The Peaceful Affair: Chapter 10
“Good afternoon, Ya,” greeted General Private General.
“Good afternoon, Private,” replied General Ya Hoo, Commander-in-Chief of the campaign against Britain.
Since time out of mind General had secretly envied Hoo for running through life so smoothly. A skeletal man standing five-foot-two, wearing gold-rimmed glasses from the moment he was born, Hoo had the looks of a general — and the brains to match. His ascent in the military was meteoric, a remarkable feat considering the natural tendency of meteors to fall down. General’s own climb had been more akin to that of Sisyphus on roller blades.
The two were suitably attired in the customary black-and-white for their weekly match of chess tennis. They were both ferocious players, pouring everything they had into their game. An hour later they both stepped off the court, sweating profusely. General had won three sets, and — as chance would have it — those were the very same sets Hoo had lost. Thus, unable to declare an unequivocal winner, the two asked mom to decide, but mom just said it was the game that counted, not the winning. Both generals sulked.
Washed, showered, bathed, cleansed, purified, lustrated, and expurgated the two met again in the Officers’ Lounge seven minutes later. Over martinis — stirred, not shaken — they discussed war.
“I heard you’ve downed three knights and a queen,” General remarked somewhat enviously. “Nice going.” Despite their dogged rivalry, both officers knew what the “U” in USA stood for (although they would adamantly refuse to admit their being a tad unsure as to the “S” and the “A”).
“Thank you,” acknowledged Hoo graciously. “I hear you’ve been suffering a few minor setbacks,” he understated over the top.
Minor setbacks indeed, thought General bitterly. Four queens lost and two kings checked. He put on a brave face and declared, “Nothing to worry about. I’ve procured some outside help that may just swing the balance over to our side.”
Hoo scrutinized General’s face for a long moment, and then spoke in a hushed voice. “Private, there’s a rumor circulating about this weird arms dealer whose intentions are anybody’s guess. Please tell me he’s not your ‘outside help’.”
“Relax,” replied General, trying to sound cooler than yesterday’s leftover pizza, “I know what I’m doing.”
“I hope so, Private, for your sake. Otherwise, you may be spending a long time debating whether Quebec should become independent or not.”
General smiled assuredly at his colleague, though in his mind he was pondering the pros and cons of an independent Quebec.
Ibrahim McGregor glanced impatiently at his watch, thinking, He should have been here by now — the flight landed over forty-five minutes ago. He was just about to make inquiries when the rhythmic theme music of James Bond resounded through the entire waiting area.
“What the hell …” McGregor uttered under his breath.
The music was emanating from a huge loudspeaker carried by a two-eyed man wearing the uniform of a Buckingham Palace guard. He walked straight toward McGregor, stopped three feet from the astonished polygamist, extended his hand, and announced in a booming voice that could be heard all the way to kingdom come, “Pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Agent. Secret Agent. You can call me Secret.”
McGregor was dumbfounded, flabbergasted, and astonished to such a point he fell off the red tricycle he was riding. “Are you a total madman or just doing your utmost to simulate one?”
“The latter, of course,” replied the man evenly. “I learned the fine art of simulation from a very charming young lady, who stood five-foot-three and weighed all of one-hundred pounds, but had me fooled into believing she was Michael Jordan. Ah,” sighed Agent, “when she retired from the NBA I was in ruins.”
“But now they all know you’re an agent!” McGregor whispered loudly.
“Forget the ‘an’ — I’m just plain Agent. And do call me Secret, Ibrahim. I insist!” Agent smiled broadly, took off the conspicuous fluffy hat, and handed it to a small boy aged seventy-four or seventy-five who stood there with his mom and dad licking a green lollipop.
McGregor muttered a stream of inaudibilities, a beautiful performance in expletives that received a perfect ten from all judges but the Russian — who gave it a nine point eight.
In no time at all the two were seated in McGregor’s tiny eighteen-wheeler, galloping gallantly toward their intended rendezvous with the Mrs., the Mrs., and the Mrs.
“There they are,” called Christina as the minute vehicle’s headlights penetrated the night window. Wet, warm, and waiting, the fulsome threesome was enwombed in Location Gamma — the third-floor Jacuzzi of their house, located in a fashionable neighborhood in the Washington area. Ibrahim McGregor suspected that Locations Alpha (the doghouse) and Beta (the shopping mall behind the refrigerator) had been compromised.
The three heard the sound of a door opening two floors below, followed by a pair of hushed male voices. These voices proceeded to climb the stairs and change into appropriate aquatic garments. Moments later two grins — one resembling a Cheshire cat’s the other a satisfied milkman’s — appeared beside the Jacuzzi. All of a sudden, there was a cornucopia of chromosome Y.
“Ladies,” said Ibrahim as he and the agent slipped into something bubbly and comfortable, “I’d like to present Secret Agent.”
“Just call me Secret,” smiled Agent warmly as his eyes kept shifting back and forth from one mademoiselle to the next. Some members of the smarter gender would consider the situation slightly unwholesome; but then, some devils of the exact same gender would think otherwise. As with most things in life, it all depended on how Mrs. Buttercup-Latrine — your third-grade teacher — had treated you in sixth grade.
With a bold motion Ibrahim threw the rubber ducks and toy boats out of the water. “It’s time we got down to business,” he said somberly, turning to the other man.
Agent took the floor, but one stern look from Hammerhead convinced him to put it right back where he’d found it. He cleared his throat.
“Christina, Eve, Xena, Ibrahim — times are hard! The nation that has been butchering our beloved language so ardently for centuries, has now gained the upper hand in the current war. They’ve turned ‘motorway’ into ‘freeway’, mercilessly removed the ‘r’ from ‘arse’, and — to add insult to injury — replaced our wonderful ‘s’ with that horrible zed — which they call zee! Through all of this, we’ve kept our silence. But now they aim for our kings, queens, knights, rooks, bishops, and pawns. Enough is enough!”
The Jacuzzi was in a state of effervescence.
Agent continued. “We’re very satisfied with your infiltration into the high echelons of power.” He stopped reflectively, rubbed his chin, and commended cheerily, “You have penetrated high and low. Bravo.”
The agent’s demeanor immediately regained its gravity. “We’ve received your reports concerning Doe’s disappearance and his replacement by a doppelganger. The interesting thing is Intel has absolutely nothing on this bloke. Bloody nada. Have you managed to find out anything about him? About his intentions?”
“No,” replied Apples gloomily. “In fact, until Myx unmasked him yesterday we’d all been totally unaware of the switch.”
“Although,” said Hammerhead, “having gone over the past few days with a fine-tooth comb, we believe we know when the switch was made: the afternoon preceding the fateful night.”
“Like a French lover,” mused Agent. “Hardly in — and already he wreaks havoc. This is one shrewd operative we’re dealing with. How does Noro Myx fit into all this?”
“We don’t know,” replied McGregor. “Anonymous Doe brought him in to search for the missing documents he himself had hid. Now we’re up against both an unknown double and a known detective.”
“Well, doubles and detectives do have at least one thing in common,” remarked Agent musingly.
“What?” asked Christina eagerly. “What?”
“Both come in pairs,” replied Agent cogently, “except the detective. Anyway, have any of you ever heard of an arms dealer called Mac?”
All four shook their heads.
“Who is he?” asked Hammerhead.
“We don’t know for sure,” answered Agent. “There are only rumors. We do know he’s been dealing both with the Americans and the Canadians.”
“Is he independent or does he work for an agency?” questioned Apples.
“That’s what we have to find out,” replied agent Agent.
“He’s coming out,” said the small giant, who was dressed as a cheeseburger.
“Right. Let’s go,” replied the tall dwarf, adroitly disguised as a vanilla milkshake. The two operatives had been trailing Mac the entire evening, ever since his flight from Montreal had landed. The task had presented very little difficulty so far, as the elderly man in his late teens had been mostly stationary, sitting on a bench in Central Bark for over two hours, feeding bits of chicken to the fish in the trees.
Lethargy having sunk in like manna from heaven, the blazing couple almost missed Mac as he got up and left the park.
The two followed him through town, a waltz that finally led them to a tall building with several walls, wherein Mac disappeared into an elevator. They watched intently as the floor display projected a flurry of squiggles and squaggles, until it finally showed a three-pronged fork and an oval, whereupon the duo cleverly deduced the elevator’s having reached the 30th floor.
The small giant approached the doorman. “Excuse me, sir, could you please tell us what’s on the 30th floor?”
“Well, ladies,” replied the man amiably, “there’s Monkey, Monkey, Monkey, a venture-capital firm.” Noting their puzzled looks, he went on to explain. “You see, the fellow who engraved their doorplate was dyslectic — he added the ‘k’s by mistake; the firm ultimately decided to leave them be. Then there’s another venture-capital firm, called Crash, Crash, Crash; same fellow did the doorplate. And finally there’s Beit Tokyo, a Buddhist synagogue.”
“That’s it?” asked the tall dwarf disappointedly.
“Yup,” replied the doorman cheerfully. The twosome bid him farewell and headed toward the main entrance. Just as they were about to fade into the morn sunset the man called after them, “Oh, I nearly forgot.”
“Yes?” they cried in concert (Dvorak’s Cello Concerto in B minor, Op. 104).
“The Consulate General of Switzerland is also on the 30th floor.”
