Two Cats in the Fountain

Mom Says:

Octavian’s ears were temporarily underwater, but had anyone been standing close enough—a Russian spy, say, or a monk dedicated to Our Lady of Ceiling Cat, or even operatives of Dr. Woof, for example—they might have heard the Persian kittee giggle, jingle her collar tags, and say, “O, whut ze hell!” just before she leaped into the fountain with an almighty SPLASH!

Mor Egzotic Accordion Myoozik

Mom Says:

Ah, beautiful Paris on a cold, misty February evening! Taxi horns punctuate the melodramatic accordion music and warn pedestrians—civilians as well as spies—to leap out of the way as they cross the ancient streets.

Ah, l’Arc de Triomphe, crown of Napoleonic victories, pathway of conquering armies, and also a great, big white marble thing. Cars circle round it, French people smoke under it, and visitors in Paris—the four legged as well as the two legged—meet under it for rendez-vous’s. After all, unlike most things a stranger can get directions to, you really can’t miss it.

Ah, espionage in late winter, with spies huddled into their coats—the coat of black fur, for example, as well as the coat of khaki trench material—passing messages in exotic codes (and well wishes from the gang back home) under the guise of sharing a smoke to warm against the cold…

Musashi Sez:

Huh. All that is well an gud, but yu wudn’t beleev the funnee looks we gotsd, me an mai contakt, “H,” when we wuz passin the cigaret bak an forth between us. Fer one thin, H is a whol lot tallrer than me, so he hads to sqwat down. Fer another, I has nevr smokt befor (bein a helthee kittee, as a rool), so I was cogfin a bit. Verree embarassin fer a spy.

But the arch wuz awful pertee. An that cordion myoozik grows on yu aftr a whil.

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…”