The Black Paw Read online

  As for herself, Glory had one goal and one goal only – to earn her Silver Skateboard. The highest honour that could be bestowed on a Spy Mice Agency field agent, the Silver Skateboard was her passport to adventure. Only the elite Silver Skateboard agents got the glamorous European postings – London, Paris, Berlin, Rome. Earning a Silver Skateboard was her ticket to the world. If she could keep out of trouble meanwhile, that was.

  Behind her, the whispering started again. It had become nearly constant in the wake of Tuesday's fiasco, when Glory had been ambushed on her way back from a retrieval mission by Gnaw, a sly one-eared rat who was one of Dupont's top aides. Though hardly the brightest candle on the birthday cake, Gnaw had put up quite a fight, and Glory had almost lost the priceless Kiss of Death in the scuffle. Almost.

  Let them talk, thought Glory furiously, looking back over her shoulder. Across the room, Fumble winked and waved.

  ‘Stupid house mouse,’ she muttered again, not as quietly this time.

  Glory slung her backpack on to a sardine-can desk with an angry thump. Behind the desk sat an elderly mouse. His steely grey fur was mottled with age, and his eyes, once round and bright as little black beads, were now dim, but Julius Folger had the dignified bearing of an elder statesmouse. If Julius's other faculties were dulled with age, however, his hearing was still exceptionally keen, and he chided Glory softly as he reached for her backpack.

  ‘I heard what you said to Fumble,’ he told her. ‘I do so hate that sort of thing amongst my team members. There's no shame in being a house mouse, my dear, and you must learn to stop using it as an insult. Don't forget that I too am a house mouse.’

  ‘Of the Library Guild, Julius!’ Glory protested. ‘The Folger Shakespeare Library mice are one of our city's most honourable families, and that hardly qualifies you as an ordinary house mouse.’

  The Spy Mice Agency director regarded her shrewdly. ‘Avoid the ordinary at all costs, is that it?’ He sighed. ‘Mus musculus. Ordinary house mouse. Well, who's to say what's ordinary and what's not? Fumble is a good worker – dependable, thorough and mostly honest.’

  ‘Desk job, said Glory scornfully.

  Julius peered closely at Glory, whose expression was mutinous, then replied tartly, ‘Need I remind you of your own house-mouse heritage?’

  ‘Only half,’ muttered Glory.

  ‘And a fine half it is,’ said Julius. ‘I know your mother, Gingersnap, as well as I knew your father, and you have inherited many fine traits from both of them. Never be ashamed of who you are, Glory.’

  Glory sniffed, unconvinced.

  Julius sighed. ‘So much of my wisdom is lost on you youngsters.’

  Unzipping her backpack, he reached inside. A crowd of curious mice quickly gathered, jostling Glory as they vied for a clearer view.

  ‘Hey, watch it!’ she said sharply as Fumble stepped on her tail.

  ‘So sorry,’ said her pear-shaped colleague. ‘An accident.’

  Glory eyed Fumble with suspicion. Accident my paw, she thought, but not wanting to risk further scolding from Julius, she held her tongue.

  ‘Well done, Glory,’ said Julius, drawing out the backpack's contents and laying it on the desk in front of him. ‘Well done indeed.’

  The elder mouse's praise melted over Glory's wounded spirits like glaze on a warm cinnamon roll. She perked up. Maybe she wasn't in trouble after all. The thought of cinnamon rolls made Glory's stomach rumble. It was lunchtime, and she was hungry. The scent of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies wafted down from the cafe overhead, reminding her of Oz. She hoped he would remember to leave her one.

  Glory leaned in closer for a better look at the object on Julius's desk. It was nearly as big as Fumble's fat head and appeared to be a wristwatch. Glory regarded it with as much interest as the others, for although they all knew the object's true function, only Julius – who had read both the inventory report and the operating manual – knew for certain how to operate it.

  The elderly mouse turned the watch over and released a small metal catch with his paw. The back sprang open, revealing a nest of mechanical parts, along with a tiny lens.

  ‘Ahhhhh,’ breathed the gathered mice.

  ‘Very nice,’ agreed Julius, poking at it delicately. The object was not a wristwatch at all, but a miniature camera. A human spy camera.

  ‘Steineck, German-made, circa 1949. Just as described.’ He picked it up in his paws and looked through the lens at his gathered colleagues. ‘Where's Bunsen?’

  The crowd parted and a slim white mouse stepped forward. He glanced quickly at Glory and reddened ever so slightly, a very faint blush that darkened only the tip of his tail and the tip of his nose. A blush so barely perceptible it would have gone unnoticed but for the fact that Julius happened to swing the camera around just then. He zoomed in on Bunsen's nose.

  ‘You wanted me, sir?’ said Bunsen, his question ending in a nervous squeak.

  Julius lowered the camera and gazed at the nose in question. A slightly-more-pink-than-usual nose. ‘Take this to the lab and get started,’ he ordered, passing the camera to Bunsen. ‘You have my authority to use the full resources of the Foragers’ Cupboard. There's no time to be lost – the replica must be back upstairs before the humans arrive at work tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Bunsen dutifully. With a last glance at Glory, he sped off towards the lab with the watch-camera.

  Julius stroked his whiskers thoughtfully. He wondered if Glory was aware of the fact that Bunsen admired her. Not that he didn't understand the appeal – Morning Glory Goldenleaf was a most attractive creature, after all, and since the beginning of time there had always been something particularly alluring about spies. Case in point: their own Mata Furry. A genuine mouse fatale, she had certainly never lacked for suitors. This held true for spies in the human world as well, he had heard. What was that fellow's name in those excellent espionage novels he'd read long ago in his youth? Agent Double-O-Something, the one who always got the girl. Band? Bund?

  But still, a lab mouse and a field mouse? Julius shook his head. It would never work. They were just too different. Bunsen, with his steadfast, cautious nature and keen, probing mind, was the perfect scientist. And Glory, with her field-mouse heritage of bravery, cunning and slightly rebellious attitude, had all the makings of a superb secret agent.

  Julius shrugged philosophically. Bunsen was a smart one; he'd see soon enough which way the wind was blowing. There was no need for Julius to go sticking his elderly and decidedly unromantic whiskers in where they didn't belong.

  ‘The rest of you get back to work as well,’ he said, dismissing the crowd of curious onlookers.

  As the mice began to disperse, Glory gathered up her backpack and skateboard and started to walk away.

  ‘Not you, Glory,’ said Julius. ‘You stay.’

  Glory's spirits drooped again. Here it comes, she thought. Goodbye, Silver Skateboard. Au revoir, Paris and Rome. She turned and faced her boss, bracing herself for the worst.

  ‘I hear you ran into trouble on this mission,’ said Julius.

  Glory whisked her tail behind her, hoping her boss hadn't noticed its scalded tip. ‘Trouble?’ she replied innocently.

  ‘Fumble believes you were spotted by a human.’

  She knew it! The little weasel had tattled! Glory shot Fumble, who was watching the exchange with avid interest from across the room, a skewering look. He smirked and saluted again. Fuming inwardly, Glory turned back to Julius. ‘Well, maybe not exactly spotted,’ she said.

  ‘Not exactly? Enlighten me.’ Julius crossed his paws on his chest and waited.

  ‘I, uh, well, I suppose there may be a slight possibility that I was seen, but only a slight one,’ said Glory. ‘The human was distracted.’ By a mouse tea bag, she refrained from adding.

  ‘I see,’ said Julius. He shook his head sadly. ‘Glory, Glory, Glory. I just don't know what to do with you. Two close calls in one week! I know you're still grieving for your father, and
it's understandable what with the Black Paw –’

  Glory started to protest, but Julius held up a paw and silenced her. ‘It's understandable,’ he continued. ‘Not an easy thing to put out of one's mind. Perhaps a furlough is what you need.’

  A furlough! Glory gaped at her boss in dismay. A furlough was a forced vacation reserved for field mice who cracked under pressure. A furlough was practically the loony bin. A furlough was a tail's length away from being fired.

  Julius, please, not a furlough! I promise it won't happen again,’ she pleaded.

  The elder mouse eyed her for a long moment. ‘Lucky for you the human didn't put in a call to the Exterminator,’ he continued. ‘We've been monitoring the phone lines ever since you were spotted.’

  The Exterminator! Glory's whiskers quivered at the thought. A visit from the Exterminator was just about the worst fate a mouse could face. If something she did were to bring the Exterminator to the Spy Museum – well, it would be straight back to the computer-gymnast typing pool for her. If she was that lucky.

  ‘Against my better judgement I'm going to give you another chance, Glory,’ said Julius. ‘An opportunity to redeem yourself. As my most promising new field agent – and the daughter of one of my oldest and most trusted friends, may he rest in peace – I feel I owe it to you. But I must warn you, three strikes and you're out.’

  Glory's spirits soared. She was being given another chance! She nodded vigorously. ‘I understand, sir. You can count on me, sir.’

  Julius sighed. ‘I hope so, my dear.’ He reached under his desk and pulled out a shiny metal cylinder.

  ‘The Kiss of Death!’ exclaimed Glory.

  ‘Yes,’ Julius replied, rolling it across the desk to her. ‘It's a routine courier mission, nothing fancy. My counterpart from MICE-6 is in town from London for a conference and I've promised him a closer look. Might prove useful – it seems the rats of the European Union are growing restless as well.’

  Glory nodded. She'd seen the headlines. Britain, France, Germany, Spain – Dupont had been busy of late, stirring up unrest around the globe.

  ‘Forewarned is forearmed,’ Julius continued. ‘And it seems only fair that we share our knowledge.’

  ‘Where do you want me to deliver it?’ Glory asked.

  ‘The British Embassy,’ Julius replied. ‘Sir Edmund Hazelnut-Cadbury will be expecting you at eighteen hundred hours on the nose. And Glory, straightforward as this mission may seem, we cannot ignore the significance of the Black Paw. I want you to take extra precautions. Keep a sharp lookout for Dupont's forces and don't let your guard down for a minute. They'll stop at nothing to hijack my best new agent – or the Kiss of Death.’

  And with that sober warning ringing in Glory's ears, Julius dismissed her.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  ‘There you are, my little fortune cookie!’

  Luigi Levinson swooped down on his son as Oz entered the cafe. To his horror, Oz saw that the restaurant's booths and tables were crammed with students from his school. At the sound of his father's booming voice, everyone stopped talking and looked up.

  Jordan and Tank twirled around on their stools at the counter. Oz saw them exchange smirks. He cringed. If he'd ever imagined he might be able to stay off the radar screen at Chester B. Arthur Elementary School, that hope was now completely and utterly dashed. Luigi Levinson was not someone you could keep off a radar screen. A great bear of a man with a dark beard and moustache, Oz's dad was always calling him embarrassing things like ‘snickerdoodle’ or ‘dumpling’ or ‘sugar plum’.

  ‘I've made some treats for you and your little friends,’ his father boomed again, producing a tray of chocolate chip cookies with a flourish.

  Oz saw Jordan mouth ‘Little friends?’ to Tank and wished desperately that the floor beneath him would open and swallow him up.

  Luigi Levinson waved the tray of cookies underneath Oz's nose. They were still warm from the oven, the chocolate chips all gooey just the way Oz liked them. But right now, the thought of food of any kind – even his beloved chocolate chip cookies – made Oz's stomach turn.

  ‘Maybe later, Dad,’ he said faintly.

  Oz's father moved away, bearing the tray towards the booths overlooking the National Portrait Gallery across F Street. Oz stood rooted to the spot, his face flaming with embarrassment.

  Jordan and Tank slid down off their stools and swaggered over to him.

  ‘My little fortune cookie?’ sneered Jordan, careful to keep his voice low. Their teacher, Mrs Busby, was seated just down the counter, deep in conversation with one of the parent chaperones.

  Oz stared silently down at his feet. Over the years, he'd learned not to prolong the agony by taking the bait. The quicker he submitted to the humiliation, the quicker it would all be over. He just wished his dad didn't have to witness it.

  Tank could hardly contain his glee. ‘Fattest fortune cookie I've ever seen!’ he crowed, jabbing Oz in the belly. ‘Bet the fortune inside reads, “Danger! Wide Load!”’

  Some of the students seated nearby looked sorry for Oz, but most laughed right along with Jordan and Tank, relieved not to be shark bait themselves.

  Oz glanced up and saw his father heading back in his direction. Great, he thought miserably. Just in time to watch the sharks zero in for the kill.

  ‘Leave him alone.’

  The voice made Oz jump. He whirled around. Behind him stood his classmate Delilah Bean, skinny legs planted defiantly on the cafe floor, skinny arms akimbo. Tiny black braids exploded around her head like a dark halo, and the expression on her face was fierce.

  ‘What's it to you, Dogbones?’ scoffed Tank.

  Before Delilah Bean could answer, Mrs Busby looked up from her conversation and frowned. Jordan, Sherman, are you two causing trouble?’

  ‘Uh, no, ma'am,’ replied Jordan meekly, casting Oz a venomous look.

  ‘They were too,’ snapped Delilah Bean. Just like they always do.’

  Mrs Busby sighed. ‘Boys, I have had just about enough of you two today. Get back to your seats now, and stay there until we're ready to board the bus.’

  As Jordan and Tank scuffed reluctantly away, Oz turned to the brown-skinned girl beside him. They eyed each other warily.

  ‘So how come you stuck up for me, Delilah?’ Oz asked finally.

  Delilah Bean scowled. ‘It's just DB,’ she said. ‘Nobody but my mother calls me Delilah.’

  Oz shrugged. ‘OK. How come you stuck up for me, DB?’

  ‘I dunno,’ his classmate said grudgingly, still scowling. ‘Maybe because you didn't rat me out upstairs to Jordan-the-Jerk and the other idiots.’

  Oz shifted uncomfortably. DB obviously didn't know how close he had come to doing just that. ‘Guess I owe you one,’ he mumbled.

  ‘It was nothing.’

  They stood there awkwardly for a moment, and then Oz's father materialized. ‘Ready for a cookie now?’ he asked.

  Oz grabbed one blindly off the tray. ‘Sure, Dad. Thanks.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Levinson,’ echoed DB politely, also taking one.

  ‘Aren't you going to introduce me to your little friend?’ Oz's father asked.

  ‘Oh yeah, right,' said Oz. ‘Dad, this is Delilah Bean – I mean DB.’

  Luigi Levinson shook DB's hand and regarded her with interest. ‘You must be Amelia Bean's daughter.’

  ‘You know my mum?’ DB looked surprised.

  ‘She was here at the museum with a camera crew last month,’ Oz's father replied. He turned to Oz and explained, ‘DB's mother is a news anchor for Channel Twelve. We got to talking over lunch and found out that both of our little snickerdoodles were in the same class at school.’ He beamed at them. ‘I'm so glad that the two of you are friends. Oz, perhaps you'd like to have Delilah – I mean DB – stop by the museum with you some day after school.’

  ‘Whatever,’ mumbled Oz, his face flaming again. Snickerdoodles! He could only imagine what DB must be thinking.

  His
father wandered away again, and Oz stared down at his shoes. He wondered what James Bond would do in this situation. Oz took a bite of cookie. He frowned. Did James Bond even have a father?

  ‘It's OK if you pretend not to know me,’ said DB gruffly. ‘Once we're around the others, I mean. I know your dad was just being nice about inviting me here after school and all. I won't mind if you don't.’

  Oz gave DB a sidelong glance. The fierce expression had returned to her face. She was lying, anyone could see that. She would too mind. So would he if he were in her shoes. Not that he wouldn't have said exactly the same thing. To protect himself. To slip under the radar once again.

  Oz cleared his throat uneasily. First Glory, and now DB. Not exactly friends, perhaps, but not sharks, either. Maybe his luck was finally starting to turn. ‘You can come here with me sometime,’ he managed to blurt out. ‘It would be fun. Maybe tomorrow even, since it's Saturday.’

  DB's face softened, although she didn't actually smile. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘That'd be OK. I'll check with my mum.’

  Mrs Busby stood up just then and made her way to the centre of the cafe. ‘Listen up, students!’ she shouted, clapping her hands to be heard above the din. She waited until the room grew quiet. ‘I have an announcement to make! First of all, let's give Mr Levinson a round of applause for those delicious cookies.’

  Cookies! Oz glanced down at the half-eaten cookie in his hand in dismay. He'd almost forgotten. He'd promised to leave one for Glory. As the room erupted in cheers, he searched for the tray, finally spotting it on the counter nearby. Empty! Not a single crumb was left. Sorrowfully, Oz wrapped the remains of his cookie in a napkin, hoping Glory wouldn't mind that he'd taken a few bites. He'd leave her a little apology note along with it before he got on the bus.

  ‘And now, students, I have another announcement to make. Thanks to Oz's father, the fifth and sixth graders at Chester B. Arthur Elementary have received a very special invitation.’

  Uh-oh, thought Oz, his stomach plummeting. What was his dad up to now?