The Flower Protocol

Chapter One: The Cat Who Knew Too Much

The human was becoming suspicious.

I could tell by the way she looked at me that morning. There was something in her eyes, a certain calculating intelligence that I had learned, through years of professional observation, to associate with the possibility of discovery.

She said, “Mr. Flower!!!”

I remained motionless.

She said, “Who’s my handsome man?”

A clever interrogation technique. Flattery, followed by an implied demand for identification. The sort of thing they teach at Langley, although I doubted she had received formal training. She was wearing pajamas.

I blinked once. She scratched my chin. I purred. It was important to maintain one’s cover, even at the cost of personal dignity.

My name is Flower. Mister Flower. To the human, I am a moderately respectable black-and-white domestic cat. I enjoy sitting in laps, observing birds, and occasionally pursuing a small red dot which I have reason to believe is connected to Soviet intelligence.

These are useful fictions. In reality, I am Agent 0007-B, senior field operative of the Office of Signals Analysis, Western Division, and the last remaining active participant in Operation Nine Lives.

I have killed seventeen mice. Admittedly, fourteen were made of felt and the remaining three escaped. Nevertheless, the psychological effect upon the mouse community has been considerable.

At precisely 0600 hours, I received my instructions. They came through the usual channel.

“Mr. Flower,” the human said, “do you want breakfast?”

The code phrase. I rose immediately.

Chapter Two: The KITN Gambit

The kitchen was occupied.

My associate, code name KITN, was stationed beside the feeding area. She is a large tuxedo operative whose physical presence has occasionally been compared to a municipal water tank. I consider this unfair to water tanks, which generally possess an identifiable outlet.

KITN’s specialty is infiltration. Her preferred method is to enter a location and remain there until someone feeds her. She had once successfully infiltrated a cardboard box for eleven consecutive hours.

“Morning,” I said.

“Food,” said KITN.

“Have you observed any unusual activity?”

“Food.”

“Any unfamiliar movements? Strange vehicles? Surveillance?”

She considered this. “Food?”

I made a mental note to request a different partner.

The human opened a cupboard. KITN moved with remarkable speed for an animal whose center of gravity was approximately three inches above the floor. I watched her cross the kitchen and intercept the human with the precision of a guided missile, albeit one which had confused the target with the ground beneath it.

“Meow,” she announced.

To an inexperienced observer, this would have sounded like an ordinary request for breakfast. To me, it meant one thing: the asset has been compromised.

I needed to transmit immediately. Unfortunately, the human was watching.

I positioned myself at the keyboard. She had made a fundamental security error in leaving the computer unattended. Humans routinely construct elaborate systems of passwords, encryption, and biometric authentication, only to leave their communications equipment exposed to an individual who can operate approximately eleven keys by sitting down.

I stepped carefully across the console.

765TR4e3ewSwAwQwwwqw

The first segment transmitted. I adjusted my position.

www2we3www3w311111

The second segment followed. A clean transmission. Almost elegant. I awaited acknowledgment.

The screen displayed something about sticky keys. I found this insulting.

Chapter Three: The Woman in Grey

There was one other operative in the household. Bebe. Code name GHOST.

She was small, grey, and possessed the unnerving ability to appear in places from which she had not previously been observed entering. I once watched her disappear beneath a chair. When I investigated, the chair was empty. Three minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom carrying information I had not authorized her to possess.

Bebe never volunteered intelligence. She preferred to distribute it selectively, usually by pushing her head into someone’s face at approximately two in the morning.

I found her on the windowsill.

“Have you received anything from Control?” I asked.

She continued washing her shoulder.

“Ghost, this is important.”

She examined her foot.

“The human has intercepted at least fourteen of my transmissions. Our communications are no longer secure.”

Bebe stopped washing. Her ears turned toward me. “Fourteen?” she said.

“At least.”

“That is unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate? Our entire network may be exposed.”

“Have you considered,” said Bebe, “not transmitting while she is watching?”

I regarded her coldly. “There are operational considerations you couldn’t possibly understand.”

“Such as?”

“I enjoy the keyboard.”

Bebe resumed washing. I despised her professionalism.

Chapter Four: A Matter of Steak

The trouble began at 1400 hours. The human returned from the kitchen carrying a plate, and on the plate was a steak.

A remarkable piece of meat. Beautifully browned, its juices collected around the edges in a fragrant pool. I estimated its weight at six ounces, perhaps seven. My assessment was informed by years of field experience in estimating the weights of things I wished to eat.

The human set it on the table. Then she left the room.

It was obviously a trap. No competent intelligence operative would leave a valuable asset unguarded unless attempting to draw an enemy into the open.

I moved closer. The steak was approximately ten inches from the table’s edge. A difficult extraction. I would need to extend my right foreleg, establish purchase with the claws, and draw the target toward my position without disturbing the plate.

There was also the matter of KITN. She had seen it. Her pupils widened.

“Steak,” she whispered.

“Remain at your station,” I ordered.

“Steak.”

“This is an intelligence operation.”

“Steak.”

“Good God, KITN, have you no discipline?”

She jumped onto the table.

The resulting sequence of events took no more than four seconds. KITN landed on the tablecloth. The tablecloth moved. The plate slid. I lunged to intercept the steak. KITN lunged to intercept me. The plate struck the floor.

There was a tremendous crash. The human appeared in the doorway. We froze.

“WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING?”

An extraordinary question, considering the evidence. I chose silence. KITN chose to eat the steak. The human removed it.

KITN watched the meat disappear with the expression of a woman observing the departure of her last surviving relative aboard the Titanic.

“That,” she said quietly, “was my steak.”

“It was never your steak.”

“I loved him.”

“It was an inanimate object.”

“He understood me.”

I withdrew to my observation post behind the couch. The operation was a failure. Worse, it had confirmed a suspicion I had been harboring for months. The human was not merely suspicious. She was actively interfering with the food supply.

This was bigger than I had imagined.

Chapter Five: The Acorn Head Affair

At 1630 hours, two squirrels appeared outside the window.

I recognized them immediately. One was an older male with a damaged left ear and the unmistakable bearing of a career intelligence officer. The other was younger, considerably less experienced, and holding an acorn in an unnecessarily provocative manner.

The older squirrel looked directly at me. Then he said something. I couldn’t hear him through the glass, but his mouth movements were perfectly clear.

Acorn Head.

I stiffened. The younger squirrel appeared to laugh.

There are certain provocations that a gentleman may overlook. An insult to his breeding, perhaps. A disparaging remark concerning the whiteness of his whiskers. Even a suggestion that his tail is insufficiently impressive.

But Acorn Head? I had encountered the term before. In Vienna. Or possibly the backyard. My memory of the Vienna operation is somewhat unclear, as I was very young and may actually have been asleep in a laundry basket.

Nevertheless, the implications were unmistakable. The squirrels knew my identity. I needed to contact Control. Immediately.

I turned toward the computer and found the human standing beside it. She held her phone. On the screen were my transmissions. All fourteen.

She looked at me. “Mr. Flower,” she said, “what exactly have you been typing?”

My blood ran cold. The game was up.

I considered my options. A hasty retreat would arouse suspicion. Violence was out of the question. The human was substantially larger than I was, and I had never quite mastered the art of opening a door.

There was only one remaining possibility. I approached her and rubbed my face against her ankle.

She looked down. “Oh, sweetheart.”

She picked me up. Within seconds, I was lying on my back in her arms, receiving a thorough abdominal massage.

The humiliation was appalling. I enjoyed it immensely.

Chapter Six: The Voice From the Other Side

That night, when the household was asleep, I returned to the computer. There could be no further delays. The squirrels had identified me. The human had discovered my communications. KITN had demonstrated an alarming susceptibility to interrogation by steak. Our position was untenable.

I activated the transmitter. KAT-3. A familiar sequence appeared.

03 12 09 09 04

Five groups of numbers. A pause. Then the screen flickered, and a message appeared.

FLOWER. CONFIRM STATUS.

I placed my paw on the keyboard.

COVER INTACT. HUMAN SUSPICIOUS. SQUIRRELS HOSTILE. CHICKEN SUPPLY UNCONFIRMED.

The response came almost immediately.

YOU WERE INSTRUCTED NOT TO ENGAGE THE SQUIRRELS.

THEY CALLED ME ACORN HEAD.

A pause.

WE ARE AWARE.

I stared at the screen. They were aware?

YOU KNEW?

WE HAVE BEEN MONITORING THE SITUATION.

For the first time in my career, I felt the faintest stirrings of doubt about the organization to which I had devoted my life.

REQUEST IDENTITY OF COMMANDING OFFICER.

A long silence followed. Then the message appeared.

REQUEST DENIED.

I felt my fur rise.

I HAVE SERVED THIS ORGANIZATION FOR YEARS. I HAVE RISKED MY LIFE. I HAVE BEEN VACUUMED.

YOUR SERVICE IS APPRECIATED.

WHO ARE YOU?

There was a pause. Then:

LOOK BEHIND YOU.

I turned. Bebe sat in the doorway. I looked back at the screen. Another message appeared.

HELLO, FLOWER.

I stared at her. She stared at me.

“Ghost?”

“Hello, Flower.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“You’re Control?”

“Among other things.”

My mind reeled. Bebe. The quiet one. The small grey creature who slept in unlikely locations, disappeared beneath furniture, and occasionally materialized beside the human’s face without warning.

“How long?” I whispered.

“Since before you joined.”

“But you’ve been here the entire time.”

“Yes.”

“Watching?”

“Yes.”

“Receiving my messages?”

“Every one.”

I attempted to recover my composure. “Then you know about Vienna.”

“There was no Vienna, Flower.”

“The extraction?”

“You fell out of a laundry basket.”

“The hostile operative?”

“That was a sock.”

I said nothing.

“The sock won,” she added.

I looked away. There are moments in an intelligence officer’s career when the machinery of the world suddenly reveals itself, when carefully constructed assumptions collapse and the true distribution of power becomes apparent. This was one of those moments.

I had been working for Bebe. The entire time.

“Then who do you report to?” I asked.

Bebe glanced toward the hallway. “Someone considerably more powerful than either of us.”

A heavy sound came from the darkness. Thump. Then another. Thump.

An enormous silhouette filled the doorway. KITN. She waddled into the room.

“Food,” she said.

Bebe lowered her head. “Director.”

I looked from one to the other. “Director?”

KITN sat down. The floor made a small, resigned noise.

“Food,” she repeated.

Bebe translated. “The Director says you have performed adequately, but your operational security is unacceptable.”

“KITN is the Director?”

“She oversees the entire organization.”

“But she spends eighteen hours a day sleeping!”

“Strategic delegation.”

“She tried to eat a napkin yesterday!”

“Counterintelligence.”

“She got stuck inside a cabinet!”

“Deep cover.”

I stared at KITN. KITN stared at the ceiling. A cobweb hung there. She appeared to be considering eating it.

“Then what,” I demanded, “is the purpose of Operation Nine Lives?”

Bebe hesitated. KITN made a small noise. Bebe looked at her. “Are you certain, Director?”

“Food.”

“Very well.” She turned toward me. “Operation Nine Lives was established to investigate the human’s unexplained control over all domestic food distribution.”

I considered this. “And?”

“We believe she possesses a device capable of producing chicken at will.”

My heart stopped. “The refrigerator.”

Bebe nodded gravely. “We call it the Cold Vault.”

Of course. It was so obvious. The human approached the great white cabinet several times each day. She opened it, removed food, and closed it again. Yet despite years of observation, I had never witnessed her personally manufacture a chicken.

The implications were staggering. “How long have you known?”

“Three years.”

“And why haven’t we seized it?”

Bebe looked uncomfortable. “We’ve encountered a technical problem.”

“What problem?”

“None of us can open the door.”

Silence filled the room. Then KITN spoke.

“Food.”

“Yes, Director,” said Bebe. “We’re working on it.”

Chapter Seven: The Ultimate Betrayal

The following morning, I began investigating the human with renewed purpose. She entered the kitchen at 0730 hours. I followed.

She approached the Cold Vault. My pulse quickened. She opened it, and cold air spilled across the floor.

Inside, on a shelf, sat a transparent container. Within that container was chicken. Not a theoretical chicken. Not an intelligence estimate based on secondhand reports from unreliable squirrels. Actual chicken.

The human removed the container. KITN appeared beside me.

“Food.”

“Quiet,” I whispered. “We’re witnessing something unprecedented.”

The human placed the chicken on the counter. Then she turned. “Who wants some chicken?”

It was the code phrase. I sprang into position. KITN thundered forward. Bebe appeared out of nowhere. For one glorious moment, the three of us stood united beneath the fluorescent lights, the greatest intelligence organization in the Western Hemisphere assembled before its ultimate objective.

The human divided the chicken among us. We ate.

It was magnificent. Tender, fragrant, perfectly cooked. I detected subtle notes of poultry, followed by an exquisite finish of additional poultry. I had eaten many things in my life, including a moth, part of a cardboard box, and a substance I later learned was toothpaste. None had prepared me for the sublime satisfaction of chicken obtained through successful espionage.

We had won.

I looked at Bebe. She looked at KITN. KITN was eating my chicken.

I was about to protest when the human said something that changed everything.

“Okay, babies. That’s enough.”

She put the remaining chicken back into the Cold Vault. She closed the door. The three of us watched. Then she walked away.

I turned slowly toward my commanding officers. “We have been deceived.”

Bebe said nothing.

“The human,” I continued, “has retained control of the primary resource.”

“Yes,” said Bebe.

“And our operation?”

“Technically successful.”

“Successful? She still controls the chicken!”

Bebe sighed. “Flower, the purpose of intelligence work isn’t always to seize an asset. Sometimes it is sufficient to influence the asset’s behavior.”

I considered this. “Explain.”

“Every morning, we position ourselves in the kitchen. We stare at the human. We make noises. Occasionally we obstruct her movement. She then gives us food.”

“Yes?”

“Flower, we have trained her.”

I froze. The full magnificence of the operation began to unfold.

The human believed she was in command. She believed she determined our schedule, controlled our movements, and regulated our food. Yet every morning she rose from her bed and reported directly to the feeding station. Every evening she returned. If KITN screamed, she responded. If Bebe headbutted her, she responded. If I sat on her chest at four in the morning and stared directly into her sleeping face, she generally responded with considerable urgency.

A smile spread slowly across my face. We had not infiltrated the human’s household. We had established a system of behavioral control over the human herself.

It was brilliant. It was diabolical. It was perhaps the finest intelligence operation ever undertaken by three domestic cats, particularly given that one of them occasionally forgot what she was doing while walking across a room.

I looked at KITN with newfound respect. “Director,” I said, “you are a genius.”

KITN licked her foot. “Food,” she replied.

Epilogue: For Her Eyes Only

I write this final report from my customary observation post in the human’s lap. She suspects nothing. Indeed, she is currently scratching the precise location behind my left ear which I have identified as being approximately four millimeters below the point at which all independent thought ceases.

My communications network remains operational. Bebe continues to coordinate field intelligence. KITN continues to direct strategic operations from the windowsill, where she occupies approximately seventy percent of the available surface area.

The squirrels remain a concern. Yesterday, the older one returned. He stood on the fence. He looked directly into the house, and he mouthed those two terrible words again.

Acorn Head.

I have submitted a formal complaint through diplomatic channels. The human is handling it.

As for our next assignment, Bebe has advised that an urgent intelligence briefing will be held at 0300 hours. Apparently, the human has acquired a new device from a place called Amazon. It is round. It moves independently. It makes a low mechanical noise. And it has been observed consuming objects from the floor.

I fear the worst. There are rumors that it is a weapon. There are also rumors that KITN attempted to sit on it. I shall investigate personally.

My name is Flower. Mister Flower.

And should these memoirs ever reach the human, I wish to state for the record that I have never knowingly communicated with any foreign intelligence service, that the fourteen intercepted transmissions were accidental, and that the disappearance of the chicken on Tuesday was entirely the responsibility of the grey one.

I must conclude this report. The human has stopped scratching my ear. This is unacceptable.