The Black Paw

by Heather Vogel Frederick

‘We have all been invited to attend the museum's annual Hallowe'en “Come as Your Favourite Spy” masquerade ball this Sunday night! Won't that be fun?’

  The room erupted in cheers again. Oz stared at his teacher, aghast. Fun? He couldn't think of anything less fun! This was a catastrophe! He'd had his costume ready for weeks now. He'd been planning to go as James Bond. He'd found an old tuxedo at the thrift store and everything. But now – well, Oz could only imagine the agonies of embarrassment and excruciating torture that would await if he turned up as Agent 007 at a party with Jordan and Tank. His secret fantasy exposed to the sharks for ridicule.

  As the students crowded out the door towards the buses, Jordan and Tank sidled over to them. ‘So, Dogbones and Fatboy, is it?’ said Jordan.

  Tank elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Sounds like the title to a bad movie.’

  The two of them cackled at this display of wit. ‘Bet I know who you're going to show up disguised as, Blubberbutt,’ said Jordan.

  Oz stared at the floor again. His luck hadn't turned after all. In fact, his luck had just run out. Completely out.

  The sharks moved in for the kill. As Oz stood there helplessly, Jordan and Tank shoved their faces close to his and sang out in unison: ‘DOUBLE-O-LARD!’

  It was rush hour on the roof of the Spy Museum.

  A long line of mice trailed from the heating and air conditioning vents across the roof's flat surface to its edge, where the commuter patrol sorted them briskly according to destination.

  ‘Keep it moving! Keep it moving!’ The mice shuffled obediently forward towards the incoming Pigeon Air taxis. ‘Left for points north; right for points south; straight ahead for Dupont Circle. Climb on up there, make it snappy!’

  Glory strode directly to the front of the line, the late-afternoon sun glinting off the tip of the metal cylinder that protruded from her mitten-thumb backpack. The other mice in line jostled each other as she passed, and Glory caught the words ‘Kiss of Death' whispered over and over. She ignored them.

  When she reached the edge of the roof, she took the white-gloved patrol attendant aside and murmured something into his ear. He shot her a sour look, but nodded reluctantly.

  ‘Agency business,’ he barked at a protesting commuter, placing Glory at the head of the Dupont Circle line.

  Glory watched as a pigeon arrived in a flap of feathers, then took off again towards Union Station bearing a small passenger on its back. It was an efficient transportation system, and one that served them well. It served the pigeons well too, for in exchange for ferrying Washington's mice population to all points of the compass, the birds received food, water and such grooming essentials as beak cleaning, feather brushing, down fluffing and claw polishing.

  ‘Quit daydreaming and get a move on! Your taxi's here!’ The white-gloved commuter patrol attendant gave Glory a not-too-gentle shove. Before she could climb aboard the waiting pigeon, however, she was nearly trampled by Fumble.

  ‘Sorry!’ he called, sounding far too cheerful to be sorry at all. The pigeon grunted as Fumble heaved his bulk on to its back. ‘Gotta fly – I'm late for a cheese tasting at the French Embassy!’

  Glory glared at her colleague. Despite the fact that their activities at the Spy Mice Agency were supposed to be secret, Fumble was forever bragging about his work. He'd managed to make his humble duties sound so glamorous that he had quickly earned a spot for himself on Washington mouse society's A-list, and he spent his free time making the rounds of the city's most exclusive parties.

  If only they knew that Fumble sat behind a desk all day, Glory thought crossly. Her colleague never budged off his plump bottom to do anything remotely dashing or dangerous. There'd be no cheese and hoopla for Fumble if the truth were known.

  ‘If you get any bigger, you'll have to take the bus,’ she muttered.

  ‘I heard that!’ Fumble shot back, thrusting his feet into the stirrups (made of foraged paper clips) and giving the reins (foraged shoelaces) an angry flap. The pigeon on to which he had planted himself squawked in protest, then waddled resentfully into take-off position. With a mighty grunt, it managed – just barely – to rise into the air. Fumble smiled spitefully down at Glory and blew her a kiss.

  Glory heard snickers behind her, and she reddened. Obviously, Fumble was not about to let her forget Tuesday afternoon's blunder. Was the whole world talking about how she'd almost let the Kiss of Death slip through her paws?

  Just then there was a flap of wings and whoosh of air very close overhead. The mice around her ducked and squealed, and Glory looked up to see her brother B-Nut, grinning as he waved to her from atop a barnstorming pigeon.

  ‘Hey, no buzzing the commuters! You know the rules!’ The patrol attendant ran after the low-flying pair, shaking his white-gloved paw angrily.

  Glory grinned and waved back. A collective sigh went up from the female mice in line behind her at the sight of the handsome pilot. Her brother cut quite a dashing figure, and Glory watched as he and his pigeon landed with a graceful swoop in the surveillance corral. While B-Nut dismounted, two of the ground crew rushed forward and unhooked a small box that hung from the bird's neck. Glory knew it was not a box but a fly-spy cam, a camera containing the day's aerial surveillance film. Her brother's job was to keep a sharp lookout on the rats from the sky.

  ‘Any sign of Dupont?’ she called.

  B-Nut, who bore a distinct resemblance to his sister – it was something in the set of the ears, and of course they both had the elegant Goldenleaf nose – shook his head. ‘Not so much as a whisker,’ he called back, crossing the roof towards her. ‘He's been keeping a low profile all week.’

  ‘Do you think he's up to something?’ Glory asked.

  Her brother shrugged. ‘Dunno,’ he said. Julius thinks so. I guess we'll find out soon enough.’ He eyed the metal cylinder in her backpack. ‘Where are you going with that thing?’

  ‘Courier job,’ Glory replied. All ears in line behind her were straining mightily in their direction, and she lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘British Embassy. Sir Edmund Hazelnut-Cadbury's in town, and MICE-6 wants a peek. Should be pretty straightforward. Which is a good thing. I can't afford any more mess-ups.’

  Glory told her brother about her close call earlier with the kettle. She almost told him about breaking the Mouse Code too but in the end decided not to. She still wasn't sure what she was going to do about the note tucked in the bottom of her backpack. The one she'd found with the cookie at the dead drop, written on a napkin in a desperate scrawl. Need your help. My life depends on it. Meet me here tomorrow at noon. No, thought Glory, until she was sure what she was going to do about Oz, it was best not to say anything.

  ‘Maybe you should take Hank instead of Pigeon Air,’ suggested B-Nut. ‘Less margin for error that way. Some of these hacks should have been grounded years ago.’

  Glory glanced doubtfully at the wheezing specimen flapping its way towards her. ‘Maybe you're right. But isn't Hank ready to call it a day?’ She looked across the roof to the corral where her brother's pigeon was getting his feathers groomed.

  ‘Nah,’ said B-Nut. ‘Light duty today, what with no rats out on the streets.’ He spoke a few words into the microphone clipped to his fur and Hank nodded in response, then beckoned to Glory with his wing. B-Nut tossed her a quick salute. ‘Well, good luck, Sis. See you at home later tonight. Tell Mum not to keep dinner for me – the Acorns and I have to practise for Sunday night's gig.’

  ‘OK,’ said Glory. The Steel Acorns were her brother's rock band. They'd been hired to play at the Spy Mice Agency's Hallowe'en Eve gala two nights from now. Invitations had gone out weeks ago, and the city was abuzz with excitement. All of Washington's tail shakers would be there – Council members, representatives from the Embassy Guild, not to mention the stars of the Theatre and Music Guilds, of course. And the top brass from the Mouse Guard.

  With a flip of his tail, B-Nut sped off towards the vents that led down into the building. Glory heard more sighs behind her
as her brother went by, followed by giggles. She rolled her eyes. Between his daytime job as a surveillance pilot and his after-hours job as lead singer for the Steel Acorns, B-Nut was very popular.

  ‘You there! You're holding things up again with all your chitchat!’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Glory to the patrol attendant. She stepped out of line. ‘Change of plans.’ As she headed for the surveillance corral, she heard a voice behind her.

  ‘Miss Goldenleaf! Oh, Miss Goldenleaf!’

  Glory turned to see Bunsen racing across the roof. He stopped in front of her, panting. The tip of his tail was bright pink.

  ‘Yes?’ said Glory.

  ‘Uh, Miss Goldenleaf, we thought, uh, that is, I thought you might need, uh – here.’ He thrust a small object abruptly into her paws.

  Glory inspected it curiously. It looked like a button on a chain. ‘What is it?’

  The pink colour crept up the entire length of Bunsen's tail as he took the object from Glory's paws and placed it around her neck. ‘You wear it like this,’ he explained. ‘And see, the top unscrews, like this.’

  Glory glanced down. ‘It's a compass,’ she said in surprise.

  Bunsen shook his head. ‘Not exactly. That was its original use, many years ago. One of your colleagues retrieved it just last week. In fact, the compass still works, but I've made a few, uh, modifications.’

  ‘So what does it do?’ Glory eyed the small round object curiously.

  ‘It's a homing device,’ the lab mouse continued. ‘I've outfitted it with a tiny transmitter.’ He glanced down shyly. ‘I – uh, I mean we can track you with it back down at Central Command. I heard about the Black Paw, you see, and I thought that, well, just in case…’

  ‘In case Dupont nabs me, you'll know where to pick up the corpse?’ Glory said.

  Bunsen looked at her, appalled. ‘Oh no, Miss Goldenleaf! That wasn't my intention at all! It's so we can rescue you!’

  Glory snorted. ‘Thanks, Bunsen, but haven't you heard? Dupont ships his victims home piece by piece.’

  Tears sprang to her eyes as Glory thought of the day last summer when her mother had opened the door to discover a package on their doorstep. A package containing her father's tail.

  ‘Oh, Miss Goldenleaf, I am most dreadfully sorry!’ said Bunsen, wringing his paws in anguish. ‘I didn't mean to distress you!’

  Glory shook her head. ‘Never mind. I know you didn't mean to.’ She glanced down at the homing device again and screwed the button top back on. ‘Thanks anyway, Bunsen. I appreciate the effort. You're true blue. And call me Glory, OK?’

  The lab mouse's nose lit up like a bulb on a Christmas tree. He shot Glory an admiring glance. ‘You're very, uh, welcome, Miss, uh – Glory,’ he stammered.

  ‘Ready?’ It was Hank. Freshly watered, fed and groomed, B-Nut's pigeon was resplendent in the late afternoon sun, his purple and grey feathers dust-free and gleaming.

  ‘Later, Bunsen!’ said Glory, climbing aboard.

  Still blushing, Bunsen waved as Hank and Glory rose into the air above the Spy Museum. Glory waved back, then lifted her face to the sky and smiled, basking in the lingering golden warmth of late autumn. She loved to fly, especially this time of year, when the sticky heat of summer was gone.

  Glory loved autumn. She loved the crisp crunch of leaves beneath her paws at home in Dumbarton Oaks. She loved the smell of wood smoke drifting from Georgetown's many brick chimneys in the evenings. She especially loved the chilly autumn mornings, so perfect for burrowing down into the soft bits of flannel with which she lined her sleeping nook. Glory loved the bright blue of the sky, and the golds and russets with which nature dressed all of Washington's trees, and even the silly squirrels who hid their acorns and chestnuts and then forgot where they put them. This time of year brought a snap to everyone's step too. The tourist trade had dwindled to a trickle, and the city was all business once again – brisk with a sense of purpose as the humans got down to the work of running the country and the mice got down to the work of staying one step ahead of the rats.

  ‘Your brother said you're heading to the British Embassy,’ said Hank. ‘When's your rendezvous?’

  ‘Eighteen hundred hours,’ Glory replied.

  ‘We've got a little time,’ said Hank. ‘How about taking the scenic route?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Hank banked steeply, and Glory squeaked in delight as they swooped over the FBI building (the Feline Bureau of Investigation, where the G-mice kept a close watch on the city’s bureaucats, including the fat cats on Capitol Hill). He turned and rocketed down Pennsylvania Avenue towards the Capitol, circling the building's majestic white dome, then flew east over the Supreme Court, home to the mice's Judicial Guild.

  Now wheeling westward, the pair soared over the Smithsonian's National Air and Space Museum, then made a beeline towards the Washington Monument down the strip of green grass that formed the Mall. Glory gave another squeak as Hank swept in low on the final approach, then nudged his beak skyward at the very last minute and shot straight up, up, up – and then over the top of the lofty stone pillar to plummet down the other side.

  Laughing and dizzy, Glory held on to the reins for dear life as they made a dash across the surface of the Reflecting Pool. Hank flew so low that she skimmed the water's surface with her tail, kicking up a narrow wake of foam behind them. To her right she could see the polished black wall of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, while ahead lay the Lincoln Memorial.

  Hank swooped inside and paused for a brief rest atop Honest Abe's marble head. It was cool and quiet inside the gleaming white structure, and Glory's voice echoed slightly in the stillness.

  ‘I just love this city,’ she said dreamily.

  ‘Yep,’ said Hank. ‘Me too. Wouldn't want to live anyplace else. Best way to keep your beak on the pulse of the nation.’

  ‘What's your favourite place in Washington, Hank?’

  ‘Better to show than tell,’ the pigeon replied, and he spread his wings and took flight again, carving lazy loops southward in the air over the neighbouring Tidal Basin. ‘Right here,’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘In the springtime, when the cherry trees are in bloom. No prettier place in the world. And I've seen a lot of the world. Didn't always roost in DC, you know.’

  Glory looked down at the trees that rimmed the inlet, the lacy outlines of their branches visible through vibrant crowns of burnt-orange leaves. Come spring, the cherry trees would trade those bright, bittersweet halos for a cloud of pink blossoms that looked like candyfloss from the air. Glory closed her eyes. She twitched her elegant little nose, wishing for a moment that it were in fact spring so she could smell the sweet scent of cherry blossoms wafting skyward to greet them.

  ‘Good choice, Hank,’ she said, opening her eyes again.

  ‘How about your favourite spot, Glory?’ the pigeon asked.

  Glor didn't hesitate. ‘The Library of Congress.’

  Hank banked eastward. ‘Coming right up!’

  Glory adored the Library of Congress, though she hadn't been able to bring herself to visit it since her father's death three months ago. It held too many memories. She and her brothers and sisters had spent such happy hours there with him as mouselings. Every week they'd made the long trip together from Dumbarton Oaks, and every week he'd read aloud to them from the books that lined the library's miles of shelves. Some of those humans could really write.

  Glory missed more than the books and the memories. She also missed the marble floors, so perfect for after-hours skateboarding. It was along the library's broad hallways and down the smooth steps of the Great Hall, in fact, that she and her brothers and sisters had perfected their flip tricks and rail slides and grinds. And where she still spent much of her free time, practising for the Silver Skateboard exam. Not lately, though. Not since her father's death. It was still too sad a place.

  As Hank circled the library's rooftop, Glory shook off her melancholy thoughts. She looked down and felt a surge of pride. Generati
ons of her mice ancestors had worked hard to make their civilization a success, all because they'd learned to read. It was a skill that the rats were too stupid or lazy to master, and one that had given the mice the edge in recent years. Because of the knowledge they had gained from books over the centuries, the Guilds had taken control of nearly all of the city above ground, while the rats were consigned to Washington's sewers and subway tunnels and basements. And aside from the occasional territorial skirmish, the rats had remained reasonably content with the arrangement. They were partial to the dark anyway, and there was plenty of garbage below ground on which to feed. But that was before Dupont.

  Roquefort Dupont wasn't Washington's average rat. Not by a long shot. Dupont wanted more. He wanted power. He wanted control. In short, he wanted everything. And what was worse, he hated mice with a passion. ‘The only good mouse is a dead mouse,’ was Dupont's motto, and in recent months, as he'd grown more restless and more determined to expand his territory (or ‘reclaim' it, as he put it, convinced that his ancestors had been swindled out of their rights), he and his army of rodents had struck out at the Guilds with vicious force. And now he wanted Glory Goldenleaf.

  Glory shivered, troubled by thoughts of Roquefort Dupont and the dreaded Black Paw. Was her father's fate soon to be her own? Was his nightmarish end her destiny as well?

  Hank finished his circuit of the library's rooftop. He dived towards Neptune's Court Fountain below, a spine-tingling descent that banished all thoughts of Dupont and doom from Glory's mind. She whooped with glee as the pigeon pulled up smartly and landed atop one of the stone turtles, deftly avoiding the spray of water that gushed from its silent mouth.

  ‘You mice like to read, don't you?’ Hank said.

  ‘Yes, I suppose we do,’ Glory replied, glancing cautiously at the passers-by. But the stream of briefcase-clutching humans who flowed past were intent on getting home, and no one seemed to notice the pigeon with the mouse on his back. Glory slipped off Hank and sat down beside him companionably.