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FOX Academy:

Book I - The New Breed

Book II - The Werewolf of Odessa

Book II.5 - The Love Who Spied Me

FOX Academy Flashback:

The Finland Express - Part 1 - Rendezvous In Murmansk

07 January, 1987

Grigori Mikhailovich Mishin sat on an icy bench in the October Revolution Park of the northern Russian city of Murmansk. Although it was noon the sky was still dark; this far above the Arctic Circle it would not rise again until mid-February. It was the day typically celebrated as Christmas in Russia before the Soviets suppressed the practice. It was also a Wednesday and he had the park to himself except for a few hardy mothers and babushkas pushing strollers. The school-aged children were in school, and the hoodlums that haunted every Soviet city these days were taking shelter from -40' Celsius temperatures that could freeze vodka solid. Even the skating rink was empty; skates could not glide on ice so cold.

Grigori was bundled up in his warmest clothes, ones of fairly good quality. In the Soviet Union, scientists had preferential treatment, like the privilege of shopping in the restricted stores, and defence scientists were treated even better. As a rocket scientist, Grigori was treated almost as well as the senior party members, but Grigori longed for the one thing that even the most senior scientists in the USSR could not buy; freedom. Freedom to choose what projects you worked on, freedom to live where you wanted, freedom to discuss your work with scientists from other countries.

For now, Grigori worked on the mainstay of the Soviet nuclear deterrent force, the submarine-launched ballistic missiles or SLBMs. They were carried on nuclear submarines designated as SSBNs, and eighty percent of those were based in the North Sea Fleet. Since the fleet was stationed in the Kola Peninsula near the border with Norway, Grigori was stationed there too, in Murmansk, in the coldest part of the Soviet Union. For a Ring-tailed Lemur raised in the warmer republics of the south, it was unbearable.

Hopefully, he would not have to bear it much longer. He fingered the tin box inside his coat pocket. It contained the final details for his defection to the west. When he was certain that he was not being observed he leaned down as if to tie his boot lace, tin box hidden in his paw. As he straightened, he slipped it under the bench and the rare-earth magnet glued to it snapped onto the iron reinforcing bar with an audible 'clack'.

A chalk mark in the appropriate place and time would indicate acceptance or refusal, but he was certain that they would accept; he wasn't asking for much, just that his unborn son should never know the misery of this place. He stood and ambled from the park, returning to the compound that held the medical and dental facilities for senior party members and privileged scientists, his excuse for being in this part of town today.

As he disappeared out the exit, one of the babushkas paused and reached inside her stroller. She pulled a portable radio unit from underneath the blankets and reported his movements to central control. She neglected to mention him bending to tie his boot lace while waiting on the bench, a move that a more senior counter-intelligence agent may have recognized for what it was. Perhaps if she had, the USSR would have one more scientist in the Gulag and the life of FOX agent D. Auvert would have ended in the bottom of a Tequila bottle instead of on the frozen arctic tundra.

* * * * * * * *

08 January, 1987

Agents of Canada's Foreign Operations eXecutive often had to bear great pain and hardship, but Auvert was certain that none had ever suffered as he was now. How could the Chief of Staff have sent him, a Junior Agent, into a situation like this, one for which he was totally unprepared and inexperienced. The red mist in front of his eyes seemed to thicken and he prayed for death.

"Auvert ... Auvert!" An angry voice managed to penetrate the buzzing in his head, increasing his suffering. He opened his eyes and sought the source of this new torture.

"Pay attention will you? It's your turn." The speaker sat at the head of simulated wood conference table built for fourteen. He regarded Auvert with annoyance. He disliked the antisocial fox already; they usually used first names amongst themselves but the "security" representative on his interdepartmental health and safety committee refused to reveal his. Today he actually looked drunk; his eyes were like two piss holes in the snow.

Auvert picked up the notes he had been given to recite, statistics on injuries, accidents and sick time compiled by the administrative staff at the Academy. They had been suitably doctored to omit the bullet wounds, stabbings and strangulations that were common in any covert intelligence agency. Agents that had died or disappeared were listed as transfers to other departments. Their deaths often attributed to industrial accidents while inspecting meat packaging plants or undercover police work. He focused with some effort and began to read them to the other departmental drones gathered at the table.

After all the departments had presented their statistics, there was a break for coffee and Danish. Auvert pushed his way to the coffee urn, gulped one cup right there and filled it again. He avoided the Danish, no sense giving his rebellious stomach something to throw back at him. For the third time since Christmas he owed that he would stop drinking after ten drinks or one a.m., whichever came first, next time.

During the break, the other representatives exchanged business cards, phone and fax numbers. Those few who were on something called the "web" exchanged addresses. One or two approached him, but Auvert discouraged conversation and had no cards to exchange. He managed to refill his cup once more before the committee reconvened.

After the meeting he walked down the street to where his car was parked, a silver 1980 Firebird Esprit that he had had chopped to make into a convertible. Cindi Lauper was singing 'True Colours' on the radio. He hit the next button and it jumped to something the DJ called 'Rap'; Auvert listened for a bit and decided that it would go the way of last year's 'New Wave' music. After sampling 'You Give Love a Bad Name', which almost made him puke, and 'Rock Me Amadeus', which was at least unique, he settled on an oldies station. He drove back to Ottawa's Central Experimental Farm, the facility that served as a cover for FOX Academy, listening to the likes of Elvis, the Beatles and the Stones. Once there, he checked in at Headquarters to see if there were any messages for him. One of the pink message slips indicated that he should see the Chief of Staff right away. Damn, he thought, what did I do now?

* * * * * * * *

Inside the Director's office the walrus Sir Wilbur W. Withersby, know as 'W', was reviewing personnel files with his Chief of Staff, Tancred 'Tanner' Williams. A robust 65, the walrus had headed the agency since its creation in the early '70s. As usual, he was dressed in a grey three-piece suit and smelled slightly of fish.

Williams, although only 33, had been Chief of Staff since the position was created five years ago. His previous career was as a Military Police officer in the Special Investigations Unit. His section was responsible for cruising the gay bars and drug parlours of the Capitol, looking for foreign diplomats to blackmail or Canadian officials whose habits could cause their security clearances to be removed. Many members of his unit became addicts in the course of their investigations; Tancred discovered that he was homosexual. A conscientious officer, he had reported himself, which brought him to the attention of W.

W had grown the Academy, as it was referred to by its members, from a few agents into a multi-faceted organization. With growth however came the inevitable bureaucracy required to manage it. Unable to personally supervise every aspect of the establishment, W had been on the look out for an individual with outstanding organizational abilities, superior ethical principles and moral courage to act as his assistant. The unusually large, athletic, golden-furred fox seemed to be a good fit, so three years before the Canadian Human Rights Act would protect him from discrimination for his sexual orientation, W used his influence on the Privy Council to have Williams transferred to FOX with his security clearance intact.

Given the code name of Gold, now forever reserved for the Chief of Staff, Williams' arrival had coincided with the first in-house course for new agents. Those junior agents were now approaching their five-year review. He and W had to decide which would be released, which would be retained in other capacities and which, if any, would be promoted to senior agents.

The senior agents were the elite of the academy, trusted to use their judgement while on missions. They had all taken life on order or in self-defence before, but now had the authority to kill if they deemed it necessary or desirable to achieve their mission. Although autonomous, they were also anonymous and un-attributable and therefore expendable. Each was identified by a colour, and proudly used that code name in place of their original name or a cover name while on the Academy grounds.

W and Gold finished one file and they opened Auvert's. W grunted as he read the latest evaluation.

"Seems to be falling apart, this chap. After such a promising start too." He put the file down open so that the photo of the fox attached to the inside of the folder was exposed. It showed a black fox in his late twenties, already gone grey around the face and ears. The effect made his fur look silver.

"The death of his senior agent hit him pretty hard." Williams noted. "According to Dr. Gordon he blamed himself for Green's death, although it was really just bad luck. Auvert was where he was supposed to be and reacted the way he was trained to. Green just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, no one could have predicted it."

"But young Auvert thinks that he should have, eh?" W tapped the file. Auvert's need to be right, to find the perfect solution to any tactical problem was well documented. Green, a heavy-built red fox with green eyes had been Auvert's opposite, an outgoing personality with an attitude of maximum flexibility, but he was a strong leader. He became a father figure for the younger fox. Auvert's evaluations steadily improved and his work in Europe was rated outstanding.

Since Green's death, Auvert's performance had declined rapidly. It was if he didn't care anymore. He drank to excess and did impulsive, dangerous and sometimes stupid things. He was returned from Europe before he caused a major international incident. Back at the Academy he did no better. Williams thought that it was a shame; in the five years that he had known Auvert, he had come to like and respect him, but if he didn't snap out of it soon he would have to let go.

W was apparently of the same mind for he continued, "What he needs is a solo mission. Something to get his mind off Green's death. It's no good trying to reshape the past. He needs something important, but fairly straightforward."

Like any good Chief of Staff, Williams had anticipated W's wishes. "I think that I have just the thing." He slid a slim folder across the desk. W picked it up, read for a few minutes, and smiled.

"Exactly. When will you brief him?"

"He's waiting outside my office now."

"You are too good at your job Williams, far too good."

* * * * * * * *

Almost half a world away an open sleigh was speeding down the snow-covered lane that connected the Soviet Naval Depot at Severomorsk to the highway to Murmansk. It was pulled by a team of four black stallions, selected for their ability to keep their mouths shut as well as for their speed. The Sleigh's occupants were huddled beneath a thick down quilt, locked in a passionate embrace.

The female was a pure-white saluki, with feathered fur that almost glowed in the moonlight. Five-foot ten and full figured, she was the fantasy of all the local young single officers, and many of the old married ones. She had a reputation as a demanding lover.

The male was a Russian wolfhound, even taller than her, a young Captain in the Soviet Rocket Forces recently assigned to the Inspector General's Office. He had come to be the envy of his comrades by being assigned as the liaison officer to the SLBM development project, the project for which the saluki was head of security. This gave him ample opportunity to be alone with the exotic saluki, time to attempt a seduction. He soon discovered, however, that seducing her was like attracting mosquitoes in the swamp; you just had to be there to be successful.

He slid a paw inside her coat, pressing hard against her breast through the silky material of her blouse. She responded by driving her tongue deeper into his mouth. Underneath the quilt, she slipped off her fur-lined leather boots and wrapped her legs around one of his. One paw began undoing the buttons of his uniform overcoat. Sergi had found the buttons on her blouse and his paw was inside now, cupping the soft furry breast and gently pinching the nipple erect.

She only had a small portion of her mind on the wolfhound. She was occupied categorizing the security measures that she had put in place, calculating the risk of sabotage or accident, seeking weaknesses in the system. A smaller portion still marvelled at how she had come to be in this place and where she might go from here.

She had been born Nenet Menefer, the daughter of Egyptian archaeologists, descendants of the pharaohs. Her early years were spent accompanying them on their many archaeological digs. When they were home in Cairo they associated with the elite of the international intelligentsia. It was the Egypt of Nassar, where the Soviet advisers had power and influence. Her parents had been communists, despite their royal ancestry, and she was raised with a passionate belief in the collective.

Unfortunately, she was also raised with a rough paw. A quiet, sensitive girl, she needed a gentle lead and a kind heart, what she got was physical and mental abuse for the slightest of perceived wrongs. Her father's favourite punishment was to squeeze her delicate paws in his massive ones. Strengthened by decades of digging in the desert, he could crush the steel cylinders they used for reinforcing trenches and pits. When she was bad, by his definition, he would say, "come here Nenet, give me your paw," and for some reason she would. She could often feel the pain for days afterwards.

The worst session came when she was fourteen. Puberty had come late, but while she had not yet filled out, she was experiencing the sensations and emotional turmoil that came with the change. One night she heard strange noises coming from her parent's room, noises that simultaneously scared her and excited her. Sneaking in along the floor, as she had when she was little and was scared by the lightning storms, she moved up beside the bed. Raising her head, she was shocked, but also thrilled, by what she saw. Wide-eyed, she had let a gasp escape, and her father's eyes had snapped open.

He was beside her in a single bound, shouting at her, waving his fists. Nenet raised her paws to protect herself and he grabbed them. "Here's what we do to dirty little girls," he shouted, and he began to squeeze, harder than he ever had before. Nenet was trapped, stunned, on her knees before him. Looking up she saw her mother lying curled up in a ball on the bed, her back to the ugly scene. The sights, smells and sensations sank into her brain and became one; the pleasure, the pain, the excitement, the anger.

As the strange new feelings overwhelmed her the pain in her paws became unbearable. Eyes wild, saliva dripping from her mouth, she darted her head forward and bit down on his arm as hard as she could.

Her parents chose to pretend that the incident never occurred, although the older members of the household staff noticed the strained smiles and extended silences. They began spending more and more time at the field sites.

Her sexuality awakened, Nenet didn't look back, but stuck in the desert with no one to advise her or guide her she had only the incident with her parents and the rough and tumble crew of diggers to use as examples. She stalked the camp at night, wrapped in a black burka to cover her white fur. She watched the crew line up to take turns with the few females who cooked by day. Watched them beat the females when they were not happy with them. She followed the older males when they lured young boys from nearby villages into the dunes with promises of candy; watched two of the lads being buried out there. The more she saw the stronger the link between pleasure and pain became.

She grew taller and filled out. When she walked atop the dunes in the early morning or late evening and the sun cut the through her clothes the crew would stop as one and stare. They drooled and pawed their crotches, but they stayed away out of fear of her father; more than just local boys had been buried in the desert. She did not care for them in any event; she had her eye on the cook's son.

He was a shy younger jackal, but sleek and muscled from a youth spent fetching and carrying in the desert sun. His mother was protective of him, never letting him out of her sight least the predatory diggers catch him alone, but when Nenet offered to escort him to the oasis for water she thought it would be safe enough, no one would come near her at least.

Nenet had planned her seduction well; the lush palms, the cool pool of water, a slight breeze, all served to set the mood. The boy was more than willing. His dark-toned body was magnificent, a match for hers. She lay back on the soft grass and felt him move inside her. Slowly at first, then with ever increasing speed.

Raising her hips to meet his, gasping for breath, urging him on. She looked up to him and his face was strained, teeth barred. He grunted in the effort to hold back until she was ready too. His arms were pressing her shoulders down into the ground, painfully. Her eyes shot open as a flood of warmth exploded from her. The smell of their sweat mingled with their juices, the sound of his grunts and her cries, the sight of him straining above her, combined and penetrated to where the old memories were locked away. She remembered her father's face, her mother's back, the passion, the pain ... she darted her head forward and bit down on his arm as hard as she could.

Out in the desert, two miles from camp, a hundred from the nearest doctor, was not the place to suffer massive lacerations. The cook's son lost his paw, and her father had to decide between losing a cook and a crew and sending her away. After a last paw-crushing farewell, he put her on a truck headed back to the museum in Cairo. As she mounted the step to get into the cab, one of the workers called out to the driver, "Keep your paws to yourself Anwar! This one's got a sweet tooth."

In Cairo the story spread, and the nickname "Sweet Tooth" stuck. Despite the laughter behind her back, she settled down in Cairo for a few years to finish schooling. She received a Masters in Engineering in Environmental Systems Design at the American University, while supporting the communist movement in her free time. Her first job after graduating was to assist the Soviet engineer who was building the facilities for the Egyptian Missile project, a program financed by the Soviets and staffed by former Nazi scientists. That was where she met Vasyl Timoshenko, the Werewolf.

In his sixties, he had worked with the Nazi scientists during the Second World War and with the Soviets before and after. The ultimate survivor, he could tell when to switch sides long before the political scientists sniffed the winds of change. It was he that advised her to be ready to flee; he predicted the expulsion of the Russians a year before it came. When it did, she was ready, and she boarded a flight for Moscow before the new Western-friendly government could send the security services after her.

In Moscow, she found that she was persona non grata, unwanted. Someone had to be held responsible for the strategic failure of the spread of communism in Egypt and the loss of many missile secrets there. The Werewolf was not about to take the blame, nor were the Soviet advisers. The Egyptian communists, most of which were in jail in Egypt now, were held accountable; and her presence in Moscow was an embarrassment. To her chagrin, the nickname had followed her also.

The 1984 accident in Severomorsk that resulted in the loss of fifty percent of the North Sea Fleet's missiles and ammunition created an opportunity for someone with her engineering background. Timoshenko took her on as his safety and security adviser, and his lover. He didn't mind her tendency to bite; he considered it a challenge to come up with new ways of binding her to keep her jaws just out of reach. He especially liked luring young Soviet officers close to her, unsuspecting young officers.

While she had been reminiscing, the Captain had managed to remove her coat, blouse and skirt. His own coat and tunic were off, and his shirt was open. He was kissing her breasts, tonguing her nipples. A paw was between her legs, rubbing the middle digits along her already moist slit. She laid her head back against the cushions of the sleigh, gazing up at the green and purple serpent of the Aurora Borealis.

Under the quilt, Sergi licked the underside of her breasts, his paw pressing harder against her sex. His head lowered, licking her stomach, as one of his digits broke through and slipped inside her. He drew it in and out, nibbling on the soft flesh above. As the tip of his digit rubbed within, the tip of his tongue found the button of flesh outside. He teased the two, mixing his saliva with her moisture, drinking them both in.

She caressed his head and watched the stars through the northern lights. It was like being out in the desert, with nothing to interfere with nature's illumination. She had hated the constant heat, the sweat it brought. She much preferred the crisp, cold climate of Murmansk; but one day she would return to Moscow. She would stand beside Gorbachev as an equal, she would return to Egypt to liberate the masses, and she would take control.

Her breath was coming in short bursts now as the wolfhound's talented tongue delved deeper. Both paws were on her thighs now as he worked both her insides and out with mouth alone. Then, suddenly, his paws were gone. She heard his heavy military belt buckle drop to the floor of the sleigh. His lips left her. His head rose up from under the quilt and his clamped his mouth to hers. She could taste herself, and the taste was good, like dry sweet wine. His hips were between her legs; something hot and hard was seeking warm refuge. She spread her legs and opened herself. A moment of fire as he plunged his rod to its depth, and then the inferno spread as he moved within her.

His held the corners of the quilt in his paws, his arms spread against the headrest of the sleigh to protect their skin form the freezing arctic air. Her paws were up beside her head, opening and closing in rhythm with him. Sergi, a romantic at heart, as are all Russians, thought that it would enhance the intimacy to take her paws in his and squeeze them passionately as his thrusts became deeper and harder.

When he started to squeeze, her eyes flew open. She looked up at his barred teeth and heard him grunt as his hips slammed into her. Her breath came in short gasps and her head began to whip from side to side. The memory of the pain in her paws, and the sight of him above her, combined with the smell of sweat and lust, drove her over the edge. As the hot, wet deluge enfolded him and triggered his orgasm, she darted her head forward ...

His scream split the night. Up ahead, the stallions shuddered but didn't look back.

* * * * * * * *

15 January, 1987

Auvert stood in the Murmansk reception centre with a fruit juice clenched in one paw and prayed for a real drink, but he didn't dare touch anything stronger. This was his first solo trip inside the Soviet Union and he half suspected that the Academy had sent him here to get rid of him.

Murmansk had three industries, fish, shipping and the military. A fluke in the ocean currents left the arctic port and others nearby ice-free all year. This meant that the fishing fleet could stay out longer and, aided by the world's largest fleet of nuclear icebreakers, the shipping lines could operate year-round. It also meant that the North Sea Fleet's SSBNs, stationed at nearby Polyarnyy, could easily run and duck under the arctic icecap, there to wait for orders to break through the ice and launch their load of nuclear missiles.

While Regan and Gorbachev played chess with mobile short-range nuclear missiles in Europe, the SSBNs played cat and mouse with American attack submarines under the ice. If the balloon went up the attack subs, the famous 688's, would try to take out as many of the 'boomers' as they could, but the Americans could not guarantee to kill them all, and even one surviving missile sub could take out the American East Coast in one salvo. In addition, a nuclear sub could wait for months before surfacing for a retaliatory attack. As the most survivable arm of the nuclear deterrent triad, the SLBMs received the bulk of the funds and the SSBN fleet had its pick of the elite among the engineers and scientists.

The result was an influx of academics, intellectuals and geniuses to what was essentially a rough and tumble fishing village, albeit one with a population of four hundred thousand. They found themselves in a cultural vacuum. With no real university, no opera, and the wretched local ballet company often forced to perform in parkas and leg warmers in an unheated theatre, the only intellectual stimulation was the occasional international conference. There, one could at least play 'spot the KGB' and, if one was good at that game, talk to foreigners freely for a few minutes.

Auvert had no chance of being invited to a scientific or military conference. He could not masquerade as a practitioner or patron of the arts. Likewise, he would have been spotted for a fraud if he tried to pose as a diplomat. He had been a simple soldier in a reconnaissance unit for eight years before joining FOX five years ago. His military background, sniper training, field experience and especially his test scores, which had shattered the rating scale, had been balanced against a conduct record that had already grown dangerously thick thanks to a number of wild stunts. He was, as W had said 'a diamond in the rough', and his diamond still needed a lot of polishing.

So Auvert found himself posing as one Martin Paulis, self-made shipping magnate at the Murmansk Higher Engineering Marine School's annual arctic shipping conference. The legend built for this character indicated that he had come up from being a lowly teenage deck hand to owning the fastest-growing fleet of freighters on the Great Lakes. Fortunately for the Academy, such a fox actually existed, and he was a patriotic recluse who didn't mind them occasionally 'borrowing' his persona. Auvert had also spent two summers working the docks in Toronto and could fit in with the local shippers, most of them just a half step away from being criminals. He had put his almost-total recall ability to good use, memorizing volumes of material on ships, shipping and the arctic trade routes. His memory was now being put to the test.

"So Mr. Paulis," a rugged brown bear who controlled most of the warehouses in Murmansk addressed him, "you intend to venture off your placid lakes and expand into the Arctic eh? You will find that the market can easily accommodate another shipping line, but the conditions are much different than on the lakes. Lost ships and lost cargo benefit no one."

Auvert sipped his fruit juice and answered the challenge, "I'll personally be at the helm of the first ship I send here. Would you care to join me on the return journey Yakov Olegovich Lobodin?" He deliberately used the bear's familiar name to show that he had learned something of the locals.

He continued the verbal sparring, throwing out facts and figures as appropriate to appear as if he had been studying the issue for some time. He kept the tone aggressive, in fitting with the legend for his character and the kind of entrepreneur that he would be expected to deal with here. Satisfied that he would be a worthy addition to the local business pool, the talk changed to more serious matters.

"Tell me, Martin," Yakov leaned in confidentially, "Who is going to win the Stanley Cup this year? Montreal again?"

"I don't know," Auvert replied, "the Edmonton Oilers and Gretzky are looking good this year. They discussed the Canadians' performance the year before and their chances of winning again. Talk shifted to the new young champ Mike Tyson and boxing in general. Injecting the occasional observation, Auvert swept the room for his contact.

The crowd in the conference centre had formed into three distinct groups. The group Auvert was in was the trade people, the fishing collectives, the shippers and the merchants, those who made their living from the sea. Dressed in leather jackets and corduroy trousers, quite a few still wore the high rubber boots they used on board. Mostly bears, wolves and large canines, they wore their scars and displayed missing digits as badges or honour.

On the far side of the room were the academics. They were dressed better than the business class, but not extravagantly. The intellectuals were from a broad group of species, and from their accents a broader group of locales. They were engaged in animated discussions, some nodding eagerly, others gesturing grandly in the air. They looked on the traders with disdain, and with a little envy whenever the later broke out in raucous laughter.

The third group, in the middle of the room, was the government group. They were dressed best of all, in western suits and oriental silk shirts and blouses. They stood where they could watch the two other groups, and each other. Some would be KGB, Auvert knew, and others GRU, the military's intelligence arm. The two agencies were bitter rivals. Still others would be party members and senior bureaucrats, relatively harmless but well connected functionaries. Wolfhounds predominated, although the occasional seal or sable could be seen, token ethnic representation, he thought. Auvert scanned that group quickly to ensure that he didn't recognize anyone from his time in West Germany.

He studied the academics more closely. There, that had to be them. Engaged in conversation with a small Asian black bear he saw a male ring-tailed lemur. Beside him, ignored by her mate and his friend, was a female ring-tail, one that was very, very pregnant.

* * * * * * * *

Auvert recalled how worried he was that he had done something he couldn't remember when he was called into the Chief of Staff's office a week ago. He knew that his evaluation period was over and they would soon decide whether to promote him, pull him from the field or dismiss him. He also knew that he had not been doing too hot since Green's death some months ago. He did not fit in with the headquarters staff and he believed that he had failed as a field agent, at least on that last vital mission. At Christmas he had drank too much, again, and started shooting up his room at the Academy. Fortunately, the walls were reinforced and he wasn't the first agent to lose it at that time of cheer; but he had been warned, one more incident and out he went.

He had entered Gold's office expecting to have a new tailhole torn for him, and Williams did not disappoint him. Gold had climbed up one side of him, danced on his head and come down the other side. Apparently, the chairman of the interdepartmental health and safety committee had phoned. Then Williams had softened.

"You have a talent for this work, Auvert," the Chief of Staff had said, "and from all accounts you love it, but you can't let one setback ruin you. This isn't a perfect world; if it were, they wouldn't need us in the first place. Things will go wrong for no reason. Good people are going to die. Bad people are going to get away. You have to be willing to live with that, do the best you can and keep moving forward." Gold had paused and sat back. "We've gone over your file, and we have decided to extend your probation and give you one more chance to prove that you can get it together. What you have to now is decide, do you want to become a senior agent, or do you want to leave now?"

Auvert had not considered the possibility of an extension, and he had leapt at the chance. Williams had laid out the mission for him; bring out a pair of Russian scientists, one a missile expert, his mate a propulsion systems specialist. They were important, but it was believed that their defection was not suspected. The escape should be routine, but since anything could go wrong, they needed someone like Auvert to escort them, watch over them and protect them.

"Oh, one more thing," Gold had said as Auvert left to study the case file in detail, "He won't be carrying the secrets on paper or film, just in his head. His deal is that unless we get all three of them out together we get nothing."

"Three?" Auvert had asked, confused. "I thought that you said there were just him and his mate?"

"For now," Williams had chuckled, "but not for long. She's about eight months pregnant, and if the child isn't born outside of the Soviet Union, no deal."

So Auvert had started a regime of exercise, research and abstinence. Rather than try to cut back on his drinking he stopped entirely. He read the case file, worked with the planning staff, memorized his cover and learned all he could about the region. At night, when the urge to drink was the strongest, he ran, a form of exercise he hated, until the sweat poured off him and the urge went away. Along with memorizing volumes of information on shipping, he read every book he could find on pregnancy and emergency delivery. Like all agents, he re-qualified in basic and emergency first aid every year, but birthing wasn't covered in their annual training, being considered a remote possibility in their normal line of assassination and espionage.

As a final precaution, he studied detailed maps of the region, transportation systems and schedules. He had no intention of being caught out again. Whatever happened, he would have a back-up plan.

* * * * * * * *

Auvert made his excuses and stepped away from the shippers he had been talking with, headed for the scientists. Halfway there a figure broke from the government group on a path to intercept him. It was only to be expected that crossing over would draw attention, but he had an excuse handy. He turned to face the intruder, and stopped dead in his tracks.

He was being approached by an angel. White fur, white blouse, silky white tail, tight white riding breeches, and a smile full of sharp white teeth. Auvert gulped his fruit juice, momentarily taken back to discover it wasn't scotch. She was almost as tall as he was, with exotic facial features and large, hazel eyes. He drank her in. This had to be the head of security at the missile project; there could not be two such salukis in Murmansk.

For her part, Nenet was impressed with the Canadian. Tall and broad shouldered with a wide, muscular chest and the intriguing halo of silver fur around his face. So young to in charge of a shipping line, she marvelled, he must have a very forceful character. She had been there to watch the lemur Grigori Mishin, one of the scientists assigned to Vasyl Timoshenko's missile development project, and she had seen him watching the lemur. She was certain that the disgruntled scientist was up to something, but what, she did not know. When the handsome fox made his move, she stepped out to waylay him. Perhaps he would let something slip as to what was up.

"Good evening." She tried English first, although she was prepared to use French, German, Russian or classic Greek if that's what he spoke.

"Good evening." He replied, English it was then. "I was just thinking, when I saw you approaching all in white that I had died and gone to heaven, but then I realized that that could not be."

"Oh. Why is that?"

"Heaven is a perfect existence where one is freed of earthly desires, and what I'm feeling right now could be called desire, in polite company at least."

She smiled up at him. What unusual eyes he had for a fox! A particular blue-grey that reminded her of the sea on a stormy day, or the sharks that swam in it. She stepped a bit closer and placed a paw on his forearm. It was large and solid, like a wrestler's, the veins bulging underneath the black fur. "Tell me, what brings you to Murmansk?"

"Shipping. I'm expanding my range from the Great Lakes into the Canadian Arctic. The shipping season is getting longer every year and I want to be in the best position when the ice thins enough to ship all year. I have come here because this is where the Arctic shipping expertise is, and the shipbuilders who can construct my fleet and the icebreakers I'll need." He sipped the last of his juice.

She sniffed his glass as he lowered it. "Fruit juice? Not even with some vodka?" Her brows rose in mock shock.

"I gave it up for Lent."

"Lent doesn't start for another month."

"It was five years ago, I forgot to start again."

They had inched steadily closer as they talked and now their snouts were almost touching, their eyes locked unblinking along their lengths. Auvert could feel the electricity in the thin layer of air that remained between them.

"It would be a lovely night for a sleigh ride, don't you think?" He could feel her hot, sweet breath on his chin as she spoke.

He closed his eyes. Visions of the two of them entangled in the back of a sleigh as snow from the runners flew in arcs overhead played on their insides. He forced them open and refocused on the lemurs across the room. "I would love to join you, madam, but I m only in Murmansk a short while and I have business to attend to, perhaps on a future visit?"

Her disappointment was evident in the way she stepped back. Following his gaze, she frowned at the scientists. "And what attraction does our Comrade Academic Mishin hold for you? Mishin dabbles in rocket motors, hardly the business you describe."

Auvert noted her animosity toward the lemur, and the possessive tone. "Rocket motors? I thought that she was developing propulsion systems. The paper I read on the effects of extreme cold water on conventional ship propulsion is very relevant to my business, and her innovative solutions have definite commercial potential."

"Ah, the wife. Okay if you like the submissive type I suppose." She started to turn away.

Auvert's paw shot out with lightning speed, grabbing her jaw and turning her head back to him. "Submissives are for those that have no confidence in their abilities to control and shape a situation. I prefer to be challenged."

She had barred her teeth when he touched her, would have bitten him if his grip were not so strong. As he held her eyes with his, her expression softened. He relaxed his grasp, but did not remove his paw. Without breaking eye contact, her head darted around and she took his wrist between her jaws, but did not bite down. She watched for a flinch or any sign of nervousness and seeing none, she laughed and let his arm drop.

"Go on and talk to Comrade Nadezhda Lyubavich Mishin, if her husband will let you; but I'd suggest you stay away from him. You don't want to be associated with anyone in disgrace if you plan on having long term business relationships here." With that, she turned and strode away.

Auvert didn't ask what she meant, it was plain enough; the lemur was suspected. How much did they know? Did she think that he was involved? He tried to look unconcerned as he approached the group of scientists.

"Comrade Mishin?" He enquired as he neared the smaller group that included the lemurs. Both of them turned and chimed "Yes." they looked at each other, the male frowned, then they turned back to Auvert. The male spoke, out of habit if not by mutual consent.

"I am Comrade Grigori Mishin." He stepped in front of his mate in an unconscious display of dominance. Behind him, she looked to the ceiling and rolled her eyes. The Asian bear, having seen the lemur play this scene at countless conferences, wandered off to refresh his drink, leaving the three of them alone.

Auvert used the code phrase that would identify him as their contact, one that fit with his cover if they should be overheard. "The Comrade Mishin who wrote the paper on the effects of extreme cold water on conventional ship propulsion? I've been looking forward to meeting you."

The lemur blinked, and then returned with the counter signal. "I am sorry; you are looking for my mate, Nadezhda Mishin." The omission of the 'Comrade' indicated that it was safe to talk, but he did not move away from between them.

"This approach was designed to keep the heat off you," Auvert said in a low voice, "so make it look good, act naturally, introduce us and smile when I talk to you wife."

"I thought you wanted him to act naturally." The voice had come from behind him. The female stepped around her mate and extended a paw to Auvert. For one of the few times in his life, he was stunned into silence.

He didn't favour primates normally, preferring to date canines, felines and similar species. Not that he was picky; with the help of his looks, his attitude, some Southern Comfort and occasionally American Express, he had made love to most anything that moved, and a few that didn't. Beauty for him was measured in sexual wattage, a sort of potential energy scale. He had never, however, seen anything like her before, outside of a museum, that is.

The sight of her brought him back to his one vacation trip to Paris. Auvert had spent two weeks doing nothing but touring the museums, galleries and churches of the historic city. With off-hours access arranged by a colleague from the French Intelligence Directorate, he had studied the masters at his leisure, committing the smallest details to memory so he could discuss them later with his sister, an artist who resided in Bali. Nedesha Mishin's smile was taken from the Mona Lisa, her wide azure eyes stolen from Van Gogh. Her face glowed with strength and a sad innocence, yet managed to convey the passion of Rodin's 'The Kiss'. Even her protruding belly and swollen breasts seemed to give her the sensual air of a work of Rubens.

She met his gaze full on, patiently holding out her paw, while her mate fumed and sputtered beside her. Auvert took the proffered paw, raised it to his lips and kissed it.

"What unusual eyes you have Mister ...?"

"Paulis, Martin Paulis. And yours, I cannot recall ever seeing such a vibrant shade of blue in a primate before."

"A rare pigmentation for certain, but not unheard of. Now, before my husband erupts, shall we, how do you say it? Get down to business." She nodded toward the government group, where the saluki stood watching them from afar. "You have met our Chief of Security, Comrade Nenet Menefer I see."

"Yes, and I think that she suspects something."

"Damn her to hell, I knew it." Grigori interrupted. "Last week we asked for permission to travel to the spa at Pechenga, near the Norwegian border, as we do every winter. Yesterday we were informed that we were denied; too much work they said. Bah!"

"That complicates things" Auvert kept smiling, facing Nadezhda while addressing them both. "We won't be able to use the Norwegian route; they'll be expecting it, especially if you disappear suddenly." He thought for a moment. "How were you planning on getting to Pechenga?"

"I have a colleague whose mate has a reliable Lada, as unusual as that is." She replied. They are in Moscow for the winter and have left us the keys. They keep it in a garage close to the port."

"You were supposed to leave in two Days?" They nodded yes. "Do you have maps of the Murmansk Oblast? Warm clothes and blankets? Cans to carry extra gasoline in? Food and water for a long trip?"

"We could get all of that, if we could get away from Sweet Tooth." Grigori whined.

He asked, "Who, or what, is Sweet Tooth?"

"Menefer." Nadezhda answered. "She has a terrible reputation."

"And she is tenacious." Grigori continued. "If she suspects she will be checking on us at regular intervals and we will be reported the minute we are found missing. We can never get away by car."

Auvert had already taken a disliking to the missile scientist. Partially because of his negative attitude, and partially, he had to admit, from envy. How had he ever caught the heart of such a lovely creature as Nadezhda? He suppressed his aversion; personal feelings had no place in his mission.

"I will provide a suitable distraction, and keep Comrade Menefer occupied long enough for you to make your preparations. Leave the party immediately after we are done talking. Wait until Midnight then gather what you can and go to the garage. I will join you in the early morning and we will leave." Auvert knew that the polar night, that period above the Arctic Circle in winter when the sun does not rise at all, would not end for another twenty days, so it would be dark whenever they left. He had Grigori recite the address of the garage and directions to it from the centre of town.

"One more thing." Auvert said, stepping closer to Nadezhda than was socially acceptable. "Slap me."

"Why?" She asked.

"Not you, him." He addressed Grigori out of the corner of his mouth. "You look like the slapping type. Pretend that you're jealous and slap me."

"That won't be hard." Nadezhda mumbled and her mate's face went bright red. He swung his arm up and placed a resounding smack on Auvert's snout. Auvert winced and rubbed the spot, grinning malevolently at the smaller primate. "Good. Keep that anger for the trip. You'll need it to keep you going." He spun on heel and toe and strode away from the pair.

Nenet was laughing silently as he passed. Swinging around, he stopped in front of her. "Passionate as always, these Russians."

"Passion? Obsessive if you ask me. If you want passion you need someone from warmer climes, with hotter blood." She winked as she sipped her drink.

"You know, it would be a lovely night for a sleigh ride, and I suddenly have a hole in my schedule."

She put her glass down on a nearby table. "Let me get my coat."

"Let me call my manager and tell him not to wait up."

* * * * * * * *

The phone rang in an empty apartment in Moscow, purportedly the business address of the Paulis Shipping lines Russian agent. The call was automatically transferred to another number in another part of town. When the phone was answered, the receiver listened for moment and then acknowledged the information. He hung up and picked up a second telephone, one with no dial. When it was picked up at the other end he spoke quickly.

"Scenario 2b. Activate the decoys." He replaced the receiver and vacated the premises. A crew would be by tomorrow to remove the phones and wipe all traces of occupation.

* * * * * * * *

Auvert changed into warm clothes and took a taxi to the outskirts of town where the saluki had said she would be waiting for him. The weather was typical for this time of year in Murmansk, minus forty degrees Celsius, the freezing point for pure alcohol, and snowing lightly. The taxi speed recklessly down the deserted streets between snow banks taller than a bus until it came to where the road had not been ploughed.

The snow in the fields nearby was waist deep, but on the highway it had been pressed down by the passage of military trucks and other off-road vehicles. A large red sleigh with black trim stood there facing away from the city. Auvert paid the driver and picking up the leather satchel he had brought from the hotel, walked over to it. Four large black stallions stood in the traces, stamping the ground impatiently, steam issuing from their nostrils when they exhaled. Dressed in light clothes only to prevent overheating when pulling the sleigh they each wore a wool blanket for now.

The sleigh had a single occupant. Nenet Menefer sat to one side, wearing a fur shapka and sheepskin coat, covered to her waist by a heavy quilt. Her hazel eyes sparkled in the cold and she patted the bench beside her. Auvert climbed in and settled himself under the quilt. She slid up against him, hooked one arm through his and taking the reins in the other paw called to the stallions to set off.

It was just like Auvert had imagined it. They soon left the lights of the city behind, and the snow glowed by the light of the lamps mounted on the sleigh. The runners sent rooster tails of snow above the level of their heads, but off to the sides, so the only snow that landed on them were the gently falling fat flakes.

As soon as they were away, Nenet swung around and straddled him, knelling on the bench with a leg on each side. She clamped her mouth on his, paws on his head, pulling him into her. Auvert responded, gripping her buttocks as she ground her pelvis against him. She still wore the skin-tight riding breeches and he could feel every muscle in her rear and thighs as he ran his paws up and down her. She caught his tongue between her lips and sucked on it as she pulled away from him, giggling when it snapped back.

Nenet opened the sheepskin overcoat and leaned in so that he was inside with her. He had only a quick glance as she did so but a rapid check with his paws confirmed what he thought he saw; she was topless underneath. She began to undo the buttons on his parka as he massaged her breasts. Soon she had both his parka and shirt open and she leaned down to suck on his nipples, one after the other. When she came up for air, he returned the favour.

He began searching for the opening to her pants. He wasn't having much luck. He tried to swing her to one side and lay her down on the bench but she resisted.

"Not yet." She said.

Auvert wondered why, but soon didn't care. The refreshing cold on his face when she was sucking on his nipples alternating with the stifling warmth under the quilt when he was kissing hers was like going in and out of sauna. His pants were straining to contain him and he could tell that she was excited also, then up ahead he spotted a glow through the snow.

The stallions slowed down as they drew up to a log cabin. It was lit from within by flickering firelight. Nenet pulled her overcoat closed and jumped down. Auvert did the same, grabbing his satchel. After they had alit, the horses pulled the sleigh away, toward a small barn that he could barely make out in the darkness. Nenet ran to the door and opened it wide, gesturing him to hurry inside.

Inside the cabin it was warm, thanks to a large stone fireplace with several logs glowing over a bed of hot embers. She hung her overcoat on a peg by the door and went to add fresh logs to it. Auvert looked around as he took off his parka and boots.

The cabin had only one room. One corner had a table and two chairs; in another, there was a counter and cupboards for preparing food. There was a small door in the opposite wall, presumably leading to the barn and outdoor toilet facilities. In front of the fire, there was a comfortable looking couch and a large sheepskin rug. Auvert didn't see evidence of a bed. He picked up the satchel and put it on the table. From within he pulled a large bottle and two fluted wine glasses.

Nenet walked up behind him and reached for the bottle. She nodded appreciatively, Krug 76, a good if not a great year, and virtually unobtainable in this part of the Soviet Union. Auvert took the bottle back and opened it deftly, filled the glasses and handed the nearest to her.

She saluted him with the glass and a smile, "I thought that you gave up drinking for Lent?"

"This isn't drinking, this is dining." From inside the bag he produced a loaf of crusty bread, a can of pâté and a brick of cheese. "We'll have to wait while this thaws a bit. Shall we pass the time by the fire?"

She answered by turning and strolling over to the couch. Sipping her champagne, she loosened the closures on her pants. Auvert sipped from his glass as she set hers on the floor, kicked off her boots and peeled the breeches down and off. She stood naked, illuminated by the fire, drinking her wine while Auvert removed his clothes by the table. Picking up the bottle he crossed to where she stood and refilled her glass before charging his own. They stood there, almost touching, and intertwined their arms to drink deeply again.

Auvert put the bottle down behind the couch where it wouldn't get knocked over accidentally. When he turned back, Nenet was laying on the rug, feet toward the fire, the light from the flames dancing on her fur. She was on her side, resting her head on her arm, one leg cocked in front of the other. Her silky tail swayed to and fro slowly behind her. Auvert took a moment to admire her before joining her on the rug.

They lay face-to-face just looking at each other for now, letting the fire warm their naked bodies. Nenet took another sip of her champagne, stretched languidly, closed her eyes, and started snoring.

Auvert reached over and removed the wineglass from her paw before it could spill and stain the rug. The potion he had coated its insides with had worked faster than he thought it would, damn. He stood and went to gather his clothes.

He decided to leave her the cheese, bread and p't'; the medical technician that had briefed him had mentioned that she would be hungry when she woke up in about twelve hours. Auvert added enough hardwood to the fire to keep the small cabin from freezing for a day. He looked down on her sleeping form, the perfect breasts, the downy fur on her belly, a well-turned calf. He glanced at his watch. He squatted beside her, bent down and placed a light kiss on the corner of her mouth before flipping the unoccupied rug over to cover her.

Auvert sighed. "The things I don't do for my country."

* * * * * * * *

16 January, 1987

There was a flight scheduled to depart Murmansk for Moscow at six o'clock that morning. It was never full this time of year and it was not unusual for travellers to show up and purchase tickets just before takeoff. Since it was an internal flight, pre-boarding security was minimal.

This morning there were three last minute passengers, a fox and a pair of lemurs. The lemurs were a couple, the female large in the belly. She had to sign a waiver absolving Aeroflot of responsibility should flying create any complications. The fox arrived separately. As a matter of routine their papers were copied for the files, everybody's papers were copied for the files. When the KGB came later that day, they checked the files first, before even questioning the staff.

The Aeroflot ticket manager had only arrived at eight a.m., two hours after the flight left. Because of that, he was allowed to stay when the KGB took the rest of the morning staff away for further questioning. He immediately called Moscow for replacements, advising that he may need them for a few weeks. His estimate was not far off.