Spies Are Like Daffodils
A Spontoon Island story
© 2023 by Walter Reimer

Thumbnail art by  RockBaker


Two.

Hooker heard a staccato knock on his office door and braced himself. Before the caller got to the last two notes in the immortal Shave and a Haircut the rabbit buck shouted, “Get in here!” and glowered as the door opened and the agent came in.

The first thing everyone noted about Bernie Phlute was that he appeared to be two very thin storks, with one perched on the other’s shoulders. Phlute was well over six feet tall and some Minkerton’s operatives throughout the years had wagered on whether the bird could hide behind a telephone pole without anyone noticing any part of him.

With several holding the opinion that not being able to see him wasn’t a bad thing.

“Sit down, Agent Phlute,” Hooker said.

“Sure thing, Chief,” and Phlute pulled up a chair, went to sit down, and his tailfeathers brushed against the edge of the chair as he fell to the floor. He got up, tried again and succeeded. “What’s going on, Chief?”

The rabbit’s ears twitched as his tic seemed to get worse, and he opened the folder. “Nunevya Bizwacz.”

“Oh? Well, if it’s not my concern – “ Phlute started to stand up.

“Sit. Down.”

Phlute complied, again misjudging the distance, and almost hitting the floor again before catching himself.

“This woman,” and Hooker displayed a photograph, “is named Nunevya Bizwacz. She’s part of the staff of the Tsarist Embassy in Tilikum.” The rabbit paused to make certain that the stork comprehended what he was saying before he added, “She is asking for someone to help her escape from the Tsarists and bring her to America.” He passed the photo to Phlute.

“Hmm, bit furry for my taste,” the stork said. He moved the picture aside and asked, “Should we be talking about this out in the open, Chief?”

“We’re in my office – “

“Yeah, yeah, I know that, but this is hush-hush stuff. There’s gotta be a way to make things more secure.” Phlute put a feathered paw to his chin and suddenly snapped his fingers. “Got it! We set up two soundproof domes, one over you and one over me, so nobody else can hear us.”

There was a bottle of Old Panther whisky in his desk drawer, and Hooker could hear it calling to him. “We haven’t got time for that,” the rabbit said. “You’re on the next train north to Tilikum. Make sure to have your passport with you. Everything you need is in this,” and the buck slid the envelope across the desk to the stork.

Who caught it on the second attempt.

“Okay, Chief, yessiree, I’m on the job! I’ll get her back here dead or alive!”

“Alive,” Hooker said, the tic getting bad enough to make his left ear move. “If she’s dead, you’ve failed.”

“Oh, right, gotcha. Well, I’m off!” Phlute got to his feet, the contents of the papers falling out of the envelope. He stooped, gathered up the papers, stuffed them haphazardly into the envelope and opened the door while standing too close to it. He barely dodged aside before it caught him in the beak.

He gave Hooker a pleased look as he left the office. “Missed it by this much!” he said, holding two fingers a small distance apart to illustrate his close escape.

The door closed behind him, and the rabbit’s ears cocked at the sound of a startled yelp, a metallic sound, and a splash. Probably a janitor’s bucket.

And the janitor.

Carl Hooker looked at his clock, then out the window. Judging that the sun was over the yardarm somewhere in the world, he reached for the bottle of whisky in his desk drawer.


***


Golly, Henry Patafuerte thought as he walked from the train station to the ferry terminal, after over a year the Vice-Commodore had given him another mission.

And this one looked to be easy. Meet up with a pretty minkess and escort her into the waiting arms of the Naval Syndicate? Cub’s play! What could possibly go wrong?

The route was a simple one, and he wouldn’t have to work undercover like he had in his last mission, the one where he ended up on Spontoon dressed only in his underwear. Golly, that had been an adventure! Sure, the Intelligence Service guys on Spontoon hadn’t believed him at first when he reported, but eventually they managed to verify things with the help of the base’s registered shaman.

The shaman, a short badger, had certified his report and then had walked off to the nearest bar, muttering to himself. Shamans were strange fellows.

The tod-fox was dressed in civilian clothes. No flannel, of course; there was no sense in letting anyone suspect that he was a Rain Islander or from Canada, and he carried a small suitcase that bore a couple day’s change of clothes and his toiletries. A few notes from the folder that Broome had given him were tucked into a false pocket in the case, along with a short-barreled revolver.

The ferry would take him across Seathl’s fjord to the main train depot, and from here he’d head south. He paid the fare and started toward the dock, his thoughts turning again to his last mission.

Marie Chienne-Furieuese had gone straight to the United States Embassy and hadn’t left until she had contacted her industrialist father, gotten some new clothes to replace the ones that had been lost, and had taken the first plane back to Cleveland. Henry had tried to write her, but a few weeks after her return to America (and several letters) he’d been called to the Vice-Commodore’s office and given a legal order, in writing, telling him to stop trying to contact Miss Chienne-Furieuse. Somehow, the order was legally binding even in Rain Island.

Oh well. Probably a mix-up somewhere. Goodness, she had been a looker, though.

Amarillo Bob Carstairs had been extracted from the garbage can he’d fallen in, given some clothes from a charity, and had resumed wandering. Henry had seen a report that the boar had somehow become the sultan of a small nation in the Irish East Indies by winning a card game called ‘Texas Hold-em.’ The game was now the national sport of the Sultanate of Burneye.

The Service’s Threats Section had heard rumors that the Sultanate was planning on declaring war on Oklahoma. Well, that wasn’t his problem, and he was glad that Amarillo Bob was doing okay.

“Excuse me, Ma’am!” he said, stepping to one side to let another passenger get aboard. He tipped his flat cap to the vixen as she walked past, and she smiled at him. He paused to admire her gently waving tailfur, only to be distracted by another pretty young lady walking past.

He distantly heard a whistle, but he was still gazing at the vixen, and he was starting to feel a little uncomfortable in his trousers . . .

The ferry finally pulled away from the dock far enough for Henry to reach the limits of the span of his legs (conditional, of course, on the resiliency of his hamstrings) and the tod gave a startled yelp as he fell into the chilly fjord.

A small kitten was at the rail with his mother, and as Henry surfaced he heard the boy shout, “He fallen in the wa-tah!”


***


Nunevya Bizwacz was worried, although the minkess was trying desperately not to show it.

It had been three weeks, and she’d heard nothing from the Americans or the Rain Islanders, and the waiting was starting to drive her mad. She was certain that the secret police already had their eyes on her.

Which secret police was a matter of conjecture. Vostok Island, as the Empire-in-Exile was known outside its borders, had several police departments and at least ten secret police agencies according to whispered rumors. Some of the agencies were so secret that not even their members knew about them. Even the Russian Orthodox Church had its own police, the Society for the Preservation of Orthodoxy, or OSP.

There were tales of another, clandestine, religious police agency known by its acronym IROO and nicknamed the Wolves of the Church. Some rumors held that it stood for ‘Imperial Religious Guardianship Service,’ but the letters of the Russian name didn’t match up.

She was trying to stick to her daily routine; working in the Embassy’s code room, going to and from her apartment and shopping when she needed to, but it was hard. Nunevya longed to talk to someone, anyone, but you could never be certain if a third party was listening in. Even the confessional was not a safe place, due to the aforementioned church police.

The letters that she had delivered to the two foreign embassies had clearly spelled out her bona fides, what she could offer in exchange for getting her out of the Empire’s claws, and how to get in touch with her in order to accept or reject her offer. A simple advertisement was to be placed in a local paper, one she was known to read daily, containing a coded statement.

But it was three weeks now, and she’s seen no sign that anyone had read the letters, much less responded.

Almost by rote she completed her day’s work, made sure that all of the safes were closed and securely locked, and went home, certain that she was being watched, to eat dinner and go to bed. Only to wake up from a fitful sleep, have breakfast, get cleaned up and go to the Embassy to work just as if nothing had happened.

Throughout the day she would have to work, smile and laugh with her coworkers, and show proper deference to the diplomatic staff. Occasionally no less a personage than Count Dragamareoff, the tall stallion who was the Empire’s ambassador, would call her into his office to dictate something that she would take back to her desk to encipher.

She didn’t have to worry about the stallion chasing her, or even giving her a roving eye. Dragamareoff was happily married to a very pretty wife who was about twenty years his junior, and he was just as much under scrutiny as everyone else.

So day blended into day, as she waited.

And tried not to go mad.





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