February is the cruelest month, strangling the lilacs that breed in the springtime, keeping warm the children who recklessly slide down the incline on the west bank on their sleds, holding on to dear life, their laughter hanging in the air as the earth was covered in forgetful snow. Fraser heard these sounds and knew them all too well. He jangled the keys of the Canadian consulate's car in the garage of the Bulgarian embassy. It was well past midnight and, as a part of the security detail, was drained by the exhaustive measures taken for the safety of the twenty-five ambassadors at the conference there. Fraser stopped for a second. He heard a faint footsteps on the hardpacked snow in the garage. He listened more carefully but then heard nothing. He unlocked the car door and lifted the latch.
A whoosh of air signalled the impact of a crowbar on Fraser's skull. Fraser could hear and feel the crack as he fell to his knees. The crowbar struck his head again. Blood poured out profusely from his battered skull. He lifted his hands in faint defence but that was useless. The crowbar hit him over and over until he fell dead.
The killer backed away and observed the dead body. She pulled the ski mask she wore from her head. A mane of dark chestnut fell to her shoulders. Thatcher wiped a bead of sweat from her lip, gripped the crowbar and walked out of the garage into the cold night in the dead of winter.
When the forensics team arrived they found the scene well-preserved. They outlined the body with masking tape. The photographer shot Fraser as he lay on his stomach and then turned him over. His face wore a scarlet mask of dried blood. At last, they placed him in a body-bag, put him in the hearse and drove to the coroner's office.
Ray was silent. Never before had he been as nautious as he was now. Fraser was brutally killed. His head swam. He couldn't believe it. Why him?
Ray felt a tug on his shoulder.
"Are you alright, Detective Vecchio?" asked Thatcher.
"I'm fine," he replied softly.
She bowed her head for a second.
"He was a fine officer. I am more than sorry this happened."
Ray shot back.
"Where the hell were the others on the security detail?"
Thatcher glared at him.
"Constable Fraser was the last to leave the embassy. He always was. Look, I know you're upset but.."
"Don't patronize me, alright!"
Ray walked away from Thatcher angry.
The memorial service was quiet. Thatcher watched as the coffin was placed on the plane. The other officers stood at attention. Bess would be waiting at the Inuvik airfield to retrieve the body of her brother. She would place his body next to the bodies of her father and mother and resign herself to being the last of the Fraser clan. Ray could not live with this. Elaine could not bring herself to go to the service.
A middle-aged bearded man approached Thatcher.
"Justice Minister Bedford."
"Under the circumstances, I must leave now and file my report to Ottawa," he regretted.
Thatcher shook his hand and bade him good-bye.
The man climbed into his limousine and told the driver to leave the airport for his hotel. He rolled up the backseat partition. He took off his glasses and started to peel off his beard and face.
"So far, so good, Fraser," a man in a business suit chuckled.
Fraser peeled off the rest of his false face.
"Thatcher did a pretty good job, too, huh?"
"Let's get on with it."
Ray scratched the ruff of Diefenbaker's neck.
"Are you sure you want to take him in? I mean, I can always find a home for him up North," the man offered.
Ray gave a quick look at the man.
"No, Diefenbaker's family."
"No, no, Diefenbaker! Don't jump on the sofa! No, that's not a fire hydrant. Don't eat that!"
Ray was fed up trying to control Diefenbaker. It was possible that he was acting this way because of Fraser's death, but it could also be because Diefenbaker was very wilful. At any rate, Ray sat down to think. Something just did not sound right. Why would anyone kill Fraser? How was it that no one saw or heard anything? He couldn't sit and brood. He grabbed his coat and headed for Halloway Heights.
Jim Black opened the door that let a cold draft into his warm house.
Ray lifted his badge.
"Detective Vecchio, Chicago P.D. Mind if I come in?"
Jim allowed him to come in.
"How can I help you, Detective?"
"I want to ask you about what you saw on the night of the fifteenth."
Jim shook his head.
"I already told you guys everything. But if it will make you feel any better, I'll tell you again."
Jim slumped into an armchair. Ray sat across from him.
"I went out walking my dog, Chester about - 11:45. He was kind of cranky so I thought, you know. So any way, we were walking for about twenty minutes and I let my dog off his leash. We're out in the boonies, anyway, I thought what could it hurt..."
Ray was restless.
"Mind sticking to the story, please?"
"Oh, yeah, right. Sorry," Jim apologized.
"Well, Chester began to bark. He ran up ahead so I ran after him. He ran into a garage. At first, I thought he was just chasing a stray cat or something and then I saw the body of this guy. He was bleeding pretty badly. I checked his pulse. Nothing. I then ran to the nearest phonebox and called you guys."
"You didn't go into the embassy?"
"The lights weren't on. I thought everybody went home for the night."
"What time did you discover the body?"
"About twelve, five after twelve."
"Did you see anything unusual? Any strange cars, strange people?"
"No."
Ray finished scrawling the facts in his note book.
"Thanks for your time," he said politely and left.
Jim watched as Ray got into his car and drove away. Once the car pulled out, Jim picked up the phone and dialled a number.
"Yeah, this is me. Look, there's this cop Vecchio asking questions. You will? Good."
The landlord solemnly opened the door for Elaine. She cast her gaze sadly over the untouched squalor of Fraser's apartment. Everything was in order. Fraser was always a precise and tidy man, she thought to herself. No dishes were left stewing in the kitchen sink, the bed was made without a crease on the covers, chairs were tucked in under the lone kitchen table. Elaine walked over to the bed and tugged out a big trunk. It was a large navy-blue hulk with tarnished bronze latches and a light coat of dust. Elaine sat on the bed, lifted the latch of the trunk and opened it. She lifted out an old kerosene lamp. Practically everything she found in Fraser's trunk was old; the diary of his father, a portrait of his mother, a fresh-faced yet hardy woman, the standard tartan of the clan Fraser handed down from his grandfather when he was eight, a broad sword, a claymore, chiselled on the edges by years of warcraft and senseless violence in centuries past. Elaine pulled from under a pile of books a plush, frazzled teddy bear in a Mountie suit. She at last broke down. She allowed herself to cry. For days after his death she had kept out of the sight of others, trying to hold her emotions in. Her barrier fell apart and she fell on to Fraser's disused bed weeping.
Night fell upon Chicago and the air got colder. Ray parked his Riviera in the alley adjacent to the Canadian consulate. He waited for a moment, blowing on his hands to keep them warm. Diefenbaker poked his head into the frontseat. They waited. Thatcher walked out of the consulate and got into her car. The time was right. Ray climbed up the fire escape, pried a window open and hopped in. Diefenbaker followed him. Ray walked over to Thatcher's desk and opened a drawer, rummaging around the contents. He pried open the filing cabinet and lifted out some files. Nothing of interest was in them. Ray was at a dead end. He rubbed his temples. Fraser's desk had been cleaned out. Frustrated, Ray slumped into Thatcher's chair. He picked a pencil from a container on her desk and twirled it in his fingers. He moved a picture frame slight only to have a better look at the object depicted in it. A drawer, a secret one, popped open. Ray grinned. He lifted out a large brown envelope. There were odd files, incriminating photographs, wads of Canadian cash but nothing that interested Ray (yet). Underneath the envelope was a file. Ray picked it up and read the contents. It was a personal file on Corporal Ronald MacLeod, one O.P.P. officer. In big, glaring red ink letters it read DECEASED. Ray read further. A week from Fraser's murder, Ron was killed in a car bomb explosion. Ray was stunned. Who was killing Canadian cops and why?
It was more than a conspiracy. Ray placed the file back into the drawer. He thought of Bess. She was a widow now. But a thought disturbed him. He was free to have her now. He hated that thought but not vehemently. He loved Bess. He coveted her. Yet even now, something held him back from possessing her. Was it a decency, a respect for the dead, or simply an apprehension borne of the fear of being rejected by her? Ray did not rightly know.
Ray tucked the file back into the secret drawer and made a hasty retreat to the window he climbed in. As he descended from the fire escape, he wondered if Fraser had a secret drawer and wondered what might be in it? Pictures of people jaywalking, R.C.M.P. brass admitting to cheating in a spirited game of UNO, extremely damaging photos of Thatcher? Ray laughed at the thought.
Ray was not convinced that Fraser's death was a mere break-in. Someone was out to kill him, the same way someone was out to kill Ron. He walked into Lt. Walsh's office. Lt. Walsh put down his Hoagie and looked up at Ray.
"Sir, I am requesting that we reopen the Fraser case."
Walsh shook his head and rubbed his eyes.
"I cannot reopen the Fraser case because there was no case, Detective. It was an entirely Canadian matter sorted out by Canadian authorities and now it is over."
Ray shook his head.
"Sir, I am not convinced that this was a chance hit. Someone was out to get Constable Fraser."
Walsh slammed his hand on his desk.
"I won't tell you again, Detective. The case is over and you'll stay out of it. Am I making myself clear?"
Ray did not answer Walsh. He simply left his office still bearing the sentiment of defiance in his heart.
Ray sat quietly at the window seat of Air Canada flight # 809. He would see for himself the grave of his best friend. By now, he wasn't convinced that his friend was even dead.
The airfield in Inuvik was quiet. It was now 10 PM. Ray lugged his shoulder bag and Diefenbaker tagged along side him. Ray approached the man at the counter.
"Hi. Can I get a taxi?" Ray asked rather naively.
The man looked at him and chuckled.
"Not from around here, are you?" the man surmised.
"No," Ray admitted,"I'm from Chicago. I want to go to the Fraser homestead. How far away is that from here?"
The man squinted at Ray.
"It's about half an hour from here but why would you go there? Nobody lives there anymore. There are a few graves of the family but that's about it. The last of the Frasers is, uh, in Quebec, I believe."
Ray was puzzled.
"Quebec? Where?"
"Ste. Anne-du-Lac."
Ray nodded.
"I'd like to go and pay my respects. Where can I rent a car?"
"You can't rent one here."
"A reindeer sled, dog sled..." Ray asked out of inevitable frustration.
"How about a ski-doo?" the man gingerly suggested.
Ray gripped the handles of the ski-doo firmly. He'd never been on one of these and was frightened that he might fall off or it might blow up or something.
In the distance, a log cabin stood solidly in the banks of light snow and against the backdrop of tall, majestic pines. Ray pulled up and got off. Diefenbaker leapt off of the ski-doo (for he was quite happy to get off) and ran for the trees. Ray trudged through the snow. At the back of the cabin a few metres away, Celtic crosses stood testimony of the lives of the Fraser clan. Caroline Anna Pinsent Fraser died when her son was six. His grandparents died when he was eighteen. Sergeant Robert Fraser died when he was thirty. The grave of Constable Benton Robert John Fraser was next to his father's grave. Ray looked at these graves with a sense of sad irony. If they could not be together in life they would lie stiff and cold together in death.
Ray swung his pick-ax and struck the cold, hard ground where Fraser lay. He needed proof, proof that Fraser was dead or not so dead. Ray could not rest, it would seem, until he found out the truth.
Ray started to talk to the dead. He felt that it was only polite as they were being disturbed by his work.
"Hi, Mr. Fraser. How's life treating you? What's that, Mrs. Fraser? Oh, really? That's nice. Yeah, I know Grandma Fraser. Arthritis bothers my grandmother, too."
Ray marked the outline of Fraser's grave. He took his jackhammer out, inserted the earplugs in his ears and pelted away at his friend's grave. It was good that the cabin was miles away from everyone. No one would be disturbed by the noise.
An hour later, Ray reached the coffin's surface. He used his shovel to clear away the dirt. He squatted down. He hesitated. He knew that he would see something he didn't want to see. He took in a deep breath and pulled the coffin's cover up. If Fraser did rest it wasn't in peace. It was anywhere but with St. Peter.
Ray knocked on the door of the large white farmhouse. A small girl in black braids answered the door.
"I'm looking for Bess MacLeod. Is she here?"
The girl allowed him in and went to fetch Bess. Bess arrived in the lobby, her hair hung blandly over her shoulders, the red sweater she wore was knotted and her eyes were bloodshot. She had been crying.
"Ray! Come in."
Bess led him into the kitchen and sat him down at the table. She poured him a cup of tea and sat across from him.
"It was good of you to come," she said, "Ben was always fond of you. He spoke highly of all the time."
Ray did not know what to say. She lost her husband and believed she lost her brother.
"Nice place you have here," he said politely.
Bess shook her head.
"This isn't my place, it's my in-laws. I'm just staying here for a while until I can get some things sorted out. I didn't want to stay in the house after Ron died. I wanted to get out. It sounds stupid but I felt that when he was alive he made the whole house live and now...nothing."
"Now Ben's gone," she uttered sadly. "I wish I'd invited him to come up to Scarborough. He asked, you know. But I wanted to be alone. I think that is a great failing in our family, we always wanted to be alone and never talk about anything that bothered us or anything..."
Bess broke into sobs. Ray rubbed her shoulder.
"Don't blame yourself, Bess," he offered.
He leaned over and whispered in Bess' ear.
"I don't think your brother is dead."
Bess stopped crying and gaped at him.
"Ray, what are you saying?"
"Bess, I don't want to make matters worse because if this thing is nothing than I would have lost face but if I've pushed too far on something..."
"Ray!" Bess cried anxiously, "tell me what you're driving at. What about Ben?"
"Benny was killed under really strange circumstances. He was the last one to leave the consulate, a freak hit that No one explained and when I went to check your brother's grave..."
Bess gawked at Ray, her tear-stained face contorted in shock.
"Oh, Ray...Oh, Ray, you didn't. How could you desecrate a grave?"
"There wasn't anybody in it, Bess. That's the whole thing. Bess something's going on here. Big enough to fake somebody's death."
Bess stopped her crying. She couldn't believe what Ray had told her.
"Who would be doing this?" she asked.
"Maybe Thatcher, who knows," Ray surmised. "Did your husband and Benny have a common enemy?"
"The only one I can think of is Alicia Tornkvist."
Ray's brow furrowed.
"But Alicia is dead."
"I know," Bess said finally.
"I don't want you to tell anyone what I've said to you, or even that I saw you, okay?"
Bess nodded.
"Will you be safe here?" Ray asked.
"I'll be alright," Bess replied. "You take care of yourself."
Ray nodded and left the farm.
Elaine walked down Overton Street dragging her feet as she went. She clutched effortlessly a bag of bean sprouts and Chinese noodles. She looked at the tracks her heavy-laden feet made in the powdery snow. For an instant, she looked up. In the corner of her eye she saw someone very familiar. He then left from view. She hurried along on the sidewalk, taking cover behind the tall oak trees. A few metres away, a tall man in a navy-blue overcoat spoke to a man leaning against a limousine. She recognized that face anywhere. A proud, clean-shaven face, a straight Grecian nose, pouting lips, square jaw and sapphire eyes resting under a burr of slicked back dark chestnut hair. This man laughed as the other man talked. Elaine was drawn to him, even though (especially at this time) it was not strategically prudent. She was now close enough to touch him.
"Fr..."
In this second, the handsome man, torn between violating strict social custom and ruining the important plans he just made, made his move. Before Elaine could utter out the fatal syllables which would reveal his identity, the man pulled her close to him and forcefully kissed her on the lips. She was stunned (I would say) but did not resist. It had been a long time since he last kissed her like this.
At last, the handsome man broke his kiss and looked at the other man.
"Ah, old girlfriend," he explained.
The man nodded and got into the limousine.
"I'll see you on Thursday then," and with that the man drove off.
Fraser gave a sharp look at Elaine. Had she been a man, he probably would have hit her (but as we all know, that isn't nice).
"Elaine, before you threaten to sue me, you must listen..."
"I thought you were dead!" Elaine interrupted. "You made everyone think that you were dead. How could you do that? Why? Who was that man?"
Fraser had to ebb the tide of questions Elaine flooded him with. He walked her over to a secluded park bench.
"Elaine, I am on a mission for CSIS," he explained.
"What's that?"
"The Canadian Secret Intelligence Service. I am on an undercover mission to root out a weapons magnate who is supplying guns to the Tamil Tigers. You walked in on an important deal I just made with a small-time arms dealer. I didn't want you to reveal my true identity so that's why I..."
Elaine turned pale.
"I don't believe this," she breathed. "I have to go home. I need to think this over."
Fraser grabbed her arm.
"You can't go home," he said.
"Why not?"
"Elaine, you saw me alive. You know too much."
Fraser reached in his pocket for something.
Elaine covered her face and cried out.
"Oh no!" You're going to shoot me, aren't you? You're going to say that it has to be done and that I"m expendable!"
Fraser produced a key from his pocket and handed it to Elaine.
"No, this is a key to my flat in the West End. You must go there directly, talk to no one. If they ask you, tell them that Brokeridge sent you."
"Brokeridge?"
"I didn't get a chance to choose my own codename. Now go, quickly, and tell no one anything."
Elaine nodded and shuffled her way to the flat.
Fraser dragged his feet into the apartment on the West End. Elaine was waiting on the other end of complex. Leaving the lights off, he locked the door behind him and plunked into a nice-looking, cozy IKEA armchair. Using only the neon-blue lights that shone outside, he dialled the number of the flat Elaine was staying at.
"Hello, Elaine? Yes, it's me. Did you make it alright? Good. You didn't talk to anyone, did you? Very good. I'll see you in a little while. Very good. That's right. We don't torment the muskox for that reason. I don't have time to talk about that now. Alright. Bye."
Fraser continued to stare straight ahead.
"How is life treating you, Ray?"
Ray was snugly sitting in the armchair across from Fraser. He had been patiently waiting for hours.
"Fine. How is death treating you?'
"The tax people don't bother me," Fraser smiled.
"That's good."
"How is Diefenbaker?"
"He's fine. I think he misses you."
"That may be an overstatement."
"Could be."
"How did you find me?" Fraser asked calmly.
"You weren't where you were supposed to be," Ray answered.
"How is that?"
"I looked in your grave. Your kin's fine, by the way. Anyway, I didn't really find anything of interest at the consulate, except for that little file saying that Ron is dead and a few photographs but we'll get to those later. I got to thinking, why would anyone kill a Mountie, no, two Mounties? There's something up. The wheels of my head spun as did the wheels of the Riv and I followed Thatcher to a parking lot not far from here."
"Odd. She's not supposed to be here."
"I wasn't aware of that. Anyhow, I used my universal key..."
"The Visa card or the crowbar?"
"The Mastercard, actually, and I let myself in."
"You seem to have all the answers, Ray."
"Well, not all the answers but all the cards."
"How is that?"
"Well, Benny, I know that you're alive. The tax people would get really mad if they knew you faked your death. If I were you, I'd think about letting me in on whatever it is that you are doing. I can be useful. I got myself here, didn't I?"
"Indeed you have, Ray, but I can't do that. Even if I had the authority, I still wouldn't let you in. It's too complicated. You'll understand."
"No, Benny, you don't understand, let me in or else..."
Ray got up to leave.
"...I'm gonna start eating out. I await your answer."
Ray left the flat and proceeded to the elevator.
Having lost his suavity and cool, Fraser plunged into the struggle to survive. He slid down the fire escape, charged through the side entrance and raced to the elevator. En route, he was tripped by an unseen foot.
"Running out in winter like that..." Ray clucked, "you'll catch a cold. Then where would I be? I'll be at the donut shop just along the way."
Fraser rubbed his sore elbow and ambled to his flat. He thought on his feet and once he entered his flat, picked up the telephone and called the donut shop.
Ray answered the payphone in the corner of the shop.
"Yello," Ray answered.
"Ray," Fraser spoke succinctly,"I don't want you to arouse suspicion. Come back to the flat in fifteen minutes..."
"Pick up Swiss Rolls, yeah right..."
"Take a different route from when you first came..."
"A carton of milk..."
"Make sure you are not followed. Ring the doorbell three times."
"I love you, too."
Fraser let Ray into the flat. Elaine was curled up on the armchair with a cup of hot chocolate.
"Elaine is in this, too?" Ray was surprised.
"Let sleeping dogs lie," Fraser said, "you both have come too far into this. If you'll sit down, Ray, I'll tell you the plan."
Fraser faced Ray and Elaine.
"As you both know, my death was faked to effect the response of the people we are looking for. A week before my alleged death, Ron MacLeod was killed in a car bomb explosion. I was approached by two members of the Canadian Secret Intelligence Service, Hatter and McRae, for a mission - to track down the elusive arms magnate, Gloria Diamond, and grind her operation to a halt. No one knows what she looks like but we do know that she is currently residing at her summer home in Canera del Mieno in Venezuela. It is there we will make our move."
"Being what?" Elaine asked.
"It is our task to bring her in."
Ray huffed.
"That's easy for you to say. No one has actually seen this woman. We're supposed to go the land of surf and sand to track down a woman who doesn't even have a photo file on the World's Most Wanted List. Is there anything else we should be worried about?"
"Well, actually, yes," Fraser answered, "Gloria is well-protected." Fraser produced pictures of blond people. "Helmut "the Finisher" Eber, a German assassin, Johan Olsson, a Swedish national and also an assassin, and Jens Rasmussen, a Danish explosives expert and..."
"Wait," Elaine interrupted, "an assassin, right?"
"Precisely."
"Oh, great," Ray groaned, "I'm chasing people from the Muppet Show."
"We have two days to complete this mission," Fraser said finally as he produced three navy-blue booklets. "I have false passports here. For John Brokeridge, that's me. Ray, you are now Misha Sverdlov."
Ray's eyes popped wide.
"What? I'm a Russian? I thought this was supposed to be James Bond?"
"No Ray, this is more like The Man From U.N.C.L.E. You know, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin..."
"No way!" Ray exclaimed. "If this is going to be The Man From U.N.C.L.E., I want to be Napoleon Solo. I'm the American and you're the Canadian. Canadian is closer to Russian."
"In what way?"
"Russia and Canada are both cold."
"Can't we be the Avengers?" Elaine asked. "I want to be Emma Peel."
"Oh, be quiet, Elaine," Ray snapped impatiently. "You want to be Napoleon Solo because he had all the chicks. You want all the foreign chicks for yourself."
"What an idiot," Elaine muttered to herself.
"Ray," Fraser rebutted, "that is simply not true. I am assuming this role because I alone was supposed to be on this mission. And Illya did have a way with the ladies but that is beside the point. Here is your passport and here is a Russian phrasebook. Do some brushing up."
The telephone rang and Fraser answered it.
"Hello? No, I'm so very sorry, Job is no longer here. I'm afraid I don't have the NOC list. Alright. Very well then. Good-bye."
Fraser turned to Elaine.
"I am not sure what identity you will assume, Elaine."
"I want to be Esmeralda," she declared dreamily.
"Unh-unh," Ray supplied, "in all the spy movies, the Girl Fridays always had cutesy names, like April Dancer or Pussy Galore..."
"Or Solitaire in Live and Let Die," Fraser offered.
"Right, so Elaine you'll have to be Ginger Cookie or something."
"Why can't I be called Esmeralda?" Elaine complained.
"Ray has a point, Elaine," Fraser concurred and deferred to Ray for a few minutes. "We have it," he said at last.
Ray beamed.
"So what is it?" Elaine asked.
Ray grinned.
"Taffy Saltwater," he proclaimed.
Elaine gaped and jumped out of the armchair.
"Taffy Saltwater?! I'm named after saltwater taffy?!"
Fraser sat next to her.
"That is your name backwards. Don't look at it as contrived or sentimental. Think of the name as a badge. One side of you is salty, toughened by the proverbial School of Hard Knocks, yet you are soft, demure..."
"Sappy!" Elaine retorted.
"Well, I wouldn't be sullen about it," Fraser consoled her. "We leave tomorrow. I suggest that we all get some rest."
In a land burgeoned with sunshine, the Hilton Hotel in Canera del Mieno stood as a bastion of decadent fun for the rich, famous and duplicious. Tall palm trees outlining the huge fountain in the front swayed gently in the tropical breeze. A tall man walked to the front desk accompanied by another man and a comely black woman.
"Ah, Mr. Brokeridge," said the man at the desk, "you have the penthouse suite on the twenty-fifth floor."
The man handed Fraser the key. He handed Ray a pen.
"Sign here, Mr. Sverdlov."
Ray "instinctively" wrote his name in the Cyrillic alphabet.
Once in the suite, Fraser opened a briefcase and pulled out a calculator sort of object.
"What are you doing, Fraser?" Ray asked.
"I'm checking for bugs," he answered, "I suggest you secure the place, Ray. Check underneath coffee tables, lamps, in the bathroom. Our adversaries are quite clever."
That being done, Fraser called Elaine and Ray over to discuss the night's plan.
"We will meet in the casino and split up. I will look for my contact, a man named Olan Ortega and accompany him. Hatter and McRae will be in the vicinity. Ray, Elaine, you will follow me but watch your backs."
Night cast a shadow over the glamorous resort of Canera del Mieno and the threesome were decked out in their espionage finery.
Fraser and Ray promenaded into the casino in their crisp tuxedos.
"You know, Benny," Ray confided, "this tux makes me feel like Sean Connery." Ray started to affect the Connery accent. "I'll look for Dr. No, Miss Moneypenny while you get the drinks. Vodka martini-shaken, not stirred. Oh, I have to say that before this mission is done."
"Well make sure you say that in Russian, Ray," Fraser advised and left for the blackjack table.
Elaine perched herself on the upper level of the casino carefully inspecting the goings-on with a sense of mild paranoia. Anyone there could be a double-agent and stab her in the back unawares. She cast her gaze over to two suspicious-looking blond men at the far end of the room.
"Canadien er her," (the Canadian is here) whispered a short blond man to the taller man next to him.
"Utan tvivel, tva folken med honom ar bast mordaren vardsomspannade. Lat gora." (No doubt, the two people he has with him are the best assassins in the world. Let's do it.)
Separating, the two men went their ways to plant the seeds of suspicion and maleficence. Elaine kept her eye on them.
Fraser sat at the blackjack table.
"What will it be, Mr. Brokeridge?"
Fraser guessed, as he was not an avid gambler.
"Seven, black."
The wheel turned in Fraser's favour and he smiled as he accepted a fruit juice from an unseen hand.
A waiter approached Ray.
"Izveneetya, nam, Ya khochoo k vodka martini, drozho, nyeh meshcho. Spasiba."
(Excuse me, waiter, I want a vodka martini, shaken, not stirred. Thank you.)
Fraser began to see double. The room swayed and the colours blurred into one strange hue. He lifted himself up steadily and pulled his lapel to his mouth where the secret microphone was planted.
"Misha, Taffy..." he whispered faintly and then collapsed.
Elaine lost sight of both Ray and Fraser. She began to worry. The microphone hidden in her lipstick did not work. She made her way steadily to the casino floor. Wary, she bumped into a tall blond man.
"Oh, I am sorry," he apologized.
Elaine tried to smile it off.
"Do you mind if I buy you a drink?" he asked and Elaine, trying not to appear nervous, accepted.
"Vodka martini, shaken, not stirred," the man said to the waiter. He turned to Elaine. "My name is Olsson, Johan Olsson. And you are?"
"Taffy Saltwater," Elaine shook his hand briskly.
"You are American, yes? I have been to America many times."
Elaine did not care for his polite conversation. She kept aloof from Johan. She accepted the drink from the waiter and strategically spilled it on her dress.
"Oh, I am so clumsy," Elaine apologized, "I will just run to the restroom and wash this off. Excuse me."
"Jens, she's leaving the building," Johan whispered into his Rolex.
Elaine made haste to the washroom and climbed out the window. She climbed down the fire escape and into the alley. A white Mercedes skidded up to her and a blond man, Jens, jumped out and pointed a gun at her. He was followed by Johan.
"I'm afraid we cannot let you leave, Miss Saltwater."
Elaine was trapped. She kept pondering the nagging thought in her head. What would Carey Lowell do?
"Alright, I give up," she said raising her hands.
Spinning on her heels, she gave Johan a good jab in the ribs and gave a well-placed kick in the solar plexus to Jens. Elaine was grabbed from behind but she managed to throw the man off. She picked up the gun and pointed it at him. He lifted up his hands in defence.
"I'm Hatter, I'm on your side," he pleaded.
Elaine backed off and Hatter rose from the ground.
"They took Brokeridge and Misha," he said, "we must hurry."
Fraser lay back on the firm mattress, his head still spinning. The colours of rose and red swished in his view, a menagerie of 60's interior decorating. But Fraser felt at ease, not posing inquiries of his whereabouts. He swam in drug-induced oblivion.
"Wake up!"
Fraser lifted his head and faced Ray. He sat across from him on another mattress.
"Ray, how did we get here?" Fraser asked as his head throbbed, the after effects of the drug.
"Your guess is as good as mine," Ray replied, "we've been drugged. I guess I shouldn't have ordered that vodka martini."
"We've been betrayed, Ray," Fraser answered. "That is the only reason I can think of. But by whom? And Elaine? Has she been captured?"
"I don't know," Ray answered. "I hope not."
"We have to escape," Fraser said finally.
"The door is locked and is guarded by two big German guys. There are no windows."
"We have to get their attention, Ray. You feign illness and I'll bang on the door."
"Oh, great, I'll just feign illness," Ray complained to himself and started to eat paper from an old magazine that was in the room.
Fraser banged on the door brusquely.
"Er IST krank! Er IST krank!" (He is sick! He is sick!)
A tall blond guard answered the door.
"Was IST das?" (What is this?)
Fraser swung at him and took the man's gun.
"Here, Ray," he tossed the gun at Ray and proceeded down the hall.
Another man, whom Fraser recognized as Helmut "the Finisher" Eber, turned the dark corner and fired his gun. Fraser and Ray ran into a room and hid under the desk. A bottle of wine was among the other decanters of alcohol on the armoire. Ray grabbed one and hid under the desk. Helmut charged in waving his gun around. Fraser motioned Ray to strike the madman while he was not looking. Ray rose from the desk with the bottle in hand and prepared himself to strike Helmut. However, before he could do so, Helmut turned around. Ray turned the bottle upright.
"Chateau Briere?" Ray offered and hid under the desk.
"Come out and die like men!" the German demanded.
"I'm afraid we can't do that," Fraser apologized.
"Why not? Don't you see that you must die? So die, like men. It is the way of men."
"Look, Fritzie," Ray snapped, "I'm an American and you're a sick..."
Fraser scolded him.
"You will come out. SCHNELL!"
Ray and Fraser came out with their hands raised.
"At last," Helmut cried triumphantly, "the time has come when we must do our duty and, as you Americans say, bite the bullet..."
Fraser struck him unconscious.
"What a jerk!" he exclaimed.
Ray and Fraser ran from the room, turned left and up a flight of stairs that led to the roof. Once on the roof, Fraser ran to the edge. He looked about and made calculated motions with is hands.
"Ray, I think we can jump escaping only major injury."
Ray looked down. They were at least ten floors up and the building across from them was precariously distanced.
"Are you nuts? The only reason why Pierce Brosnan survived that airplane thing is because he had a stuntman do it. We are not stuntmen! We jump, we die. And no Inuit saying will make us live. Capisce?"
"Ray," Fraser gently countered, "let me stress the point. If we are captured, we face all manner of tortures and degradations to force us to comply to our captor's will. They may even kill Elaine."
"Let them kill Elaine!" Ray exclaimed.
"Oh, Ray, you don't mean that. We'll just leap, scrape ourselves from the pavement and walk away."
"You make it sound so easy," Ray complained.
A screaming mad blond man burst onto the roof firing his gun blindly at the two spies. Fraser dove forward, twirling in midair and landed uncomfortably on the roof of the other building. Ray seemed rather reluctant. Hiding behind an air conditioning duct, he cocked his semiautomatic and peered cautiously behind the duct. He hopped out and fired. The volley of bullets continued. Ray ducted once more and reloaded, unaware that the man was edging nearer. The man pointed the gun at Ray and Ray, his finger still on the trigger, recoiled into midair shooting as he went down. His back thudded against the roof of the building. When he looked up, Fraser, arms behind his head, was being held captive by an irate Swede.
Ray and Fraser were in what they had visualized to be a typical James Bond/Blother scenario. An expansive stainless steel levelled room decked on the sides by solitary palm trees and state-of-the-art computers lay thousands of feet under water. The dynamic duo were bound by sturdy ropes to large steel pillars. Unbeknownst to them, the pillars stood above a hidden vat of corrosive acid. Voracious piranhas swam in a pond not far by. Fraser, in typical survivalist fashion, tested the strength of his ropes and scrutinized every aorta of the room. Ray, on the other hand, seemed a little more defeatist.
"Fraser, I think the phrase we are looking for in this situation rhymes with clucking bell'."
"Oh, come now, Ray. How about Castle Downie'?"
Ray spun his head to Fraser.
"What kind of talk is that?"
"Ray, Castle Downie' is my clan battle cry. It connotes the struggle in the face of adversity."
"Does it work?"
"Well," Fraser fumbled, "it didn't work for Simon Fraser who fought beside William Wallace. He was drawn and quartered. But his widow filed for damages and managed to get the English to clean the blood stains from his Sunday kilt. It just goes to show you what you can achieve if you stand up to the Free Masons."
Ray did not seem reassured or comforted by this.
"Come, come boys," said a mysterious voice from behind the wall on the east wing, "let us not talk about the past but of the future. A future that does not include you."
A tall, leggy blond woman stepped out from behind the wall petting a large, fluffy white cat. Fraser gawked at this woman.
"Alicia!" he exclaimed. "But how did you escape?"
Alicia Tornkvist laughed in her throaty Scandinavian way.
"I, too, know the secret of escaping from a fiery petroleum tanker. You were very stupid to try to kill me. Now, I shall succeed in killing you."
"So you are Gloria Diamond," Fraser concluded, "you hired yourself as a mercenary then moved into arms dealing. You don't care who you kill."
Alicia slapped Fraser in the face.
"You mustn't be cheeky to someone who can have you killed in the most painful of ways," she advised. "You ruined my life and now I will take your's."
"How did you know he was after you?" Ray asked.
"At first, I didn't," Alicia admitted, "but you would be surprised what a little persuasion' could do. It worked for Ortega."
"You tortured him," Fraser declared.
Alicia clucked.
"No, no, I prefer to call it-creative information extraction."
"Call it what you will," Fraser retorted, "but you are a sadistic criminal and I am going to bring you in one way or another."
Alicia shook her head and turned to Ray.
"Will you please explain to him that his mission is useless. Get a grip, already."
Ray turned to Fraser.
"Resistance is futile," he mocked.
Alicia laughed.
"I'm afraid now is time when you will have to die. Below your feet is a vat of extremely corrosive acid. You will die horribly, horribly."
She neared closer to them. She gripped Ray by the chin.
"I will miss you," Alicia kissed Ray forcibly.
"And I certainly will miss you," she breathed as she seized Fraser's head and planted a kiss on his lips that could only be likened to a suction cup on a pane of glass. She pulled away leaving a long trail of gooey spittle behind.
"Say hello to Ron for me," she cried and pushed a button. The platform slowly began to sink.
"Not so fast!"
Hatter, the CSIS operative extraordinaire, jumped out and pressed another button that stopped the platform from lowering into the steaming vat of acid.
"You swine!" Alicia screamed.
"I'll have you know that Miss Gloria Diamond/Alicia Tornkvist isn't what she appears to be. This isn't the Alicia Tornkvist you arrested years ago, Constable Fraser. Oh no-the Alicia Tornkvist you knew is still in the maximum security prison in London, England. Instead, this woman is none other than Alfe Tornkvist, the psychopathic transsexual brother of Alicia!"
(Play Boy George's Crying Game here)
Fraser and Ray retched, spat, groaned and desperately tried to clean their mouths out.
Hatter shrugged at them.
"Come on, guys, it's not like you kissed her or anything. You're finished, Alicia, or should I say, Alfe? Your parade of terror has ended. Why? Because when I joined CSIS, I swore to myself that I would serve my fair country and protect the lives of innocent people..."
Alicia took out a gun and shot Hatter.
"What a complete prat!"
"That's right," Ray scoffed, "when the truth is too painful, just kill somebody."
"What do you know about pain?" Alicia asked rhetorically as she gripped the gun.
"I suppose having Senor Sausage chopped off would do the trick!" Ray snapped back.
Alicia fired the gun aimlessly.
"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" she screamed. "You ruined my life! You ruined my sister's life! And now, I will kill you!"
"You and twenty million others!" Ray continued to bait Alicia. "You master criminals are all the same-you like hearing the sound of your own voice as you make idle threats."
"Nobody asked you, guido!" Alicia cried causing Ray to go pale at the audacity of the insult.
"You will be stopped," Fraser proclaimed, "I am not sure by whom, but you will be apprehended."
"Tell it to someone who cares!"
Just as Alicia was about to kill them, a comely black woman, known in the spy world as Taffy Saltwater, leapt from a beam onto the platform and charged at Alicia. The two engaged in a desperate struggle to defeat the other. Alicia and Elaine seized each other by the hair.
"Wait!" Ray cried. "This can't happen. I don't care what crap I get into for this, I'm going to say it anyway. I don't care what fancy-schmancy weirdo operation you have, you're still a man and men aren't supposed to hit women. That means you can't hit Elaine."
"But Ray," Fraser whispered, "if men aren't supposed to hit women, then we can't hit Alicia. She does seem to be a woman."
"Then we need a neutral party in this," Ray suggested, "hhmmmm?"
From the depths of obscurity rose Diefenbaker. Pouncing on Alicia, he put an end to the evil doings of the Scandinavian malefactor.
McRae and a host of others charged in and started to confiscate all that they saw. Elaine untied Ray and Fraser.
"Boy, are we glad to see you," Ray admitted.
"So are you saying that I am a useful member of this crew?" Elaine asked.
"No I'm not."
"Elaine, how did you find us?"
"At the club, I noticed that I was being watched. That mastermind Swedish assassin tried to give me the old vodka martini shuffle'. Well, I wasn't born yesterday so I fled to the ladies' room and escaped from the window. Hatter said you two had been kidnapped so we followed you. The submarine ride was most exhilarating."
"Sterling work!" Fraser commended Elaine. Fraser stared at Diefenbaker. "And you, how did you get here?"
"Woof!"
"You recognized the classic Mountie distress signal."
"Woof!"
"You followed the man in green."
"You realized that Gloria Diamond could only be Alicia Tornkvist. Brilliant deduction!"
"Woof!"
"You subdued the guards and made your way here. Excellent, Diefenbaker. Well done!"
McRae approached Fraser.
"Brilliant piece of gumshoeing, Fraser. I'll see that you get commended for this. This looks like your line of work."
Fraser looked around him. CSIS men were coveting what was in the underwater complex.
"Wow!" said one man with a florescent tube. "Star Wars toys for the kids."
"This little Chanel number will fit my wife."
"This gizmo would make a nice little garage door opener."
Fraser frowned on this.
"No, thank you," Fraser said pertly, "there is too much corruption in this organization. I'm leaving."
Ray gaped at Fraser.
"Benny, you're giving up quite an opportunity. The danger, the excitement. Come on."
"No," Fraser replied, "the quiet life without temptation is the life for me. Even if it does mean that I have to work with Thatcher."
"Have it your way," Ray shrugged. He eyed Elaine.
"We have to end this epic of spy proportions the James Bond way. I believe there is a solitary yacht waiting for a dashing spy and his girl...hhmmm?"
Elaine laughed wryly.
"Would I be that girl?"
"Could be?" Ray suggested. "One spy here is a lucky spy. The night is young."
"It is only 7 PM, " Fraser pointed out, "I could stay up till ten."
"Champagne," Ray smiled.
"Sparkling fruit juice," Fraser offered.
"Dancing in the moonlight."
"Stamp collecting."
"If I could only choose a brave and dashing spy, I would pick..."
Ray and Fraser held their breath.
"Diefenbaker. Ciao."
Diefenbaker and Elaine sauntered away into the tropical night.
"She's teasing me," Ray said, "she'll be back."
"No," Fraser shook his head, "Diefenbaker has that affect on people. We're on our own I'm afraid."
"Then let's get a vodka martini, shaken, not stirred."
Fraser shook his head.
"Ray, it's been a long night. I don't think it would be wise to ingest spirits."
"Benny, we've shuffled around, viciously attacked by Germanic people, kissed by a man (quiver, quiver) and shafted by a dame in a very becoming dress. We need a drink."
"I suppose I could have one sparkling fruit juice..." Fraser mused.
Canera del Mieno was rife with exotic bars in which one who engaged in the fine art of espionage could drown their sorrows. Ray and Fraser chose an out- of- the- way bar near the docks. It was a smoked-filled, rather depressing place inhabited by the sorriest and most potentially violent galoots. They pulled up to the bar.
"I'll have a Scotch and my friend here will have a vodka martini, shaken, not stirred."
"Ray," Fraser gasped, "I do not think that is wise..."
"Just drink it," Ray ordered as Fraser was presented the drink.
Fraser meekly pulled the glass to his lips and drank.
(Two minutes later)
"You're in my heart, you're in my soul..." Fraser loudly slurred.
Ray covered his head. He could not believe that Fraser would be drunk that quickly.
"Benny," Ray whispered, "you're drunk.'
"No, I'm not!" Fraser exclaimed. "If I were drunk, could I do this?" He howled. "Ya see?"
Ray grabbed his arm.
"Let's go, Benny."
Fraser pulled back.
"I'm not Benny. I'm Butch, Butch Fraser. Anybody want to fight?"
Several large men stood from their bar stools. The sound of broken glass could be heard. Ray gaped, sweating profusely over the prospect of having his nose broken.
"Benny, we are not fighting anyone. We are going home."
"Nonsense, Ray! Where is your fighting spirit? Just remember the old Irish adage-'If you can pick it up, throw it'."
"Do I look Irish to you, Benny? I don't want to get killed."
Fraser ignored Ray, walked over to a surly buffed man and shoved him.
"You, Chester, I'm going to take you down."
The man seemed welcome for the challenge.
"I'll pound you and your friend into the dirt," he sniped.
Ray desperately wanted to avoid confrontation.
"Look, pal, we are both hemophiliacs and we squeal like girls. So just leave us alone, alright?"
The man laughed.
"You know what they say, guys-Every time an angel sings, a guido gets his wings."
That had settled it for Ray. Still retaining his Good Fellas cool, Ray straightened himself out, let out a slight laugh and then punched the man with all the force he could muster. The man flew back onto a table. Everyone in the bar began to fight.
"And now this," Fraser commented" is more like it."
Fraser spoke too soon. A well-thrown chair knocked him in the head. Ray, though he did not yet realize it, was on his own.
Fraser staggered to the hotel supported by a very bruised Ray. Once in the suite, Elaine gawked at them.
"What happened to you guys?"
"We were in a fight that Fraser started," Ray explained.
"On the contrary, Ray, you threw the first punch."
"Well, maybe you shouldn't have told the guy we were going to kick his butt."
Elaine walked over to Fraser and placed him steadily on the armchair.
"Whew! He is drunk!"
"Nonsense, my good Elaine," Fraser retorted, "I've had but a sip."
"He's telling you the truth," Ray supplied.
"I love you guys, I mean, I really, really love you guys," Fraser slurred and passed out.
Elaine looked fondly on the sleeping Mountie.
"Oh, Ray, we'll never have this chance again," she uttered softly.
"You're right," Ray concurred and carried Fraser away.
Slumped on the Baroque chair in the lobby, Fraser snoozed peacefully, fitfully wrapping the silk Chinese nightgown around his strapping form, mussing the blond wig and smearing the bright pink lipstick all over his face. Ray and Elaine slipped quietly away giggling like the children that raced down the hill in the snow. Having fled south for the winter, they wanted to return to wait for the summer and the rain that came with it.
THE END