused and wiped his mouth on the apron, he was starting to drool.

Miss CC, who had broken more than one back while serving as a close protection officer before coming to FOX, locked her ankles beneath Grey's tail and tightened her leg muscles, forcing the heavier but not as strong fox down on top of her. "Do you know how to give a proper massage, mon cher?"

"Not really, but I've bought a book it and I was going to practice on the ... I mean ... well, why let a perfectly good and accurate mannequin go to waste?" He shrugged, embarrassed.

Miss CC laughed and relaxed her grip. "But monsieur Grey, ees it not better to practice on zee real thing?"

Grey smiled and relaxed. Her French accent was back, always a good sign. He lifted her unbuttoned blouse over her shoulders and let it fall to the desk. He let his paws slide over her breasts and across her firm abdomen to the waistband of her skirt before reaching behind her to undo the closure above her tail. She lifted her ass off the desk as he shimmied the tight skirt and the thong beneath it off. He folded them and placed them to one side before removing her shoes. He kissed the insole of each padded pink foot before taking one of them between his paws and rubbing it gently.

"Where to start, where to start?" He mused as he stood by the edge of the desk. The lower half of his apron was draped over a ninety-degree protrusion at hip level, and the angle between it and his stomach was being more acute as he looked down on the naked poodle. Her fur was mostly pure white, except for her ears and two spots high on her buttocks which were jet black. He could not see the spots from this angle, but he could see her pink nipples were protruding, as was her tongue and the delicate lips from within her sex. Like her tongue her cunt was also damp, and the smell drew his sensitive nose down toward it. "This looks like a good place."

Grey dropped to his knees and wrapped an arm around each of her powerful thighs. He lapped at her mound gently, working the tip of his tongue into the crevices around it and planting little kisses on the tender spots. Miss CC responded with a soft moan and tried to grind herself against his snout. Grey held her back though, controlling the pace. By the time his tongue first touched the inner lips they were fully blossomed, exposing the clit to the chilly currents in the air-conditioned office.

Grey warmed her by opening his mouth and engulfing her mound completely as his tongue traced the contours of her vagina. Each time it flicked over her clit Miss CC cried out, and when it dove between the wet lips into the warmth of her channel she moaned contently. Grey caressed her thighs with his paws as he concentrated on two spots, her quivering clit and the sensitive spot inside that he could just reach if he strained hard enough. Beneath him Miss CC began to roll and rock her hips, urging him on with words in French that he did not understand. She reached down to caress his ears, knocking the maid's bonnet off in the process.

Grey could feel his erection bumping against the desk's ornate front panel. The tip was dripping with pre-cum and he was glad that the apron was between him and the desk; he had no idea if cum would leave a stain on antique oak and he did not want to find out. But his prick was sending urgent, lonely signals, threatening to release on its own if ignored further.

The older fox bore down hard on Miss CC's clit, moving his mouth sideways to get a digit inside her. He found the spongy patch he was aiming for easily enough, and with tongue and digit began to rub the two spots that should bring the writhing party poodle to a dramatic climax. But Miss CC had challenged the best of the Academy's lovers over the course of her employment, and she was not about to give it up so easily. She clenched her thighs and tightened her pelvis muscles to stave off orgasm.

"Eet feels sooo good." She gasped, her tail thumping against his leg in agreement. "But I can stay like thees all day, mon cher."

Grey grunted in response, never loosing a lick. It was time to bring out the big guns. The juices were flowing freely from her twat now, lubricating the digit that was driving into her, but much of it was wasted, dripping down her cunt and between the cheeks of her ass to pool on the great green blotter. Grey stuck out a second digit, and soaked it with those fluids. Then he wiggled it down between her clenched buttocks and spread the goodness around the little pink hole there. Miss CC shuddered at the first contact and tried to wriggle away, but Grey had her trapped and all was fair in love and war.

Pausing for a moment, he aimed a mouthful of cunt juice and saliva at the questing digit. When it was drenched he pressed on, or rather forward, and the thick pad at the end popped inside her tailhole.

"Aghhhh." She half screamed, half sighed as it went in. Grey immediately pulled it out and drove it back in, a little deeper this time. Within a half-dozen stokes he was up to the second knuckle and her anus was producing its own lubrication. His digits alternated inside the two holes like the shafts of a reciprocating steam engine while his tongue continued to lash her clit.

"Ahhh, you bastard." She cried out as her hip movements became erratic, the first sign that she was loosing control. She pulled hard on his ears and almost tore him off her in the process, but not quite. "Thees ees not fair! Get your cock inside me and we shall see who can hold out the longest!"

His eyes watered at the effort to hold back his own orgasm. If she only knew how much he was aching to comply. But she was close now, very, very close. He doubled his efforts, replacing the digit in her ass with his thick thumb, and sucked her clit up into his mouth so he could flick the tip of it mercilessly.

"Oh mon dieu!" she screamed as her hips left the desk and her legs went stiff. Her stomach muscles tightened in one last attempt to hold back the flood. Grey pulled his digits out with a 'pop' and pushed the apron aside. He grabbed her hips and pulled her onto his waiting cock. It slid in all the way the first time, so wet and ready was she. Grey groaned at the sheer pleasure that the warm wet envelope brought to his aching prick. He found her clit with his thumb and began to rub it frantically as she withdrew to the point where just the knob of his cock was left inside. Then he slammed it home again, and again and again.

With his cock driving hard inside her, his thumb circling her clit and his balls slamming against her sensitive tailhole it did not take more than a dozen trusts to drive her over the edge. A sudden hot wetness engulfed his cock as she wrapped her legs and arms around him and squeezed hard enough make his back crack and drive the air out of his lungs. She also bit him on the ear, and he made a mental note to talk to her about that ... someday. For now, however, it was all he could do to keep thrusting and grinding in her steel-like grip.

Miss CC slowly relaxed and Grey settled into long slow deep strokes that maximized the sensation on his cock while avoiding her pleasure centres. But at the limit of each thrust and retraction he came in to contact with one or the other erogenous zone, which made her shudder and grin with renewed ecstasy. "Bein oui, mon p'tit. That's the spot. Ooh! Pas si vite. Oui, just like that."

Gray was able to concentrate on clenching his own pelvic muscles and thus was able to slide in and out of her for another few minutes while she experienced several softer, subtler, secondary orgasms. Eventually though, he could hold the pressure back no more. With a cry that was torn from his throat he buried his prick inside her and held it there as his balls squeezed out shot after shot of boiling spooge. When it was done he slowly collapsed down on top of the recumbent poodle until his snout was wedged between the globes that had started this whole episode. They were much softer and warmer than the silicone ones, he noted.

Miss CC lay still below him until both their breathing had both returned to normal. Then she tapped the grey fox on the shoulder. "We better finish cleaning up, mon chere, before zee Director he comes back or Silver shows up."

"Right." Grey said as he pulled his limp phallus out, somewhat reluctantly. "Where can I, uh, take care of this?" He pointed to is sodden shaft, which was still dripping cum. Best to wash his wee-wee and pack his pecker away safely before taking care of the office, otherwise he would be leaving more cum spots as he went, and the Persian carpet was, quite frankly, a bitch to clean.

"Zee Director's washroom." She led him through the door at the back of the office.

They washed each other's parts, which led to another, longer session where he took her from behind over the sink and she finished by riding him on the toilet. Afterwards they washed again, then dressed, and Grey tidied up the office while she gathered the sodden maid's outfit, the stained blotter and the wet towels and stuffed them in a plastic bag to deal with later. Grey removed the silicone hooters from the vacuum and stuck them in a cloth shopping bag he found hanging on the back of the door to the corridor.

"What do we do about the blotter?" Grey inquired after polishing the desktop with some lemon oil.

"Zere ees a spare een the closet by my desk."

Grey went to the closet, and found a package of twelve green blotters from a local office supply bulk store. Five of them were missing.

"Uh, CC, my love ..." He held up the package.

"No time for questions. Silver is coming." She grabbed one of the blotters, leaving an even six, and ran back into the office to centre it on the desk.

Grey had not heard a phone ring, and he knew that Miss CC did not carry a cell phone. "How do you know that the Chief of Staff is coming?" He asked.

She pointed to the corner of her office, where a small red light was blinking. "Whenever his car or the Directors approaches the Academy a sensor sets off that alarm." She reached under her desk and the light when out. Gary noticed that in her haste she had dropped the French accent again. "I can tell which by the rate it is blinking. It gives me time to ... uh ... take care of business before they arrive. No telling how long it was blinking before I noticed it. You had better get going." She shoved the bag of cum-soaked laundry and paper under her desk and produced a spray air freshener, which she proceeded to use liberally in the foyer and then in the Director's office.

Grey grabbed the vacuum and headed for the hallway door, only to run into the broad chest of the silver fox coming in the other way.

"Muzzle? What are you doing here?" The Chief of Staff asked as he tried to maneuver himself through a door that was now blocked by the large vacuum.

"Ah, we were short staffed and there was nothing to do in the lounge so I was helping Miss C ... I mean, Mademoiselle Chienne-Caniche, I was helping her off the desk ... clean off the desk, the Director's desk."

"With a vacuum?"

"No, uh, that was for afterwards, for the carpet. We ... I polished the desk ... with lemon oil. Mmmm, smell that freshness."

Silver sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. "All I can smell is that horrid air freshener CC seems to like. Anyway, thanks for helping her out. She's often all by herself up here and sometimes she needs someone to relieve her by lending a paw."

"Oh, Monsieur Muzzle 'as very relieving paws." The poodle muttered as she came out from the Director's office and tossed the empty aerosol can in the trash bucket.

Silver glanced at his watch and looked around the room. "I know I just got in, but I have to run over to the daycare centre and pick up Leslie. Vikki got hung up out at the repelling tower and you know how Missus Brown is about picking up the kits late. Have you seen the bag I keep here with his stuff? Oh, wait, there it is." Before Grey of could stop him Silver took the cloth shopping bag down from behind the door. "I'll take him home and call Tanner from there. But before you leave, Marie, could you set up a meeting tonight at eight in the conference room? I'll need Tanner, Bill Hanlan, yourself and Rusty. And call the lounge to lay on some food and drinks; it's going to be a long one."

"I can arrange the catering for you Sir." Grey stepped up nearer the bigger fox, hoping to get close enough to fish the rubber bust out of the bag before he left, but Silver was already on his way out the door.

"Great, thanks Muzzle."

"I can even serve the food and mix the drinks for you." Grey called desperately, reaching out to clutch the strap of the bag before Silver could get away. "I'm the back-up bartender tonight."

"Uh, fine. Thanks ... again." Silver stared at the greying fox with blue-grey eyes grown suddenly cold. "Ah, can you let go of my bag, please?"

"I can carry it to the daycare for you." Grey offered, starting to perspire.

"No. Thank you." Silver flicked his wrist and the strap was torn from Grey's grasp. "I think you need to get out of the lounge more, Muzzle. A little cleaning and you're all in a sweat. And you're as white as a ghost. Maybe you should take some leave. Catch some rays, do a little yard work."

Grey gulped and nodded, not daring to speak again. He stood in the doorway and watched the Chief of Staff stride down the hallway and disappear through the double doors that led to the lobby.

"What was zat all about?" Miss CC asked.

"My dear," He said with the voice of one resigned to his fate, a horrible fate, "Zat was zee titties leaving zee building."

"Merde."

"Maybe he won't recognize them."

"Fat chance of that, mon chere. We are ... how do you say? ... screwed."

The FOX Academy series:

Book I - The New Breed

Book II - The Werewolf of Odessa

Book II.5 - The Love who Spied Me

Book III - The Curse of the Yellow Monkey

Book IV - Wait for No One

Book V - Dawn of Vengeance

Book VI - Unnatural Selection

Kain Algorath © Marcus X Light

Ophelia Cassidy Sommer © Devil Kitty

Joel Grigori © Joel the Lemur

Geno © Coyotek

Dongo Fett © Dongo Fett

Zachary Ember © EmberWolf

Grey Muzzle © Grey Muzzle