For Your Paws Only

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  Oz had never seen such a busy airport. Two days before Christmas, Heathrow was a virtual crush of humanity. The corridors and waiting areas were jammed with people of all shapes and sizes and colors from every corner of the world. Europe, Asia, Africa, India. Women in bright saris. Men in business suits and turbans. Students with backpacks; parents with babies in strollers. Old people, young people, all of them squeezing through the checkpoint like soda through the neck of a bottle, eager to pop out the other side and explore the great city of London that lay just beyond the airport’s doors.

  Oz took a deep breath. He needed to say something, and fast. He needed to say one word: “Pleasure.” Only problem was, it was a lie. Not completely, but still a lie. And Oz wasn’t very good at lying. He got red in the face. He stammered. He broke out in a sweat. Just like he was doing now. Get a grip, Levinson, he told himself sternly. James Bond would lie.

  James Bond was Oz’s hero. The British superspy was always rock steady under pressure. Just like he, Oz Levinson, would be when he was a grown-up secret agent someday. He was sort of a secret agent already—an honorary one, anyway. Only he wasn’t very good at it yet.

  The airport official tapped the end of his pen against Oz’s passport impatiently.

  The name is Levinson. Oz Levinson, Oz repeated silently, steeling himself with his favorite mantra. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and prepared to lie.

  “Excuse me, but are you nearly finished?” said a female voice.

  Oz’s eyes flew open. He looked up in surprise. Way up. So did the airport official. Oz’s mother was standing beside them. At nearly six feet tall, she towered over the seated man. He frowned.

  “It’s forbidden to return to this checkpoint,” he said severely.

  Another official in uniform hustled over. He placed a newspaper on the counter and pointed to one of the headlines, then leaned down and whispered something into his colleague’s ear. Oz caught the phrase “VIP.”

  Oz was very familiar with that phrase. His mother was a world-famous opera star who was considered a Very Important Person wherever she went.

  The seated man scanned the newspaper headline, then cleared his throat. “Lavinia Levinson?” he said, sitting up a little straighter.

  Oz’s mother inclined her head regally.

  “And this is your son?”

  Lavinia Levinson placed a protective hand on Oz’s shoulder. The official glanced from one to the other. “Ah, yes,” he said. “I can see the resemblance.”

  Oz reddened. Was he making fun of them? Lots of people did. He and his mother were both blond and both, well, on the large side. This morning, his mother was wearing a dramatic red-cashmere cape. Oz thought she looked a bit like Mrs. Santa Claus. Who does that make me, he wondered sourly, Santa’s long-lost son, Jumbo?

  The man smiled broadly at Oz’s mother. “The missus is a big fan of yours,” he gushed. “Might I trouble you for your autograph? It would be a lovely surprise to tuck in her Christmas stocking.”

  As Lavinia Levinson signed her name on a slip of paper, the man stamped Oz’s passport and waved him on toward customs. Oz trotted over to where his father was standing, next to Oz’s friend and classmate Delilah Bean, better known as D. B.

  “What took you so long?” Luigi Levinson asked.

  “Can’t talk now—gotta make a pit stop!” Oz cried, racing past them. He needed to be sure that the secret in his left shoe was still safe.

  Oz had not been able to stop thinking about his left shoe since the airplane had taken off last night from Washington. He ran into the men’s room and locked himself in a stall. Bending over, he quickly removed the shoe. It was very old-fashioned. Oz thought that it looked like something his grandfather might wear. Or like something from a museum. In fact, it was from a museum. The International Spy Museum in Washington, D.C., to be exact. Oz’s colleagues had retrieved it (and its mate) just last week. It was the first time the agency had attempted to retrieve something so large. The mission had required a massive team effort. Fortunately, things had gone well. Equally fortunately, the shoes had fit Oz.

  Oz turned the shoe upside down gently. “You okay?” he whispered into its heel, grateful that no one could see him. He must look like an idiot.

  There was no reply from the shoe. Oz grasped its heel and grunted as he tried to swivel it clockwise. Nothing happened. Oz frowned. He grasped the heel again, more firmly this time, and twisted counterclockwise. Again, nothing. Oz looked down at his feet and chewed his lip. It was the left shoe, wasn’t it? Could he have gotten mixed-up about something as important as that? His heart started to race as he grappled urgently with the heel. Perspiration dripped down his face, and he prodded anxiously at his glasses again. What if he couldn’t get it open? What if there weren’t enough airholes? What if—wait! There. The heel budged slightly. A wave of relief washed over him. He had the correct shoe after all—it was just stuck. Oz swiveled the heel with all of his might, and this time it opened, revealing a secret compartment.

  “You okay, Glory?” he whispered. “Could you breathe in there?”

  The contents of the shoe’s secret compartment stirred, and a furry head popped out. “Breathing wasn’t a problem,” said the small brown creature who emerged, stretching. “Bunsen’s airholes worked just fine. There wasn’t much room, though. I feel like a pretzel.”

  Oz inspected her closely. “You don’t look like a pretzel.”

  Glory grinned. “Nope, just a mouse.”

  Morning Glory Goldenleaf is hardly “just” a mouse, thought Oz, smiling back at her. She was an elite Silver Skateboard agent with Washington, D.C.’s Spy Mice Agency, and his colleague and friend.

  “I saved these for you,” he said, handing her a bag of airline peanuts.

  “Thanks, Oz—you’re true-blue,” Glory replied, tearing into it hungrily. “By the way, remind me to e-mail Bunsen as soon as we get to the hotel and let him know I’m okay. You know how he worries.”

  Bunsen Burner, lab-mouse-turned-field-agent, was another colleague—and Glory’s sweetheart. He’d been very reluctant to stay behind in Washington, and he’d fussed endlessly over the secret compartment in the shoe, adding extra airholes for safety and soft cotton balls to cushion Glory for the journey.

  “I can’t believe we’re actually here!” Glory exclaimed, nibbling on a peanut. “Just think, Oz—we’re in England!”

  Oz nodded. Lavinia Levinson’s invitation from the Royal Opera to sing a Christmas Eve concert had been a stroke of luck for all of them. The Levinsons had quickly decided to make a family vacation of it, and they’d invited D. B. along to keep Oz company. The Beans had been reluctant at first to part with their daughter over the holidays, but Lavinia Levinson’s enthusiasm had finally worn them down.

  “Just think how educational it will be!” she’d pointed out. “Plus, you’d be doing us a huge favor. I’ll be in rehearsal most of the time, and poor Oz will be bored to tears.”

  Once Glory heard that Oz and D. B. were heading to London, she had decided to hitch a ride and visit her new friend Squeak Savoy. Squeak was an agent with MICE-6, the British equivalent of the Spy Mice Agency. The two mice had become friends on a recent mission battling Roquefort Dupont, the supreme leader of Washington’s rat underworld and Glory’s arch enemy. Just last month, in New York, they had soundly defeated Dupont and the other rats of the Global Rodent Roundtable, including London’s own Stilton Piccadilly. The rats had last been seen floating out to sea in a hot-air balloon, and they hadn’t been heard from since.

  Glory’s trip to London wasn’t just a vacation, though. She had an appointment with Sir Edmund Hazelnut-Cadbury, head of MICE-6. She reached down into the shoe’s secret compartment and pulled out her backpack. Made from the thumb of a mitten, it contained her skateboard, a letter to Sir Edmund from her boss, Julius Folger, and a brand-new acquisition from the Spy Museum’s collection. Anglo-American mice relations were strong, and the two agencies freely shared intelligence, gadgets, and mousep
ower as they worked to keep their world safe from the likes of Dupont and Piccadilly.

  Glory shouldered her backpack. She had high hopes for this visit. A vacation, yes—but possibly a little more than that too. If she played her cards right, Christmas in London could herald the beginning of a glamorous overseas posting. And Glory dearly wanted a glamorous overseas posting.

  “We’d better go,” said Oz. “They’re going to wonder where I disappeared to.”

  Glory climbed onto Oz’s waiting palm. He lifted his hand to his chest, and she somersaulted expertly into the pocket of his shirt. Oz put his shoe back on and went to rejoin his parents and D. B.

  “Everything okay?” whispered his classmate as Oz’s parents whisked them through customs and outside to the waiting limousine. Oz gave her a thumbs-up and pointed to his shirt pocket.

  The limo’s smooth, sedate pace quickly lulled Oz’s mother to sleep. Her head slumped back against the bearlike arm her husband had draped around her shoulders, and her mouth fell open. The world-famous diva let out a gentle snore. D. B. giggled.

  “I still can’t believe my parents let me come,” she said to Oz, bouncing in her seat. The profusion of tiny braids that covered her head bounced too. “This is so awesome.”

  Oz stared at his classmate. He’d never seen D. B. this excited—or this cheerful. This new and improved D. B. was a little unnerving.

  As they drew closer to the city, familiar landmarks began to appear.

  “Look!” squealed D. B. “There’s Big Ben!”

  Oz craned his neck for a better view of the enormous clock tower atop the Houses of Parliament. Luigi Levinson smiled. “Excited, kids?”

  Oz and D. B. both nodded.

  “We’ll get some breakfast at the hotel, then go exploring,” Oz’s father promised. “I think the folks at the Royal Opera have some kind of tour planned for us while your mother is in rehearsal.”

  “I can’t wait to see the Crown Jewels!” said D. B. “Do you think we could go there first?”

  Oz grunted. D. B. hadn’t shut up about the Crown Jewels since leaving Washington. “What’s so special about a bunch of jewelry?”

  D. B. gaped at him. “Oz, this is hardly ‘a bunch of jewelry,’ ” she snapped, sounding much more like her usual self. She flipped open a guidebook and thrust it under his nose. “We’re talking crowns worn by centuries of kings and queens here. We’re talking diamonds and sapphires and rubies bigger than you-know-who.” She gave a significant nod toward the small lump nestled in Oz’s shirt pocket. “Plus, they’re kept in the Tower of London, where they used to chop people’s heads off.”

  Oz shrugged. “I guess I wouldn’t mind seeing that,” he said grudgingly. Personally, he was looking forward to the James Bond walking tour. He’d read about it in one of his mother’s guidebooks. London was Agent 007’s home base.

  Crown Jewels, castles, walking tours—whatever they did, London was going to be great, Oz thought happily. After all, London was three thousand miles away from Washington, D.C., and Chester B. Arthur Elementary School. London was three thousand miles away from the sharks.

  That’s what Oz called the bullies at his school—including Jordan Scott and Sherman “Tank” Wilson, a pair of sixth graders who lived to torment younger and weaker kids like himself. And now he’d left them far, far behind.

  A whole week without sharks! Oz settled back into his seat with a smile. It was almost too good to be true.

  HEATHER VOGEL FREDERICK is the author of the other two books in the Spy Mice series, The Black Paw and Goldwhiskers, as well as the popular Mother-Daughter Book Club series and the highly acclaimed Patience Goodspeed books. She resides with her family in Portland, Oregon. Visit her online at heathervogelfrederick.com.

  COVER DESIGN BY LUCY RUTH CUMMINS

  COVER ILLUSTRATION COPYRIGHT © 2013 BY ERWIN MADRID

  SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS

  SIMON & SCHUSTER · NEW YORK

  AGES 8–11

  Meet the author, watch videos, and get extras at

  KIDS.SimonandSchuster.com

  ALSO BY HEATHER VOGEL FREDERICK

  The Mother-Daughter Book Club series

  The Mother-Daughter Book Club

  Much Ado About Anne

  Dear Pen Pal

  Pies & Prejudice

  Home for the Holidays

  The Spy Mice trilogy

  Spy Mice: The Black Paw

  Spy Mice: For Your Paws Only

  Spy Mice: Goldwhiskers

  Once Upon a Toad

  The Voyage of Patience Goodspeed

  The Education of Patience Goodspeed

  SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 2005 by Heather Vogel Frederick

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  Book design by Lucy Ruth Cummins based on a design by Greg Stadnyk and Chris Grassi

  The text for this book is set in Stone Serif.

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  Frederick, Heather Vogel.

  For your paws only / Heather Vogel Frederick

  p. cm. (Spy Mice)

  Summary: When the infamous and formerly illiterate rat leader Roquefort Dupont is found reading a book at the Library of Congress, the mice fear that their future is bleak.

  ISBN 978-1-4169-0573-8 (hc)

  [1. Spies—Fiction. 2. Mice—Fiction. 3. Human-animal relationships—Fiction. 4. Friendship—Fiction.]

  PZ7.F87217For 2005

  [Fic]—dc22

  2005009071

  ISBN 978-1-4424-6703-3 (pbk)

  ISBN 978-1-4424-6704-0 (eBook)