Goldwhiskers (16 page)

Glory, who was about to climb aboard, paused. She looked around in bewilderment. ‘What gap?'

‘Don't listen to Old Bart,' said Bubble. ‘Just a habit he picked up in his youth. He was raised at Victoria station, you see.'

Glory didn't see at all, but she
nodded anyway. Placing her paw in the paper-clip stirrup, she climbed aboard the pigeon's back. Bubble clambered up behind her.

‘Old Bart's a bit feather-brained,' he explained. ‘He probably should have been sent to a retirement roost ages ago, but the pilots have a soft spot for him. Plus, he's strong. They mostly use him for transport these days. He's the only pigeon on staff strong enough to carry the two of us and our gear.'

MICE-6 was short-pawed and short-winged, as Sir Edmund had ordered every surveillance pilot aloft and every field agent out on to the streets in the hunt for Roquefort Dupont, Stilton Piccadilly and the rat with the golden whiskers.

With a flap of his wings, Old Bart took off. He circled Parliament Square, gaining altitude, then headed north-east for the Strand and their teatime rendezvous at the office of D. G. Whiskers, Esquire. The sun was slanting low in the sky now, and the wind was cold. Glory shivered and nestled down further into the big pigeon's feathers. Behind her, she could feel Bubble do the same.

Despite the cold and the wind, Glory couldn't resist poking her head out over the pigeon's wing and staring down at the city. At the rate her holiday was
going, this short flight might be the closest thing she got to a tour of London. Below, the Thames gleamed dully in the late afternoon light.

‘Here we are,' said Bubble a short time later, as Old Bart swooshed past the clock on the side of number 80 Strand. ‘Largest clock face in London, by the way.'

‘Really?' said Glory, surprised. ‘Not Big Ben?'

Bubble shook his head. ‘Big Ben is more famous, but this one is bigger. And, technically, Big Ben is the bell in the tower, not the clock.'

‘Interesting,' said Glory as their pigeon alighted on the roof. She made a mental note to tell Bunsen. He'd want to know that.

‘Mind the gap,' said Old Bart again as Glory and Bubble slid down off his back.

‘We always do,' replied Bubble politely. He tapped the bird's tail feathers. ‘Don't wander off, now; we'll be back shortly.'

‘Mind the gap,' repeated Old Bart automatically, bobbing his head.

Glory stooped down and opened her backpack. Beside her, Bubble did the same. They pulled out their Silver Skateboards and jammed on their bottle-cap helmets. Glory's pulse began to quicken,
just as it did before every mission. Bunsen had not been happy with her volunteering for this particular one.

‘Not
again
!' he'd cried, right over the Video Scrambler for everyone to hear. ‘Glory, are you completely nuts?'

But Glory had stuck to her guns. She was used to Bunsen's fussing. If her beau had his way, she'd be wrapped in cotton wool and kept in a safe. Besides, it made sense. She was the most experienced member of the team. She'd gone paw to paw with Dupont twice before. And if this D. G. Whiskers, Esquire turned out to be the rat they were looking for, it was only fair to everyone involved that the mouse with the most experience be there in the front line.

Squeak had lobbied hard to be included. ‘I know that building like the back of my paw,' she'd argued. ‘My cousin is an editor for Tiny Tails – you know, the Publishing Guild? Those books for mouselings? Her office is under the sixth floor.'

In the end, Sir Edmund had chosen Bubble instead. ‘I need you to debrief the children,' he'd told a disappointed Squeak.

Glory looked over at Bubble. He gave a sharp nod, and the two of them zoomed off across the roof.
The British spy mouse ollied up with his skateboard into a ventilation shaft. Glory followed, and in a flash they were carving their way down the metal ductwork into the heart of the building.

‘This is it!' called Bubble, spinning to a halt by a grate overlooking a long hallway. The mice tucked their lolly-stick boards into their backpacks and peeped out cautiously.

‘There's his office, right across from us!' said Glory, spotting the glass door with
D. G. WHISKERS, ESQUIRE
etched on it.

Bubble poked his head through the grating and craned his neck towards the lift. He checked the time on the face of the foraged wristwatch he had strapped across his chest for the mission. ‘Delivery boy should be along any time now. Shall we jump for it?'

Glory nodded. ‘We'll need a diversion, though,' she warned.

‘I've got just the thing,' replied Bubble, rummaging in his backpack. ‘Z sent it along – thought it might come in handy.' He pulled out what looked like a large rubber spider on a string.

‘What is it?' asked Glory.

‘A large rubber spider on a string.'

‘I can see that, for Pete's sake. But what does it do?'

‘Scares humans,' said Bubble.

‘So it explodes?'

Bubble shook his head.

‘Smoke bomb?' ventured Glory.

‘Much more low-tech than that, I'm afraid,' Bubble replied. ‘But effective, nevertheless. You'll see.' He tied one end of the string to the grating and crouched down, clutching the spider in his paws. Glory crouched down beside him. A minute later there was a loud
DING
, and they heard the lift doors slide open.

‘Here he comes,' whispered Glory.

The Savoy's delivery boy sauntered down the hallway, whistling a Christmas carol. His eyes lit up when he spotted the envelope containing his tip by the panel in the wall. As he passed the ventilation grate, Bubble gave a mighty heave and launched the spider towards him. It landed on the delivery boy's shoulder. The boy shrieked, nearly dropping the tea hamper that he was carrying. He swatted at the rubber spider in a panic. This simply sent it swinging away again and then back at him, like a small black insect boomerang.

Glory and Bubble waited until one of the human's wild gyrations brought the basket under the grating. Then they made a leap for it.

‘Agents in place,' Bubble whispered a moment later into the tiny microphone clipped to his grey fur, as they ducked under the basket's lid.

‘Smells wonderful,' whispered Glory, sniffing the tea hamper's contents.

‘The Savoy does a splendid tea,' agreed Bubble. ‘My grandmother took me there once for my birthday.' He inspected the treats. ‘Let's see, we've got scones with Devonshire cream and strawberry jam, cucumber sandwiches, petit fours, shortbread, and strawberries dipped in chocolate. Oh, and tiny Christmas puddings – how festive! And a Thermos filled, I presume, with piping-hot tea.'

Glory was suddenly starving. Her stomach growled. Had she eaten lunch? She couldn't remember. It had been an intensely busy day. The hamper gave a thump as the delivery boy set it on the floor and rang the buzzer above.

Bubble tapped his transmitter, frowning. ‘This doesn't seem to be working,' he whispered. ‘I'm not getting anything back from MICE-6.'

‘Shall we proceed as planned?' asked Glory. ‘I'd
hate to bail out when we're this close.'

‘Sir Edmund won't like it,' said Bubble. ‘He's a stickler for protocol, and protocol says to scratch a mission if communication is disabled. But I agree with you, Glory.' He tapped his tiny microphone again. ‘Maybe the malfunction is just temporary,' he said hopefully. ‘HQ will probably come back on line any second now.'

Glory glanced around. ‘We'd better take cover in the meantime. We'll have to split up – there isn't much room in here.'

Bubble pointed to a napkin at the bottom of the basket. ‘You take that,' he said. ‘It's the safest spot. Rats aren't much for napkins.'

Glory's stomach growled again. She shook her head and scampered over instead to a pile of scones on a china plate. ‘Napkin's all yours, Bubble,' she said, taking a bite from a pastry at the bottom of the stack. ‘I'm going to hollow out this baby. Not even Roquefort Dupont himself could eat all these scones.'

As her British colleague wiggled out of view, Glory took another bite. Suddenly, the tea hamper lurched forward and rose into the air. Glory toppled over, nearly landing in the dish of Devonshire cream.

‘Whoa!' she cried softly. ‘Where are we going?'

Bubble poked his nose out from under the napkin and peered through the tea hamper's woven side. ‘I have no idea,' he reported. ‘We're in an office, but apparently we're headed for the ceiling.' He withdrew again, and Glory burrowed further into her scone hiding place, munching as fast as she could.

A moment later the basket gave another thud as it settled on the floor.

‘Ah, teatime,' said a voice. A deep, melodious voice.

Glory nestled further into the heart of her scone, whisking her tail safely out of view. The voice must belong to D. G. Whiskers, Esquire, but she couldn't tell by listening whether he was a rat or a human. Was this a wild goose chase? What if D. G. Whiskers was just some weird businessman who liked to have tea in his attic? But, then again, what if he was the rat with the golden whiskers? Her pulse began to quicken. She'd scoffed at Bunsen's concern for her, but maybe her sweetheart was right. Maybe she was foolish to keep volunteering for these missions. What else could she have done, though? Oz and DB's freedom was at stake. Surely rescuing one's friends was worth any risk, even a run-in with rats.

Above her, the lid to the basket creaked open.

‘So what's on the menu today, Goldwhiskers?'

Glory's heart nearly stopped. Bunsen's hunch was right. There was no mistaking that voice. Roquefort Dupont's distinctive growl sounded like bolts in a blender.

‘Oh, look – wee Christmas puddings!' said Stilton Piccadilly. ‘I haven't had those since –'

‘Since we went on that holiday outing as ratlings? Dumpster diving behind our fair city's hotels?' reminisced the deep, melodious voice.

So D. G. Whiskers, Esquire – aka Goldwhiskers – is definitely a rat, then
, thought Glory.

‘I ordered them as a special treat,' continued Goldwhiskers. ‘For old times' sake, eh, Stilton? And to celebrate Operation SMASH. Which stands for what, mouselings?'

‘Stop Mice and Stop Humans!' Glory heard a host of little voices pipe in unison.

‘And how are we going to accomplish that?'

‘Incriminate, exterminate!' chorused the mouselings.

Exterminate?
thought Glory in a panic. Incriminate was well under way, what with Oz and DB under suspicion, but exterminate? Were the rats planning more than just a jewellery heist, then? MICE-6 had to be told about this new development right away!
But how, without a transmitter?

‘Exactly,' said Goldwhiskers to the orphans. ‘Well done. Master is pleased with you. Master has food for you.'

‘Master, giver of all that is good!' chanted the mouselings, and Glory heard a scrabbling of tiny paws as the orphans scampered closer to the basket.

‘Tut-tut!' said Goldwhiskers. ‘Mind your manners. Wait for Dodge.'

There was a scraping sound as someone –
Dodge
,
presumably
, thought Glory – scaled the outside of the tea hamper, then landed with a small thump on the plate containing the scones. Glory hardly dared breathe. She strained to hear the trio of rats as they discussed Operation SMASH.

‘I can hardly wait until tomorrow!' chortled Stilton Piccadilly. ‘The mice won't know what hit them!'

‘The terror-rats of London town, that's what!' crowed Dupont.

Glory shivered. She thought of what her father, the brave field mouse General Dumbarton Goldenleaf, had told her long ago. ‘Fear is a rat's best weapon,' he'd said. Just as calm, cool, collected thinking was hers.

As the rats continued to boast, Glory's fear turned
to fury. If she had anything to say about it, Operation SMASH would be turned into Operation MASH instead: Mice and Short Humans, teamed against the rats, not the other way round.

As the confections were lifted out and distributed to the waiting rats and orphans, Glory could hear excited murmurings and the smacking of rodent lips.

‘Does it smell like mice in here to you?' Dupont asked suspiciously. Glory froze. Roquefort Dupont had a nose like a bloodhound.

‘Well, of course it does, you dolt,' snapped Piccadilly. ‘We're nearly overrun with mouselings. Not to mention that vile pet of yours. Who smells dreadful, by the way.'

‘He's not my pet; he's my slave,' said Dupont, sounding peeved.

‘Whatever. You should give him a bath. He reeks of herring.'

‘I thought for a moment I caught a whiff of – never mind,' grumbled Dupont. ‘Impossible. Throw me one of those cucumber sandwiches.'

For a few minutes all that could be heard was the enthusiastic crunching and slurping and burping that accompanied a rat feast. Glory wrinkled her nose in disgust. Rats were so revolting.

‘Now that you've learned to read, perhaps it's time to learn some manners,' Goldwhiskers said disapprovingly.

‘Well, la-de-da and pardon me,' said Piccadilly. ‘Sewer manners always used to be good enough for you, Double G.'

‘Anybody want this last scone?' Dupont asked. Not waiting for the others to reply, he whisked it out of the tea hamper.

Inside the pastry, Glory clutched desperately for a pawhold.
Oh, no!
she thought wildly, as the scone tumbled on to the carpet. A second later she heard Dupont attack it hungrily, snuffling and gnawing at it. She recoiled in terror as his long, scabby snout broke through to her hiding place. As his razor-sharp teeth snapped closer and closer, she scrunched up into a tiny ball.

Suddenly, the snout withdrew. Glory looked around frantically for an escape route. There was none.

A fiery red eye appeared in the hole in the side of the scone. It widened when it spotted her. ‘Well, well, well,' Dupont growled softly. ‘What have we here? Looks like Santa Claws brought my present a day early.'