Goldwhiskers (18 page)

‘You'll never get away with this,' said Glory calmly. Dupont had her by the tail and was dangling her upside down in front of Goldwhiskers and Stilton Piccadilly. ‘The building is surrounded.'

Goldwhiskers looked down at her from his red leather chair. ‘Is that so?' he sneered. ‘Let's take a look, shall we?' He tapped a series of commands on to his laptop keyboard, and the screen on the wall flickered to life. An array of security cameras zoomed in on 80 Strand from every possible angle, showing nothing but humans, cars, buses and the rest of the normal traffic
that clogged the busy street, and the entrance at the back by Embankment Gardens. ‘Hmmmm. Not a mouse – let alone a Royal Guard – in sight. Are you sure about that?'

‘She's lying,' snarled Dupont. ‘I'd stake my tail on it.'

Goldwhiskers regarded Glory speculatively. ‘That may well be, but I'll give her points for nerve. She certainly has guts, for a mouse. Put her down for a minute, would you, Dupont?'

Dupont growled reluctantly, gave Glory a hard shake, then released his grasp. She fell to the floor with a thud. Glory lay there for a few seconds, pretending to be stunned, while she tried to gather her wits. She was in a tight spot. The tightest, perhaps, that she had ever been in. Trapped in a room with two of the worst rats in history, plus one wild card: this D. G. Whiskers, Esquire, or Goldwhiskers. She tried not to think about the fact that she might not make it out alive.
Stiffen your tail, Goldenleaf
, she told herself.
You're a Silver Skateboard agent, and you have a job to do
. She picked herself up slowly and brushed off her soft brown fur. She had to stall for time. That at least might give Bubble a chance to escape.

One thing was clear: Goldwhiskers was the rat in
control here. Glory smiled up at him. ‘The name is Goldenleaf,' she said coolly. ‘Morning Glory Goldenleaf.'

‘James Bond fan, are we?' replied the big rat with a soft chuckle. ‘Playing at spy games?' He leaned down from his red leather chair. ‘You know what happens to spies that get caught, don't you?' He drew one sharp claw across his throat.

Glory swallowed nervously. She glanced around the richly appointed room. Dozens of mouselings clustered along the walls, staring at her wide-eyed. She spotted Fumble, half hidden behind Dupont.

‘What, no “Morning, Glory?”' she asked her former colleague scornfully. ‘What's the matter, rat got your tongue? Is this what you've sunk to, then, Fumble – exploiting innocent mouselings for some greedy windbag? Looks like you and Dupont have been on a diet too.' Glory wrinkled her nose and sniffed the air. ‘Fish, huh? Peeee-eeeeew. I suppose I should say, “I smell a traitor!”'

Fumble stared at her defiantly for a few seconds. Then his gaze faltered, and he slumped on to the carpet. Glory turned back to Goldwhiskers. ‘The jig is up, Goldwhiskers,' she said. ‘We know all about the Crown Jewels. And the kidnappings, and
all the other robberies. You can't get away with it.'

‘Oh, can't I? Watch me,' Goldwhiskers replied, stroking the Koh-i-Noor. He looked over at Dupont and Piccadilly. ‘She's got spirit. I like that in a mouse. And she's amusing. Much more amusing than you two.' He turned back to Glory. ‘Tell me, Miss Goldenleaf – I love your name, by the way – what would it take for you to come and work for me?' He reached out a paw, and Dodge rummaged through the box on the table beside him. She pulled out a diamond bracelet and handed it to Goldwhiskers. He dangled it in front of Glory.

Glory's mouth dropped open. She couldn't believe her ears. Goldwhiskers was trying to bribe her!

‘I'll triple your current salary,' he offered. ‘Room and board included, plenty of holiday time. Plus I offer a generous retirement plan.'

‘She'll never do it,' sneered Dupont.

‘If I want your opinion, I'll ask for it,' snapped Goldwhiskers. The big rat leaned down and draped the bracelet round Glory's neck. ‘I'll bet you don't see the likes of these on what the Spy Mice Agency pays you,' he whispered silkily. ‘Diamonds are forever, or haven't you heard?'

Glory stroked the strand of sparkling jewels and
flashed him her most flirtatious Mata Furry smile. She crooked her paw at him, and Goldwhiskers glanced over at Dupont triumphantly. He leaned down closer to Glory.

‘You want me to be a Fumble?' Glory murmured.

‘Hardly,' Goldwhiskers murmured back in reply. ‘I'm offering you employment, not slavery. And I'd never keep you on a lead, I promise. Not even a diamond one. How about it?'

‘How about…NEVER!' cried Glory, spitting in the big rat's eye.

‘Told you so,' said Dupont smugly.

Glory whipped the diamond bracelet from round her neck. ‘Diamonds are a mouse's best friend, or haven't
you
heard?' she retorted, looping it around Goldwhiskers's snout and giving it a sharp jerk. The big rat shrieked and toppled forward out of his chair. Glory leaped out of the way as he crashed to the floor.

She had to find a way to notify MICE-6 about the extermination plan! Quickly scaling the table, she raced to the telephone. She pretended to trip, then fell on to the speakerphone button. Glory danced rapidly across the keypad, just as she'd done as a computer gymnast, punching in the numbers for MICE-6's emergency line.

‘Get her! Get that mouse! Defend Master!' screamed Goldwhiskers, frantically trying to untangle the bracelet, which was caught in his golden whiskers, and wipe the spit out of his beady red eye at the same time.

His frustrated bellows covered the sound of the phone ringing at MICE-6 headquarters.
Why don't they answer?
thought Glory. She only had a couple of seconds before she'd have to make a run for it.

Finally, she heard Miss Honeyberry's voice. ‘MICE-6 here,' she said.

‘DEFEND MASTER!' screamed Goldwhiskers simultaneously.

All around the cubbyhole, the mouselings drew back in confusion. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Their ears told them to defend Master, but their noses told them that Glory was one of their own. Instinct battled training. Instinct won out. They didn't move.

Dupont did, however. Before Glory could say a word to Miss Honeyberry, her arch enemy lunged for the table. Glory abandoned the phone and dived headfirst towards the carpet below, somersaulted three times, then sprang up and ran for the trapdoor. Dupont lunged again, grabbing her tail in his mangy paw.

‘You won't get away this time,' he snarled.

Glory twisted frantically in his iron-tight grip, but Dupont held her fast. He hoisted her up in front of his hideous snout. The stench of his breath was almost unbearable. Glory's eyes began to water. She glanced over at the table. Was the line to MICE-6 still open?

She drew a deep breath. The next words she uttered might well be her last. ‘OPERATION SMASH UNDERWAY!' she screamed with all her might, as Dupont bared his fangs. ‘STOP MICE AND STOP HUMANS! GOLDWHISKERS AND THE OTHER RATS ARE PLANNING TO –'

Before Glory could finish her warning, Roquefort Dupont jerked her aloft and swung her round his head like a lasso. His tail thrashed behind him as he did so, accidentally tangling in the telephone cord and yanking it out of the wall. With a screech of triumph, he hurled Glory to the floor. She landed with a crash and went limp.

‘One thousand exterminators!' cried Bunsen. He stared at AMI's screen, aghast.

Three thousand miles away, in London, Sir Edmund Hazelnut-Cadbury watched him on the Video Scrambler. Dozens of mice peered over his shoulder. The staff at MICE-6 had been on full alert since Glory's call had come through, and Sir Edmund's office was jammed. ‘What was that, Mr Burner?' he demanded.

‘I said, ONE THOUSAND EXTERMINATORS!' Bunsen repeated, turning to face him. ‘This was what Glory was trying to tell us!' He tapped the computer
screen behind him in agitation. ‘See? It's right here. I found a credit card registered to D. G. Whiskers, Esquire – Goldwhiskers, as Glory called him – and he used it less than an hour ago to hire Rodent Rooter.'

‘Call Rodent Rooter!' sang one of the British computer gymnasts automatically, and was quickly shushed.

‘One thousand trucks, one thousand exterminators,' continued the lab-mouse-turned-secret-agent. ‘They're scheduled to strike every neighbourhood in the city at six a.m. tomorrow.'

‘On Christmas morning?' cried Z. ‘Ghastly!'

Sir Edmund nodded. ‘Indeed,' he said. ‘And coordinated attacks, no less. It's the Blitz all over again!'

‘Can you cancel the exterminations?' asked Julius.

Bunsen shook his head regretfully. ‘Not without the security code on the back of Goldwhiskers's credit card,' he said. ‘And even if we had that, we'd have to cancel by twenty-two hundred hours tonight. Rodent Rooter has an eight-hour cancellation policy. See?' He tapped AMI's screen again. ‘It's in the fine print here.'

‘Thank you, Mr Burner,' said Sir Edmund. ‘Your
intelligence-gathering skills are remarkable. MICE-6 is in your debt.'

Bunsen blushed modestly. Sir Edmund Hazelnut-Cadbury and Julius Folger stared soberly at each other via the Video Scrambler. Spymaster to spymaster, ally to ally, friend to friend, both of them contemplating the utter devastation that would follow such a vast number of coordinated attacks.

There was a worried buzz from the gathered mice, and Sir Edmund turned to face his staff. ‘This is a Code Red situation,' he announced crisply. ‘We need that credit card. It's our only hope. I want 80 Strand surrounded ten minutes ago! Every mouse will do his duty. And hers. I want those rats stopped – and those orphans rescued – on the double.'

‘And Glory! Don't forget Glory!' added Bunsen anxiously.

‘That goes without saying,' snapped Sir Edmund. ‘Agent Westminster too.'

As his staff started to disperse, the head of MICE-6 held up his paw. ‘If the exterminations can't be cancelled, we'll have to evacuate London.'

There were more worried murmurs from the mice at this news. Never in mouse history – not even during the Blitz and the Great Turf War – had
London's mice been evacuated. It was a daunting prospect.

‘Do you have the mousepower to handle it?' Julius asked, his face on the Video Scrambler puckered with concern. ‘Not that there's anything I can do to help you at this point, Edmund, I'm afraid. Even if we sent agents and troops over on the next flight, they wouldn't arrive in time.'

‘Of course we can handle it,' Sir Edmund replied stoutly. ‘We Londoners are made of stern stuff. We've faced down tyrants before, and we'll face them down again. Remember?' He pointed to the MICE-6 crest on the wall behind his desk and the words
LUX TENEBRAS EXSTINGUIT
.

The gathered mice eyed their agency motto. Sir Edmund was offering them hope and courage and a reminder that other mice before them had faced dark times and come through. They sat up a little straighter.

‘Miss Honeyberry, get on the phone to Buckingham Palace!' ordered Sir Edmund. ‘We need authorization from the Prince of Tails to call in the Royal Guard. Call in the Welsh Rarebit Regiment while you're at it. We're going to need all the paws we can get.'

A loud
whirr
, and a
thwump
on the carpet
announced the arrival of the Tube. Its hatch opened and Squeak popped out.

‘Reporting for duty, sir,' she said.

‘Did you see the children?' asked Sir Edmund.

Squeak nodded. ‘I brought them up to speed, just as you asked,' she reported. ‘I was listening to the news just now, and the concert has been given the green light. They're probably at the opera house already. But it doesn't look good, I'm afraid. Not with Lavinia Levinson's paw prints – I mean fingerprints – all over that ransom note. I expect they'll be arrested and officially charged the minute the concert is over. And they're very worried about Prudence Winterbottom's daughter. Apparently they think she's up to something.'