Goldwhiskers (26 page)

Squeak swooped from the sky and grabbed it. She pressed the button on her transmitter and crisply called out the numbers to MICE-6.

‘Well done!' Glory heard Sir Edmund say. ‘Well done, indeed!'

Bubble joined them, panting. ‘What was that all about?' he asked.

Squeak flipped the credit card over and tapped the security code with her paw. ‘Couldn't cancel the exterminations without this,' she explained. ‘Bunsen figured it out. Problem was, we only had until ten o'clock to do it.'

Glory turned and stared at Big Ben. The fur on the back of her neck prickled as she saw that the clock's hands pointed to two minutes to ten. ‘We almost didn't make it,' she whispered.

‘A very close call,' agreed Bubble soberly.

‘Indeed,' said Squeak. ‘But we did make it, thanks
to you two.' She slipped the credit card into her backpack. ‘I'd better take this to HQ. The Royal Guard are waiting for you below.'

And with that she flew off.

Suddenly, Roquefort Dupont reappeared over the side of the sloping glass observation-car roof. Glory and Bubble clutched each other in fright, then relaxed when they saw that he too was dangling safely from SAS claws.

There was no sign of Fumble, however.

‘Let me go! You don't know who you're dealing with!' screamed Dupont, struggling with all his considerable might. ‘I am Roquefort Dupont! The great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-greatgreat-great-grandson of Camembert Dupont!'

One of the bats hovered in front of Dupont's ugly snout. ‘You are the great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandsssssson of Camembert Dupont?' he repeated.

‘Heard of me, have you?' sneered Dupont. ‘That's right, buddy, and you and your bat-brained friends here better not forget it! Release me now, and I'll go easy on you.'

‘Releassssse you?' whispered the bat. ‘I think not.
We have an old, old ssssscore to sssssettle. Cccccenturies old.' He flew over to Glory and Bubble. ‘Permisssssion to dissssspose of the prisssssoner?'

‘Granted,' Glory replied promptly.

‘Take them both,' offered Bubble, gesturing towards Stilton Piccadilly. ‘Two for one, just for tonight. Christmas Eve special.'

‘We'll keep this, though,' added Glory, plucking the Sovereign's Ring out of Piccadilly's paws. She tucked it inside the velvet pouch, then nodded at Goldwhiskers. ‘And that one as well, for now.'

The bat inclined his ugly head and flapped away. He signalled to the rest of the SAS, and in a trice Roquefort Dupont and Stilton Piccadilly were ferried off, still thrashing and snarling in protest. The last that Glory saw of them was their silhouetted forms soaring across the illuminated face of Big Ben as the great bell rang out its famous chime.
BONG! BONG! BONG!
tolled the bell, a total of ten times to mark the hour. The sound came as music to Glory's ears. What had almost been a death toll for her – and for the mice of London – was now the sweet sound of victory.

‘That's that, then,' said Bubble, watching as one of the bats finally managed to corner the nimble
Farthing. The mouseling squealed, puddled, then went limp as the SAS member gripped him firmly and flew off towards Nibbleswick.

‘Not quite,' said Glory, pointing to the still-struggling Goldwhiskers. ‘One last Christmas Eve crisis to deal with.'

She and Bubble drew closer to the big rat.

‘Looks like they were right about the curse of the Koh-i-Noor,' she told him, patting the velvet pouch. ‘It certainly proved unlucky for you.'

‘That's MY diamond!' Goldwhiskers howled, bucking and snarling in fury. His efforts to free himself were in vain, however. The bats had him in a ferociously tight grip.

‘Not any more,' said Glory, handing the pouch to Bubble. ‘Would you mind carrying these? We'll get the Royal Guard to take us to 80 Strand. I have plans for our boogeyrat here.'

Oz glanced nervously at his watch, then across the row of red velvet seats. He, DB, Nigel and his father were seated together in the front row, flanked by police. Standing in the stage wings and at every entrance were more policemen, as well as detectives from Scotland Yard. No one was taking any more chances tonight. Not after Oz had been caught re-entering the opera house. Dressed in a disguise, no less.

‘Where's Priscilla?' whispered his father.

‘Napping,' Oz whispered back, which was true.

There had been no word yet from Glory or any of the other spy mice. Oz had no clue what was going on in the skies over London. He didn't know
if Operation SMASH had been foiled, or whether the SAS had rescued his friends and retrieved the Crown Jewels. He glanced at his watch again. It was nearly ten thirty. The finale was about to start. Surely he should have heard something by now.

‘Stop fidgeting!' scolded DB. ‘You too, Nigel!'

Nigel stared at the stage. ‘Do you think it's really going to work?'

‘Of course,' said DB confidently. ‘Our plans always work.'

‘Well, mostly,' added Oz.

Mr Henshaw raised his baton, and the orchestra struck the opening chords of ‘White Christmas'. Oz, DB and Nigel sat up expectantly. Right on cue, fog began drifting across the stage.

‘Dry ice,' whispered DB. ‘Just like you said, Oz.'

Glittering paper snowflakes began drifting down from above the stage, and then, as if by magic, two enormous presents, one wrapped in red foil, one in silver, rose up through the floor. The audience gasped in wonder and began to applaud vigorously.

Beside him, the policeman shifted in his seat, and Oz looked over to see a detective from Scotland Yard coming down the aisle. He was frowning. He handed a note to the policeman next to Oz's father. A curtain
fluttered up above in the Royal Box, and Oz saw a detective hand the Queen a note as well. She frowned, and Oz's heart sank. This was it, then. The end of the line. He was going to be arrested.

The policeman read the note, then passed it to Luigi Levinson. Oz's father read it and let out a loud whoosh of relief. He leaned over and gave his son a bear hug. ‘Looks like we're off the hook!' he whispered. ‘They just found the jewels.'

Oz glanced up at the Royal Box. The Queen smiled and gave him a discreet nod. Oz, who hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath, exhaled. He smiled back. Everything was going to be OK! The SAS had come through. Glory could fill him in on the details later.

Onstage, the two sopranos took their seats on the fake presents and began to sing. ‘I'm dreaming of a white Christmas, with every Christmas card I – whoops!' Prudence Winterbottom bounced slightly, and her voice shot up an octave. She quickly regained her composure and continued. ‘With every Christmas card I write!'

Suddenly, Prudence Winterbottom catapulted off the giant silver foil-wrapped present. With a loud thud, she landed flat on her backside on the stage
floor. The orchestra wheezed to a halt. The top of the fake present flew off, and Priscilla Winterbottom, dressed as one of the
Nutcracker
ballet's giant rats, poked her furry, grey, costumed nose out. She sneezed.

Nigel Henshaw put his hand over his mouth and stifled a giggle.

‘Slushbutt goes
down
!' whispered DB in triumph.

There was a moment of stunned silence from the audience. Priscilla climbed out of the box and stood there, blinking sleepily. She yawned, and peals of laughter rippled out across the Royal Opera House.

Her mother hauled herself upright. ‘Priscilla Winterbottom,' she said in a furious stage whisper. ‘
What
do you think you're doing?'

Even the Queen was laughing by now. Prudence Winterbottom's ferret face flamed in humiliation. So did her daughter's.

Oz's father leaned over again. ‘You kids didn't have anything to do with this, did you?' he asked, his eyes twinkling.

Oz shrugged and gave him a rueful smile. He leaned over to DB and Nigel. ‘Looks like rats come in two-legged varieties as well as four,' he whispered.

Priscilla scratched herself vigorously and sneezed.
The audience roared again. Her mother grabbed her by one of her large, furry ears and dragged her offstage.

Lavinia Levinson looked out over the audience. Her gaze landed on Oz. She winked. ‘May your days be merry and bright!' she sang, her gorgeous soprano voice wafting up towards the ornate ceiling of the concert hall. ‘And may all your Christmases be white!'

Back at 80 Strand, a pair of detectives from Scotland Yard was wrapping up the investigation at the office of D. G. Whiskers, Esquire.

‘Odd thing, don't you think?' said one, crouching down and peering inside the plastic pet carrier on the floor by the desk. The contents snarled at him angrily.

‘What?'

‘This big rat here, with its whiskers painted gold.'

The other detective looked up from his paperwork. He shrugged. ‘Odd pet for an odd gent. Did you get a gawk at what our Mr Whiskers had stashed up in his attic?' He pointed to the trapdoor in the ceiling and shook his head in disbelief. ‘All that little doll-sized furniture? Definitely a nutter.'

‘I wonder where he's hiding?' said the first detective.

‘Oh, we'll find him,' said his colleague. ‘We always do. Lucky for us one of his associates gave us a call and ratted him out. He must have had to make a run for it, leaving his pet behind like that. Not to mention the gems. He can't have gone far.'

He swivelled round in the desk chair and patted the laptop computer that sat on the filing cabinet behind him. ‘And there's this too. The information in here will put D. G. Whiskers, Esquire, behind bars for life once we catch him. He can run, but he can't hide from Scotland Yard. Not after nicking the Crown Jewels.'

The other detective was quiet for a while. Then he said, ‘You don't suppose…'