Geg tossed his cellphone on the seat. “Calliope and the Ami agent have found nothing. The crates contained sand.”
Stag glanced at his watch. “It’s almost 1300. I’ll call in. Maybe my guys have some news.”
Their pursuit of the fat man and his calliope had taken them first to Amqui, where they discovered he had already left, enroute to Matane. That town lay a few kilometers ahead. Taz lay snoring in the back seat – not passed out from fright this time – just taking a nap.
Spy Central gave Stag essentially the same information Geg had received from his source, plus news of the strange ship bearing down on Gaspé.
“What do they think the ship contains?” asked Geg.
“Nothing was said about it. I gather they fear the worst. Either a nuke or a conventional bomb seeded with plutonium.”
“That was what we were afraid of, too. We received word that a nuclear device or the makings of one had been sold to parties unknown by the Russian Mafia.”
Stag thought for a moment. “If that’s the case, what connection could there be between the fat man and the terrorists? Or between the terrorists and those mystery crates?”
Geg toyed with a loose thread on his jacket. “It was thought that the various terror groups that financed the purchase don’t trust one another.” He jerked at the thread. “Paranoia is sort of an occupational disease with them.”
“So the parts and pieces of the device were split between different parties for reassembly just prior to the attack. Makes sense – in an environment of mutual distrust.”
“Right. Only now I’m not so sure. The other thing I wonder about is the location. Why Gaspé?”
“I know that one. Prevailing winds. A dirty bomb exploded there will spread crud down along the Eastern Seaboard. New Brunswick will get it too. Nova Scotia, maybe.”
“That doesn’t explain Gaspé. Why not some isolated, empty bay? There are dozens of them.”
“I don’t know for sure. But these thugs like to attack human targets. And they need to send a few infidels ahead of them to be their slaves in Paradise.”
“So what does Spy Central want us to do?”
“Find the fat man. Check out his calliope. Then head for Gaspé.”
“What can we do there, except die?”
“I don’t think they had anything in mind. Things sounded a little hectic there. You could hear the bleating of political types covering their dainty hind quarters.”
“We better stay alive, my friend. Otherwise we’ll be blamed – somehow.”
Stag slowed as they rolled past scattered houses. “I’ll turn right at the coast road. We may have to ask if anyone has seen him.”
“No we won’t,” said Geg, pointing to the left. “Look there.”
It was an eye-catching rig. The calliope itself was built into the back of a small truck. Plywood sides were cut into smooth curves and painted yellow and red to match the truck cab. Stylized music notes had been painted around a swooping sign proclaiming, “Fatty’s Calliope”.
Stag got out of the Checker and stretched. Geg shook Taz awake, then climbed out.
The hood was up on the truck. A slender man in coveralls stood to one side, watching them approach. “Howdy,” he called. “Show doesn’t start until this evening.”
Producing a totally bogus ID, Stag showed it to the man. “Inspector Jones, sir. Internal Security Branch of the Department of Prohibited Speech.”
“Yes?” The man smiled. “Have I managed to insult a special interest group, Inspector – ah, Jones? Or demonstrated a talent that made some person feel stupid and not very special?”
“The Talent Equalization portions of the Act don’t come into effect until next year,” said Stag.
“I’d forgotten. Or maybe I never knew. My name is Fatty Ogdens, Inspector.” He shook hands with both men. Geg didn’t introduce himself. Taz was behind some bushes, draining his bladder. “Interesting car you have there. Are you a collector?”
Stag glanced at the Checker. “Sort of. I wanted something sturdy.” He peered under the hood of Ogdens’ truck. “What year is your rig?”
“1956 Studebaker, but the drive train is all late model, I’m afraid. I had to sacrifice authenticity for reliability.” Ogdens collected a couple of tools and closed the hood. “I assume you aren’t here to discuss my truck, but rather the calliope?”
“True.” Stag walked to the back of the truck. He could see the calliope keyboard and pipe array. The tubes didn’t resemble any kind of weapon.
Ogdens climbed up and tapped one of the pipes. “Formed brass, Inspector. No mortar tubes, no RPG-7 tubes. One of my competitors spread those stories. I thought I’d put them to rest.”
“Stories?” Stag shook his head. “We at DPS are interested in the name, Fatty. Some could take it as a disparaging comment about people with body-type challenges.”
With a tolerant smile, Ogdens nodded his understanding. “Well, no matter how the delicate slobs amongst us may take it, Fatty is my name, given to me by my mum as I lay helpless in her arms, unable to protest.” He handed over his driver’s license. It was issued by the state of Nevada and the name on it was Fatty (NMI) Ogdens.
“NMI?” Stag couldn’t recall seeing three initials before.
“No Middle Initial,” said Ogdens, without cracking a smile. “NMI.”
“Ha-ha-ha.” Stag nudged Geg. “I knew that.” His face burned red.
“Anything else, gentlemen?” Without waiting for a response, Ogdens walked around the truck and headed for a nearby café.
“I – ah, I guess not, Mr. Ogdens.”
Geg touched the garish sign. “What we have here is a steam calliope. We’ve been had.”
Agent Stag tucked his fake ID away. “I don’t think Mr. Ogdens believed I was from the DPS.”
“You’re not obnoxious enough to pull that off,” said Geg. “Your eyes don’t have that strange, wild light of real fanaticism.”
“Well – thanks. Ogdens knew we were intelligence agents. He must be in the business.”
“Do you think he’s CIA? NSA?”
“None of those,” mused Stag. “Real pros. Nevada Gaming Commission, maybe.”
Taz wandered out of the bushes. “When is the show? Can we stay for it?”
“No,” said Stag. He started for the car. “We have to get to Gaspé.”
“Why?” Taz began to pout. “I wanna see the show. What’s so important in Gaspé?”
“We have a date there,” said Geg, tugging the surly sidekick along.
“Oh, man. I hate dates! Stag always strikes out and I have to listen to all his excuses.”
Geg smiled. “Not that kind of date. A bomb is going to explode there. We have to stop it.”
“Goodie! Some excitement! What kind of bomb?”
“Probably a nuke.”
Taz crumpled.
Office of the PM
Toronto, ON
“A nuke! A nuke!” Broken sobs emanated from behind the Prime Minister’s desk. “Get me the President! Get Dubya on the phone!”
Sea Lord Joker glanced at Brigadier Doug. “The President isn’t taking your calls, sire.”
“He must! The fallout will wreak havoc on the east coast of America!”
Doug stopped pacing and slumped into a chair. “We’ve been over that and over that, sire! The Americans don’t believe the scow is carrying a nuclear warhead and even if it was, the Eastern Seaboard is mostly Democrat!”
The PM propped himself on his elbows and eyed an ant dragging a croissant crumb across the floor. “I know how he feels. A few explosions in certain Conservative quarters would make my life a lot simpler.” He made a fist. “Sometimes I just want to SMASH those idiots!” His fist fell like Thor’s hammer, catching the ant in the act of adjusting the crumb to a more comfortable position. “Aaaah!” cried the PM. Pain shot through his whole body. The ant moved off, dragging his bit of croissant.
Joker and Doug helped the PM into his chair. “Owie, owie, owie,” he sniveled, nursing his sore hand, all thoughts of nukes, Gaspé, hockey, and even his mistress forgotten.
“Don’t worry, sire,” soothed Joker. “We’ll see to it.”
“See to what?”
“Never mind. Just take care of your wound, sire.”
EMTs removed the stricken PM a few minutes later. Joker sat down at the poor man’s desk and lit a cigar. “What do we do, General? There’s no help from the Americans?”
“My sources indicate that they have nothing to send. All their tanks are in Iran, with supporting arms, of course. Most of the Air Corps is in Korea.”
“I think they call it the Air FORCE now. Have for some time.”
“You don’t mean it! Well, one can’t keep up with all the latest fads. Let’s see. The Navy is escorting oil tankers from all over the globe at the behest of Standard Oil and Exxon. Hmm. That leaves the Marines. I don’t know where they are at the moment. Not available.”
Joker nodded. “The Marines will turn up somewhere. They always do. No reservists? Not even a couple of National Guard planes?”
“Nothing. The Reserves have all been called to active service and the National Guard went off on their own hook to invade France.”
“No! How did they plan to get there?”
“Chartered a few cruise ships, I think. They landed yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” Joker was astonished. “I missed that one completely.”
“Well, it was sort of anticlimactic. French surrendered day before yesterday.”
“Right. Well, they’re a sensible people. They know the Ami will get tired and go home.”
Doug shrugged. “What do we do about this exploding scow?”
The people at the scene will have to deal with it, I’m afraid.” Joker glanced at his watch. “We need to go or we’ll be late for our tee time.”
“Sir.” An aide stepped into the room. “There’s a Russian diplomat here, sir. Says he has an appointment.”
“A Russian?” Joker flipped through the PMs calendar. “Yes, of course. Here it is. Military Attaché Lt. Colonel Sergei Zhukov.” He sat back. “Send him in. Send him in. We’ll see what he has to say, then send him on his way.”
“Military Attaché,” muttered Doug. “A spy. What do you suppose the chap wants?”
“Can’t be anything important. This Zhukov is new. Loves everything about the West. Drives an old 60s Cadillac. Bright yellow convertible.”
Doug giggled. “A pimp-mobile?”
“Just so. Now stop laughing. This may be serious.” Joker wiped the silly grin off his face as Lt. Colonel Zhukov came in.
“Sir!” exclaimed Zhukov after he stomped across the room and saluted. “I bring important message for Prime Minister of all Canadas!”
“There’s only one Canada,” said Joker. “The Prime Minister received a slight wound and has been taken to the hospital. I am Minister of Naval Affairs Joker. I’ll hear your message.”
Colonel Zhukov wasn’t convinced. He eyed the portly Sea Lord with disdain. “You try to trick Zhukov? Canada Navy? What navy?”
Joker flushed and stammered, “C-canada has a fine navy! It’s – it’s just small!”
Zhukov turned to Doug, obviously suspicious of the purported Navy Minister. “Small navy? How small?”
“I’m not sure, old man. Not my department. Minister Joker can give you the rundown.”
The Russian colonel backed away. “No want rubdown!”
Joker held up his arms. “Not a rubdown. Rundown. Explanation. Savvy? Explanation?”
“Savvy.”
“One ship is in dry dock. One is assisting Greenpeace by acting as safety ship for their Mid-Ocean Peace and Love Festival. It’s being held on the Sargasso Sea this year. I understand the Sargasso salad and krill soup is outstanding.”
“Two ship?” said the Russian. “Two ship navy?”
The Sea Lord sagged into the chair. “Two ships. Are you satisfied that I’m the Naval Minister?”
“Must be. Brave minister to admit to such a small job. You must be part time, yes?”
“What is your message!” shouted Joker. “The General and I have a – a meeting to attend.”
Zhukov drew himself up to his full height. “Stolen Iceland scow not have nuke.”
Silence enclosed the room like a shroud. Joker stared at the Russian with dismay. “Say that again, please.” Zhukov complied. The Minister nodded. “That’s what I thought you said.”
“Double-cross,” said Zhukov. “You savvy double-cross?”
Joker’s lip quivered. “Savvy.”
“Guilty thieves in Russia dealt with. False weapons put in canisters.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Doug. “Quaker bombs!”
Zhukov stared at the Brigadier. “No quakes.”
“No.” Joker grinned. “Not quakes. Quakers. They don’t like war. But never mind that! Your people put fake bombs in the tubes – the canisters?”
“Yes. Fake.” Zhukov laughed. “I know fake. Like orgasm!”
Doug ignored the chit-chat. “What is in the canisters?”
Colonel Zhukov grinned. “Fireworks in one. Surprise in other.”
“Thank the Lord,” murmured Joker. He shook hands with the Russian. “The traitors in your country have been arrested?”
Zhukov frowned. “Arrested? No. Questioned and shot. Too much paperwork with arrests. Courts. Judges. Juries.” He made a disgusted sound. “Who has time?”
After Zhukov left, Doug got on the line to Spy Central. In excited tones, he passed the good news on to Spymaster Baltar. “Get word to the chaps down there, Spymaster. There is no bomb. No bomb.”
“Lovely,” replied Baltar. “But what about the dozen or so terrorists on the ship? I have fewer than ten poorly armed people on the scene to deal with them. This is still a bad situation.”
“Don’t cry to me about armaments, Spymaster!” snapped Doug. “None of us can be blamed if you haven’t supplied your agents with proper weapons. Do the best you can!”
“That’s telling him!” Joker led the way toward the door. “I think we can just make our tee time.”
“Oh, good. I hope that little minx I had as a caddy last time is available.”
Patrol Boat Cuddles
East of Gaspe
“How close are we?” asked Sub-Lieutenant Clark.
“About five kilometers, sir. Just like it was two minutes ago, when you last asked.” Petty Officer Buster was getting a little irked at his commander. Trailing a ship full of armed terrorists was bad enough without having to deal with Clark’s nervousness. “Stiff upper lip, sir. Stiff upper lip.”
Artificer Shep peered up from his greasy pit. “I’ve stopped the last of the holes. Pumps should dry her out in no time now, sir.” Upon initial contact with the alleged terrorist vessel, they had closed to within a kilometer of the ship, on instructions from Higher-Higher. Whoever the bad guys were, they were armed with a large caliber machine gun and had punctured Cuddles several times by way of warning. HQ reluctantly allowed that they could shadow the terrorists from a safer distance, but not more than five kilometers.
Clark nodded. “If it’s a nuke they’ve got over there, do you think we’ll be burned in the flame or blown to bits by the blast?”
“I don’t think it matters, sir,” said Shep. “In either case we’ll be standing before Saint Peter with no idea of how we got there.”
Buster chuckled. “And won’t Saint Pete be surprised to see us? ‘Are you lost, lads?’ he’ll say.”
“No problem.” Shep took the cue. “They have a special trap door for the likes of us.”
The Lieutenant’s throat felt on fire. He sipped some water. “I think it will be the blast. Stands to reason that it travels faster than fire.” The two other men groaned and went back to their tasks.
Clark nudged Buster. “How close are we now?”
Before the PO could say anything, the radio chimed. “Sorry, sir. Incoming message.”
He was back in a few minutes. “Good news, sir. The terrorists do not have a nuclear device.”
Clark stared at the PO. “No nukes?”
“None, sir.” Buster handed over a message. “The bad guys still think they have one. One they purchased from some Russian criminals.”
“No nukes?”
Buster thumped the Lieutenant’s shoulder. “Are you with me, sir? The terrorists have no nuke.”
“No nuke! We’re not going to burned down to our very atoms nor blown to bloody gobbets!”
“Aye, sir. No gobbets.” The PO steadied his binoculars and examined the distant ship. “All they can do is shoot us full of large-caliber holes. Shall we move in a little closer?”
Clark frowned. “No closer than two kilometers. Do we have contact with anyone at Gaspé?”
“Not yet, sir.” Buster consulted a communications chart. “No response on the harbor master or Fisheries frequencies. We don’t have contact info on anyone else.”
“Call HQ again. Someone must be setting up to receive these terrorists. Maybe a squad of local hunters like that last time. Or, wonder of wonders, there might be a regular Army types on hand to take care of the nasty work.” Clark called down to Shep. “Bring up your shotgun!”
Buster snorted. “That twelve gauge ain’t gonna do us much good against these lads, sir. I thought we was to get heavier armament?”
“We were.” Clark tried a carefree smile and couldn’t manage it. “We were scheduled to get our old fifty caliber machine guns back. But, they’d been sold off for scrap during the last, 'Melt Down a Capitalist Warmonger Tool,' scrap drive and love fest.”
“Well, that’s just dandy, sir! But there must be plenty of those old guns in storage. I’ll bet the Americans have warehouses full of them.”
“The matter is in the hands of a study group. They’re examining cost/benefit ratios to determine whether we ought to buy surplus machine guns from the Yanks or contract with a Canadian company to produce new ones. It’s a five year study plan.”
“We need firepower now, sir. Not five years from now.”
“It’s worse than that, I’m afraid. With the funds available, we could buy a hundred of the surplus guns or build a single prototype of a new one. If we go with the new weapon, it will require new funding. Once the funding is in place, we can expect weaponry ten to twenty years after that.”
Buster didn’t take the news too hard. He’d been in the CF for a mort of years. “How long have we and the Americans been blowing away enemies with the old point fifty, sir?”
“Sixty – maybe seventy years.”
“It seems to work, don’t it, sir? These terrorists are old-fashioned types. Old-fashioned guns ought to be appropriate for killing them.” The PO sighed. “I’ll contact HQ.”
Boulevard Gaspé
Gaspé, QC
“I see them!” Major Badger steadied himself against an old piling. “They’re rounding the end of that spit of land. How far is that?” The sight of the low-slung scow plowing through the calm waters of the bay made him long for his logistics desk. Though the threat of a nuclear blast or plutonium-seeded conventional explosion had been removed, the heavily armed thugs aboard the scow represented an equally frightening prospect for anyone foolish enough to face them. He desperately wanted to empty his bladder.
“Eight or nine kilometers, I suppose,” replied Calliope. They were standing alone on the beach side of the boulevard. “You better call it in.”
Badger had Spy Central on the hook in seconds. “We’re feeling a little naked out here, Central.” It required all his concentration to keep a high-pitched whine out of his voice. “The bad people are less than an hour away. Where’s the cavalry?”
Spymaster Baltar was on the line. “Agent Stag and your lady friend’s acquaintance are a few minutes away. Nothing else is close. What about the local police?”
“What police?” Badger glanced around. “The RCMP office is empty. A couple of local cops are busy evacuating the townspeople. Once that’s done, we’ll have some volunteers with rifles. We really need some professionals.”
“None are close enough to help, Badger. Some are still in Kosovo, some in Haiti and the rest have been sent home until we can make enough CADPAT rifle slings to properly equip them.”
“Well that’s just dandy, Spymaster. Any word yet on what those two canisters on the ship’s deck really do contain?”
“The Russian officer can’t be reached. All he told the Sea Lord was that one contained fireworks and the other a surprise. The nature of said surprise was not given.”
“Your average Russian has a dark sense of humor. Does anyone have a count on the terrorists? That might help us.”
“That’s alleged terrorists, Major. You Americans are always jumping to conclusions.”
“Sorry, Spymaster. Given that these ‘alleged’ terrorists have fired on one of your patrol boats and ignored all attempts at contact makes them more than suspect to me – not to mention that their intent was to nuke a portion of your country.”
“Acceptance of cultural diversity requires tolerance.” It surprised the Major to hear Baltar reciting a Liberal mantra. The DPS must be monitoring their conversation.
“Okay, Central. When they get close we’ll take some potshots and then make a tactical retreat.”
“Don’t fire unless fired upon, Badger. Report when you can. Oh – the patrol boat has closed to within two kilometers. They count about ten people aboard the scow.”
“Right. Ten diverse lads with at least one heavy machine gun and assorted automatic weapons. We’re a little out-gunned here.”
“Whiners never prosper. Isn’t that one of your American sayings, Major? Do your best.”
“I think it’s ‘cheaters never prosper’, Central, though I’m not up on old saws.”
Badger tucked the phone away and uttered several apt phrases. “We’re on our own. Unless your organization can whistle up some air cover – and soon.”
“We have no such assets, Major. I suspect that the present feeble state of the CF has escaped our leadership.” Calliope drew her pistol and checked the magazine. “A well-equipped, trained military is like a handgun. You never need one until you need it very, very badly.”
A lone car rolled into view on the boulevard. “Stag and his taxicab,” said Badger. “At least we have a getaway car.”
The Checker rolled to a stop on the other side of the road. Stag and Geg joined Calliope and Badger. The Major grinned at Stag. “Never thought I’d be glad to see your ugly face. You don’t happen to be packing some anti-tank rockets or something equally violent and deadly?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid. You’re lucky I’ve still got a pistol. One of these days our agents will be able to carry nothing more lethal than a card with a strongly worded admonishment on it.” Stag raised his glasses and studied the oncoming scow. “They build them ugly in Iceland.”
“Well,” said Badger, “it was only intended for hauling garbage.”
“It’s doing a good job of that!” snarled Calliope.
The Major brought the other two agents up to speed on the situation. “There’s a patrol boat shadowing the scow. We haven’t heard from them, yet.”
Geg lowered his glasses. “We won’t, unless they happen to have a cellphone. I think they just rounded the island. Maybe two kilometers behind the scow. How is the boat armed?”
“Central says they’ve got nothing but a single shotgun,” said Badger. “For scaring off polar bears and the occasional amorous sea lion.”
Stag mumbled a few choice words. “What fun! So that gives us four handguns and a shotgun to repel an invasion.”
“That’s about it,” agreed Badger. “Where’s your sidekick?”
Geg shrugged. “He’s been out since we mentioned nukes.”
“Well, to be fair,” said Stag, “the basic sidekick agreement doesn’t include violence. They’re just supposed to provide comic relief and never get laid. That sort of thing.”
Badger nodded. “Based on my recent performances, I’d better apply for a sidekick position.”
The three men were crowded into the patrol boat’s tiny bridge, hunched down behind a steel splinter shield. None of them believed that a few millimeters of metal was real protection against a heavy machine gun, but the shield gave at least an illusion of safety.
“I make them to be about a kilometer from the docks,” said Sub-Lt. Clark.
PO Buster nodded. “We’re inside 500 meters, sir. How close do you want to go?”
“They haven’t shot at us yet. Move in, but not too fast. I think they’re busy getting ready to hit the town.”
“Right,” agreed Shep. He hefted his shotgun. “Once the firefight begins, we ought to be able to run in close and help the defenders.”
Buster scowled. “That’s assuming there are any defenders! HQ says there’s nobody there but a few intelligence agents.”
“Whoever they are, I hope they’ve got heavier weapons than we do,” muttered Shep.
Lt. Clark shuddered. “If they don’t, it’s going to be a short fight.”
“Yeah,” said Buster. “Short and with a sad ending for Mrs. Buster.”
“I didn’t know you were married,” said Clark.
“Bite your tongue, sir! I was talking about my mother.”
Shep stood up and shaded his eyes from the late afternoon sun. “Something’s happening!”
Clark steadied his glasses on the scow. “One of the canisters has opened! A bunch of black tubes are rising up! The terrorists are leaping about, brandishing rifles!”
Buster snorted. “Blighters think their Russian nuke is about to explode.”
Flame burst from one of the tubes. A trail of sparks rose skyward ending in a bright flash. “Good God!” yelled Clark, as a hollow boom rolled by. “Fireworks! Just like the Reds said.”
“I don’t think it’s proper to call ‘em Reds anymore, sir,” said Buster. No one paid any attention.
“More fireworks,” shouted Shep. Dull thumps echoed over the water as more and more tubes fired. The sky filled with explosions of green and red and yellow. Even purple.
“Move in!” ordered Clark. “The bastards don’t know what to make of this!”
PO Buster jogged the Sub-Lt. “Careful, sir. Even if they is bastards, it ain’t their fault.”
Cuddles surged to within a hundred meters of the scow before the Russian fireworks ceased. Buster throttled back. “What are they doing, sir?”
“Nothing much. Standing around, heads down. One is pounding on the other canister. I think they realize the Russkies have crossed them.”
Shep gestured with his shotgun. “I wonder what’s in that canister?”
Even as he spoke, the second container split open, lengthwise. The two halves rotated apart, knocking several of the terrorists down. Two smaller white cylinders lay revealed. The terrorists began their capering again.
“Could be nukes, sir,” murmured Buster.
“Yeah,” agreed Clark. “Too late to worry about that. If they are nukes, we’ll never know it.”
“Sir!” yelled Shep. “Look! Look at that! What are they?”
Sub-Lt. Clark focused on the scow’s deck. Men screamed and ran about. Some flung themselves overboard. “Good Lord,” he whispered. “Snow Tigers!”
On the Gaspé Docks
Gaspé, QC
The scow lost way and began wallowing in the mild swell. From their vantage point, behind a low sea wall, the mixed bag of agents stared at the terrorist vessel. Smoke trailed from each of the dark tubes. The second canister lay split into two pieces and the white cylinders were open at the ends.
Calliope stood up, pistol at her side. “Are those Snow Tigers?”
“I think so,” murmured Stag. He gagged. “They must be hungry.”
With a crash, the scow ran into the big dock and rebounded, rocking and pitching. Huge shapes leaped and slashed from stem to stern. Bodies littered the deck. Others floated in the water. A few men still ran around the deck, shrieking.
“I suppose we ought to help them,” said Badger. He hefted his large-bore pistol. “This might be enough gun for the tigers.”
Stag shoved the Ami agent’s gun down. “Put it away, Major. We can’t do anything.”
“Yeah,” agreed Geg, holstering his pistol. “Snow Tigers are an endangered species.”
Warily, the four agents made their way out onto the dock. The scow had grounded on a submerged sandbar at the edge of the main channel, some two hundred meters from shore. Thin cries echoed over the water, replaced at length by the sounds of crunching bones.
An hour later, a blue van rolled down the boulevard and stopped beside Stag's Checker. Two burly men in green coveralls got out and approached the agents. The five (Taz having recovered well enough to eat) were finishing a Chinese takeout meal purchased from the Polish restaurant a block off the beach. Gaspé citizens stood and sat along the beach, gawking at the scow and its grisly cargo.
“Say, Guv’nor,” said one of the men, addressing Geg. “We’ve instructions to pick up a pair of Snow Tigers here. Sent by the Russians. Any idea where they might be?”
Geg pointed at the scow. Both cats lay on the deckhouse, licking their paws. “There they are and you’re welcome to them.”
“Blast!” said the other green-suited man. “They’re loose! We’ll have to get help.” He went back to the van.
The first man eyed the scow and the cats. “Too bad they got loose like that. Still, catching them won’t be too hard, unless they’re hungry.” He glanced at the agents. “Have they been fed?”
