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The End is Where We Start From

A tale from the Agent's lounge

As I was saying the last time we talked, hardly anyone, myself excluded, ever grows up intending to be an espionage agent, intelligence analyst or assassin. My case is the exception because my parents were KGB sleeper agents who slipped into America in the early Fifties. They raised me to believe in Lenin, Marx, the Soviet Union and Mother Russia, in that order. Their intent was that I would go to university, get a job with the CIA or State Department and, once I was well established in Washington, start reporting back to Moscow through them. Everything they taught me in my early days revolved around that plan.

Espionage was sort of a family business for us but, as I said, we were the exception.

At F.O.X. they recruited talent by invitation only ... mostly. There was this one Cheetah named Geno, a real firecracker of a gal, who sort of forced her way into the Academy after a short affair with one of our other less conventional agents. Remind me to tell you her story some day.

Where was I? Oh, yes, recruitment. Last time I told you about the courier run that brought Silver to F.O.X.'s attention, but a single act of bravery and resourcefulness was not enough to get into the Academy even in those days. He still had to prove himself to be capable of killing in cold blood.

I had heard bits of the story a couple of times but the first time I heard the complete version was when one of the newer agents, a tall Arctic fox named Kyroo Echos ... wait, I'll write that down for you. Yes it has two "O"s. No, I don't know why. I never thought to ask.

Anyway, Silver is always acting gruff around Echos, like he's about to kill him, but he really likes the kid, I think. This one night Echos downed a couple of Red Deaths and gets up the balls to ask Silver if he could buy him a beer. Silver turns his death stare on the kid for a few seconds then says "Sure, I'll take a beer." Echos immediately raises a paw to me and points at the boss.

"Sorry, Silver." I tell him. "We're all out of the Czech Pilsner you like."

"What have you got on tap?" He asks.

"The usual, Rickard's Red, Creemore Springs, Keith's, and a new one I think that you'll like - Barking Squirrel. It's from a brewery in Hamilton. It won the world prize for dark lagers a few years back."

"Barking Squirrel?" He chuckled. "Reminds me of Putin when he was working out of East Germany."

"I heard that you were working out of the office in West Germany and had a run in with him." Echos injected. "What was that like?"

"Like a couple of guys both trying to get their asses out of a bad situation. It wasn't a deliberate meeting. He wasn't after me and I wasn't after him. Mind you, if I had known then that he would be where he is now I might have stuck around a little longer and popped him. But hindsight is 20-20 so they say."

"Things were hairier back then I guess." Echos pondered.

"Yeah, we were all expecting the balloon to go up any day. Either the Soviets would hold an exercise and suddenly turn left to invade Western Europe or somebody would fuck up and the whole world would go up in a big fiery mushroom cloud. Now we get to go to our extinction because of climate change, pollution and antibiotic resistant superbugs." The old fox sighed. "This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper."

"T.S Elliot, The Hollow Men." Echos chimed in.

Silver looked impressed with the lad for once. "That's right. You familiar with Elliot's work?"

Echos shrugged. "We studied him in school. I found him a little hard to relate to."

"Try reading him again now that you have some experience under your belt." Silver advised, cocking his paw like he was firing a gun to emphasize what kind of experience he was referring to. "Although he never saw battle himself he was very much in tune with the suffering of his colleagues who returned from the First World War." Silver froze in mid sip and his eyes went glassy, as if ghosts from his past had walked into the room. But he shook it off, drained half of his beer and smiled at Echos. "You might say that Elliot is why I'm with F.O.X. now." Silver concluded.

"Oh?" Echos' eyebrows went up with curiosity. "How so?"

Silver gazed into the distance again. "It was the start of my career, and the end of someone else's ..."

* * * * *

As was his habit of a Friday afternoon Colonel Boxworthy, a gruff old boxer, was taking a drink in the tavern halfway between the European Headquarters and his residence. Boxworthy was the Canadian Military Intelligence Liaison Officer for Europe, and the MILO-E was a prestigious job. Only the most experienced and talented career intelligence officers could hope to attain it. A full Colonel's position, it was often given as a retirement posting to reward a long career of dedicated service or as a stepping stone to the general officer ranks. Boxworthy was a year short of mandatory retirement and in no danger of being promoted. He viewed his current position as his just rewards, and one that was long overdue. It was a fitting end to a long career in Military Intelligence. Still, he resented never having been selected for higher command.

As MILO-E Boxworthy had contact with every allied military intelligence service that operated in Europe and quite a few of civilian agencies also, his own nation's in particular. As such he knew everyone in the game and what they were up to. He was also privy to a good deal of information that never made it into the official reports, a privilege based on trust built up over the decades as Boxworthy had specialized in European operations since entering the field of intelligence.

It was all very valuable information ... to the right buyer. Of course Counter-Intelligence was always on the look-out for unauthorized foreign contact or unexplained travel, but Boxworthy did not need to stoop to such subterfuge. As a senior military official with the European Headquarters he had frequent contact with a number of the opposition players, as they tended to be invited to the same parties hosted by third-world officials to commemorate their liberation form one Empire or another. In fact, it was quite impossible to avoid contact with his colleagues from the other side of the Iron Curtain. So when the CI boys asked he could quite honestly reply that he did indeed have foreign contacts, it was after all, part of the job.

That made it all the easier to arrange the transfer of information for cash - good old untraceable cash, mostly in Swiss Francs. Cash that Boxworthy deposited with bankers that attended the same parties looking for clients among the newly rich and unaligned oil nations. There it would stay, gathering interest until his retirement when he would no longer be under CI surveillance. Until then Boxworthy spent his salary freely, only occasionally augmenting it with a bit of the cash the Soviets and their surrogates supplied him with. It was a safe scam, in his opinion, as long as he did not get greedy or drastically alter his lifestyle. With only a year to go he was sure that he could tough it out.

Out of habit Boxworthy had chosen a seat where he could study all newcomers to the tavern in the mirror behind the bar. As he was ordering his second drink a young fellow entered and stood looking around. He was a tall, broad shouldered fox and he carried himself like a soldier. His only remarkable features were a stock of silver hair, unusual on one so young, and a vertical scar through his left eyebrow. He looked vaguely familiar to Boxworthy.

The young fox spotted the boxer seated by the bar and headed towards him. As he drew nearer the Colonel recognized him as one of the junior staff in the Headquarters Intelligence Section, one of the regular army types that provided armed escort and security when required. They guarded shipments of sensitive material that were being transferred between headquarters. They also ran messages and did other odd jobs, like tracking down the essential staff when there was an emergency. Headquarters would know that this was Boxworthy's regular spot and could have sent the soldier to fetch him. He wondered what the current emergency was. Perhaps the balloon has finally gone up and we're at war, he thought idly.

"Colonel Boxworthy, sir,"

"Yes. Sergeant Auvert, isn't it?"

"Correct sir." The younger man sat down on the bar stool beside Boxworthy and rested both paws on the bar.

"Sorry to hear about your partner."

The fox shrugged in response. "He'll live." The fact that the shepherd would be crippled for life was left unsaid.

Two months prior they had been on a courier run. They had a particularly large and sensitive shipment to deliver. They had been ambushed at a planned rest stop. It was an unusual but not unheard of occurrence - that's why they had armed escorts - although nothing like this had happened in years.

Outnumbered and surprised, they should have been killed and the material lost, but something had twigged Auvert's suspicions, and he had been particularly alert. He had positioned himself behind cover with a clear field of fire while his partner relieved himself. The attack came just as his partner was returning from the washrooms, a point where tensions would be eased and everyone would be scrambling to get back in the car. Five of the opposition in two cars boxed them in and opened up while his partner was distracted.

When the smoke cleared four attackers dead by Auvert's paw and his partner was grievously wounded. Auvert had prevented the loss of the shipment by destroying it, along with the Soviet agent who had tried to snatch it from his grasp. That had earned Auvert a commendation - after Counter-Intelligence had finished interrogating him and determined that he was not actually in on the attempt.

Boxworthy could have saved them the time; he knew that the Sergeant was not in on it. He knew because he was the one who had sold the information as to the shipment's contents and the courier route to the Soviets, and for a particularly large amount of money. Money he would never see now because this fox had decided to play the hero.

The young soldier waved the approaching bartender away and starred at the mirror behind the bar. Boxworthy glanced there and realized that the young fellow was staring at him. He found his eyes locked on the reflected blue-grey orbs. A big dog, much bigger around the waist lately he had to admit, he was used to being stared at by the smaller Europeans. But Auvert's gaze made him distinctly uncomfortable.

"Did you, ah, have a message for me, Sergeant?"

"No, Colonel. I came to ask your advice."

"Oh, about what?"

"I've been offered a job with an agency that I've never heard of before. They seem legit but it's all terribly hush-hush." Using the ring of moisture left on the bar from Boxworthy's glass Auvert traced a set of initials. After letting Boxworthy see them he wiped the bar clean with a cocktail napkin. "I figured with all your experience you would know something about them and that you'd be able to advise me."

Boxworthy had recognized the initials, and his palms had begun to sweat as soon as he did. It was a condition that had kept him from transferring to the very same agency many years before - they did not take people with such nervous reactions or 'tells'. They had claimed it was for medical reasons but Boxworthy knew better - the stuck up bastards just didn't appreciate his talents and his ability to overcome such a trivial shortfall.

"They primarily carry out unaccredited special operations and executions." The Colonel informed the Sergeant. "Taking out enemy agents, revenge killings and the resolution of ... how should I put it ... 'problem cases'; dealing with traitors in such a way to avoid undue publicity."

"Yes. That's what I figured." The soldier continued to stare at his superior officer in the mirror.

Boxworthy cleared his throat before continuing. "I hear that they only take people who have already killed in cold blood. Snipers, Special Forces, Reconnaissance types."

"I was in the Special Forces." The sergeant said casually. "I specialized in reconnaissance missions." The pads on Boxworthy's paws were very moist now. "But I never killed anyone, not in cold blood that is. Not yet."

For the first time the fox turned to face the Colonel, and Boxworthy felt the full undiluted weight of that cold, unflinching stare. It pierced his very soul and he realized that the Sergeant knew who had betrayed them. Yet the young fox's expression held no hate, no anger, not even contempt. His expression was a dead as the Colonel feared he would soon be, and that was the most frightening thing of all.

But Boxworthy had not risen to his current position or survived playing the double agent by being weak, stupid, or unprepared.

Swallowing hard he wiped his palms on his trouser legs and then raised them to cross his arms over his chest. While the right paw fiddled with his lapel pin the left, his dominant paw, slipped under his jacket on the same side as where Auvert was sitting.

"Let's cut to the chase, shall we?" Boxworthy scowled. "You've come to collect me ... quietly. Even if you have a gun under that sports coat you won't use it in here because the government can't afford the bad publicity, not with all the recent embarrassments." He tapped the bar where the initials had been. "Did the boys at headquarters tell you that you could earn a transfer by bringing me in without a fuss? If they did they lied. I know that Academy bunch, and they won't take you until you prove you've got some intelligence skills and the balls to take a life without batting an eye. I've done it, I was already an Intelligence Officer when I did it, and they still wouldn't take me, so what hope does a rookie like you have?"

"Reconnaissance work is very much like intelligence." Auvert said quietly. "From a collection point of view. And I will complete this mission, whether it earns me a transfer or not."

"Don't count your chickens before they've hatched." Boxworthy slipped his .25 calibre automatic from its armpit holster and poked Auvert in the ribs with it. "Now tell me quick, how many are waiting outside?"

The Sergeant's eyes had not broken contact, not to blink, not to fidget, not even to dart from one of Boxworthy's eyes to the other as someone planning a bold move might do unconsciously. The still, silent stare provided a portal through which to read the young fox's soul. "Honestly?" Auvert said. "None."

The Colonel was astounded to find that he believed him, but those eyes did not, could not lie. The fool must have come alone. With a good head start Boxworthy could collect the cash he had yet to deposit and be over the border into neutral Switzerland before they could mount a proper search.

"Alright then." He told the Sergeant as he tightened his grip on the pistol to compensate for the slippery pads of his paws. "I'm going to leave this bar but I'm going to keep my gun on you the whole way. I don't want to kill you, but you won't be my first and I will if you follow me. After I've gone you can do what you want. Got it?" He punctuated his words with a cruel jab and was secretly happy to see the younger man wince.

"Got it. I won't follow. But you won't get far."

"We'll see Auvert, we'll see."

With that Boxworthy stood up, loudly expressing regrets that he could not linger. He backed away to the door as he waved with his right paw and called his goodbyes; his left was buried deep in the pocket of his suit jacket. When he reached the door he opened it without turning around and backed through it, still calling and waving. An instant later he was gone.

Auvert had watched the show in the bar mirror. The old dog was good, he had to admit, but the next few minutes would tell how good. Through the window he saw the Colonel's car slide by with its lights off. On his way to get his loose cash no doubt, Auvert told himself.

The fox raised a hand and indicated a bottle of Scotch on the shelf behind the bar. "Mit Wasser, kine Eis, bitte." He instructed the bartender.

As he sipped his drink a large golden fox in a tan suit rose from the booth where he had been drinking tea and reading from a slim volume. The muscular fellow came up and took the barstool that the Colonel had recently abandoned.

"Debrief me." He commanded.

"Colonel Boxworthy declined the opportunity to come peacefully." Auvert began, never looking away from the mirror. "As instructed I did not attempt to overpower him in public."

"So where does that leave us?"

"His psychological profile suggested he would try to run or go down in a blaze of glory. But if he ran he would have to move fast and there is no public transport near here, thus the need to take his car. So I applied a topical drug to his steering wheel before coming inside. The sweat on his palms should cover up the slight dampness. It will also aid in absorption." Auvert glanced at his watch. "By now his heart will be racing. In few minutes, long before he can get to medical aid, it should go into arrest. Hopefully he won't hit anyone when he dies."

The Sergeant pulled a small transistor radio tuned to the police band from the pocket of sports coat and turned it on. He slipped the earpiece in and took another sip of his drink.

The blond fox nodded slowly before speaking again. "Impressive. What gave you the idea?"

"His file from when he applied to the Academy mentioned that he suffered from Palmar Hyperhidrosis linked to heart disease - Tachycardia, or rapid heart rate to be exact - exacerbated by anxiety or stress. His weight and eating habits since then have not helped the condition I'm sure. If he had been a smoker he would be dead long before this, because Nicotine causes a short-term increase in blood pressure, heart rate, and the flow of blood from the heart. It also causes the arteries to narrow, further restricting the oxygen intake. Ingest enough and it can cause a heart attack in folk with Tachycardia. Other substances have similar effects, like certain non-prescription Testosterone creams used by body builders to reduce fat and increase lean muscle mass." He glanced at the bulky golden fox and raised an eyebrow inquisitively, but got no response.

"Since he wasn't likely to take up smoking or weightlifting this late in the game I had to find another way to get his heart racing. Fortunately they sell liquid Nicotine here for making organic insecticide and Testosterone cream I got from an oversized Rottweiler at the local gym. When mixed together they have no apparent odour. The solution sticks to leather steering wheel covers quite well also. Hang on a second." He held his paw to his ear as he listened to the radio intently. "A car matching his has just crashed into a light post eight kilometres from here. The driver is unresponsive and they have called for an ambulance."

"I'm impressed. Most applicants would have waited in the alley by his car for him to leave, shot him and tried to make it look like a robbery; a risky and very public option with a high chance of failure given the Colonel's survival instincts. Tell me, did you have a backup plan in case he wore gloves or stole another car?"

"He keeps his cash and fake passports behind a loose brick in an alley outside a bakery in the red light district across town. It's an old dead drop from the early cold war days that some of his contacts used to pass material to us back before he got bent. I corroded the gas line in the wall on the other side with acidic putty until it developed a leak. That leak has put a large amount of gas into the empty space between the outer and inner walls, the space where his cash is stashed. I also lined the brick and the hole it fits in with red phosphorus and ground glass. When he wiggles the brick out it will be like striking a match. The resulting explosion and fire would eliminate the evidence. The shop will be closed at this hour, the bakers don't show up until after midnight and Boxworthy wouldn't approach if anyone else was around so there would be minimal collateral damage. Just an unfortunate foreigner, maybe taking a shortcut to one of the nearby brothels, in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Auvert sipped his drink while the golden fox assessed what he had been told. The Sergeant was the first to speak. "The cop on the scene has found the victim's wallet ... it's Boxworthy. The ambulance crew has declared him dead at the scene."

"Of a heart attack?"

"Apparently so."

The larger fox shook his head sadly. "And so the illustrious career of Colonel Arnold Boxworthy comes to an end after almost forty years of mostly loyal service." Then he looked down at the book in his paws and smiled. "But appropriately enough, it marks a new beginning."

The Sergeant thought about what the other fox had said. They had told him that if he was accepted to the agency he would have to quit the army first; they did not take secondments and there was no going back later. The records of his current existence would be quietly closed off and he would be given a new identity, the first of several perhaps. A new beginning indeed, he mused, but hardly appropriate to the situation. He said as much to his new employer.

The big fox flipped through the thin book. "Oh, it was just something I was reading while I waited. Here it is." He held the book out with his thumb on the line he wanted.

His interest piqued, Auvert took the book, carefully keeping the indicated place. The title of the slim volume was 'Four Quartets' and the author was T.S. Elliot. Auvert had heard of the fellow, even though he did not read poetry himself. The poem that the blond man had been reading was entitled 'Little Gidding', which meant nothing to Auvert. The passage that the big man had marked read "And to make an end is to make a beginning."

"Hummpf." Auvert grunted. Appropriate enough, he supposed. He read a little farther. This Elliot fellow seemed to know a thing or two about death and the people left behind to deal with it. He glanced at the cover page, it had been published in London in September Nineteen forty-two. The author likely lived through the Blitz. "Do you mind if I borrow this?"

"No, I don't, but please be careful with it, it's a first edition."

"Of course. How will I get it back to you?"

The big blond man stood up and patted the former Sergeant on the shoulder. "Bring it to the Academy when your training starts."

"When will that be?"

"As soon as we wrap up a few loose ends regarding Colonel Boxworthy's, ah, indiscretions. We have to do damage assessments, put out the word quietly indicating he was passing false information as a triple agent, all sorts of things. Killing him was the easy part." The big fox got up and turned to leave. "Putting an end to him is only the beginning for the rest of us." He said as he walked away.

That reminded Auvert of something and he re-read the line the golden fox had indicated as well as the next. It read: "The end is where we start from."

"Appropriately enough." He mumbled.

* * * * *

Silver finished his beer at the same time as he finished the story.

Echos pondered his empty glass for a moment and then asked "Why didn't you just shot him if that was what F.O.X was expecting you to do?"

Because I had heard enough rumours about how they operate to know better than to fall into that trap. Imagine: a double agent is shot by the fox who he recently sold out, to avenge his crippled partner perhaps. The leak is plugged and the press focus on the shooter rather than the embarrassing security breach. Maybe someone even lets it slip that it was Boxworthy was really a triple agent, fooling the Soviets into stealing worthless information - of course the poor Sergeant could not know this so the Court Martial goes easy on him. He's out after a couple of years of easy time - providing he does not tell any crazy stories about doing it at the orders of some mysterious spy agency that there is no official record of."

"They would have done that to you?" Echos asked, shocked sober.

Silver shrugged and got up to leave. "I don't know, but I would have done it to me." He turned that blank stare that you could see hell though back full force on the young Arctic fox. "Remember that the next time I send you out on a seemingly simple mission." And with that he left.

Echos ordered another Red Death but just toyed with it as he stared at the back of the bar.

"You can read people pretty good Gray." He says as I pass by putting away glasses. "Do you think that Silver would really set a guy up like that?

"Of course not. That's to Machiavellian." I said, and saw Echos relax slightly before I added "He'd be much more subtle."

Echos left without finishing his last drink. I don't know if I scared him or not, but the next time I saw him he was in the Academy library, reading up on every possible ailment and what common substances could make them turn fatal - just in case.