The Black Paw Read online

  Glory's heart soared. Silver Skateboard! This was better than she could have ever dreamed! Her boss extended his paw and she shook it heartily, aiming a triumphant glance at Fumble. Her house mouse colleague began to back towards the door.

  ‘Hey, you forgot to say anything about us!’ said Lip, nearly knocking him down as he bounced in. The other two band members were close on his tail.

  B-Nut grinned. Julius Folger, meet the Steel Acorns. Tulip – I mean Lip – Romeo and Nutmeg. Your newest recruits. Secret agents by day, rock band by night.’

  ‘You don't say,’ said Julius in surprise. ‘Well, that's certainly an original cover.’ He turned back to Glory. ‘Now, what is all this about humans?’

  As Glory explained the part that Oz and DB had played in the retrieval and rescue mission, Julius just kept shaking his head.

  ‘I think it's best that the Council knows nothing of this,’ he said when she was finished. ‘It will just have to be our little Agency secret. And yours too, of course, Dumbarton, if you agree.’

  ‘For your paws only,’ promised Glory's father.

  Julius placed his right paw over his heart. ‘All together now, word of honour as mice,’ he said.

  ‘Word of honour,’ the mice replied solemnly, placing their paws over their hearts.

  ‘Fumble, that means you as well,’ said Julius sharply.

  Fumble, who was still trying to make an exit unseen, halted. He nodded reluctantly and lifted his paw to his chest.

  ‘And I trust that you had only the highest intentions today in informing on Glory and Bunsen,’ Julius added. ‘I will not stand for tattletales or backstabbers on my staff.’

  ‘No, sir. I mean yes, sir,’ muttered Fumble, and slunk dejectedly from the room.

  ‘There's just one more thing,’ said Bunsen. ‘Do you recall the fake plastic dog-doo transmitter?’

  ‘How could I forget it?’ Julius replied, a trace of sarcasm in his voice. ‘The very pinnacle of human ingenuity.’

  Bunsen crossed to the main receiver and fiddled with the controls, adjusting the frequency. Suddenly, Dupont's voice filled Central Command.

  ‘Those mice think they can pull the wool over my eyes! Me, Roquefort Dupont, descendant of kings! Well, they've got another thing coming. In just a few hours, when we launch Operation P.E.S.T. Control, their little tails will be mine! MINE, I tell you!’

  ‘Operation P.E.S.T. Control?’ said Julius.

  ‘Put an End to Short-Tails,’ Glory explained.

  ‘We'll just see about that,’ Julius replied softly. ‘Operation P.E.S.T. Control, is it? We'll just see who's the pest around here, Mr Roquefort High-and-Mighty Dupont, and just who's in control.’

  He turned to Bunsen. ‘Was this your idea, Mr Burner? Planting a bug at Rat HQ?’

  Bunsen swallowed nervously and nodded. ‘I thought perhaps the rats, being, well, rats and all, might just overlook a pile of, um, dog doo.’

  ‘The watch-camera was his idea too,’ added Glory. ‘And the homing device.’

  ‘We'll be able to track Dupont's movements with it, sir,’ said the lab mouse.

  Julius smiled. He clapped Bunsen on the shoulder. ‘Well done, young mouse, well done. I'm beginning to think there's more to you than meets the eye. B-Nut, Glory, effective immediately Bunsen will be joining your ranks as a field agent.’

  Bunsen blushed again, and darted a glance at Glory, who smiled broadly at him in return. ‘Bunsen, you are true blue,’ she said.

  ‘And now,’ said Julius. ‘I do believe it's time I met the children.’

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO DAY THREE – SUNDAY 1730 HOURS

  ‘I do not believe I have to do this,’ said DB. ‘I do not believe I have to be the back end of a horse.’

  Oz gave a snort of laughter. ‘Well, actually, it's a donkey, not a horse,’ he replied. ‘I'd trade places with you if I could, but you're too short to see out the eyeholes.’

  Oz's phone call to Australia had worked. Somehow, his mother had talked the opera company's wardrobe manager into loaning them a costume. Not a horse costume, unfortunately, but almost as good. The large box had arrived at Oz's house from the National Opera just a few minutes ago.

  ‘Oh, so now you're telling me we're going to the Hallowe'en party as the Trojan Donkey, not the Trojan Horse?’ DB's voice was somewhat muffled by the heavy grey fabric. ‘That's the stupidest thing I ever heard.’

  ‘No one will know the difference,’ Oz consoled her. ‘But I'll pin a sign on us just in case.’

  A deep sigh emerged from the costume's rear end. ‘A sign? Our costume is so dumb we have to wear a sign to explain it? How lame is that?’

  Oz's father poked his head into the living room.

  ‘Almost ready, my little sugarplums?’ he said. ‘We have to leave soon, or I'll be late.’ He caught sight of the costume and raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘The Trojan Horse! Very clever. I'm sure you'll win a prize.’

  ‘See? The costume's not so lame – my dad knew who we were right away,’ Oz whispered as his father left the room again.

  ‘Maybe you're right,’ DB replied reluctantly, wriggling her way out of the donkey's hindquarters as Oz carefully removed the heavy grey wire-and-fabric head. ‘But do you really think this will work?’

  ‘It'll work,’ said Oz. ‘Glory said so, remember?’

  As the two of them bundled the costume back into the box, Oz noticed an envelope in the bottom. He picked it up and opened it. There was a single sheet of white paper inside on which were printed the words: IT AIN'T OVER…

  Oz smiled. ‘Until the fat lady sings,’ he finished in a whisper. It was a message from his mother in their own private code. A silly little saying left over from babyhood. Thanks, Mum, he thought to himself. I love you too.

  ‘What's that about?’ asked DB, glancing curiously over his shoulder.

  ‘Nothing – just a note from my mum.’ Oz folded the paper back into the envelope and stuck it in the pocket of his jeans. For good luck.

  ‘Have you got the other stuff? The stuff Bunsen told us to bring?’

  Oz nodded, holding up his Chester B. Arthur Elementary gym bag. Inside was his father's fishing net and a torch. He placed the bag in the box on top of the costume, and then he and DB carried the box outside to the kerb.

  ‘Are you sure your mother and her camera crew are going to be there tonight?’ asked Oz as they waited for his father.

  ‘I'm sure,’ said DB. ‘She said this party's the hottest ticket in all of Washington, and that she wouldn't miss it for the world.’

  Luigi Levinson appeared on the doorstep. He had on blue knee breeches and a matching jacket, a white ruffled shirt and a white wig.

  ‘Let me guess – George Washington,’ said DB.

  Oz's father struck a presidential pose. ‘I cannot tell a lie,’ he said. ‘I am indeed.’

  ‘I didn't know old Wooden Teeth was a spy,’ DB said to Oz as they wedged their costume box into the boot.

  Oz nodded. ‘Spymaster, actually. He ran a ring of spies during the Revolutionary War.’

  A few minutes later, they pulled up in front of the Spy Museum.

  ‘Will you two be all right on your own?’ Oz's father asked. ‘I've got to help the caterers.’

  ‘Sure, Dad,’ said Oz.

  ‘You can change in the conference room upstairs,’ his father added. Just don't touch anything.’

  DB was silent as she and Oz wrestled the box into the employee elevator.

  ‘You're not really mad that you have to be the back end of the horse, are you?’ asked Oz, pressing the button for the fourth floor.

  ‘Donkey,’ corrected DB.

  ‘OK, then, donkey.’

  DB shook her head. ‘Nah. I'm just worried about Glory and Bunsen and the others, that's all. I'd hate for anything to happen to them.’

  ‘Yeah, I know what you mean,’ Oz agreed.

  He thought back to their brief meeting with Julius in the hallway behind the cafe after yesterd
ay's rescue operation. As Glory had made the introductions, the elder mouse had stepped right on to his palm and looked him fearlessly in the eye.

  ‘So you are Ozymandias,’ he'd said.

  Just Oz,’ Oz had replied.

  Just Oz, is it?’ the Spy Mice Agency director had peered at him intently. ‘Never be ashamed of who you are, young man. It’s a fine name, from a fine poem. “I met a traveller from an antique land” – Percy Bysshe Shelley at his best. It’s a name any mouse would be proud to call his own, and you should be proud of it too.’

  Before Oz could reply, Julius had continued, ‘We mice owe you and Miss Delilah here a great debt of thanks, it would seem. And I understand Glory has made arrangements to repay at least part of it tomorrow night.’

  Bunsen and Glory had taken over after that, outlining their plan for foiling Dupont's attack and settling Oz and DB's score with Jordan Scott and Tank Wilson. Now, thought Oz, as he and DB slid the box off the elevator and down the corridor to the conference room, he wondered if what had seemed brilliant yesterday was such a good idea after all. Were the mice having second thoughts too?

  DB looked at her watch. ‘The rendezvous is set for six forty-five,’ she said. ‘I mean eighteen forty-five hours. That doesn't give us much time. We'd better head for Checkpoint Charlie before we stuff ourselves into this rig.’

  Oz nodded and pulled the torch from his gym bag. After a quick look around to make sure nobody was watching, the two of them headed down the employee staircase. They emerged near the Fly, Spy! exhibit in total darkness. The museum was deserted, the exhibits closed for the night. It was eerily quiet.

  ‘This is creepy,’ said DB.

  Oz nodded in agreement. The mice had insisted on changing the location of the dead drop because, as Glory had explained, ‘the hallway behind the cafe will be crawling with caterers.’

  Keeping a sharp lookout for security guards, Oz and DB followed the torch's narrow beam down the empty corridors and through the silent exhibits. They crept past the Library and tiptoed through Sisterhood of Spies on to the World War Two-era exhibits. Shadows loomed around the fake French farmhouse where resistance fighters had hidden from the Nazis. They skirted the D-Day army jeep, and the hair on the back of Oz's neck lifted when DB reached out and grabbed his polo shirt.

  ‘Jeez, DB,’ he gasped. ‘Scare me to death, why don't you.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  They flew down the stairs to the rooms decked out as East and West Germany during the cold war and crept along the phoney sandbagged Berlin Wall to Checkpoint Charlie.

  ‘There it is,’ whispered Oz, pointing his torch across an exhibit set up to look like a 1950s-era German cafe.

  A shabby, old-fashioned telephone booth stood against the far wall. During the day, museum-goers could lift the handset and listen to the story of a pair of married double agents. No time for that now. Oz opened the phone booth door. It creaked loudly and DB jumped, nearly toppling him.

  ‘Sorry,’ she whispered again.

  ‘Hey! Who's there!’ A loud voice shattered the silence.

  Oz and DB leaped into the telephone booth.

  ‘Oof,’ said DB. There was barely room for one person inside, let alone one plus Oz.

  ‘Sorry.’ Oz squeezed the door shut behind them and switched off the torch.

  The two of them crouched in the darkness, hardly daring to breathe. The heavy tread of footsteps heralded a security guard's approach.

  ‘Is anyone there? Herbie, if you're playing a trick on me again, I will have your badge for breakfast.’

  The security guard stood there for a minute, playing his torch over the furniture and walls. Seeing and hearing nothing, he grunted and moved on. Oz and DB waited a bit to be sure he didn't double back, then opened the phone booth door and tumbled out on to the floor.

  ‘Hurry up,’ said DB crossly. ‘I've had enough of this place.’

  Oz pointed the torch under the wooden slat that served as the booth's bench. Sure enough, there was the package that Bunsen had promised would be left for them. The mice had taped it to the bottom of the bench.

  ‘Let's get out of here,’ he said, grabbing it, and led the way back upstairs.

  Back in the conference room, Oz placed the package (neatly wrapped in newspaper and tied with foraged string) on the table. He opened it. Inside were Oz's CD player, some headphones for DB and what looked like a small, 1960s-era transistor radio. DB sighed. ‘Just like my grandfather's,’ she said. ‘I should have known.’

  ‘I'm sure it'll work just fine,’ said Oz, plugging his headphones into his newly Bunsenized CD player. DB put her headphones on as well.

  ‘Hello? Hello? Anyone there?’ said Oz. ‘Testing, one, two, three, four, testing.’

  ‘Houston, we have lift-off!’ replied a voice. A familiar voice.

  ‘Bunsen!’ cried Oz. He could hear squeaks and cheers from the other mice in the background. ‘You're coming through loud and clear.’

  ‘So are you, Oz,’ said Bunsen. ‘How about you, DB, are you there as well?’

  ‘Right here.’

  ‘OK. I've got you both wired into Central Command here and to Glory and B-Nut as well. Say hello, Goldenleafs.’

  ‘Hi, kids!’ B-Nut replied.

  ‘Strap on your helmets, mouselings, we're in for a wild ride,’ added Glory.

  ‘General Goldenleaf and the Mouse Guard are moving into position as we speak,’ the lab mouse continued. ‘They'll be monitoring our transmissions throughout the evening and are fully prepared to step in if anything goes wrong. Now that we're sure all the equipment is operational, I'm going to switch us all to standby mode. If you need anything, just tap your volume control button twice. Otherwise, we'll rendezvous at eighteen forty-five hours as planned.’

  ‘Roger,’ said Oz. ‘Over and out.’

  He turned to DB and grinned. ‘The name is Levinson, Oz Levinson,’ he said.

  DB rolled her eyes and reached for the donkey's hindquarters. ‘Get a move on, secret agent boy,’ she said, stepping into the costume. ‘It's time to go undercover.’

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY – THREE

  Oz and

  ‘Stop wiggling, Oz.’ It was Glory, her voice transmitting clear as a bell through Oz's headphones. ‘I'm coming in for a landing.’

  Oz peered out through the costume's eyeholes. Above him, a pigeon circled lazily in the air. Beneath the bird he spotted a small white dinner-napkin parachute floating down towards him. Glory was suspended from it. She waved.

  A few seconds later Oz heard a tiny thump as she landed on the costume's head.

  ‘Agent in place,’ she reported.

  ‘Agents in place here too,’ Oz added. He couldn't suppress a grin. He was beginning to feel like a real secret agent. ‘The name is Levinson, Oz Levinson,’ he murmured again under his breath. ‘World-famous boy spy.’

  ‘Well done, everyone,’ said Julius. ‘Right on schedule. I'm handing the reins over to Mr Burner.’

  Oz heard the lab mouse clear his throat. ‘Fifteen minutes to showtime,’ Bunsen said. ‘The Mouse Guard has been deployed, and B-Nut and Hank are in position. Just exactly where are you, B-Nut?’

  ‘Circling between the Metro Centre and Gallery Place stations. No sign of Dupont yet from either.’

  ‘He's definitely on his way,’ Bunsen replied. ‘The computer gymnasts are up on the administrative floor, tracking his homing signal on the museum director's computer. They just relayed an update. He's only a few blocks away.’

  Oz pressed his face against the eyeholes of his costume again and carefully scanned the street in front of him. There was no sign of the Mouse Guard, but he knew they were there, hidden in the shadows that draped the kerbs and softened the sharp edges of the buildings along on Ninth and F Streets. The mice's last line of defence if tonight's plan somehow went wrong. And if it did, Oz wondered, would General Goldenleaf and his warriors be enough to hold back Roquefort Dupont and his forces?

  A limousine pull
ed up and a woman dressed in a black leather jumpsuit got out. Oz recognized her costume instantly; he'd seen pictures of it hanging upstairs in the Spy Games exhibit.

  ‘Agent Emma Peel from that old 1960s TV show,’ Oz reported to the back end of the Trojan Horse.

  ‘What TV show?’ snapped DB, who was growing cranky because she couldn't see anything.

  ‘The Avengers. Ask your mother, she'll remember it.’

  ‘Oh look, Jeffrey, the Trojan Horse!’ said the Emma Peel to her escort, who in his white dinner jacket and black bow tie was clearly meant to be James Bond. Although Oz couldn't remember ever seeing a bald James Bond before. ‘Isn't that charming.’

  ‘Charming?’ retorted DB.

  ‘Hey, at least they didn't notice we're actually a donkey,’ Oz whispered back.

  A steady stream of limousines and taxis began to form a line in front of the museum entrance. Oz kept up a running commentary so DB wouldn't feel left out.

  ‘OK, let's see, here comes – oh, gee, that's Senator What's-his-name, from California, the one who used to be a movie star. He's dressed as Julius Caesar. Did you know Caesar invented codes? Behind him is some guy with a raven on his shoulder – oh, I know, he's supposed to be Edgar Allan Poe. He was a master code breaker. And two more James Bonds, and a guy talking into his shoe – hey, it's the president's National Security Adviser!’

  ‘A guy talking into his shoe advises the president?’ DB sounded indignant. ‘Couldn't they find anyone better than that?’

  ‘It's part of the costume, you goof. He doesn't do that in real life. He's dressed as Maxwell Smart. From another one of those '60s shows.’

  ‘I give up,’ said DB. ‘How do you know all this stuff?’

  Oz shrugged, which set the donkey head rocking back and forth. ‘I spend a lot of time here, remember?’

  ‘Guess I've still got a lot to learn about espionage,’ said DB.