It was to their great advantage that Fox and Fedorov were police officers. They only spent four and a half hours answering questions to the American FBI about the events on the flight. They were released at about six in the morning, local time. They flagged a taxi in front of La Guardia and took it into the city, where they would meet up with the New York office of Interpol.
"Howyadoin, I'm Agent Barnes, this is McCoy." The coyote shook Fox's hand and jerked his head towards a skunk with a moustache standing next to him.
"Howdy do." Handshakes were exchanged. Fedorov couldn't take his eyes away from New York. The tall, polarized-glass building wasn't the largest in the city, but from the floor and wall they were near, Matkovich had a panoramic view of the city. Two massive towers stood out of the skyline, one with a large antenna on top. The sun, from their point of view, was just above the water, shining between the twin towers.
"Amazing," he sighed.
"I'm Carmelita Fox, he's Matkovich Fedorov." The two Americans raised eyebrows.
"He's Russian?" McCoy asked, pointing from his hip. Apparently, the Cold War was still alive, even in the States. "Nobody said anything about a Red."
"He's an officer of Interpol, Agent McCoy," Fox said in a blistering tone. McCoy raised his hands defensively.
"That's just dandy. Just 'long as he remembers he's a guest here." He raised his voice so Fedorov could hear. "Pretty impressive, isn't it?" Fedorov nodded slowly.
"Alright," Barnes rubbed his hands together "let's get you two ladies a car and directions." McCoy and Barnes led Fox and Fedorov into an office where they were given a wad of various papers, all bundled together with a road map of the northeast United States. Barnes made sure to hand it to Fox, lest the Russian get his hands on a detailed map of his city.
"You're going to want to use the Lincoln Tunnel," McCoy advised as they entered the underground garage. "It's the fastest way out of the city right now. Just remember, we drive on the right side of the road."
"She's Italian, John, not English," Barnes growled.
"Actually," Fox said, waiting for one of the men to unlock the official vehicle sub-garage gate, "I'm Spanish."
"Oh," the Americans said in unison. McCoy scratched his chin. "There's a difference?"
Fedorov couldn't stop pressing his face against the glass in an attempt to look up at the buildings towering overhead. Fox was hunched over the wheel, trying to navigate through a sea of yellow taxis in an attempt to get their black Lincoln into the correct lane.
"Damn it! Move!" she leaned on the horn when the car in front couldn't decide to go right or left.
"All my life," Fedorov mused, "I'd heard of this city. Stories, mostly. I remember when I first joined the Soviet Intelligence. Only the best of the best were sent as far as New York."
"You ever been to the United States--- MOVE! Go!" Carmelita shook her fist at another vehicle.
"No. I never thought I would come here, either."
"Like it?"
"It's—different than what I expected." Fedorov's mental image of New York City was limited to what he'd heard as a child. Al Capone was in charge (even though, before he was arrested for tax evasion, he was located in Chicago), and constantly battled it out with rival mobsters over bootleg alcohol. He pictured Tommy-gun toting gangsters on every street corner, and, once you got out of the city, endless miles of desert where the cowboys like John Wayne would roam with the antelope and buffalo. He was just discovering the sunroof when everything went dark. Orange lights flew by outside the car, and a distinct echo formed. They were in a tunnel. That's odd—there weren't any mountains when he looked around. The tunnel went down, down, down, and finally leveled out.
"Amazing," he sighed again. There was a line in the tile walls of the tunnel marking the state's boundary.
"What did that say?" Fox asked, not daring to take her eyes off the road for a second.
"New York and New Jimmy, I think."
"Jersey. Alright, good." Fedorov wondered how these Americans came up with such strange names for their regions. After all, what's a Jersey? Where's the old one? Before he could continue questioning the logic behind each state's name, Fedorov was blinded by sunlight again. He made a note to turn around and look where the tunnel had gone. They had driven under the river. For the third time in an hour,
"Amazing."
"I take it you're impressed with America, then," Fox commented, the quiet, comfortable interior of the car making conversation very easy to hear.
"No," Fedorov lied, maintaining his hard nationalistic shell. "It's okay."
"You should see Washington DC," Fox suggested casually. Fedorov's ears twisted themselves to make sure they caught the word correctly. Washington DC, the forbidden zone. It would take years to see the country and to get to know his former enemy.
Fox managed to keep herself and her passenger alive to reach exit thirty-seven. She turned on the blinker and glided down the off-ramp. Fedorov squinted at the map and its cobweb of streets, finally deciding on the proper route.
"Turn left here, then right."
"Keys, keys, keys," Winston said to himself. He patted down the pockets of his brown tweed jacket, and then slapped himself on the forehead when he remembered they were still in his sock drawer. He adjusted his glasses and probed into the neatly balled and placed socks, finding his keys tucked against the right wall of the drawer. The doorbell rang. "Oh, nuts." He was running late already.
"Winston Tortoise?" the fox asked, showing her French-looking badge. Winston nodded slowly. "I'm Carmelita Fox, this is Agent Fedorov, Interpol. We're here to ask a few questions of you. Do you have a few minutes?" Not that he actually had a few minutes, he nodded. In a few moments' time, he had Fox and Fedorov sitting at his kitchen table as he offered them coffee.
"No, thanks," Fox said, gesturing to the mug. "I'm still on GMT. It's about three-thirty in the morning for me. Besides, I had enough on the flight over he--" She yawned, unable to suppress it any longer. "Perhaps I will have some." Fedorov looked down into his coffee, black, as he liked it, and took a sip. Weak. America wasn't perfect.
"So, what was it you wanted to ask me about?" Winston asked in his high, nasally voice.
"We need to know about your brother, Bentley," Fox began. Fedorov put down his coffee and found his pen and paper. Winston rolled his shoulders and averted his eyes, searching for an answer.
"Well," he said, drawing out the word to a full five seconds. "We don't keep in touch," he lied.
"That's because of his profession, isn't it?" Fox asked, slowly drumming her fingers on her mug. "He works with an international thief; he's a criminal."
"That's part of it," he said. It was the entire reason he chose to distance himself from his brother, even going so far as to move to another continent. It was the fact that it was his only family, however, that kept them connected.
"You must have a mailing address, a letter from him, something, right?" Fox lowered her head slightly while keeping her eyes locked on Winston's thick glasses. Winston looked at the police officer for a moment, was about to say something, but didn't. "Winston," Fox said in her best impression of a mothering tone, "protecting a wanted criminal is a crime in itself." The tortoise's eyebrows lifted in the middle and dropped on the outside, along with his shoulders.
"I-" he hesistated for a moment, "I'll be right back." He slowly shuffled into the next room, and returned with an envelope, still sealed at the top. The return address was the house they were in, but the destination---
"Paris," Fox read slowly.
Fox kept the gas pedal to the floor nearly the entire drive north back into the city. Fedorov hadn't ever gone that fast in a car before. Russian-built cars can't go that fast, and Russian roads weren't built well enough to support a vehicle traveling at that speed. She fish-tailed the car to a stop in front of La Guardia's international flight terminal, and rushed out of the car, using her cellular phone for the fifth time since she'd bought it.
"Paris!" she shouted. "No, we're going to Paris!" She pulled the large brown phone away from her ear and choked it, mashing the OFF button with her thumbs. Fedorov stood at minimum safe distance, looking at the car.
"Uh, what going are we this do?" he asked, pointing.
"Leave it! They'll figure something out!" Fox rushed inside, leaving Fedorov to wonder who 'they' were. He looked up to the sky and raised an eyebrow.
"You've paired me with a madwoman!" he cursed at the sun. He went into a jog to follow the inspector as she tore through the terminal for the first flight she could find bound for Paris with an empty seat. He could have sworn he heard someone comment, but wasn't sure.
"That chick needs a boyfriend," an American said, bag in tow.
"Thinking like me, yes?" Fedorov asked as he rushed by. He made it through security and was about to board the second plane in ten hours when he recognized someone in handcuffs, being led away by several FBI agents in dark blue jackets with yellow letters on the back. He couldn't help himself.
"Get you damn hands off me!" Christopher shouted, struggling against the bear's grip. His nose still bled behind the bandages, and a few pain-killers had dulled the sting. "You have no right to arrest me! We were justified in our actions!" Fedorov intercepted the two federal officers.
"Good morning," Matkovich said, holding out his hand. The St. Bernard squinted through his sunglasses.
"Fedorov, right?" he asked, taking the wolf's paw in his own. "You heading home so quick?"
"Da." He shrugged. "America is nice, but it's no Russia. You have nothing to drink that's strong enough to be worthwhile."
"Well, shoot," the bear scoffed in a distinctly different accent, "You aught'a come by doon still where mah paw makes a WHEE-KID moonshine, boy! Whoo, I'll tell you what!" Fedorov was left staring at the bear, baffled. Trying his best to look like he understood, he nodded.
"Da."
"Moonshine. It's real strong stuff. It can kill an ox," the St. Bernard explained. Fedorov nodded. Matkovich was talking about coffee, and decided to change the subject.
"This is the one that try-ed to rape my partner, no?" he asked, leering at the mouse, who shrank when he saw Fedorov. "May I?" he asked politely. The two officers looked about.
"Yeah, sure," the Bernard said, picking Chris up by his shoulder to make him stand straighter. The bear did the same, looking away. Fedorov pulled his sleeve up, lest it get any stains on it. He planted his fist firmly just below the mouse's sternum, pleased at the result. Chris attempted to double over, but his two escorts held him up, to stave off any suspicions. Fedorov clamped his hand around the mouse's shoulder and squeezed as he spoke into his ear.
"In Mother Russia," he said in his most threatening voice, "the women rape you!" He let go and straightened his clothes. "Spasibo," he said, nodding to the two officers.
"No problem, bud. Come back anytime." They carried Chris off, his feet dragging against the floor.
"You seem happy. What did I miss?" Fox asked from her coach-class seat. Fedorov was grinning.
A/N: I'd just like to give props to Tom Clancy.