Goldwhiskers (21 page)

Oz shuffled down the hallway, hat pulled low over his forehead and eyes. The backstage corridor was dimly lit, thank goodness. He tried to remember the tips he'd learned in the workshop at the Spy Museum back home.

When in disguise, be your character. Act the part. Convince yourself, and you'll convince everyone around you
.

Oz tried to imagine what it would feel like to be old. A hundred, say. He slumped a bit, and tried out a limp. Ahead sat the policeman, guarding the exit door. He was reading the paper.
American children interrogated in crown jewel affair!
screamed the headline on the front page. Oz winced. He paused in front of Prudence Winterbottom's dressing room. It was
empty, he knew. The British soprano was already onstage with his mother. It was nearly eight o'clock, and the concert was about to begin. Oz knocked on the door.

The policeman looked up sharply. He saw Oz and frowned.

‘Oi! Old-timer! No one's allowed back here!' he called.

‘Just wanted an autograph,' creaked Oz, hoping he sounded old and rusty.

The policeman stood up and opened the exit door. ‘Some other time, mate. Happy Christmas to you.'

Oz shuffled past him, hardly daring to breathe.
I am a hundred years old
, he told himself. He could feel Squeak huddled in his coat pocket. If he was discovered now, it was all over. Caught trying to escape, they'd say, and throw him in the slammer. Or the Tower of London.

The exit door closed behind him, and Oz took a deep breath. So far, so good. He squinted at his surroundings. ‘Which way?' he whispered.

A furry head poked out of his pocket. Squeak took a quick look around. ‘Straight ahead,' she said. ‘The Covent Garden station is the one you want. We'll take the Tube to Piccadilly Circus, then change trains
for Baker Street. But we have to hurry. Can you go a little faster?'

‘I'm trying to stay in character,' Oz explained, but he dropped the limp as he stepped into the tide of last-minute holiday shoppers thronging the pavement. Dodging people and shopping bags as he was swept forward, he made his way to the Tube stop.

Oz bought a ticket, fed it into the slot, passed through the turnstile and tottered towards the escalator into Covent Garden station. Down, down, down it whisked him and Squeak, deep into the heart of London's Underground, the vast subway system that served the city.

‘Mind the gap,' said an automated voice as Oz stepped on to the train. He peered down at his feet, taking care to avoid the crevice between the train and the platform.

‘Please, sir, take my seat,' a girl about his age said politely, rising to her feet.

Oz started to protest, then caught himself.
You are a hundred years old
,
Levinson
, he reminded himself. He wheezed a thank you and sat down as the train's doors closed. A few seconds later they were speeding out of the station.

Squeak poked her nose out of the coat pocket cautiously. ‘Festive,' she remarked, nudging Oz.

Oz peered at the boy seated across from him. He was dressed in full punk garb, with a black leather jacket and matching studded collar, along with multiple piercings. His hair was spiked to an alarming height and dyed in alternating red and green stripes for Christmas. Oz grinned.

‘Reminds me of the Steel Acorns,' he whispered, referring to Glory's brother B-Nut's rock band back in Washington.

They got off at Piccadilly Circus – ‘where Stilton Piccadilly has his lair,' Squeak informed him – and changed trains for the Bakerloo line. Three more stops and they reached their destination. Oz squinted his way through the underground corridors to the escalator, and they emerged into the London night.

‘Faster, Oz!' urged Squeak.

Oz broke into a slow jog. After about a dozen paces, he started to pant. Even if he wasn't a hundred years old, he still couldn't get anywhere faster. That was the problem with being fat. ‘Gotta slow down,' he said breathlessly. ‘If I sweat, the make-up will smear.'

‘Hold on, Oz – I'm getting a transmission!' said Squeak.

Oz ducked gratefully into a doorway and leaned against the wall, sucking in lungfuls of air.

‘Right,' he heard Squeak say, along with a rapid scratching as she scribbled something down. ‘Got it.'

‘Got what?' asked Oz, as she climbed out of his pocket.

‘New orders,' said Squeak. ‘We have to split up.'

‘
What?
'

‘That was Sir Edmund. I've been recalled from this mission,' Squeak explained. ‘He's ordered me to proceed directly to the Savoy. They think the rats are headed for the helipad and, if that's the case, I know that rooftop like the back of my paw.'

‘You're going to just
leave me here
?' Oz's voice rose in panic. He looked around frantically. It was dark. He was in an unfamiliar city. And, on top of that, he couldn't see.

Squeak patted his shoulder. ‘You'll be fine, Oz. Remember how well you did in New York City? Like Glory says, you're true blue. The museum's right over there, down the street. See? Madame Tussaud's Waxworks.'

‘I've heard of that,' said Oz cautiously. ‘My dad promised to take me and DB there.'

‘Course he did,' said Squeak. ‘All the American
tourists go there. It's great fun. Or so I've heard. Never been there myself. She peered at the building. ‘Good – the light's on in the alley. That means the night watchman's on duty. Now all you need to do is get him to let you in.'

‘What if he won't?'

‘He will. It's Christmas Eve – he'll be feeling generous. Tell him you need your glasses to watch your grandchildren open their presents. Once he turns his back, ditch him. Winston Churchill shouldn't be hard to find.'

‘It would help if I really did have my glasses,' grumbled Oz.

He felt a small, furry paw pat his cheek. ‘Here,' said Squeak, passing him a tiny penlight (foraged from a lost key chain). ‘This torch will help.'

‘This what?'

‘Um, flashlight. That's what you Americans call them, right?'

Oz nodded glumly.

‘And you'll need this to get the Summoner out of Churchill's waistcoat,' she added, unhooking a mini-penknife from her utility belt and passing it to him. ‘Once you have the Summoner, proceed to St Paul's Cathedral. I'm writing this all down for you.
Baker Street to Oxford Circus, change to the Central line. St Paul's is exactly four stops.'

Oz's heart began to beat wildly as his tiny colleague handed him two teeny slips of paper. ‘This other note has the coordinates for the SAS,' she said. ‘Birds, from what I understand. Swallows of some sort. Tell them to meet us on the Savoy's rooftop for the orphan airlift.'

Oz couldn't help it. His eyes filled with tears.

Squeak sighed. ‘Oz, I have to go,' she said gently. ‘This is our darkest hour. Every mouse must do his or her duty, Sir Edmund told us, and that includes you, Agent Levinson. If we're going to pull off this rescue, and stop the exterminations, and save London, and get the Crown Jewels back, we need you! You do understand, don't you?'

Oz swallowed hard. He nodded and wiped his eyes.

‘That's the spirit!' Squeak gave a sharp whistle, and a pigeon swooped low. She leaped nimbly on to her taxi's back. ‘Good luck, Oz!' And with that she flew off.

Oz stepped out of the doorway and looked around. Traffic whizzed by. Londoners rushed past him on the pavement in a steady stream, their arms loaded
with Christmas packages. A group of carollers clustered beneath a nearby streetlight singing ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen'. Oz didn't feel even remotely merry. He'd never felt so completely alone and scared in all his young life.

He turned the collar of his father's coat up against the sharp December wind and crossed the street towards the waxworks museum.

‘More chamomile tea, Priscilla?'

DB and Priscilla Winterbottom – and Nigel Henshaw, who was not yet dressed as Oz – were seated in Lavinia Levinson's dressing room. Onstage, the concert was well under way. The children had been requested to stay backstage until after the interval. Easier for the police to keep track of them that way, Scotland Yard had decided. Priscilla Winterbottom was not happy to have been included in this decision.

‘Just a tad bit more,' said Priscilla, holding out her cup. ‘And I'll take another biscuit as well. It's the least you can do, after all, considering I'm stuck back here thanks to you. Where's Oz?'

‘He's in the restroom,' said DB, filling her guest's cup to the brim.

Priscilla took a few sips, ate a piece of shortbread, then blew her nose into her hankie. ‘This is going to be an exciting evening,' she said, smiling a sly ferret smile.

‘Very exciting,' agreed DB, winking at Nigel.

The younger boy fingered the MICE-6 badge on the collar of his shirt.

‘Haven't seen that before, Nigel,' Priscilla said sharply. ‘Are you a jewel thief now as well?'

‘Just a little souvenir I gave him,' said DB smoothly.

Priscilla, who was filled to the brim with cough syrup and chamomile tea, yawned. Nigel bent down and pretended to tie his shoe, then reached over and turned up the heater. Squeak had suggested making the dressing room as warm as possible. ‘That always worked in our nest back home when I was a mouseling and Mum wanted me to go to sleep,' she'd said.

Priscilla yawned again. ‘Too much excitement, I suppose,' she said. ‘What with the Crown Jewels missing and all.' She shot DB a smug look.

DB just smiled. She pretended to yawn. Priscilla yawned back. ‘I could use a nap – how about you?'
DB said, patting the sofa cushions encouragingly. ‘It's been a long day. What with being at Scotland Yard all night and everything, I mean.'

‘I don't know how I'd be able to stand it, if I were you,' said Priscilla, sipping more chamomile tea. ‘You might as well just confess. Everyone knows you did it. Scotland Yard knows it, the newspapers know it – everybody. You and Oz are nothing but common thieves. I shouldn't even be in here with you. Who knows what you might do?' She clutched the pearl necklace round her throat dramatically.

DB gritted her teeth and smiled politely. She pretended to yawn again. Priscilla yawned back and glanced longingly at the sofa. ‘Maybe I will just close my eyes for a minute. Nigel?' Her voice rose sharply.

‘Yes?' the younger boy replied.

‘Wake me at the interval,' Priscilla ordered. ‘And don't forget. You know what will happen if you forget.'

Nigel nodded unhappily. ‘Yes, Priscilla.'

Priscilla Winterbottom stretched out on the sofa. DB quickly dimmed the lights. Nigel turned the heat up a bit more. As the girl's eyelids drooped, Nigel quietly pulled on Oz's dinner jacket. DB waited until Priscilla's breathing was deep and even, then began
stuffing the chest and belly of the jacket with cushions from the chairs. When she was done, she placed Oz's glasses on Nigel's nose and sat him down in a chair in the corner furthest from the door. ‘There,' she said. ‘You're Oz.'