Heart of a Russian Bear Dog

by M. L. Buchman

  Carlton blinked at him.

  “I was in counterfeiting before I hit the Uniformed Division. One operation went down ugly. I had to take out two men and a woman. You’ll get the shakes later. Don’t worry. It’s normal.”

  “And you decided UD would be less dangerous?” Carlton was most of the way back. Took his hands off his weapon.

  “The Service decided that if I could do that, I belonged in Protection. That was a headache I didn’t want, so I managed to get on a dog team. And once I met Valentin…” he shrugged.

  Carlton nodded again, then spun around and spotted Ripper struggling to his feet. Carlton knelt and dragged his dog against his chest.

  Alex knelt with him. Carlton’s eyes were now focused…and surprisingly close to tears as he embraced Ripper.

  Carlton scanned around. He had to clear his throat again before he could speak, “So, what’ve we got?”

  Alex just held up the small spray bottle in the clear plastic bag.

  To his credit, it didn’t take him but a second before he froze exactly as Alex had.

  “Yeah, I know. It’s your detail. Call it in.”

  While Carlton was calling in a full team: agents, security, an ambulance, and a full hazmat team, Alex doublechecked Ripper.

  The dog had survived the human-sized jolt of electricity, but appeared otherwise unhurt. He’d wager the poor animal had a hell of a headache. At least he’d never touched the poisoner.

  Alex looked again at Valentin who appeared very frustrated at not being allowed to go to Tanya. There still could be poison on his fur.

  “Carlton, tell them to bring dog-grooming clippers, too. Big ones.”

  21

  The Rare Book Room at the Library of Congress wasn’t what she’d expected.

  Tanya had assumed it was the central room that sat beneath the great copper dome of the Thomas Jefferson Building with its circular reading desks arranged like a giant bullseye around the librarian’s central desk, multi-story mezzanines, and giant statuary of the Muses. It was always the room they showed in movies and it seemed very special.

  Instead, Alex led her through that room and up a flight of stairs.

  Even after two days he still had a slight limp from a knee he’d twisted while taking the brunt of their fall.

  She shivered again at how close it had been.

  Novichok nerve agent. A single spray to her face and she’d be dead by now. That tiny bottle would be enough to kill hundreds.

  Though Russia had denied any involvement, the three men’s scorpion tattoos marked them as 25th Special Forces Brigade Spetsnaz. The surviving soldiers would probably never crack, but the CIA had whisked them away and she didn’t envy their future.

  President Zachary Thomas had invited the Russian ambassador to the signing of her treaty—despite it being between the US, Turkey, and Ukraine.

  And she’d been just close enough to hear the President whisper to him, “Don’t even think about asking for prisoner return or we might see how you like being sprayed with that shit. Tell your FSB that Moscow itself will deeply regret it the next time they bring a nerve agent into my country or attempt a murder on my soil.” He had paused for a long moment, then continued. “We will consider it a declaration of war.”

  It had taken her by surprise, until she understood that the President knew exactly who and who couldn’t overhear his threat. So had the Russian ambassador who had blanched white. He might hate her more now, but it was with good reason. The move had poisoned the Russian-American relationship even further as assuredly as if the Novichok had indeed been sprayed.

  Through the main part of the Library of Congress, Alex led her up the head of the stairs and stepped through simple wooden double doors. On the other side was a vast space. Not brilliantly lit by sunlight like the Main Reading Room. Instead, the wide space was dim, without being dark. A crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling seemed to be the only adornment to the white walls framed by thick trimwork and accented by dark red carpet. The reading tables were simple wooden affairs and the chairs no fancier.

  It was as if the designer had said, “In the Rare Book Room, it is the only the books that matter.”

  Some books were on display, but most, she knew were kept in vaults below.

  They were guided to a table where a small book nestled in a v-shaped plexiglass form. It was open to the page Alex had requested. A librarian wearing white gloves stood nearby to turn to any other pages they requested.

  “How rare is this thing?” Alex whispered.

  The librarian cleared her throat gently. “Just last year, a copy in similar condition sold for five hundred and eighty-thousand dollars.”

  Tanya tucked her hands into her back pockets to make sure she resisted any urge to reach out and touch it.

  “Valentin,” Alex addressed his dog sitting next to them. “Stop shedding.” It was a funny joke, just barely.

  “Poor Valentin,” Tanya whispered. This room was definitely a place of whispers.

  His dog had been fully shaved right there on the Library of Congress steps by two men in full bio-hazard suits. Subsequent tests showed that some of his fur had indeed been exposed to the Novichok. Probably not a lethal dose if she’d touched him, but she might have become very, very sick. His thick fur had protected him. Not anymore. Until he regrew his heavy double-layer coat, he only looked large instead of bear huge.

  It had been while Alex was squatting in front of Valentin and telling him what a good boy he was while being clipped, that she’d asked the question.

  “How did they know I’d be at here at this exact time?”

  Both Alex and Carlton had turned slowly to look at her, then at each other. Finally, all three of them had turned to look west to where the Ukrainian embassy stood. Tanya had followed her own agenda except on two occasions. Her original departure from the embassy, and her trip to the library of Congress.

  Ambassador Tomas Khomenko had indeed been a leftover from the Soviet era. In fact, it seemed that he’d been working with the new Russian Federation for most of his career. Perhaps even had a role in the success of the annexation of Crimea. After she’d alerted her father and they’d sent internal security to take him, Tomas Khomenko had shot himself.

  Just this morning, the Ukrainian President had called her—thankfully not a video chat as she’d still been in Alex’s bed when she took the call. He partly wanted to congratulate her on the signing of the treaty, but also to offer her the position of Ambassador to the United States.

  There hadn’t even been a moment to doubt. From Washington, DC, she’d have exceptional access to all of the political connections she would need, both foreign and American.

  And there was another reason.

  The moment she’d hung up the call, she’d thrown herself at Alex. She’d have to figure out how to tell Father and the President about him later.

  “Getting shaved. Hell of a birthday present,” Alex was still talking to Valentin much to the amusement of the patiently waiting rare-book librarian.

  “Birthday?”

  “Today is Saint Valentine’s Day. That’s his birthday. He’s having steak tonight but no candles—he eats those. Crayons too. He has this thing for wax.”

  “I’ll make sure to remember that.”

  At Alex’s happy smile that there’d be a reason for her to remember it in the future, Tanya slipped her hand into his.

  “Saint Valenteen’s Day,” she whispered after kissing him lightly. “Do you think he will mind sharing his day with us, Mishka?”

  Alex tightened his clasp on her hand and rested his other on Valentin’s head.

  “I don’t think your Little Bear or our Russian bear dog will mind at all, Ms. Tatyana Larina.”

  She couldn’t find it in herself to put much heat into the scowl she aimed his way.

  “Ko mne, Drakonchyk.” Come, my Little Dragon.

  The three of them leaned forward and Alex read the exposed passage aloud:

  And
so Tatyana was her name,

  Nor by her sister's brilliancy

  Nor by her beauty she became

  The attraction of every eye.

  Off the Leash (excerpt)

  If you enjoyed that, you’ll love the novels!

  Off the Leash (excerpt)

  “You’re joking.”

  “Nope. That’s his name. And he’s yours now.”

  Sergeant Linda Hamlin wondered quite what it would take to wipe that smile off Lieutenant Jurgen’s face. A 120mm round from an M1A1 Abrams Main Battle Tank came to mind.

  The kennel master of the US Secret Service’s Canine Team was clearly a misogynistic jerk from the top of his polished head to the bottoms of his equally polished boots. She wondered if the shoelaces were polished as well.

  Then she looked over at the poor dog sitting hopefully on the concrete kennel floor. His stall had a dog bed three times his size and a water bowl deep enough for him to bathe in. No toys, because toys always came from the handler as a reward. He offered her a sad sigh and a liquid doggy gaze. The kennel even smelled wrong, more of sanitizer than dog. The walls seemed to echo with each bark down the long line of kennels housing the candidate hopefuls for the next addition to the Secret Service’s team.

  Thor—really?—was a brindle-colored mutt, part who-knew and part no-one-cared. He looked like a cross between an oversized, long-haired schnauzer and a dust mop that someone had spilled dark gray paint on. After mixing in streaks of tawny brown, they’d left one white paw just to make him all the more laughable.

  And of course Lieutenant Jerk Jurgen would assign Thor to the first woman on the USSS K-9 team.

  Unable to resist, she leaned over far enough to scruff the dog’s ears. He was the physical opposite of the sleek and powerful Malinois MWDs—military war dogs—that she’d been handling for the 75th Rangers for the last five years. They twitched with eagerness and nerves. A good MWD was seventy pounds of pure drive—every damn second of the day. If the mild-mannered Thor weighed thirty pounds, she’d be surprised. And he looked like a little girl’s best friend who should have a pink bow on his collar.

  Jurgen was clearly ex-Marine and would have no respect for the Army. Of course, having been in the Army’s Special Operations Forces, she knew better than to respect a Marine.

  “We won’t let any old swabbie bother us, will we?”

  Jurgen snarled—definitely Marine Corps. Swabbie was slang for a Navy sailor and a Marine always took offense at being lumped in with them no matter how much they belonged. Of course the swabbies took offense at having the Marines lumped with them. Too bad there weren’t any Navy around so that she could get two for the price of one. Jurgen wouldn’t be her boss, so appeasing him wasn’t high on her to-do list.

  At least she wouldn’t need any of the protective bite gear working with Thor. With his stature, he was an explosives detection dog without also being an attack one.

  “Where was he trained?” She stood back up to face the beast.

  “Private outfit in Montana—some place called Henderson’s Ranch. Didn’t make their MWD program,” his scoff said exactly what he thought the likelihood of any dog outfit in Montana being worthwhile. “They wanted us to try the little runt out.”

  She’d never heard of a training program in Montana. MWDs all came out of Lackland Air Force Base training. The Secret Service mostly trained their own and they all came from Vohne Liche Kennels in Indiana. Unless… Special Operations Forces dogs were trained by private contractors. She’d worked beside a Delta Force dog for a single month—he’d been incredible.

  “Is he trained in English or German?” Most American MWDs were trained in German so that there was no confusion in case a command word happened to be part of a spoken sentence. It also made it harder for any random person on the battlefield to shout something that would confuse the dog.

  “German according to his paperwork, but he won’t listen to me much in either language.”

  Might as well give the diminutive Thor a few basic tests. A snap of her fingers and a slap on her thigh had the dog dropping into a smart “heel” position. No need to call out Fuss—by my foot.

  “Pass auf!” Guard! She made a pistol with her thumb and forefinger and aimed it at Jurgen as she grabbed her forearm with her other hand—the military hand sign for enemy.

  The little dog snarled at Jurgen sharply enough to have him backing out of the kennel. “Goddamn it!”

  “Ruhig.” Quiet. Thor maintained his fierce posture but dropped the snarl.

  “Gute Hund.” Good dog, Linda countered the command.

  Thor looked up at her and wagged his tail happily. She tossed him a doggie treat, which he caught midair and crunched happily.

  She didn’t bother looking up at Jurgen as she knelt once more to check over the little dog. His scruffy fur was so soft that it tickled. Good strength in the jaw, enough to show he’d had bite training despite his size—perfect if she ever needed to take down a three-foot-tall terrorist. Legs said he was a jumper.

  “Take your time, Hamlin. I’ve got nothing else to do with the rest of my goddamn day except babysit you and this mutt.”

  “Is the course set?”

  “Sure. Take him out,” Jurgen’s snarl sounded almost as nasty as Thor’s before he stalked off.

  She stood and slapped a hand on her opposite shoulder.

  Thor sprang aloft as if he was attached to springs and she caught him easily. He’d cleared well over double his own height. Definitely trained…and far easier to catch than seventy pounds of hyperactive Malinois.

  She plopped him back down on the ground. On lead or off? She’d give him the benefit of the doubt and try off first to see what happened.

  Linda zipped up her brand-new USSS jacket against the cold and led the way out of the kennel into the hard sunlight of the January morning. Snow had brushed the higher hills around the USSS James J. Rowley Training Center—which this close to Washington, DC, wasn’t saying much—but was melting quickly. Scents wouldn’t carry as well on the cool air, making it more of a challenge for Thor to locate the explosives. She didn’t know where they were either. The course was a test for handler as well as dog.

  Jurgen would be up in the observer turret looking for any excuse to mark down his newest team. Perhaps teasing him about being just a Marine hadn’t been her best tactical choice. She sighed. At least she was consistent—she’d always been good at finding ways to piss people off before she could stop herself and consider the wisdom of doing so.

  This test was the culmination of a crazy three months, so she’d forgive herself this time—something she also wasn’t very good at.

  In October she’d been out of the Army and unsure what to do next. Tucked in the packet with her DD 214 honorable discharge form had been a flyer on career opportunities with the US Secret Service dog team: Be all your dog can be! No one else being released from Fort Benning that day had received any kind of a job flyer at all that she’d seen, so she kept quiet about it.

  She had to pass through DC on her way back to Vermont—her parent’s place. Burlington would work for, honestly, not very long at all, but she lacked anywhere else to go after a decade of service. So, she’d stopped off in DC to see what was up with that job flyer. Five interviews and three months to complete a standard six-month training course later—which was mostly a cakewalk after fighting with the US Rangers—she was on-board and this chill January day was her first chance with a dog. First chance to prove that she still had it. First chance to prove that she hadn’t made a mistake in deciding that she’d seen enough bloodshed and war zones for one lifetime and leaving the Army.

  The Start Here sign made it obvious where to begin, but she didn’t dare hesitate to take in her surroundings past a quick glimpse. Jurgen’s score would count a great deal toward where she and Thor were assigned in the future. Mostly likely on some field prep team, clearing the way for presidential visits.

  As usual, hindsight informed her that harassing the
lieutenant hadn’t been an optimal strategy. A hindsight that had served her equally poorly with regular Army commanders before she’d finally hooked up with the Rangers—kowtowing to officers had never been one of her strengths.

  Thankfully, the Special Operations Forces hadn’t given a damn about anything except performance and that she could always deliver, since the day she’d been named the team captain for both soccer and volleyball. She was never popular, but both teams had made all-state her last two years in school.

  The canine training course at James J. Rowley was a two-acre lot. A hard-packed path of tramped-down dirt led through the brown grass. It followed a predictable pattern from the gate to a junker car, over to tool shed, then a truck, and so on into a compressed version of an intersection in a small town. Beyond it ran an urban street of gray clapboard two- and three-story buildings and an eight-story office tower, all without windows. Clearly a playground for Secret Service training teams.

  Her target was the town, so she blocked the city street out of her mind. Focus on the problem: two roads, twenty storefronts, six houses, vehicles, pedestrians.

  It might look normal…normalish with its missing windows and no movement. It would be anything but. Stocked with fake IEDs, a bombmaker’s stash, suicide cars, weapons caches, and dozens of other traps, all waiting for her and Thor to find. He had to be sensitive to hundreds of scents and it was her job to guide him so that he didn’t miss the opportunity to find and evaluate each one.

  There would be easy scents, from fertilizer and diesel fuel used so destructively in the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing, to almost as obvious TNT to the very difficult to detect C-4 plastic explosive.

  Mannequins on the street carried grocery bags and briefcases. Some held fresh meat, a powerful smell demanding any dog’s attention, but would count as a false lead if they went for it. On the job, an explosives detection dog wasn’t supposed to care about anything except explosives. Other mannequins were wrapped in suicide vests loaded with Semtex or wearing knapsacks filled with package bombs made from Russian PVV-5A.