Friday, August 21, 2009
Focusin on Mai Mishun
Throughout the long flight from London, the tortuous drive from Switzerland over the mountains, into the ancient principality of Lichtenstein—
During the nerve-wracking reconnaissance meeting with Herr Schmidt, the noms in the fancy restaurant with Alek, yes, even through his naps on the TV and in the vacuum cleaner bag—
Indeed, even—especially—as he stalked the strange, slick smell in the cramping darkness of the ventilation shaft—
Agent Octavian had not for one minute forgotten his orders from M, given as he lay on her big desk, lashing his tail, eager to pounce! on her enemies.
“Now, I want you to remember, Eight, that you are not—I repeat not—to engage the enemy. No blood, d’you hear me? Not theirs and certainly not yours.”
All her t’s sounded like gunshots in the still room. Agent Octavian blinked at her, cool as a cucumber, despite all his thick, sleek, sable fur.
“If you—when you get through this mission, I have plans for you. Don’t let me down.”
“Right. Your mission is simply information gathering. Find out what is causing the problem, get proof, and get back home with your skin and your cover story intact. Get pictures if you can, names, dates—and I daresay prices—and then come back home. Understood?”
“Undrrrstud.” Oh dear. He hoped she would ignore his purring. He’d never heard anyone actually say “daresay” in real life.
He found it hard to believe, crouching there in the bank’s sub-basement in Vaduz, that all that had been only two days before. But now, here he was within sight of his target….
This yer literaree term fer the dae: It’s calld “suspens.” Is verree popular wift peeples whu writ spy novuls.
Yu lik it?