Meetin Ibrahim…an Mai Destinee

Mom Says:

When Agent Octavian reached the baggage carousel, he looked around for the tall bearded man whose picture he had been shown back in London. “You’ll like Ibrahim,” Jimbond had told him. “He knows how to laugh and how to get your, er, tail out of a mess in a crisis.” M had been more reserved, naturally: “Don’t worry, Eight. Ibrahim has been taking care of our Mysiz agents for more than two decades. You’ll be safe with him.”

Octavian thought of his mother and her fierceness, and purred quietly. He licked a paw and washed his face, to avoid being hypnotized by the fascinating carousel. He wanted to jump onto it and investigate, but Jimbond, who had worked with cats before, had explicitly warned him against it. “You’ll find no one else doing it, Eight. Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

The carousel hummed alluringly. Octavian licked his legs and was starting on his stomach when a deep, musical voice asked, “Excuse me, Monsieur. You would not happen to be Monsieur Octavvyon Smeeth?”

Octavian sat up immediately, with his tail curled politely in front of his paws. “An yu ar, moosyer?”

“I am Ibrahim. I beleev you hav been told to expect me.”

“May-we,” said Octavian (with a rather decent accent, actually). “Havay-vu la proof?”

The big man towering over him laughed. “Mais oui. Le Ferrari de mon ami est détruit.”

“Ah. Ay kee ay tonami?”

“Mon ami s’apelle Jacques Sept.”

“Is gud to meet yu, Ibrahim. Kin yu halp me get mai sootcays?”

“But of cors. How shall I recognize eet?”

“Is eezee. Is small, in comparisn to the othrz. Also, the handl gots a wrap-thin that look lik tygr stryps. Mai mo—I meen, mon amie gayv it to me.”

The big man reached out an incredibly long arm and retrieved Octavian’s luggage in his overlarge paw, er, hand. Octavian followed him outside and they climbed into an old, beat-up Citroen. “Allons-y,” he said. “Let’s go!”