Goldwhiskers

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  Oz gulped. He checked his watch again. It was nearly nine thirty! Only half an hour left until Rodent Rooter’s deadline. If he didn’t reach the Stone Gallery soon and contact the SAS, there would be no way to rescue Glory and the orphans and nab Goldwhiskers’s credit card. There’d be no way to cancel the exterminations. Operation SMASH would hurtle forward, and the mice of London would be doomed.

  What would James Bond do? Oz asked himself. Be your character, came the reply. Act the part. Oz cupped his hand behind his ear. ‘Eh?’ he said.

  ‘I SAID IT’S CLOSED FOR THE EVENING!’ repeated the warden, speaking into his ear slowly and loudly.

  Oz slumped sadly. ‘Pity,’ he croaked. ‘I’ve come all the way from America to see it.’ This was partly true; he had come all the way from America.

  The warden sighed. ‘Well, I suppose I can make an exception for an older gent like yourself. It’s those noisy kids we need to keep out.’

  He held the door open and ushered Oz inside. ‘Lovely view of the manger from up there,’ he noted. ‘Watch yourself, though. Two hundred and fifty-nine steps to the top. Sure you’re up to it, old-timer?’

  Oz nodded. ‘Stronger than I look,’ he creaked, which was also true.

  He started to climb. And climb. And climb. Up and up and up the stone steps led, winding their way through the cathedral’s thick walls. Oz glanced anxiously at his watch and climbed a little faster. His shirt was soaked with sweat. He reached the Whispering Gallery – a narrow stone balcony that circled the interior of the great dome – and paused for a second to catch his breath. Oz had no idea if the view of the manger was lovely or not. He couldn’t see a thing, just the blur of light from the candles. Nor did he have any idea if a whisper would truly carry across the dome to the other side, as he was all by himself. It was just him and the candlelight and that achingly beautiful music, carols as old as time and as familiar as his own name.

  Oz skirted the balcony to the door that led further upwards to the Stone Gallery. It was unlocked. Good. He pushed it open and began to climb again. On and on and on he climbed, until there was hardly a breath left in his body. Finally, gasping, knees buckling beneath him, he stumbled out on to the balcony – an exterior one this time – which offered visitors a spectacular view of the city.

  Oz reached into his pocket and pulled out the slip of paper with the coordinates for the Secret Air Service, along with the Summoner. He held the silver whistle in his hand for a minute. Hidden in the lining of Winston Churchill’s waistcoat since the end of World War Two, it had not been blown for more than half a century. He was holding a piece of history.

  Oz raised it to his lips and blew. No sound emerged. Nothing at all. Oz blew harder. Still the Summoner was silent. Was it blocked? He peered at it in concern. Or was it like a dog whistle, then, so highly pitched that the sound couldn’t be picked up by the human ear? He blew again and again and again, pausing each time to search the night sky. Nothing.

  Oz slumped against the wall behind him, thoroughly disheartened. He’d come so far, and now this! It was nothing but a dead end. What would he tell Sir Edmund? What would happen to the mice of London? And what would happen to Glory? He’d failed them all. He’d even failed himself. Scotland Yard would arrest him and DB and his mother the minute tonight’s concert was over. Oz closed his eyes and fought back tears.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  DAY TWO – TUESDAY 1635 HOURS

  ‘Any word yet?’ asked Bunsen, glancing anxiously at the clock. It was past nine thirty in London. Exactly twenty-five minutes left until Rodent Rooter’s deadline. Less than half an hour left to foil Operation SMASH.

  Julius shook his head in regret. ‘Afraid not, Mr Burner.’

  The lab mouse was visibly shaken. The Video Scrambler was still down, and although Sir Edmund had been true to his word, providing frequent updates via email, it wasn’t the same as hearing the latest reports directly from him. The uncertainty was getting to Bunsen. He could hardly bear the thought of his sweetheart trapped in the clutches of not just Roquefort Dupont, but Stilton Piccadilly and this evil Goldwhiskers, as well. There’d been no news yet from Squeak, either. Had she been able to intercept Oz and the SAS? Was the rescue mission under way? The tension was taking its toll on the lab mouse.

  ‘Is there still hope of rescue?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s always hope,’ said Julius calmly. ‘Morning Glory Goldenleaf and Bubble Westminster are both highly trained, elite members of the finest espionage agencies in the world. And, don’t forget, Glory’s been in tight spots before and has come through with flying colours.’

  Bunsen did not find this reassuring. ‘That stupid riddle!’ he moaned, wringing his pale paws. ‘Why didn’t I run it through AMI? I can’t believe the SAS were sent to the wrong place!’

  ‘No point kicking ourselves,’ soothed Julius. ‘There’s a chance Squeak may be able to intercept them, and the Royal Guard and the Welsh Rarebit Regiment are being moved out even as we speak. They may still arrive at the London Eye in time.’

  ‘But what if they don’t?’ cried Bunsen.

  ‘Then Sir Edmund will begin the evacuation.’

  ‘But Glory and the orphans!’

  Julius eyed him soberly. ‘You know as well as I do that sometimes sacrifices must be made in this business.’

  Bunsen’s milky coat grew even paler. ‘“The noblest motive is the public good,”’ he whispered. The Spy Mice Agency’s motto.

  Julius nodded sadly.

  ‘Is evacuation even possible?’ asked Bunsen.

  The elder mouse hesitated. ‘I’m sure they’ll be able to save a portion of the population,’ he replied finally.

  Bunsen began to pace back and forth. ‘They have to get there in time! They just have to!’

  Julius checked his watch surreptitiously. No point in alarming his colleague any further. He was already wound up far too tight. But Bunsen was right. Time was fast running out – and, with it, all hope of rescue.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  DAY TWO – TUESDAY 2135 HOURS

  ‘Sparklies? Yes!’ said Goldwhiskers, peering into the velvet pouch he clutched in his manicured paws. ‘Credit card?’ He whipped the gold plastic rectangle out from where he’d stashed it behind his left ear. ‘Yes!’ Into the bag it went. ‘Koh-i-Noor?’ The big rat stood up and turned round, examining the place where his enormous grey bottom had just been. He’d been squatting protectively on the large gem, like a furry hen trying to hatch an extremely valuable egg. He glanced suspiciously over at the other two rats nearby. ‘Yes!’ he said, and whisked the Koh-i-Noor in with his other treasures.

  ‘Somehow, watching a rat pack – or is that “pack rat”? – isn’t how I imagined spending Christmas Eve in London,’ Glory whispered to Bubble.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Bubble whispered back.

  They were all – rats, spy mice, orphans – crammed into a plastic pet carrier. The mice were at one end, the rats at the other. With everything in place for tomorrow morning’s attack, and the Koh-i-Noor in his possession at last, Goldwhiskers was preparing to skip town. ‘The south of France,’ Glory had overheard him tell Dupont and Piccadilly. ‘I’ve had my banker wire the funds ahead. I’ve always fancied a villa on the Riviera.’

  First, however, he was determined to deal with the orphans – and his two captive spy mice.

  The night wind whistled through the air holes in the pet carrier, and Glory shivered. A courier had picked them up from outside Goldwhiskers’s office over an hour ago. After consulting the directions in the envelope taped to its handle – ‘“Surprise Christmas present!”’ the man had read aloud. ‘“Do not open! Deliver to Jubilee Gardens!”’ – he’d taken the carrier downstairs and slung it into the back of the waiting limousine. Glory and the others had remained there in the dark, bumping along through London’s busy streets, until they’d reached their destination. Once at Jubilee Gardens, the limousine driver had dutifully deposited them by the gate and driven off. />
  Glory’s paws were bound behind her with string, as were Bubble’s. The orphans huddled around them, their eyes bright with fear.

  ‘Please, miss, do you know where Master’s taking us?’ one of them ventured in a shaky whisper.

  ‘What’s your name, little one?’ Glory whispered back.

  ‘Twist.’

  ‘Please to meet you, Twist. I’m Glory. I wish I could answer your question, but I have no idea.’ She gazed at the rest of the orphans. ‘You must be brave, though, all of you. And try not to worry,’ she added stoutly. ‘We’ll find a way out of this mess.’

  Glory spoke with a confidence she didn’t feel. She’d never been so scared in all her life. Not even in Dupont’s lair; not even when she’d been trapped on that balloon with a whole galaxy of the world’s worst rat kingpins, including a pair of ferocious mousivores. No, this was far, far worse. Because what she was feeling this time wasn’t so much fear for herself – although that was certainly a factor. It was fear for the mouselings. Glory was terrified for them. She couldn’t bear the thought of all those young lives being cut tragically short. She wanted desperately to rescue them from the cruel fate that Goldwhiskers had in store, but now she feared she wouldn’t be able to. Time was running out. Fast.

  Glory glanced over at the trio of rats, who were hunched together at the opposite end of the pet carrier, arguing.

  ‘I say we skip the drama and just shove the whole thing into the river,’ snarled Roquefort Dupont. ‘Or feed them to the wharf cats.’ He licked his thin rat lips. ‘We could take turns. That would be fun.’

  ‘This isn’t about fun!’ roared Goldwhiskers. ‘It’s about revenge.’ A streetlight overhead cast thin shards of light through the sprinkling of holes on top of the pet carrier, and Glory caught a lunatic glint in the big rat’s eyes. Goldwhiskers had definitely gone round the bend.

  ‘Really?’ replied Stilton Piccadilly. ‘So, deep down, it’s still just claws and jaws for you after all. You can take the rat out of the sewer, but you can’t take the sewer out of the rat. Eh, Double G?’

  Goldwhiskers turned on him. ‘Stop calling me that!’ he snarled. He nodded at the Sovereign’s Ring, which hung from a piece of string round Dupont’s mangy neck. ‘You two have been paid. You’ve got the ring; you’ve got your exterminators. There’s nothing keeping you here. I can take care of the mice myself.’

  Dupont slunk across the carrier and jabbed Glory with his ugly snout. ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ he growled. ‘Especially this one. She’s sly. Think I’d better stick around and make sure the job’s done right.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Goldwhiskers. ‘Let’s get on with it. You two take the spies, I’ll manage the mouselings.’

  Dupont snapped his fangs, and Glory rose shakily to her hind paws. Beside her, Bubble did the same. As Goldwhiskers advanced towards them, the orphans crowded closer to the older mice. Twist clung to Glory’s tail; Farthing climbed on to her back and wound his paws tightly round her neck. Dodge crouched behind Bubble.

  ‘Come to Master,’ coaxed Goldwhiskers. He prised Farthing off Glory and gave Twist a sharp kick. The mouseling cried out in pain. ‘You never would have amounted to anything, anyway,’ scoffed the big rat. ‘I lied. You’re nothing but a useless street urchin.’ He turned to Dodge. ‘Et tu, Dodge?’ he said, reaching out with a paw and extracting her from behind Bubble. He pressed his snout close to her tiny nose. She shrank back, and he gave a snort of disgust. ‘And to think that I trusted you.’

  The big rat cracked his hairless tail like a whip. The orphans flinched. Goldwhiskers looked over at Glory and grinned. ‘What is it you Yanks say? Head ’em up and move ’em out?’

  Glory glared back at him defiantly. ‘Only one problem, cowboy.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You’re all hat and no cattle. Or maybe I should say all rat and no cattle.’

  Goldwhiskers’s eyes glowed red with rage. ‘Shut her up, would you?’

  ‘Gladly,’ said Dupont, and clamped a large, flea-bitten, herring-scented paw over Glory’s mouth.

  Goldwhiskers prised open the door of the pet carrier and herded them all outside. Dupont slung Glory over his back. From her upside-down vantage point, she watched, helpless, as Stilton Piccadilly picked up Bubble by the scruff of his neck with his fangs. Then Dupont bounced forward, and for one brief second Glory found herself eye to eye with Fumble. She thought she caught a glimpse of something in his expression – pity, perhaps, or possibly just fear. No one was safe tonight from the fury of the rats. Not even a slave.

  Once outside, Glory looked up and gasped. Towering above them stood the London Eye, the huge observation wheel on the bank of the River Thames. It was lit up like a Christmas tree, its football-shaped glass capsules circling slowly through the air.

  ‘Up we go!’ said Goldwhiskers. He nudged the orphans on to a nearby concrete footing, then herded them on to one of the massive steel cables that anchored the wheel to the Waterloo Millennium Pier.

  Beneath her, Glory felt Roquefort Dupont inch his way up the cable, his sharp claws rasping on the cold steel. Behind them followed Stilton Piccadilly, still carrying Bubble Westminster. When Goldwhiskers reached the top, he paused until the other two rats caught up.

  ‘On my signal,’ he said.

  He waited until one of the oval capsules was directly underneath them, then brushed the mouselings forward with a sweep of his tail. They tumbled through the air, ears over tails, landing atop the capsule with a patter of tiny thuds. Goldwhiskers leaped aboard behind them, quickly followed by Dupont and Piccadilly, who dumped Glory and Bubble in a heap and stood over them, glaring.

  ‘Now we’ll see who’s Master!’ cried Goldwhiskers. ‘Try and foil my plans, will you? Disobey my orders, will you? Say your goodbyes to London, mouselings! When we reach the top, it’s curtains for you!’

  Glory worked frantically at the string that bound her paws together. She had to do something! She peered through the glass beneath her. No one was inside the capsule. In fact, no one was inside any of the capsules. It was long past closing time and the London Eye was eerily empty, spinning silently through one last maintenance cycle. On the ground far below, Glory could see the cleaning crew. They swarmed aboard as each capsule docked, sweeping and polishing and shining the glass and steel enclosures. Glory couldn’t get their attention even if she tried.

  No, she and Bubble were on their own. Glory looked over at her colleague, who was working just as determinedly at his own bonds. Next to him slumped Fumble, still reeking of herring. Around his neck was the frayed lead that tethered him to Roquefort Dupont’s hind paw.

  As the great wheel moved slowly, majestically skywards, carrying the mice to their fate, Glory gazed at the city spreading out beneath them in all its ancient glory. I guess I’m finally getting my tour of London, she thought morosely. She looked upriver towards Big Ben. Nearly quarter to ten. Time was running out for her, that was certain. Somewhere in the darkness out there was MICE-6 headquarters. She wondered if her colleagues had been able to decipher Goldwhiskers’s riddle – surely a rescue team would have been here by now if they had! She glanced downriver towards the Savoy and the city’s other huge clock face, the one that marked Goldwhiskers’s lair at 80 Strand, then back upriver towards the ornate Houses of Parliament, behind which rose the stately spires of Westminster Abbey. Not a pigeon in sight. Glory’s sense of doom deepened. There was no hope of rescue then. Not this time.

  And what about the rest of London’s mice? Would Sir Edmund and the others be able to stop Operation SMASH? Had they even received her frantic warning? If not – well, she wouldn’t be the only one who was doomed. Sadly, Glory stared off into the distance towards the illuminated facade of Buckingham Palace. The Prince of Tails was going to be very disappointed in her. In all of them.

  As the observation car rose closer to its zenith, Goldwhiskers began herding the orphans closer to the capsule’s curved edge. The mouselings looked down at the rive
r far, far below and shrieked in terror.

  ‘Those two as well!’ the big rat ordered, and Dupont and Piccadilly began to force Glory and Bubble towards the orphans.

  Never give in, thought Glory bravely. Never, never, never, never. I won’t go to my death in fear. No way was she going to allow Goldwhiskers – and especially not Roquefort Dupont – the satisfaction of seeing her afraid. She reminded herself of the generations of noble mice who had put their lives on the line before her as they faced down the forces of evil. Lux tenebras exstinguit, she thought. Light extinguishes darkness. Hold your candle high, Glory Goldenleaf, she told herself, and bravely prepared to die.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  DAY TWO – TUESDAY 2140 HOURS

  Oz heard them before he saw them. A soft rustling filled the air at first, like leaves snatched up in a puff of wind. He opened his eyes and leaned forward on the wall that encircled the balcony. The stone was cold beneath his hands.

  The sound drew closer, and louder: the whispery flapping of many wings. Hope soared in Oz, and he craned his neck, smiling in anticipation as he tried to spot the rescue birds. The SAS had heard his call! The Summoner still worked after all these years!

  He squinted at the flock of dark forms that suddenly materialized, silhouetted against the full moon. As they drew close enough for him to make them out more clearly, his smile faded. Oz drew back against the cathedral wall with a gasp.

  The Summoner had worked, all right. But Squeak was wrong about one thing. The SAS wasn’t a squadron of swallows. The Summoner had not brought birds. It had brought bats. Thousands and thousands of bats.

  Oz swallowed hard. He was shaking uncontrollably. ‘The name is Levinson. Oz Levinson,’ he whispered aloud, trying not to hear the soft, leathery flapping of their wings. He had to go through with this if he wanted to save Glory. He held the Summoner aloft and managed to croak out the code signal, just as Squeak had taught him: ‘Lux tenebras exstinguit!’