Goldwhiskers

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  Nigel nodded. ‘OK.’

  DB elbowed Oz sharply. ‘This is a bad idea,’ she whispered.

  ‘I know what I’m doing,’ Oz whispered back.

  DB shrugged. ‘Have it your way.’

  ‘Squeak?’ said Oz. ‘Come on out and meet Nigel Henshaw.’

  The bristles on the make-up brush parted and Squeak stepped out into the light. She looked nervous. So did Nigel.

  ‘Remember those friends of mine I was telling you about? Well, Squeak is one of them, Nigel. And she’s in trouble. Big trouble.’

  Nigel’s eyes were as round as pennies. He looked from the mouse to Oz and back again.

  ‘Hello,’ said Squeak.

  Nigel managed a wave.

  ‘Squeak, do you happen to have a MICE-6 badge?’ asked Oz.

  The mouse rummaged through her backpack, pulling out a tiny object and passing it to Oz. Like the Spy Mice Agency badge, it was round and very simple in design. But the MICE-6 crest was different: a candle against a navy blue background. True blue, thought Oz. He read the inscription that encircled it haltingly. ‘“Lux tenebras exstinguit.” That’s Latin, right?’

  Squeak nodded.

  ‘Lux is “light”,’ Nigel piped up. ‘I’m taking Latin at school.’

  ‘Very good, Nigel,’ said Squeak. ‘It means “light extinguishes darkness”. That’s the MICE-6 motto.’

  ‘And that’s what you will help the brave mice of London do, from this time forward,’ said Oz, holding up the badge. ‘I hereby deputize you, Nigel Henshaw, as an honorary member of MICE-6. Adjunct spy mouse and defender of mice against evil rats.’

  ‘Sir Edmund is going to kill you,’ muttered DB.

  Nigel looked at the three of them wonderingly.

  ‘I’ll explain more later,’ said Oz. ‘Right now, I need you to bring me something. Can you get into the wardrobe department’s cupboards?

  ’Nigel nodded.

  ‘Good. I saw the posters in the lobby for the Nutcracker ballet – it’s being performed here this week, right?’

  Nigel nodded again.

  Oz scribbled something down on a slip of paper and handed it to his new colleague. ‘I need you to bring me this. Remember, it’s for a good cause.’

  ‘Mice?’ asked Nigel, shooting Squeak a shy glance.

  ‘Priscilla,’ said Oz. ‘She’s due for a rude awakening later tonight.’

  ‘We need to think of a way to make her go to sleep first, though,’ said DB. ‘If that cough syrup doesn’t do the trick.’

  ‘Chamomile tea always makes me sleepy,’ suggested Nigel. ‘My dad has some in his dressing room.’

  Oz looked over at DB. ‘See?’ he said with pride. ‘He’s a natural.’ He turned to the younger boy. ‘Good thinking. You go get the tea and the stuff from the Nutcracker cupboard, and we’ll wait right here for you. Oh, and don’t let the policemen catch you! Remember, this is a top-secret mission!’

  Nigel nodded, his eyes shining with excitement, and darted out of the dressing room.

  ‘How am I going to explain this to Sir Edmund?’ Squeak demanded.

  ‘Desperate times call for desperate measures,’ Oz replied.

  ‘Yes, but talking to another human is really desperate, Oz,’ said Squeak unhappily. ‘You and DB are an exception. I could lose my job for this.’

  DB reached out a finger and gently patted her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Squeak. You can just say it’s all Oz’s fault if anything goes wrong.’

  ‘Thanks a bunch,’ said Oz.

  ‘Well it is,’ DB retorted. ‘Wasn’t my idea, that’s for sure.’

  ‘So, how are we going to get you out of here, Oz?’ asked Squeak. ‘Too bad you aren’t smaller, or I’d lend you my board.’

  Oz looked at her lolly-stick skateboard and grinned. ‘I’m definitely too big for that.’

  DB picked up the make-up brush on Lavinia Levinson’s dressing table. ‘I have an idea,’ she said. ‘Remember that workshop we took at the Spy Museum a couple of Saturdays ago? The one on disguises?’

  Oz nodded.

  ‘How about we disguise you as an old man?’ said DB. ‘You can wear your father’s coat over your clothes, and maybe Nigel can find us a scarf and a hat somewhere. Too bad Scotland Yard took your grandpa shoes.’

  Oz stared down at his feet, which were now clad in black trainers. ‘Even if you can pull it off, how am I going to get past the police guard?’

  ‘We’ll think of something,’ said DB. ‘Sit down.’

  Oz sat, and while Squeak looked on, DB took a greasepaint pencil and started drawing lines on his forehead and face. She worked swiftly and efficiently, and, when she was done, she stood back and admired her handiwork. ‘Wrinkled as a prune,’ she said. ‘But take your glasses off. You’ll never get past the police wearing those. They’re a dead giveaway.’

  Oz took his glasses off. He blinked. Everything was blurry. ‘I can’t see a thing,’ he said, starting to panic. What Sir Edmund was asking him to do was scary enough with twenty-twenty vision.

  ‘I’ll be with you the whole time,’ said Squeak. ‘I can be your eyes.’

  ‘Great,’ muttered Oz.

  ‘Take a look,’ said DB, when she was done.

  ‘How?’ Oz complained. ‘I can’t see.’

  DB held a hand mirror two inches from his face. He peered into it. ‘Not bad,’ he said, turning this way and that. ‘I really look old. Amazing!’

  ‘Thanks,’ said DB.

  ‘I wish we had a wig, though. I need some grey hair.’

  ‘A hat will work just fine,’ said Squeak. She looked at her watch. ‘We’ve got to get going. There’s no time to lose if we’re going to rescue the orphans and stop the exterminations.’

  There was a gentle tap on the door and Nigel entered. ‘Got it!’ he said breathlessly, holding up what looked like a huge grey bath mat.

  He stared at Oz and blinked.

  ‘It’s me, Nigel,’ Oz said. ‘I’m in disguise.’

  ‘Did the policeman see you?’ asked DB.

  Nigel shook his head. ‘I pretended to go into my dad’s dressing room, then waited until the guard was busy with his newspaper again.’

  Oz slapped him a high five. ‘Double-O-Nigel!’ he said. ‘You’re on your way to becoming a real secret agent!’

  The younger boy’s pale face flushed with pride.

  ‘Any chance you can find us a scarf and a hat?’ asked DB.

  ‘A grey wig and some size ten shoes would be even better,’ added Oz.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Nigel, and darted out again.

  ‘Let’s go over the plan,’ said Squeak. ‘We take the Tube to the museum first.’

  ‘The underground?’ said DB. ‘Cool.’

  ‘I tell the night watchman I lost my glasses,’ continued Oz, handing them reluctantly over to DB, ‘and get him to lock me in –’

  ‘And we retrieve the Summoner,’ finished Squeak. ‘It’s foolproof.’

  Oz grunted. Things were never foolproof. Especially when they involved him. ‘What if the night watchman doesn’t answer the door, or won’t let me in?’

  Squeak shrugged. ‘We’ll think of something. He’s definitely on duty – the computer gymnasts already checked.’

  Oz shook his head. There were too many ‘what ifs?’ for comfort.

  ‘What does this Summoner look like, anyway?’

  Squeak shrugged. ‘I haven’t a clue. Nobody’s ever seen it but Sir Peregrine Inkwell and Winston Churchill.’

  ‘Great,’ muttered Oz again.

  ‘So while you head for the rendezvous, Nigel and I lure Prissy Slushbutt in here and see if we can put her to sleep,’ continued DB. ‘I just hope she likes chamomile tea.’

  The door opened again and Nigel slipped in. He held up a ratty grey scarf and a matching wool cap in triumph. ‘These were in my dad’s cupboard,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t find a wig or shoes, though.’

  DB bundled Oz into his father’s coat. It reached nearly to his an
kles, and the arms were so long she had to turn the sleeves back three times before his hands appeared.

  ‘How do I look?’ said Oz.

  ‘Like a demented old man playing dressing-up,’ said DB. She jammed the cap over his blond hair, then wound the scarf round his neck. She looked him over and sighed. ‘It will have to do. Just keep your chin down, stay in the shadows as much as possible, and don’t stop for anything.’

  Squeak scrambled up the coat and somersaulted into its chest pocket. ‘Right, then,’ she said. ‘We’re off.’

  ‘Wait!’ cried DB. ‘What do we do if the policeman comes in looking for Oz?’

  Oz eyed Nigel, then passed him his dinner jacket. Nigel put it on. It reached below his knobbly knees.

  ‘Put my glasses on,’ Oz ordered, as DB handed them to him.

  Nigel obliged. The result was ridiculous. The only similarity between the two boys was the fact that they were both fair-haired.

  ‘I’ll pad the coat to make him look fatter – I mean bigger,’ said DB hastily. ‘If he sits in the chair in the corner with the lights off, maybe we can fool the guard.’

  ‘We really must go,’ said Squeak. ‘Good luck, DB.’

  ‘Good luck to you too,’ DB replied.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Oz. ‘We’re going to need it.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  DAY TWO – TUESDAY 1900 HOURS

  MICE-6 headquarters erupted in pandemonium as Goldwhiskers abruptly ended his phone call.

  ‘They’re on the move!’ shouted Sir Edmund Hazelnut-Cadbury. ‘Mobilize the Royal Guard! Alert the surveillance pilots! Save those mice!’

  Behind him, the videoconference screen was dark. The Scrambler’s satellite feed had gone down, and Z was frantically trying to repair it.

  ‘Have the gymnasts keep Washington updated by email for now,’ Sir Edmund barked at his secretary. ‘And Miss Honeyberry?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Fetch me the best cryptologist we’ve got. We need to solve that puzzle.’

  ‘He did mention “up on the rooftop”, sir. One can’t help but think of Santa’s sleigh. And something about “round and round we’ll go” – perhaps he’s referring to the rotor blade on a helicopter? We know he has a credit card – could he have hired one? There’s a helipad on the roof of the Savoy.’

  Sir Edmund contemplated this suggestion. A rat with a credit card was a dangerous thing indeed. ‘Excellent thinking, Honeyberry,’ he said. ‘Remind me to promote you. Hang on, scrub that, I need you right where you are. And get me Squeak Savoy on the transmitter. We’ll need her expertise over at the hotel, if that’s where the rats are heading. She’s being recalled, effective immediately.’

  ‘But the human boy –’

  ‘Ozymandias?’ said Sir Edmund. He shook his head in regret. ‘He’ll just have to go it alone.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  DAY TWO – TUESDAY 1945 HOURS

  Oz shuffled down the hallway, hat pulled low over his forehead and eyes. The backstage corridor was dimly lit, thank goodness. He tried to remember the tips he’d learned in the workshop at the Spy Museum back home.

  When in disguise, be your character. Act the part. Convince yourself, and you’ll convince everyone around you.

  Oz tried to imagine what it would feel like to be old. A hundred, say. He slumped a bit, and tried out a limp. Ahead sat the policeman, guarding the exit door. He was reading the paper. American children interrogated in crown jewel affair! screamed the headline on the front page. Oz winced. He paused in front of Prudence Winterbottom’s dressing room. It was empty, he knew. The British soprano was already onstage with his mother. It was nearly eight o’clock, and the concert was about to begin. Oz knocked on the door.

  The policeman looked up sharply. He saw Oz and frowned.

  ‘Oi! Old-timer! No one’s allowed back here!’ he called.

  ‘Just wanted an autograph,’ creaked Oz, hoping he sounded old and rusty.

  The policeman stood up and opened the exit door. ‘Some other time, mate. Happy Christmas to you.’

  Oz shuffled past him, hardly daring to breathe. I am a hundred years old, he told himself. He could feel Squeak huddled in his coat pocket. If he was discovered now, it was all over. Caught trying to escape, they’d say, and throw him in the slammer. Or the Tower of London.

  The exit door closed behind him, and Oz took a deep breath. So far, so good. He squinted at his surroundings. ‘Which way?’ he whispered.

  A furry head poked out of his pocket. Squeak took a quick look around. ‘Straight ahead,’ she said. ‘The Covent Garden station is the one you want. We’ll take the Tube to Piccadilly Circus, then change trains for Baker Street. But we have to hurry. Can you go a little faster?’

  ‘I’m trying to stay in character,’ Oz explained, but he dropped the limp as he stepped into the tide of last-minute holiday shoppers thronging the pavement. Dodging people and shopping bags as he was swept forward, he made his way to the Tube stop.

  Oz bought a ticket, fed it into the slot, passed through the turnstile and tottered towards the escalator into Covent Garden station. Down, down, down it whisked him and Squeak, deep into the heart of London’s Underground, the vast subway system that served the city.

  ‘Mind the gap,’ said an automated voice as Oz stepped on to the train. He peered down at his feet, taking care to avoid the crevice between the train and the platform.

  ‘Please, sir, take my seat,’ a girl about his age said politely, rising to her feet.

  Oz started to protest, then caught himself. You are a hundred years old, Levinson, he reminded himself. He wheezed a thank you and sat down as the train’s doors closed. A few seconds later they were speeding out of the station.

  Squeak poked her nose out of the coat pocket cautiously. ‘Festive,’ she remarked, nudging Oz.

  Oz peered at the boy seated across from him. He was dressed in full punk garb, with a black leather jacket and matching studded collar, along with multiple piercings. His hair was spiked to an alarming height and dyed in alternating red and green stripes for Christmas. Oz grinned.

  ‘Reminds me of the Steel Acorns,’ he whispered, referring to Glory’s brother B-Nut’s rock band back in Washington.

  They got off at Piccadilly Circus – ‘where Stilton Piccadilly has his lair,’ Squeak informed him – and changed trains for the Bakerloo line. Three more stops and they reached their destination. Oz squinted his way through the underground corridors to the escalator, and they emerged into the London night.

  ‘Faster, Oz!’ urged Squeak.

  Oz broke into a slow jog. After about a dozen paces, he started to pant. Even if he wasn’t a hundred years old, he still couldn’t get anywhere faster. That was the problem with being fat. ‘Gotta slow down,’ he said breathlessly. ‘If I sweat, the make-up will smear.’

  ‘Hold on, Oz – I’m getting a transmission!’ said Squeak.

  Oz ducked gratefully into a doorway and leaned against the wall, sucking in lungfuls of air.

  ‘Right,’ he heard Squeak say, along with a rapid scratching as she scribbled something down. ‘Got it.’

  ‘Got what?’ asked Oz, as she climbed out of his pocket.

  ‘New orders,’ said Squeak. ‘We have to split up.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That was Sir Edmund. I’ve been recalled from this mission,’ Squeak explained. ‘He’s ordered me to proceed directly to the Savoy. They think the rats are headed for the helipad and, if that’s the case, I know that rooftop like the back of my paw.’

  ‘You’re going to just leave me here?’ Oz’s voice rose in panic. He looked around frantically. It was dark. He was in an unfamiliar city. And, on top of that, he couldn’t see.

  Squeak patted his shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine, Oz. Remember how well you did in New York City? Like Glory says, you’re true blue. The museum’s right over there, down the street. See? Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks.’

  ‘I’ve heard of that,’ said Oz cautiously. ‘My d
ad promised to take me and DB there.’

  ‘Course he did,’ said Squeak. ‘All the American tourists go there. It’s great fun. Or so I’ve heard. Never been there myself. She peered at the building. ‘Good – the light’s on in the alley. That means the night watchman’s on duty. Now all you need to do is get him to let you in.’

  ‘What if he won’t?’

  ‘He will. It’s Christmas Eve – he’ll be feeling generous. Tell him you need your glasses to watch your grandchildren open their presents. Once he turns his back, ditch him. Winston Churchill shouldn’t be hard to find.’

  ‘It would help if I really did have my glasses,’ grumbled Oz.

  He felt a small, furry paw pat his cheek. ‘Here,’ said Squeak, passing him a tiny penlight (foraged from a lost key chain). ‘This torch will help.’

  ‘This what?’

  ‘Um, flashlight. That’s what you Americans call them, right?’

  Oz nodded glumly.

  ‘And you’ll need this to get the Summoner out of Churchill’s waistcoat,’ she added, unhooking a mini-penknife from her utility belt and passing it to him. ‘Once you have the Summoner, proceed to St Paul’s Cathedral. I’m writing this all down for you. Baker Street to Oxford Circus, change to the Central line. St Paul’s is exactly four stops.’

  Oz’s heart began to beat wildly as his tiny colleague handed him two teeny slips of paper. ‘This other note has the coordinates for the SAS,’ she said. ‘Birds, from what I understand. Swallows of some sort. Tell them to meet us on the Savoy’s rooftop for the orphan airlift.’

  Oz couldn’t help it. His eyes filled with tears.

  Squeak sighed. ‘Oz, I have to go,’ she said gently. ‘This is our darkest hour. Every mouse must do his or her duty, Sir Edmund told us, and that includes you, Agent Levinson. If we’re going to pull off this rescue, and stop the exterminations, and save London, and get the Crown Jewels back, we need you! You do understand, don’t you?’

  Oz swallowed hard. He nodded and wiped his eyes.

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ Squeak gave a sharp whistle, and a pigeon swooped low. She leaped nimbly on to her taxi’s back. ‘Good luck, Oz!’ And with that she flew off.