Goldwhiskers (23 page)

‘Blasted Yank,' the man grumbled. ‘What was he thinking, wandering off like that? Old geezer like him can't have gone far – must be tottering about here somewhere.'

Sweat broke out on Oz's forehead as the night watchman drew closer. He couldn't be discovered – he just couldn't! Not when he was this close to his goal. He held his breath, squatting down beside the seated figure of the group's drummer.
John, Paul,
George, Ringo – and Lardo
, Oz thought ruefully, hoping the man wouldn't notice an extra, somewhat tubby Beatle.

He was in luck. The night watchman didn't notice. His eyes slid right over the display as he passed by, and he disappeared down the hall still muttering to himself.

Oz waited what he hoped was enough time for the man to be safely out of hearing range, then tiptoed out from behind the drum set. He switched on his penlight. All around, wax faces stared at him in the darkness. Through his blurred gaze, they appeared alarmingly lifelike, and it seemed to Oz as he lurched out from behind the Beatles that they followed his every movement with their sightless glass eyes.

Oz's pulse began to race. This place was giving him the creeps. Perspiration dripped down his nose. He reached up automatically to prod his glasses into place, then stopped. He wasn't wearing his glasses.

As he searched frantically for Winston Churchill, he passed presidents and princes; politicians and princesses; the famous and the infamous alike. Charlie Chaplin. Marilyn Monroe. Gandhi. Rock stars galore. Athletes and actors – even James Bond!
Well, a movie star who played Agent 007. Oz skirted the Chamber of Horrors – at least he didn't have to go down there looking for the prime minister – and two minutes later, after twelve more heart-stopping inspections of frozen figures, including the Queen, he found Winston Churchill.

Oz regarded him for a moment. The great statesman was a barrel of a man, and his genial bulldog face was set in lines of courage and strength.

‘Sorry, sir,' he whispered, reaching beneath Churchill's overcoat. Oz clenched the penlight between his teeth and patted the prime minister down, his fingers searching the smooth, silken material of his waistcoat for something – anything – that might be the Summoner. Nothing.

Oz frowned. Had Sir Edmund been misinformed? Maybe it was sewn inside a different waistcoat, one packed away in a trunk in an attic somewhere. Sweating heavily now, Oz worked his way over every inch of the waistcoat again. Still nothing.

‘It's not here!' he whispered aloud. Churchill didn't reply, but it seemed to Oz that the wax figure regarded him with sympathy. What was he going to do? The mice were counting on him. London was counting on him. Thousands and thousands of lives
could depend on the outcome of his part of the mission. He couldn't give up yet. He wouldn't. He started up at the top of the waistcoat for the third time.

‘Aha!' he cried softly. There it was: a narrow, almost undetectable bump inside the very bottom of the front left hem. ‘Gotcha!'

Oz clicked open Squeak's mini-penknife and began to slice at the material. No careful picking of the hem; there wasn't time. The fabric, worn with age, split open almost of its own accord. Something bright flashed in the beam of Oz's tiny torch, and as it started to tumble towards the ground he caught it in his hand. He held it close to the light. The Summoner!

Oz inspected it curiously. It looked like a dog whistle. A very unusual and beautiful dog whistle. The slender silver tube was etched with a pattern of what looked like
V
s.
Wings
, thought Oz, a symbol of the Secret Air Service – the SAS, who would respond to the call. If they still remembered it, that was. Oz pocketed the Summoner, along with the penknife.

‘Thank you, sir,' he said, bowing to the wax figure. ‘It was an honour meeting you.'

Trying hard not to bump into anything – or anyone
– Oz began to tiptoe his way towards the exit. As he neared the door, he heard footsteps approaching again. The night watchman! Panicking, Oz ran for the door and pushed it open, setting off a high-pitched alarm.

‘Oi!' cried the guard.

No time for pretending to be an old man now. Oz started to run. He pounded blindly down the pavement, pushing past pedestrians right and left. ‘Excuse me! Pardon me! Coming through!' he called.

He ran until he could run no more, then stopped and leaned over, panting. He glanced behind him, fully expecting to see the museum's night watchman.

But he wasn't there. No one was pursuing him. The man must have given up. Oz stood up and squinted at his surroundings, still wheezing. Where was he?

After a few false starts and a lot of assistance from several passers-by, Oz stumbled his way to Baker Street station. He carefully followed the directions that Squeak had given him, and he soon arrived, breathless, at St Paul's Cathedral.

Oz checked his watch. He was running behind schedule. It was already past time for the interval at the concert. DB and Nigel must be frantic with
worry! He trotted up the marble steps. Squeak had told him he'd have no problem getting in. The humans always held a Christmas Eve service at St Paul's that was open to the public, she'd said. Sure enough, as he approached the huge carved door, Oz heard music. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

Oz stopped in his tracks. He gazed around in wonder. The cathedral's soaring stone interior was lit with the glow of a thousand candles, maybe more. Directly in front of him was a life-size manger scene. Most beautiful of all, however, was the music. It came from the far end of the great church, where a choir of boys lofted carols heavenwards towards the arched dome.

Oz shook himself.
Get a grip, Levinson – you've got a job to do
. Skirting the manger, he found his way to the staircase leading to the Whispering Gallery. Beyond that, up at the top of the dome, lay his destination: the Stone Gallery.

‘Sorry, mate, can't go up there. It's closed for the evening,' said a warden, barring the door.

Oz gulped. He checked his watch again. It was nearly nine thirty! Only half an hour left until Rodent Rooter's deadline. If he didn't reach the Stone Gallery soon and contact the SAS, there would
be no way to rescue Glory and the orphans and nab Goldwhiskers's credit card. There'd be no way to cancel the exterminations. Operation SMASH would hurtle forward, and the mice of London would be doomed.

What would James Bond do?
Oz asked himself.
Be your character
, came the reply.
Act the part
. Oz cupped his hand behind his ear. ‘Eh?' he said.

‘I SAID IT'S CLOSED FOR THE EVENING!' repeated the warden, speaking into his ear slowly and loudly.

Oz slumped sadly. ‘Pity,' he croaked. ‘I've come all the way from America to see it.' This was partly true; he
had
come all the way from America.

The warden sighed. ‘Well, I suppose I can make an exception for an older gent like yourself. It's those noisy kids we need to keep out.'

He held the door open and ushered Oz inside. ‘Lovely view of the manger from up there,' he noted. ‘Watch yourself, though. Two hundred and fifty-nine steps to the top. Sure you're up to it, old-timer?'

Oz nodded. ‘Stronger than I look,' he creaked, which was also true.

He started to climb. And climb. And climb. Up and up and up the stone steps led, winding their way
through the cathedral's thick walls. Oz glanced anxiously at his watch and climbed a little faster. His shirt was soaked with sweat. He reached the Whispering Gallery – a narrow stone balcony that circled the interior of the great dome – and paused for a second to catch his breath. Oz had no idea if the view of the manger was lovely or not. He couldn't see a thing, just the blur of light from the candles. Nor did he have any idea if a whisper would truly carry across the dome to the other side, as he was all by himself. It was just him and the candlelight and that achingly beautiful music, carols as old as time and as familiar as his own name.

Oz skirted the balcony to the door that led further upwards to the Stone Gallery. It was unlocked. Good. He pushed it open and began to climb again. On and on and on he climbed, until there was hardly a breath left in his body. Finally, gasping, knees buckling beneath him, he stumbled out on to the balcony – an exterior one this time – which offered visitors a spectacular view of the city.

Oz reached into his pocket and pulled out the slip of paper with the coordinates for the Secret Air Service, along with the Summoner. He held the silver whistle in his hand for a minute. Hidden in the lining
of Winston Churchill's waistcoat since the end of World War Two, it had not been blown for more than half a century. He was holding a piece of history.

Oz raised it to his lips and blew. No sound emerged. Nothing at all. Oz blew harder. Still the Summoner was silent. Was it blocked? He peered at it in concern. Or was it like a dog whistle, then, so highly pitched that the sound couldn't be picked up by the human ear? He blew again and again and again, pausing each time to search the night sky. Nothing.

Oz slumped against the wall behind him, thoroughly disheartened. He'd come so far, and now this! It was nothing but a dead end. What would he tell Sir Edmund? What would happen to the mice of London? And what would happen to Glory? He'd failed them all. He'd even failed himself. Scotland Yard would arrest him and DB and his mother the minute tonight's concert was over. Oz closed his eyes and fought back tears.

‘Any word yet?' asked Bunsen, glancing anxiously at the clock. It was past nine thirty in London. Exactly twenty-five minutes left until Rodent Rooter's deadline. Less than half an hour left to foil Operation SMASH.

Julius shook his head in regret. ‘Afraid not, Mr Burner.'

The lab mouse was visibly shaken. The Video Scrambler was still down, and although Sir Edmund had been true to his word, providing frequent updates via email, it wasn't the same as hearing the latest reports directly from him. The uncertainty was
getting to Bunsen. He could hardly bear the thought of his sweetheart trapped in the clutches of not just Roquefort Dupont, but Stilton Piccadilly and this evil Goldwhiskers, as well. There'd been no news yet from Squeak, either. Had she been able to intercept Oz and the SAS? Was the rescue mission under way? The tension was taking its toll on the lab mouse.

‘Is there still hope of rescue?' he asked.

‘There's always hope,' said Julius calmly. ‘Morning Glory Goldenleaf and Bubble Westminster are both highly trained, elite members of the finest espionage agencies in the world. And, don't forget, Glory's been in tight spots before and has come through with flying colours.'

Bunsen did not find this reassuring. ‘That stupid riddle!' he moaned, wringing his pale paws. ‘Why didn't I run it through AMI? I can't believe the SAS were sent to the wrong place!'

‘No point kicking ourselves,' soothed Julius. ‘There's a chance Squeak may be able to intercept them, and the Royal Guard and the Welsh Rarebit Regiment are being moved out even as we speak. They may still arrive at the London Eye in time.'

‘But what if they don't?' cried Bunsen.

‘Then Sir Edmund will begin the evacuation.'

‘But Glory and the orphans!'

Julius eyed him soberly. ‘You know as well as I do that sometimes sacrifices must be made in this business.'

Bunsen's milky coat grew even paler. ‘“The noblest motive is the public good,”' he whispered. The Spy Mice Agency's motto.

Julius nodded sadly.

‘Is evacuation even possible?' asked Bunsen.

The elder mouse hesitated. ‘I'm sure they'll be able to save a portion of the population,' he replied finally.

Bunsen began to pace back and forth. ‘They have to get there in time! They just have to!'

Julius checked his watch surreptitiously. No point in alarming his colleague any further. He was already wound up far too tight. But Bunsen was right. Time was fast running out – and, with it, all hope of rescue.