Glory nodded. The speech, broadcast over MBC (Mouse Broadcasting Corporation), was one of the most famous and stirring in all of mouse history.
‘Great-grandfather was in a hurry to finish in time for the evening broadcast, and he accidentally left a copy on Churchill’s desk. The prime minister found it, read it and left a note in response, expressing his admiration. They began to correspond, exchanging ideas for speeches and encouraging each other in their respective battles against the forces of evil. Rats come in two-legged varieties as well as four, you know.’
Glory thought of Jordan and Tank back in Washington DC, and nodded in agreement.
‘At any rate,’ continued Sir Edmund, sitting down again, ‘my great-grandfather finally decided to introduce himself. Only time in our country’s history that the Mouse Code has been broken.’
Sir Edmund harrumphed and frowned at Glory. She dropped her gaze and inspected the top of the desk again. She knew that Sir Edmund did not approve of her breaking the Mouse Code. Julius had told her so. The head of MICE-6 was worried that teaming up with humans – especially human children – would only lead to disaster.
Sir Edmund opened a small box that lay on the desk in front of him, took out a tiny gold key and unlocked his bottom desk drawer. He removed something from it and passed it to Glory. ‘Only photograph in existence of the two of them together,’ he said.
Glory took the picture in her paws and stared at it. Winston Churchill was seated at his desk, on which stood Peregrine Inkwell. The two of them stared proudly at the camera. Sir Peregrine was holding something aloft.
‘What’s that?’ asked Glory, trying to make it out.
‘Ah,’ said the head of MICE-6. He reached into the drawer again and pulled out a small silver medallion. He slid it across the desk to Glory. A likeness of Churchill was stamped on its gleaming surface, along with the words NEVER GIVE IN!
‘Churchill had this crafted by a silversmith as a gift,’ said Sir Edmund. ‘He presented it to my greatgrandfather after the war, as a tribute to their triumphs and a reminder of all that they had been through together.’
‘What does that mean, “Never give in”?’ Glory asked.
‘That’s a line from one of Churchill’s best speeches,’ explained Sir Edmund. ‘“Never give in,” he said, “never give in, never, never, never, never – in nothing, great or small, large or petty – never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense.”’
Glory flipped the medallion over. Sir Peregrine Inkwell’s noble profile was etched into the other side, along with the words LUX TENEBRAS EXSTINGUIT.
‘That’s Latin, right?’ she said.
Sir Edmund nodded. ‘It means “light extinguishes darkness”. Our agency’s motto, and a constant reminder that evil always, always falls to the forces of good. Not without a struggle, mind you – sometimes a mighty one. But it always has, and it always will.’
Sir Edmund’s voice rang with confidence, and he suddenly reminded Glory very much of Julius. She could see why the two were friends.
There was a loud whirrr! behind Glory. Startled, she dropped the medallion and swivelled round just in time to see a narrow plastic tube shoot with a thwump through a pipe in the wall. It skidded across the carpet and came to a stop beside her. A hatch on the top popped open.
‘I believe you are acquainted with Bartholomew Westminster and Squeak Savoy,’ said Sir Edmund as Glory’s friends climbed out.
‘Bartholomew?’ Glory looked at her colleague in surprise.
Bubble shrugged sheepishly. ‘Bubble is just my nickname. A few of the lads gave it to me at spy school when I was teamed up with Squeak.’
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ said Sir Edmund. ‘Bartholomew is a perfectly good name. Very dignified.’ He slipped the photograph and the silver medallion back into his bottom desk drawer and locked it.
Glory eyed the empty plastic tube that had just delivered her friends. ‘What the heck is that thing?’
A pleased look appeared on Sir Edmund’s face. ‘I take it you haven’t anything like it back in America?’
Glory shook her head. ‘Not at the Spy Mice Agency, at least.’
‘Our very own Tube,’ said the head of MICE-6 proudly. ‘Pneumatic tube, that is. Runs on forced air. The humans used them years ago to route messages through the building. The system has long been in disuse, but I had our lab fire it up a few months ago. Very efficient mode of internal transportation.’
‘Like a cross between a submarine and a roller coaster,’ whispered Squeak to Glory, climbing up on to a cork beside her.
‘I think I’ll stick to my skateboard,’ Glory whispered back. She smiled at her friends. Squeak Savoy was a sleek grey house mouse. She was cheeky and bright – she’d graduated at the top of her class in spy school – and she and Glory had instantly taken a liking to each other when they’d met in New York. Bubble Westminster was stockier, with brown fur, and he wore a bow tie like his boss. A church mouse (Cathedral Guild), he was characteristically quiet, but stout-hearted and sharp as a tack.
‘I have a job for the three of you,’ said Sir Edmund. ‘It’s a local affair, something a bit out of our usual sphere of influence. But it involves one of Buckingham Palace’s pet projects, and they’ve ordered all paws on deck for this one.’
Buckingham Palace! Home of Britain’s royal mouse family! Glory’s elegant little ears perked up at this. This meant she was being asked to participate in – well, in a royal spy mission. She sat up a little straighter on her cork. Here it comes, she thought eagerly. The start of my glamorous overseas career!
‘It seems the city’s orphans have been disappearing at an alarming rate,’ explained Sir Edmund. ‘No one keeps accurate records of these street urchins, of course, and Scotland Yard is convinced they’re simply being scooped up by stray cats.’ The elder mouse frowned. ‘In any event, the situation has come to the attention of the Prince of Tails and the Duchess of Cornmeal. As patron and patroness of the Nibbleswick Home for Little Wanderers, their royal highnesses have a keen interest in the safety of London’s orphans. They’ve asked that all street mouselings be rounded up and either found proper homes or given permanent residence at Nibbleswick.’
Sir Edmund nodded at the three spy mice seated before him. ‘I’d like you to help with the investigation. Bartholomew, you’ll be out on the streets with the round-up team. Squeak and Glory, you’ll be assisting with the interrogations. It’s an assignment I feel calls for a feminine touch.’
Glory and Squeak exchanged a dubious glance.
‘These are orphans, after all. They may need a bit of mothering.’
Squeak rolled her eyes at Glory. Sir Edmund was quite old-fashioned, and he had set ideas about the roles that females – in particular house mice like Squeak and Glory (who was half house mouse, thanks to her bakery-bred mother) – should play. Her boss saw Squeak’s expression and frowned again. ‘I’ll expect the three of you to fulfil your assignments with complete professionalism,’ the head of MICE-6 said sharply. ‘Best take the Tube up to the roof. Your pigeons are waiting – you’re due at Scotland Yard within the hour.’
Bye-bye, royal spy mission, thought Glory glumly. Hello, dull police work. There was nothing glamorous about rounding up street mouselings. Nothing at all. With a sigh, she nodded obediently and hopped off her cork. So did Bubble and Squeak.
Behind them, the door to Sir Edmund’s office flew open with a bang. The head of MICE-6 whipped round. ‘Miss Honeyberry!’ he cried in exasperation. ‘How many times have I told you –’
‘Sir!’ his secretary interrupted breathlessly. ‘You need to see this!’ She scurried across the carpet and thrust a piece of paper into his paw. ‘Computer gymnasts just handed it in. It’s from Intertail. Marked For Your Paws Only and urgent!’
‘Thank you, Miss Honeyberry,’ said Sir Edmund, dismissing her.
Miss Honeyberry bustled out, and Glory gave Squeak and Bubble a worried glance. Intertail was the French equivalent of the Spy
Mice Agency and MICE-6. Glory wondered what message could be so important that it needed to be marked both top secret and urgent.
‘Oh, my,’ said Sir Edmund softly as he scanned the note. Something about his tone of voice sent a shiver down Glory’s spine. Sir Edmund looked up. He regarded them sombrely. ‘Brie de Sorbonne was just spotted outside a boulangerie in Paris.’
The three agents looked at each other, aghast.
‘But I thought –’ said Glory.
‘Didn’t we –’ said Bubble.
‘Didn’t they –’ said Squeak.
Sir Edmund shook his head. ‘Apparently not,’ he replied. ‘According to this report, a Norwegian trawler dropped anchor in Oslo this morning. The Dagmar Elisabeth. She was carrying the Mayflower balloon in her hold. Her captain found it floating in the North Sea. Our computer gymnasts picked up the news on the Internet just as the message from Intertail came through.’
The head of MICE-6 stared at them, his round black eyes deadly serious. ‘If Brie survived, chances are the others did as well,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ll need to watch your tails. It appears that the rats are back.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
DAY ONE – MONDAY 1015 HOURS
Stilton Piccadilly and Roquefort Dupont peered up at the office door in front of them. Haltingly, the British rat read aloud the name engraved on its brass plaque. ‘D. G. Whiskers, Esquire.’ He nodded in satisfaction. ‘This is the place.’
Dupont slanted him a suspicious glance. ‘So who is this “Goldwhiskers” you’ve been yapping about all morning, anyway?’
‘You’ll see,’ Piccadilly replied smugly. He reached out and tapped on the bottom of the door with the tip of his tail.
‘I still don’t see why we need help,’ grumbled Dupont. ‘Especially not human help.’
His companion smiled slyly. ‘Did I say he was human?’
Dupont’s fierce red eyes widened in surprise.
Above them, an intercom on the wall crackled to life. ‘Place all deliveries on the floor to the right of the door, please,’ stated a polite female voice.
Stilton Piccadilly stretched up on his hind paws, placing his snout as close to the intercom speaker as he could reach. ‘No deliveries,’ he replied. ‘We’re here to see Goldwhiskers.’
‘Goldwhiskers?’ There was a long pause. ‘I’m afraid there’s no one here by that name. Now if it’s D. G. Whiskers, Esquire, whom you’d like to –’
‘Cut the malarkey,’ snarled Piccadilly. ‘Tell him it’s me, Stilton Piccadilly.’
The intercom went silent. A moment later the rats heard a slight whirring noise overhead, and they looked up to see a security camera zooming in. It inspected them for a few moments. Then, near the floor to the right of them, a panel in the wall slid open.
Stilton Piccadilly stepped over an envelope that lay on the carpet and swaggered through the opening. Roquefort Dupont followed more cautiously, dragging Fumble along on his lead. The panel slid shut behind them.
The two rats and their captive mouse looked around. The office they were standing in was empty. Not a human was in sight. No one sat at the ornate desk; no one sat on the plush sofa; no one stood by the big window overlooking the Thames.
‘So where is this Goldwhiskers of yours?’ whispered Dupont.
A trapdoor in the ceiling clattered open, and a basket appeared, tied to a rope. It descended slowly, settling on to the floor in front of them with a slight bump.
‘Going up?’ called a deep, melodious voice from somewhere beyond the trapdoor. ‘Third floor, housewares and fine china! Fifth floor, gentlemen’s undergarments!’ The voice gave a booming laugh.
‘Ha very ha,’ sneered Piccadilly in reply, climbing into the basket. ‘You always were a joker.’
Dupont sniffed the basket suspiciously. It smelled faintly of strawberry jam. His stomach rumbled. He’d only managed to scavenge a bit of bread and cheese at the airport before stowing away on the flight from Oslo, and that was hours ago. He was starving. A hungry Dupont was a mean Dupont, and he jerked angrily on the leash as he climbed in beside his British colleague. Fumble tumbled over the edge behind him, landing in a dejected heap.
‘Heave away, mouselings!’ ordered the deep, melodious voice. The basket swayed back up towards the trapdoor.
As it came to rest on the cubbyhole floor, Piccadilly hopped out and looked around. He gave a low whistle. ‘You must be doing well for yourself,’ he said. ‘Your digs are a bit fancier than the last time I was here.’
Dupont stared up at the enormous rat seated in the leather chair before them. The rat’s whiskers glittered in the sunlight. ‘Oh, I get it,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Goldwhiskers. I guess that kind of thing passes for clever over here.’
‘Who is your rude friend?’ Goldwhiskers asked Piccadilly.
‘He’s not my friend,’ Piccadilly replied. ‘But his name is Dupont.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Goldwhiskers.
Dupont swelled importantly. ‘I take it you’ve heard of me,’ he gloated. ‘The name’s Roquefort Dupont, actually. Great-great-great-great-great –’
Goldwhiskers flicked his paw, cutting him off. ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ he said with a yawn. ‘Related to Camembert Dupont, who used to live in a castle, et cetera, et cetera. Current headquarters in a sewer beneath Dupont Circle in Washington DC.’
Dupont looked stunned. He wasn’t used to being interrupted. He didn’t like being interrupted. His eyes blazed an angry red.
Stilton Piccadilly gave him a warning kick. ‘We’ve known each other a long time, right, Double G?’ he said, laughing nervously and inching closer to the leather chair.
‘Aha!’ said Goldwhiskers. ‘I thought as much. The only time my old sewer mates look me up is when they need something. Out with it, then. What is it you want?’
Piccadilly flushed. ‘Just to give you the chance to return a favour, that’s all,’ he said. ‘You haven’t forgotten all those times I saved your tail, have you? Back when you were just plain old ordinary Double Gloucester Whiskers?’
‘That was a very long time ago,’ said Goldwhiskers silkily. ‘Another life. It can be dangerous, stirring up the past.’
Piccadilly squirmed. ‘I need your help. A favour. For old times’ sake.’
Briefly, he outlined the events of the past month – the showdown with the mice and their human friends in New York, which had gone unexpectedly sour; the disastrous balloon crossing over the Atlantic – and how tomorrow night’s Christmas Eve gala at the Royal Opera House offered them a sudden, unexpected opportunity for revenge.
‘Revenge?’ said Goldwhiskers. He shook his head in disgust. ‘Will you sewer crawlers never learn? You’re no better than cats – so busy chasing mice you never look up long enough to see there’s a better way to do business.’ He gestured at his lavish lair. ‘Look at all this! Do you really want to live underground forever, eating nothing but human rubbish?’
Dupont nudged Piccadilly. ‘See? That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you! We could be living in a castle!’
Goldwhiskers snorted. ‘A castle? Oh, please. Have you ever actually visited a castle, Dupont? They’re drafty and cold and full of mildew.’ He shivered dramatically, then gazed around his snug cubbyhole with satisfaction. ‘Give me a penthouse in the city any day of the week.’
Piccadilly shook his head stubbornly. ‘Revenge is the rat way, Double G. Claws and jaws! Have you forgotten that?’
Goldwhiskers inspected his own manicured claws. ‘That is so twentieth century,’ he replied. ‘And so typical of you, old chap. You have no vision. If you want to get ahead, you need to get with the programme. Upgrade. Set your sights higher. Otherwise, you’ll be left in the dust. Even the mice are more advanced than you.’
‘What are you talking about, “upgrade”?’ Dupont burst out resentfully. ‘We can read!’
‘About time,’ sneered Goldwhiskers.
Dupont lunged. Piccadilly jerked him back.
‘Rats what wants
favours should show more respect,’ whispered Goldwhiskers, his cultured accent slipping a bit. His eyes glinted dangerously.
The phone on the table beside the red leather chair interrupted them with a shrill ring. Twist, who had been watching the proceedings wide-eyed, leaped straight up into the air in alarm and came down on Farthing’s tail. The tiny mouseling squealed and puddled on the carpet.
‘Silence!’ ordered Goldwhiskers. He glared at Farthing. ‘Someone clean up that mess! And get this creature out of my sight!’
As the still-squealing Farthing was hustled off towards the far corner of the cubbyhole, Dodge hopped on to the table. She leaped on to the speakerphone button and nodded at Goldwhiskers.
‘D. G. Whiskers, Esquire,’ said the big rat.
A voice on the other end of the phone launched into a rapid-fire report. Dupont and Piccadilly strained to decipher the words, but they made no sense at all.
‘Yes,’ said Goldwhiskers. ‘Yes, I see. Very wise, Fleming. You have my permission to sell.’ He nodded to Dodge, who leaped on to the button again in response, ending the call.
‘My broker,’ Goldwhiskers explained to his guests with a wink. ‘Oil has peaked.’
‘You have a stockbroker? A human stockbroker?’ asked Dupont.
‘Of course. Don’t you?’ replied Goldwhiskers with a smug smile.
Roquefort Dupont stared at the big rat. He was beginning to feel inferior. Dupont didn’t like feeling inferior. He was accustomed to being the meanest, most powerful rodent everywhere he went. A tidal wave of rage surged through him. It was time to knock this big, arrogant rat off his leather chair and on to his big, arrogant tail. Dupont lunged forward.
Once again, Piccadilly jerked him back.
‘I’ll let you two chaps in on a little secret,’ said Goldwhiskers, leaning forward. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘You know what makes the world go round? It’s not revenge. It’s not claws and jaws. It’s money.’
Stilton Piccadilly and Roquefort Dupont eyed him suspiciously.
Goldwhiskers nodded. ‘That’s right, chaps. Our ancestors did live in castles, and you can live in castles again – if you’re dead set on it. Or in penthouses or villas, or aboard yachts. Anywhere you please. But you’re not going to get there by feuding with the short-tails. That misses the entire point. One thing and one thing only is going to land you in the lap of luxury, and that’s cold, hard cash.’