Fyndin a Shryn Wiftout Yoozin GPS

Musashi Sez:

Aftr Alek got the car from the gy wift the funnee aksent, we drov around fer a whyl, to mayk shur that noboddee follr us. They didn’t. We left Malaga an “wendid our wae” into the contree-syd, until I wuz fallin asleep on the front seet. Yah, it wuz all green an nys, but ther NO mousseez, ther NO layzr poyntrz, ther NO fishiz (not toonr, not eevn shrmp, if yu kin imajin!). I meen, whut’s the point of beein awayk if ther not goin to be egsytin stuff to looks at? (Or, possibul, to eetz).

Aftr a whyl, Alek patted me on hed to wayk me up an aksd, “So Eight, what do you make of this ‘Pyg’? M gave me her take, and Ibrahim his. But what do you think?”

I stretchd an yawnd hyoojlee. Then I sed, “Gatto is the reel thin, a whatchucallit, a vederin of the Gaym. Huh. An that Perro is not fer us to mess wift. He Gatto’s buddee, lik them buddee mooveez wher evrboddee is sakrifysin hisself fer evrboddee els. Yu noe.”

Alek sed, “You think?”

I sed, “Wud I sez it if I not thingks it?”

Aftr a whyl he sed, “Huh. I suppose you’re right.”

An I sed, “OK! But, I not totlee unnerstan the derekshuns Gatto givd Zaina. Wher we goin?”

Alek sed, “I’ve read a lot about Andalucia, the southern part of Spain. But I had never heard that the great medieval heresies had arisen here. Most of them happened in Italy, in southern France, places like that. You can find ruins from the time of the Cathars, but… Eight? Wake up! As I was saying, this shrine is the first I’ve heard of from this particular… er, nontraditional dogmatic belief…er…occurring in Spain.”

I yawnd agen. “Yu not ansr mai qwestshun.”

He sigd lik he wuz egsadjeraytin. “Fine! We arrrr going to El Santuario de Nuestra Señora del Gatto del Cielo!”

Now, of cors, I not hav a cloo whut he sayin, but it not mattr. He is hoomin peeple; I is kittee peeple. So I sez, “Well, of cors. Yu shud’v sed so befor.”

Mom Says:

Clearly, Octavian is learning a great deal about how to communicate with humans. We didn’t say that it would be positive or constructive communication. But he’s got the method right, at least…

Doin Plan B

Mom Says:

Even the short flight between Marrakech and Malaga made Agent Octavian’s ears unhappy ears, so when he and Alek landed in Spain, Octavian was seriously cranky.

Fortunately, Alek had understood from early on—back when they checked into the hotel in Lichtenstein—that Octavian was likely to be a major player on the world espionage stage, and that he, as Octavian’s “thumbs” (as his role was known in Mysiz), would probably only rise in the ranks inasmuch as he aided Octavian in his missions. Also, it was hard not to have a soft spot for the big black kittee, with his (generally) sweet disposition and his (mostly) innocent way of looking at the world.

So Alek was patient.

Which was, Alek reflected, a very good thing, given that dealing with a young cat with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder was only one level better than dealing with a squirrel with a caffeine addiction. Okay, maybe two levels. Three, at most.

It certainly required skills in diplomacy that he wasn’t sure he had (otherwise he might have gone into a less covert type of civil service). They managed deplaning and customs with no trouble, but as they waited at the baggage carousel, Octavian was scratching his ears and looking like he might bolt at any moment. Alek gave him a tiny piece of chewing gum to ease the pain in his ears, but it didn’t last long (“It not tayst gud. Don’t yu got som that got toona flayvr?”). He folded the tinfoil into a crane and teased Octavian with it for a while, but then their luggage came and Octavian’s lashing tail signaled that he was struggling catfully in order not to leap! on the carousel. Piling their bags on a cart and scooping Octavian up and setting him on top, Alek trundled them out to the front of the airport, scanning the ranks of cabs and other cars for the one sent by Mysiz.

Finally, a small silver sedan pulled up in front of them, and a young man in a tweed slouch cap popped the back trunk open and jumped out. “’allo! Eer y’go, guv! All set to go. Mind the ‘fifth gear,’ as it does somethin’ wikkid in the naytchur of flare-back! Alright?”

Mai Ferst Phon Call to Meee!

Musashi Sez:

Ibrahim’s wyf, Zaina, mai Moroccn fren, led me to the phon an verree kindlee held it up to mai eer fer me.

“Allo?” I sed in mai bestest French. This meen “hullo.”

“Allo, Octavian. Es Gatto. I am glad dat yu ar down frrom the treee dat yu werr up. Is that the Eenglish?”

“Yah, that’s gud Inglish. How ar you, Gatto? I’m glad yu manijd to get away from them Rushn soljers. Is Perro OK?”

“Ah, si, Perro es bueno. Sabaka also bueno. Wee arrr in Malaga, in Espanya. Sabaka, well, he ees dog, no? An dogs arrr, how yu say, ankshyus peeples, yu noe? So we—Perro an I—arrr theengking that yu might want to, perhaps, com to Malaga and talk to heem agayn. What yu theengk?”

“O mai,” sez I. “Hmmm. That migt be hard. But…Yu sez he migt has infermayshun I kin yooz to solv this big crysis thin?”

“Si, si! Perro say thees may go up to highest seerkulz of goovernemant! Eez verrrree crrrooshal, he theengks. I hav not noen Perro to ges rrrong on such theengs evvrrr.”

I sigd dramatiklee. “Wull, in that cays, if yu thingks it wull halp…”

“Octavyon, I am theenking thees may be, rrrr, qwyt beeeg.”

“OK, Gatto. In that cays, I chanj mai planz. I mayk stop in Malaga befor goin hom. Wher I find yu?”

“Has yu got pensil?”

“Huh,” sez me, lookin around. “Pensil, yah, but thumz no. Kin yu tells the address to mai frend heer? She writ if fer me.”

An that is how we caym to shift to Plan, um, B.

Diffikult Ordrz

Mom Sez:

Agent Octavian spent the next few days studying maps of Spain, Europe, and the World with Ibrahim and Alek. And although he found it hard to concentrate for more than a half-hour at a time, still, eventually he did manage to absorb the core information that seemed to be most important to them and to M. They sat on the floor to make it easier for Octavian, and Alek patiently repeated M’s briefing several times, so that even though the spy kittee kept leaping! up and running off, or sometimes falling asleep on the maps, in the end he could recite their tasks from memory.

“Have you got it now, Eight?” asked Alek.

“Shur,” said Octavian. “We flyz to Spayn an yu dryvs from Malaga to Grrnada, wher we goin to mayk contact wift the ol Rushn spy whu liv ther now. His naym Ivan. He left spyin fer Rusha aftr the chilly war endid. He still keep in tutch wift his old buddeez an he migt noe whut’s goin on. We needz haffa bottul of wodka an I has to promis, promis, promis to be a reellee gud kittee an not do aneethin to jepperdyz the mishun. Huh. As if I wud.”

Alek nodded (again) and said consolingly (again), “Yes, Eight, I know, but this mission is highly sensitive. If anything, even the slightest thing, should go wrong—“

“Yah, I noe. Fayt of sivilyzd werld, hangin in the balans. I got it.”

“And then, after we contact Ivan?” prompted Alek (again).

In another room, the phone rang.

Octavian said, “We keeps in clos contak wift M in Londin.”

Ibrahim’s wife came into the room. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” Ibrahim began to rise. “No, it is not for you, but for Monsieur Octavvyon…”