Across the room, Glory returned her skateboard to her backpack and climbed nimbly up Oz’s pant leg to where his hand was tucked in his trouser pocket. She patted it urgently with her paw.
Oz gave a start. He looked down. Glory waved. “Hi, Oz!” she called softly.
Oz placed a protective hand over her and backed away slightly from the group. Jordan and Scott had been keeping a close eye on him since the Empire State Building. Moving his hand up to his face, he pretended to scratch his chin. “Careful,” he said in a low voice. “We’re being watched.”
Glory peeked around his thumb. “Jordan and Tank?”
“Uh-huh,” Oz replied. “They’re suspicious. We had a little run-in a few minutes ago. But everything’s under control.”
“That’s good.” Glory sounded relieved. “You brought the merchandise, right?”
Oz pretended to scratch his nose. “Yeah.”
“Be on the lookout for Hank and B-Nut. You’ll be making the drop to them.”
“Got it.” Oz placed his hand back in his pocket, and Glory climbed down his pant leg again and deftly retraced her steps.
“I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” said Squeak as she whooshed to a stop by the stairway. “That flying ollie was awesome. Can you teach me?”
“Sure,” Glory replied.
Hotspur sniffed, and inspected the tip of his tail.
Bunsen’s voice came crackling over their headsets, and the four mice sprang to attention. “Vinnie and Ollie are in position on the roof,” he announced. “The merchandise is heavy, Hank, but if you can get it to them, they’ll help you fly it over here to Rockefeller Center.”
“No problem,” Hank replied.
The mice watched as the Mayflower Flour group started to head for the hall leading to the food court.
“Now, B-Nut!” Glory called.
In a flash, her brother and his winged partner dove for Oz. Oz saw him coming and motioned to D. B., who pulled the purple dinosaur lunch bag from under her jacket. She handed it to Oz.
“What’s the matter, Fatboy—can’t you wait until we get downstairs?” jeered Jordan.
“Looks like it’s feeding time at Sea World again,” added Tank, moving to snatch the lunch bag away.
As he passed D. B., she calmly stuck out her foot and tripped him. Tank went sprawling onto the floor. Oz held the lunch bag over his head, and Hank swooped down, hooked his claws around the handle, and plucked it away from him.
“Hey!” said Jordan, as the bird wheeled upward to the far corner of the ceiling, where a small hole led to the roof. “Did you see that?”
“What?” said Tank, scrambling back onto his feet.
“That pigeon! It stole the lunch bag!” Jordan said.
“Lunch bag? What lunch bag?” said Oz innocently. “I didn’t see a lunch bag, did you, D. B.?”
D. B. shrugged and shook her head. “First a hamster, now a lunch bag. You two aren’t just morons, you’re nuts!”
And leaving the two sixth graders sputtering in frustration, Oz and D. B. turned and followed the tour group toward the food court.
“Brilliant,” said Squeak, watching from the safety of the stairs. “Absolutely brilliant.”
“You were right, Glory,” added Bubble. “The human children are a fine addition to the team.”
Hotspur sniffed again. “You think that was brilliant?” he began. “You should have seen me this one time in Stockholm—”
“Give it a rest, Hotspur,” said Glory with a grin. “We’ve got work to do.”
CHAPTER 16
DAY TWO • WEDNESDAY • 1230 HOURS
“You aren’t worth your whiskers!” snarled Stilton Piccadilly, his red eyes blazing at Roquefort Dupont.
Dupont’s tail thrashed angrily to and fro at this insult. “How was I supposed to know that blasted Goldenleaf brat would show up?”
“Security would be tight, you promised!” the British rat continued, pacing back and forth across the sewer deep beneath Track 77. “Not a whisper would leak out, you promised! I sent a courier suggesting we meet in London, but no, you wouldn’t have that. Everything had to be on your terms.” He leaned closer, sneering. “Face it, Dupont, you’re a joke. You don’t have what it takes to cut it as Big Cheese. Now I, on the other hand—”
Dupont lunged. Piccadilly dodged to the side, and the two bull rats circled warily, the hackles of fur on the backs of their thick necks rising in angry spikes. Before either could strike, however, Brie placed a restraining paw on her cousin’s shoulder.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said the she-rat in her silky voice. “Zees is not ze time nor ze place for a duel. What happened was unfortunate, oui. Zose tiny short-tail spies might have given us much information, with ze right treatment.” She paused, licking her lips at the thought. Her eyes glinted in the dim light, revealing a hint of cruelty. Limburger Lulu and Limburger Louie drew back with a shiver. The lovely Brie had a darker side.
“Perhaps we can drop zis unfortunate business, and get to work,” the she-rat continued. “We have much to do before tonight.”
Dupont and Piccadilly eyed each other for a long moment, then grumblingly agreed.
Brie stepped up onto a half-submerged brick and began to address the assembled rodents. “As acting chair-rat of ze new Global Rodent Roundtable, ze G.R.R.—”
“GRR!” chimed the gathered rats, baring their teeth in the agreed-upon response.
“GRR!” echoed Brie, who then continued briskly, “I hereby declare zis meeting open. First order of business, induction of members.”
One by one, the seventy-seven rodents filed in front of their peers, their ugly snouts held high in pride.
“From Greece, Myzithra Moussikis,” announced Brie.
“Misery!” a rat in the back of the line shouted.
“From ze Nezerlands, Gouda Waterloo,” Brie continued. “And from Spain, Zamorano de Castilla.”
As each new delegate was introduced, the rats gave the loud Global Rodent Roundtable “GRR!” cheer. So busy were they with the introductions that not a single one noticed four small figures descending slowly down the sides of the sewer vent above.
Glory motioned Hotspur, Bubble, and Squeak to stop. “Agents in place,” she whispered. The four of them hung suspended from long strands of dental floss.
Her headset crackled, and Bunsen’s voice floated across the airwaves. “This is the dangerous part,” he said. “You’re going to have to get low enough to position the sunglasses properly. The minute you can see rats, stop. Be careful, okay?”
Glory glanced cautiously downward. She knew only too well the stakes involved. A sewer full of rat kingpins, the biggest and baddest that the rodent world had to offer. All those sharp claws and jaws! Glory’s heart began to beat faster, recalling her ordeal in Dupont’s lair. Were they to be discovered—or worse, were one of them to fall—well, the end would not be pretty. It would be quite horrible, in fact. Dupont would have four new tails and four new pairs of ears for his wall of trophies. If Gorgonzola didn’t get them first.
She gave her colleagues a nod. Slowly, keeping a careful eye on each other to make sure they stayed in sync, the four mice gradually dropped lower and lower. Between them, strung across the vent on a web of dental floss, balanced the video sunglasses that Oz had brought from the Spy Museum.
Lower and lower the mice rappelled. Soon, they were able to make out dim shadows below. Another few feet, and the rats themselves came into view. The fur on the back of Glory’s neck prickled at the sight of all those long, hairless tails. She held up a paw and halted her descent. Her colleagues halted, too.
“Okay, Bunsen, we’ve got them in view,” she whispered.
“Excellent. This is the tricky part, Glory. First, you’ll need to secure the glasses.”
The four mice removed tacks from their backpacks, and silently inserted them into the mortar between the bricks of the sewer vent’s walls. When this was done, they expertly tied off t
he strands of dental floss that cradled the sunglasses. Glory tested the line with a paw. It held.
“Done,” she whispered.
“Now one of you needs to climb out and flip the switch,” said Bunsen.
“I’ll go.” Glory inched her way out onto the web of floss. As nearly weightless as she was, the tightrope-like strands still dipped and swayed with each step. She gulped, but didn’t look down, fixing her gaze instead on the target—the black sunglasses, their lenses pointed directly at the cluster of rats below.
“What was that?” cried Dupont.
Glory froze, teetering on the floss. Her heart pattered wildly. She’d been spotted!
“What did you say his name was?” repeated Dupont.
“Havarti Lergravsparken,” said Brie. “From Copenhagen.”
Glory breathed a sigh of relief. Dupont hadn’t seen her after all. He was still busy inducting rats into the—what had Brie called it?—the Global Rodent Roundtable.
She inched forward, stopping when she reached the sunglasses. Reaching out a careful paw, she flipped the tiny switch that was camouflaged by a screw in the frames.
“Okay, Bunsen,” she whispered. “They’re on.”
“We have liftoff!” her colleague squeaked excitedly in her ear. “Can you angle the video camera a little more to the left?”
Glory fiddled with the sunglasses.
“Perfect!” said Bunsen. “The pigeons are waiting for you on the roof.”
And just as silently as they had appeared, the four mice vanished into the shadows.
CHAPTER 17
DAY TWO • WEDNESDAY • 1345 HOURS
“This isn’t over yet,” said Tank.
“Not by a long shot,” added Jordan.
Oz glanced warily at the sixth graders. They were smiling for the TV camera in the Waldorf-Astoria’s ballroom, their faces the picture of sunshine and innocence. The afternoon Bake-Off session was about to get underway.
Oz frowned. After the disastrous morning session, he didn’t hold out too much hope for the contest’s outcome. He stared ruefully at the failed loaf of pumpkin bread that squatted on the edge of his work station. It looked like a squished brick. The eggs Jordan had smashed against his neck had broken his concentration, and he’d forgotten to add the baking powder. 6TH PLACE, read the card propped on the plate. Dead last. Pathetic, thought Oz glumly. What a loser.
He desperately didn’t want to be a loser. Especially not when it involved something he was actually good at, like cooking. Oz didn’t want to come in last. Not in front of Jordan and Tank. It would be just too humiliating.
The Mayflower Flour man banged his gavel and Oz picked up the bag of flour, keeping a sharp eye on the sharks. His classmates grinned at him.
“Can I give you a hand there, Oz?” asked Jordan jovially.
“Here, let me help.” Tank whipped out a measuring cup, the very picture of politeness. Both boys smiled for the camera. “There you go, Oz!”
“Exemplary teamwork,” said one of the watching judges, checking something off on his clipboard. “Extra points.”
“Sugar, Oz?” asked Jordan, practically bowing as he rushed forward with another measuring cup.
Oz and D. B. exchanged a glance. The unexpected politeness was unnerving.
“I think I like it better when they act like sharks,” whispered D. B.
“I know what you mean,” Oz whispered back. “At least then we know what to expect.”
One after another, the ingredients were transferred smoothly into the mixing bowl. Jordan and Tank scuttled back and forth like a pair of reformed convicts, beaming at Oz, beaming at D. B., beaming at the camera.
“See?” said Mrs. Scott to Mrs. Wilson, in a loud stage whisper for Lavinia Levinson and Amelia Bean to hear. “My Jordan isn’t a troublemaker—he’s an angel.”
In a short time, the pumpkin-bread batter was done. It was perfect. All that was left to be added were the chocolate chips.
Once again, Jordan darted in front of D. B. “Here you go, Oz, old pal,” he said, passing Oz a small bowl.
“Ah, the crowning touch,” noted the observing judge. His pen hovered over his clipboard.
Oz smiled at him. This was going better than he’d expected. Maybe Jordan and Tank weren’t planning to sabotage him after all. He was just about to dump the contents of the bowl into the batter when D. B. grabbed his arm. Flashing a broad grin at the judge and the camera, she uttered a single word through clenched teeth: “Don’t.”
Oz frowned. D. B. covered her mouth and pretended to cough. “It’s a trap,” she said.
Oz looked down. He gasped. Sure enough, instead of chocolate chips, the bowl contained two carefully measured cups of gravel. He looked up again. Tank and Jordan were beaming. They gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Just below the surface of the work table, out of the judge’s sight, Jordan held up the bag of chocolate chips. He wagged it tantalizingly, then whipped it behind his back.
“Well, young man?” said the judge, glancing at his watch. “Time’s a-wasting.”
“Um,” said Oz, weighing his options. If he complained, the judge would take away their extra points for exemplary teamwork. On the other hand, if he baked the pumpkin bread with gravel in it, they’d come in last for sure. Not to mention possibly be arrested—the judges would break their teeth on the small stones.
D. B. turned away again. “Code Red,” she muttered into her head set. “Rocks substituted for chocolate chips.”
“We’re on it!” cried Lip from under the table. “Stall for time.”
So far, the Acorns hadn’t proved to be much use. Still nestled in D. B.’s hair, they’d ridden back from Grand Central to the hotel in nearly complete radio silence. Only the occasional peep or squeak as one of them spotted something thrilling out the bus window had let Oz and D. B. know they were still there. Once in the ballroom again, they had scampered quickly down D. B.’s back and disappeared under the long cloth that skirted the workstation. Oz had almost forgotten that they were there.
Stall for time? thought Oz, his mind suddenly a blank. The cameras zoomed in, and his round moon face loomed large on the TV screen above. What should he do? He glanced desperately at D. B., who shrugged. Spotting his mother in the crowd, Oz had a brainstorm. The name is Levinson. Oz Levinson, he thought, then cleared his throat and began to address the camera. “I’d just like to say,” he began. He stopped. The crowd looked up at him expectantly.
“I’d just like to say that if it weren’t for my mother I wouldn’t be here at all,” Oz blurted.
The judge and the gathered crowd looked surprised by this sudden outburst, and Oz chuckled nervously. “Well, that’s obvious I suppose, but that’s not what I meant.” This brought a tiny ripple of laughter. Lame, thought Oz. Really lame. He’d have to do better than that. “What I mean is, this recipe is special. My mother loves pumpkin bread, and every year at Thanksgiving I make her a batch. My father taught me how.”
“Lower the bowl, Oz,” said Romeo over the headset.
As he continued to talk, Oz slowly lowered the bowl full of gravel until it was just below the edge of the worktable, out of sight of the judge and the camera. At the same time, D. B. stepped forward, shielding him from Jordan and Tank’s view. Out of the corner of his eye, Oz saw Lip, Romeo, and Nutmeg scoot up the tablecloth. He tipped the bowl slightly, and they dove in. There was a flurry of activity as their paws flew, pushing the gravel out. When the bowl was empty, they gave him a paws-up, then scampered back down the cloth.
“Where are the chocolate chips?” asked Lip.
“The chocolate chips!” boomed Oz, startling the judge, who dropped his pen. He continued in a more normal tone, “Um, I’m sure you’re all wondering how I came up with that idea. The chocolate chips are, um, my secret ingredient, and I kept them hidden from my parents. Popped them into the batter behind their backs, if you get my drift.”
“Okay, got your drift,” said Romeo’s voice in his ear. “We’re on it.”<
br />
As Oz droned on with his speech—how much his mother loved the bread, what a nice family Thanksgiving tradition it had become—the Acorns disappeared under the tablecloth again. They reappeared a split second later at Jordan Scott’s feet. Leaving his fellow band members positioned by the sixth grader’s large tennis shoe, Lip climbed silently up Jordan’s pant leg. The mouse circled around behind to where the boy was holding the bag of chocolate chips, then bit down on Jordan’s wrist. Hard.
“Yow!” cried Jordan, releasing the bag.
Lip leaped nimbly aboard as it plummeted toward the floor. The second the bag landed, he grabbed a corner, as did Romeo and Nutmeg. Before Jordan could even turn around, the mice had whisked the bag out of sight beneath the tablecloth.
Jordan stared at the floor behind him, puzzled. Then he stared at his wrist.
“What’s the matter?” asked the judge.
“Lunch bag,” said Oz softly, just loud enough so Jordan could hear.
“Hamster,” added D. B.
Jordan’s face flushed bright red. The cameras rolled. The sixth grader smiled halfheartedly. “Uh, nothing,” he said weakly.
“And in conclusion,” said Oz, reaching down and grabbing the bag of chocolate chips that suddenly poked out from underneath the tablecloth by his feet, “I’d just like to say that chocolate chips and Mayflower Flour are a winning combination!” He held the bag up triumphantly. Jordan and Tank gaped at him.
“How’d he do that?” muttered Tank.
Oz tore open the bag and poured the chocolate chips into the batter, stirred it vigorously, then handed the bowl to D. B. She poured the batter into the pan and popped it into the oven.
“Well done,” said the judge, nodding approvingly. “Extra points for thanking your parents.”
“Good job, Acorns,” whispered Oz.
Jordan and Tank glared.
“Dogbones and Fatboy think they’re smart,” said Tank.
Jordan’s eyes narrowed. “Something weird is going on here,” he said, inspecting the tiny bite mark on his wrist. “Something very weird. I don’t know what it is yet, but we’re gonna find out.”
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