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  The mice nodded, their bright little eyes fixed on his glowing red ones.

  ‘Don’t you want to please Master? Master who loves you, who keeps you safe?’

  ‘Master, giver of all that is good,’ chanted the mice automatically.

  The big rat nodded in approval. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘That’s what Master wants to hear.’ He sat down again, and his gaze fell on Twist. His glare softened. ‘Mouselings like this one know how to please Master!’ Once again he held up Twist’s haul from the evening before. ‘These sparklies will fetch Master a pretty price. Well done, Twist.’

  The rat waved his glittering paw again, and Dodge scampered nimbly over to the breakfast basket. She whisked the napkin off the platter inside, releasing a tantalizing smell into the cubbyhole.

  ‘Buttered crumpets and strawberry jam!’ cried the big rat, and the mice cheered.

  Dodge motioned to a trio of sturdy mouselings who rushed over and lifted up one of the two Thermoses in the basket. As they tipped it forward, Dodge flipped open the spout and poured out a thimble of hot cocoa. She passed it to Twist, along with a hefty chunk of buttered crumpet.

  ‘The rest of you lot line up in an orderly fashion,’ commanded the big rat as the mouselings crowded forward. ‘Line up for Master’s bounty.’

  ‘Master, giver of all that is good!’ chanted the mice again.

  ‘What about Farthing?’ cried a voice from the back of the throng.

  The big rat looked up sharply. ‘Who said that?’ The mice froze. There was a shuffling of paws, but no one replied.

  ‘Worried about our little prisoner, are you?’ The rat stroked his glittering whiskers. ‘Well, I suppose the rascal has had enough punishment for the moment.’ He clapped his paws together. ‘Open the oubliette!’

  A mouseling scampered obediently to the far end of the cubbyhole, lifted up a corner of the carpet, and flung open a small door in the floorboards beneath. He reached down and hauled a teeny mouseling out of the crevice that the door concealed.

  ‘Farthing!’ whispered Twist, as the wee heap of fur was deposited on to the carpet beside him. ‘Are you all right?’

  Farthing merely sniffled in reply. He was the youngest of the mouselings and had been brought in from an orphan raid by mistake. Too little to be useful, too young to be properly trained, he’d nevertheless caught the big rat’s fancy and been kept on as a pet. A naughty pet, as it turned out, whose antics frequently resulted in the ultimate punishment: banishment to the oubliette.

  The mere mention of the word sent the mouselings racing for cover. A sunless, airless hole, the oubliette was one of Master’s most terrifying punishments.

  Twist slipped a bite of crumpet to Farthing and took another sip from his thimble. He gave a start, nearly choking on his cocoa, as the big rat announced, ‘Twist may do the honours this morning.’

  Twist’s heart began to pound like a tiny jackhammer. He was being asked to serve breakfast to Master! He wiped the crumbs from his whiskers with the back of his paw and crossed to where Dodge was waiting. He’d never been given this honour – or this responsibility – before! Usually it went to one of the older, more experienced mouselings. Motioning to the trio of mice behind her to tilt the second Thermos, Dodge carefully guided another stream of steaming liquid into a miniature china cup. She placed it on a small tray, along with a crumpet, and passed the tray to Twist. Frowning in concentration, the mouseling carried it ever so carefully to the red leather chair. It wouldn’t do to spill on Master’s prized carpet. He’d seen what happened to those who spilled on Master’s prized carpet. He had no desire to spend the day in the oubliette.

  ‘Ah, nothing like a latte first thing in the morning,’ said the big rat, taking a sip from the offered cup and biting into his crumpet. ‘The Savoy does do a nice breakfast, if I say so myself. Paper, please.’

  Twist scampered back to the basket and returned bearing the front page of The Times. He smoothed it carefully on the floor in front of the leather chair. The big rat scanned the morning’s headlines. He smiled, and his golden whiskers shimmered again in the sunlight. ‘There we are. Made page one again. Lovely. “Notorious Cat Burglar Strikes Again – London’s Poshest Hotels on Full Alert for the Holidays.”’ He chuckled to himself and took another sip of coffee. ‘“Cat burglar”, eh? Little do they know. “Rat burglar” is more like it. With a bit of help from you lot, of course,’ he added, nodding at the ranks of orphan mice munching contentedly before him. ‘Would you mouselings like to know a secret?’

  The mice stopped chewing. They nodded, their bright little eyes alight with interest.

  ‘Very well, then, you shall hear a secret,’ said the rat. He leaned down closer to his band of diminutive pickpockets. ‘It’s not only our fair city’s hotels that need to be on full alert,’ he whispered conspiratorially. ‘Not at all. Master has bigger fish to fry. Much bigger fish. Bigger even than any of those pea-brained humans can imagine.’ He placed a bejewelled paw on Twist’s thin shoulder. ‘And with this clever mouseling, Master may have finally found a way to carry it off.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DAY ONE – MONDAY 0900 HOURS

  ‘Prudence! How lovely to see you again!’

  Oz watched as his mother sailed across the lobby of the Savoy, her red wool cape flapping behind her. A woman Oz had never seen before sailed back towards her. The two met in the middle of the hotel lobby like a pair of cruise ships and exchanged air kisses and thin smiles.

  ‘Lavinia, darling! It’s been ages,’ replied the woman called Prudence. She was rather fierce-looking, Oz observed, with a long, thin, pointed nose and sharp dark eyes. In fact, thought Oz, she looked like a ferret. His eyes travelled to the pouf of brown curls that crouched on her head. A ferret having a bad hair day.

  Oz’s mother motioned him forward, along with his father and DB. ‘I’d like you meet my family,’ she said. ‘Prudence Winterbottom, this is my husband, Luigi.’

  ‘Enchanted,’ Oz’s father said, clasping Prudence Winterbottom’s hand in his own two bear-like paws. ‘Your recent recording of Tosca – well, what is there to say?’

  Oz gave his father a sidelong glance. His father had had plenty to say about Prudence Winterbottom’s Tosca, none of it very nice. His father was being polite. But Prudence Winterbottom, who wasn’t aware of this, preened at what she assumed was praise.

  ‘And this is my son, Ozymandias,’ continued Lavinia Levinson. ‘And Oz’s best friend, Delilah Bean.’

  ‘DB,’ muttered DB ungraciously.

  Prudence Winterbottom inclined her brown ferret curls at the two of them. ‘Delighted, I’m sure,’ she said vaguely. She turned back to Oz’s father. ‘Tell me more about Tosca. Did you really like it?’

  ‘Funny, she doesn’t look delighted,’ whispered DB to Oz.

  ‘She’s a soprano too,’ Oz whispered back. ‘With the Royal Opera. They can be kind of, um, touchy.’

  ‘Are she and your mom rivals?’

  Oz shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ he replied. ‘Yeah, I guess.’

  ‘And who do we have here?’ boomed Luigi Levinson. ‘Is this your little snickerdoodle I’ve heard so much about?’

  Oz rolled his eyes at DB, who smiled. Oz’s father was always calling people embarrassing names like ‘snickerdoodle’ and ‘sugarplum’.

  ‘Snickerdoodle?’ The British soprano stared blankly at Luigi Levinson. ‘Ah, you mean my daughter.’ She reached back and drew forward the girl who was hiding behind her. ‘Say good morning, Priscilla.’

  ‘Good morning, Priscilla,’ said Priscilla smartly.

  Her mother’s grip on her shoulder tightened. ‘Well,’ she said brightly. ‘Shall we get started? Busy day ahead. Nigel is waiting in the limousine.’

  As he was herded through the doors of the Savoy, Oz inspected the two Winterbottoms with growing alarm. Priscilla’s mother looked like a ferret, and Priscilla looked just like her mother. This was the girl his parents had told him about at breakfast? The one he and DB were
expected to spend the week with while his mother was in rehearsal? The one who was to join them on all the tours of London that the Royal Opera had arranged? Priscilla Winterbottom did not look like the sort of person who would want to take the James Bond walking tour. In fact, Oz thought unhappily, she looked like –

  ‘Here we are,’ announced Prudence Winterbottom as they arrived at the limousine that stood waiting for them outside the Savoy. ‘Come along out, Nigel, and say hello.’ She leaned in and extracted a short, slender, pale boy who looked to be about eight years old.

  ‘Check out the shorts,’ Oz whispered to DB. ‘Doesn’t he know it’s nearly Christmas?’

  The boy named Nigel was indeed dressed in grey flannel shorts. They were hiked up nearly to his armpits, and in addition he wore a blue shirt, a grey flannel jacket, and a red and blue striped tie. On his head was a grey flannel cap. On his legs, grey socks had slipped down to reveal a pair of pale, knobbly knees.

  ‘Dude,’ DB replied. ‘He wouldn’t stand a chance with Jordan and Tank.’

  Oz nodded in sad agreement. ‘Total shark bait.’

  ‘This is Nigel Henshaw,’ said the British soprano. ‘Our conductor’s son.’

  ‘Skipping school, are you?’ boomed Luigi Levinson.

  Nigel jumped, startled. Oz’s father clapped him on his scrawny shoulder reassuringly. ‘Just kidding, son. I’m glad your father decided to let you come with us. I’m sure we’re in for a wonderful day.’

  Oz saw Nigel give Priscilla Winterbottom a wary glance. Uh-oh, he thought as they all climbed into the limousine. He’d seen that look before. Frequently. On his own face. It was a look that said, I’m a pathetic loser, would you like to kick me?

  ‘First stop, Covent Garden!’ trilled Prudence Winterbottom.

  The plan was to drop the two sopranos at the Royal Opera House, then head off to explore London. Oz looked down at the agenda that the limousine driver had given them. He frowned. There was no mention of the James Bond walking tour.

  ‘Laid any eggs today, Henshaw?’ Priscilla Winterbottom said under her breath as the grown-ups launched into more discussion of Tosca.

  A miserable look crept over the younger boy’s face. It was another look Oz knew well. Obviously, Nigel had heard this line before.

  ‘Leave the kid alone,’ snapped DB.

  Priscilla Winterbottom glared at her. She glanced over towards the adults, who were still deep in conversation, then reached out and grabbed one of the braids that covered DB’s head like tiny brown springs.

  ‘What’s up with your hair?’ she demanded, giving it a sharp tug.

  ‘What’s up with your mouth?’ retorted DB, swatting Priscilla’s hand away.

  Priscilla Winterbottom sniffed. She glared at DB again, then turned her attention to Oz. She bared her ferret fangs at him in a smile. Staring pointedly at Oz’s round belly, Priscilla Winterbottom jerked her chin towards his mother’s matching one. ‘So, are you a soprano as well, then, Ozymandias?’

  Oz turned beetroot red. Perspiration broke out on his forehead. His stomach plummeted towards his toes. Oh, no, he thought helplessly. There were sharks in England too.

  It was going to be a long week.

  CHAPTER SIX

  DAY ONE – MONDAY 0930 HOURS

  Glory gazed down at the mahogany desk in front of her. It was a beautiful piece of furniture, obviously a genuine antique. Probably foraged from some aristocratic family’s dollhouse centuries ago, she thought, with a tiny pang of homesickness. Her brother Chip, one of the Spy Mice Agency’s top foragers, would give his whiskers for a find like this.

  The desk was polished to a high gloss, and Glory could see her face reflected in its surface. She looked nervous. She was nervous. She shifted uneasily on the cork where she was perched. Sir Edmund Hazelnut-Cadbury, head of Britain’s MICE-6, was seated across the desk from her. He was every bit as imposing as she had expected, and he’d been staring at her in silence for a full three minutes.

  Like Julius Folger, her boss back in DC, Sir Edmund had fur that was silvered with age. Like Julius, he wore a bow tie. And, like Julius, Sir Edmund had the same dignified bearing befitting a mouse elder. But where Julius’s eyes twinkled frequently, Sir Edmund’s were sombre. At the moment, at least.

  The head of MICE-6 cleared his throat. He rattled the file folder in front of him. ‘So you are Morning Glory Goldenleaf,’ he said finally.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Glory replied, trying to keep her voice level. Stay calm, she told herself. Don’t blow this interview.

  ‘I’ve heard a great deal about you,’ said Sir Edmund.

  Glory nodded cautiously, unsure how else to respond.

  ‘Most of it positive,’ continued Sir Edmund.

  Most of it? Glory’s pulse quickened. She was eager to make a good impression, and ‘most of it’ didn’t sound too promising.

  ‘Westminster and Savoy, two of my top agents, both speak very highly of you. And my old friend Julius Folger thinks…’ He paused and gazed down at the letter that Glory had brought along from her boss.

  Curiosity flared in Glory. What exactly did Julius think of her? She angled her head slightly, trying to read her boss’s familiar scrawl on the Spy Mice Agency’s letterhead.

  The head of MICE-6 snapped the file shut. ‘Let’s just say you come highly recommended. I, however, have reservations. It states here you were awarded Silver Skateboard status after your very first mission – that disastrous affair with the Kiss of Death.’

  ‘But it turned out all right in the end!’ Glory protested.

  Sir Edmund held up a paw, silencing her. ‘Simply not the way we do things over here,’ he told her, shaking his head. ‘We have different standards altogether.’

  There was an awkward silence. Sir Edmund cleared his throat. He pushed a platter across the desk. A slightly chipped china saucer, it was stamped with a picture of a red double-decker bus and had clearly been foraged from a rubbish bin behind one of London’s many souvenir shops. ‘Almond?’ he offered.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Glory replied politely. She was still stuffed from breakfast. Squeak’s parents ran the Townmouse Grill at the Savoy, a fancy restaurant directly above the plaster ceiling of the hotel’s Thames Foyer. Upon her arrival earlier this morning, she and Squeak’s family had feasted on buttered crumpets with strawberry jam and what seemed like endless pots of tea. Afterwards, Glory had settled into the guest nest in Squeak’s equally fancy penthouse apartment, tucked under the eaves of the hotel’s top floor. It had a fabulous view of the river, and Glory, who still couldn’t believe she was actually in London, had had to prise herself away. She’d almost missed her Pigeon Air taxi to the Cabinet War Rooms, where MICE-6 had its headquarters deep beneath Winston Churchill’s old wartime bunker.

  ‘Let’s get down to business, then,’ said Sir Edmund, shoving aside the file folder and the platter of almonds. ‘First things first. Julius informs me that you’ve brought along a new acquisition from the museum.’

  Glory opened her backpack and pulled out a silver coin. She handed it to Sir Edmund. He turned it over in his paws, then pressed down on one edge.

  ‘Splendid,’ he said as the coin flipped open, revealing a hollow interior. ‘This will prove very useful. Perfect way for our couriers to carry secret messages.’

  Sir Edmund pushed a button on his intercom. ‘Miss Honeyberry?’ he barked. ‘Send in agents Westminster and Savoy.’

  ‘They’re down below at the underground skate park, sir,’ a soft voice replied. ‘Finch is showing them a new move. Something about a stale fish, I believe they said?’

  ‘Stale fish 720,’ noted Glory. ‘Or 540. Classic Tony Hawk tricks.’

  ‘I don’t care if the fish is stale or fresh,’ said Sir Edmund irritably. ‘Fetch them back at once, and tell them to take the Tube. I haven’t got all day.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The intercom went silent. Sir Edmund Hazelnut-Cadbury drummed his tail impatiently on his desk. He opened Glory’s folder a
gain and scanned its contents. Glory gazed at the portraits of dignified mice that lined the walls. Sir Edmund’s predecessors, apparently: Sir Peregrine Inkwell. Sir Rupert McVitie. Sir Archibald Leach.

  Surprisingly, there was a portrait of a human, as well. (A framed postage stamp, actually.) Glory stared at it. She’d seen that face before. The man looked a bit like a bulldog. A very distinguished bulldog.

  Sir Edmund looked up from the folder. ‘Winston Churchill,’ he said, noting her gaze. ‘Personal friend of my great-grandfather.’ He nodded towards the portrait of Sir Peregrine Inkwell. ‘Peregrine was my mother’s grandfather. Belonged to the Poetry Guild, as did all the Inkwells. He founded MICE-6.’

  Sir Edmund leaned forward. ‘Poets make excellent spies, oddly enough,’ he informed Glory. ‘They’re clever at reading between the lines, of course, and nothing escapes a poet’s keen eye for detail.’ He pushed back off his cork and stepped closer to the portraits. ‘They met right here, you know, Churchill and my grandfather,’ he continued. ‘Churchill was prime minister during World War Two. It was a very dark time. London was under constant attack. Bombs were dropping everywhere. This building served as Churchill’s bunker, his secret wartime headquarters.’

  The elder mouse glanced over at Glory. Her bright little eyes shone with keen interest. She’d learned about Winston Churchill in spy school, but this was different. Sir Edmund was related to a mouse who actually knew him!

  ‘The Blitz affected humans and mice alike,’ the head of MICE-6 explained. ‘The bombs threw everything into chaos. The rats of London used it as an excuse to launch a major offensive: the Great Turf War. As luck would have it, my great-grandfather chose to set up our espionage headquarters in this building, right here beneath Churchill’s office.’ He pointed a paw towards the ceiling. ‘One night, Peregrine crept upstairs to borrow some ink for a speech he was working on to rally the guilds in his weekly radio address. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? His famous “Blood, Tails, Tears and Sweat” speech?’