"Sir? Sir?" She asked, delicately shaking him awake. The wolf opened his eyes, and his gray pupils constricted with the sudden presence of light.
"Sir, welcome to Paris."
Fedorov stepped off the train, breathing in the crisp morning air. Dawn in Paris seemed so much nicer than in the stale atmosphere of St. Petersburg. Matkovich flagged a cab, and ordered the driver to head for the 14th police precinct's headquarter building. The driver took advantage of Fedorov's obvious foreign origin, and took a few extra turns to push the fare up a couple of Euros.
"Detective Fox?" the floor secretary asked through the clouded-glass door.
"Yes?" she asked coldly from the large window behind her desk. She turned around, expecting the slender mouse to be standing there with a clipboard. Instead, a blue-haired husky stood a full six-three.
"Detective Carmelita Fox?" he asked in a heavy Russian accent. Without waiting for a reply, he extended his hand,
"My name is Lieutenant Matkovich Fedorov," he said. Carmelita hesitated for a moment, then shook the wolf's paw. She motioned for her guest to have a seat, simultaneously signaling for the secretary to leave. When the door was closed, Carmelita quickly procured a bottle of English hard liquor, and poured herself a small glass. Holding it in her left hand, she leaned back in her leather chair, and offered the drink to Fedorov. Fedorov dismissed, tersely explaining that his father was a slave to the bottle, and he had no wishes to follow him.
"So, what brings you to our time zone, Lieutenant?"
"I have possible information on the criminals responsible for yesterday's robbery." Fedorov placed a thin briefcase on Fox's desk. Fox took the case, opened it, and leafed through the translations, along with their original Russian counterparts. Fuzzy pictures of several gray-clad terrorists filled an entire file. Fox held up a picture of the raccoon.
"This is number-"
"One. Yes, We know." Fedorov interrupted. "They've been holding up banks in Russia for over three years. We have quite a file on them."
"Wait a second, are these photos of the perp's?" Fox asked, holding up several photos of men in sunglasses, talking about obviously shady business around a BMW.
"Yes, and this one is of the one we have in custody," Fedorov said, fishing out a single mugshot of the cluttered case.
"You arrested one? When? How? Who is he?" Carmelita asked, grabbing the photo out of Matkovich's paw.
Fedorov explained, through what he said and what he didn't say, that the wolfhound was named Ian O'Connely. He had been involved in an automobile accident, and was arrested during his recovery, after positive identification from the then-worthwhile Moscow police. He proved to be rather useful, and he explained, at some length, their operations, expecting a deal for a quick release from prison, if any time at all. He found out there was no such deal in Soviet Russia. When the union collapsed, O'Connely had somehow bribed his way out of custody, and after only spending two months in police custody, not to be seen until his body was found floating in Rotterdam Harbor, Holland, exactly one month later. He died from acute neurological trauma, caused by a 9mm bullet. The American mobsters would call it "being whacked," presumably for talking while under police custody.
Fedorov explained that they were IRA, or Irish Republican Army, and were seeking funds for their war against the Protestant North Ireland. They would keep what they needed, and send the rest of any stolen funds back to Ireland, to be used to make car bombs, buy rifles, and pay soldiers. They had killed over three dozen police officers in Russia, and now seven in France. Although the IRA disliked dirty money, times were changing and wallets were thin.
"Oh, we have to get these guys," Sly said, listening in on the conversation though Bentley's computer. The small microphone was working just as Bentley had planned it to.
Number "One" sat uncomfortably in a booth in one of Paris's many upscale dance clubs. He knew, full and well, that there was enough money going though that room to fully fund his next operation. It didn't take someone as keenly observant as Else to figure this out, either. The waiters wore suits more expensive than his own, Else observed. His silver ring tapped gently against his glass of rum as he nervously awaited "Marvin." As the Irishman watched the gyrating mob on the dance floor, two people stood behind a two-way mirror, looking down upon the guests.
"What's our cut?" The chocolate lab asked.
"Fifty," was the terse reply from the greyhound.
"Hmm, nice. It'll go well towards Sapphire."
"Yes. Just make sure none of it disappears," the greyhound said incisively, turning his head to the lab. The large brown-black dog did not return the look, instead walking away from the greyhound, picking up his charcoal-brown suit jacket as he left.
Else took a sip from his now-warm drink just as "Marvin" sat down in the seat across from him.
"Isn't next week St. Patrick's Day?" Marvin asked casually as a blue envelope was passed across the table. Else snickered into his glass.
"I guess it is," he said, taking another sip. Marvin peeked into the envelope. There was a slip of paper and a train station locker key. The chocolate lab nodded, and took his leave of the booth. It hurt Else to see that kind of money go, but without their help, how could have the heist have been successful?
Marvin passed the envelope to the greyhound.
"It's in there. Locker forty-seven." The greyhound looked at the paper, then passed it back to Marvin.
"Go get it." The greyhound turned and walked into a private room.