For Your Paws Only (9 page)

“You stay out of my way or I'll exterminate you!” Dupont snarled at Piccadilly, as his uncle tugged him back into the shadows behind the trash can.

“You owe me a pair of mice,” countered the British rat.

Up in the wreath above, Hotspur turned to Glory. “You're good,” he said in surprise. “Almost as good as me—although of course that's not possible.”

Glory couldn't help feeling pleased at the praise, however grudgingly given. She shrugged modestly. “All in a day's work,” she said.

Leaving the rats to their quarrel below, the two mice headed for the rendezvous.

DAY TWO • WEDNESDAY • 1130 HOURS

“Wow,” said Oz.

The view from the top of the Empire State Building was spectacular. The wind whipping around the eighty-sixth-floor observation deck was cold, though, and Oz pulled his jacket closer as he and D. B. slowly circled the building.

“Brrrr,” said D. B. finally. “I'm going inside.”

As she headed for the gift shop, Oz gazed out over midtown Manhattan. He spotted the Chrysler Building, Grand Central Station, and in the distance the trees of Central Park. Then he continued his walk around to the other side of the observation deck. Far off to the south, on a small island in the harbor, a tall statue held her torch up proudly for all the world to see.

“Wow!” he exclaimed again. “There's the Statue of Liberty!”

“No fair! We want to see, too!” complained Lip over his wireless headset.

“Hang on, guys,” Oz replied softly. Keeping a wary
eye on Jordan and Tank—the two sixth graders were busy seizing one of the deck's numerous telescopes from a fourth-grade Bake-Off finalist from Houston—he turned his back and unzipped his jacket slightly. “The coast is clear,” he whispered.

Three furry little heads popped out of his shirt pocket.

“Awesome, dude!” cried Romeo. “Just like the guidebooks said!”

The excited squeaks from the mice made Oz nervous. “Pipe down, fellas,” he warned.

“Who you talking to, Fatboy?”

Oz whirled around to see Jordan and Tank bearing down on him. As he did so, the Acorns' heads vanished back into his pocket. Oz clapped a protective hand over them, muffling the mice's chatter.

Tank poked him in the shoulder. Hard. “He asked you a question!”

“Um,” said Oz. “Nobody.” He drew his CD player from his jacket pocket and held it up, bopping his head to an imaginary beat. “Just singing along, that's all.” He attempted a casual laugh, but it came out more like a bleat.
Levinson, you are pathetic!
he chided himself. He'd have to do better than that if he wanted to be a secret agent someday.

“Didn't sound like nobody.” Jordan's eyes narrowed suspiciously. He stared at Oz's pocket. “What are you hiding in there?”

“Um,” said Oz, backing slowly away. “Nothing.” Despite the chill wind, he was starting to sweat. He stopped, brought up short by the metal safety grill that topped the observation deck's wall.

“Keep your cool, dude,” whispered Nutmeg.

Oz forced himself to breathe normally. “Nothing,” he repeated, more firmly this time. He glanced over Tank's shoulder, trying to hold back his rising panic. Where was D. B.? Couldn't she hear what was going on? He needed backup, and he needed it now!

“Doesn't look like nothing,” said Jordan, moving closer. Oz tried to dodge him, but the sixth grader grabbed both of his arms and twisted them behind his back.

“Ow!” cried Oz. “Let go!”

“Just as soon as we find out what you've got in your pocket.”

Jordan nodded to Tank, who stepped forward and reached out a beefy finger. He prodded Oz's pocket. The contents of the pocket wiggled. “Hey!” said Tank. “There's something moving in there!”

“Find out what it is,” ordered Jordan.

Tank cautiously inserted his finger into the pocket. “It's furry,” he reported in surprise, poking around. The pocket emitted a squeak of alarm, and then—“OW!” hollered Tank, pulling his finger back out and popping it into his mouth. “Thumthing bit me!”

Oz's glasses had slipped down again and were in
peril of falling off, but Jordan still had his hands imprisoned firmly behind his back. “Whatcha got in there, Blubberbutt?” the sixth grader demanded. “A pet to keep you company? I'll bet it's a hamster. A fat one. Nice fat little pet for a fat little fifth-grade loser!”

“A hamthter!” wailed Tank, still sucking on his finger. “I'll probably get rabieth!”

“We're gonna teach you—and your stupid pet—a lesson you'll never forget,” said Jordan.

He nodded to Tank, who lunged at Oz. Before he could strike, Oz gave a desperate lurch and managed to wrench free of Jordan's grip. Shoving his nemesis aside, he lumbered away, back toward where the rest of the Bake-Off finalists stood clustered around a tour guide.

Oz spotted D. B. threading her way toward him through the crowd. Her voice came floating over his headset. “I was buying postcards!” she cried. “Sorry!”

“Code Red!” he called back. “Gotta ditch the Acorns! Prepare for a handoff!”

As he passed D. B., Oz pretended to stumble and fall against her. “Jump, dudes!” he ordered.

The Acorns leaped nimbly from Oz's pocket to D. B.'s shoulder. Oz ran on. It was a bold move, neatly executed, and intent as they were on nabbing Oz, Jordan and Tank didn't notice the trio of mice. As the two boys thundered past, the Acorns scattered, hiding themselves in the profusion of small braids that crowned D. B.'s head like a dark halo.

D. B. froze in her tracks. “They're in my
hair
!” she whispered in astonishment, the wireless headset again picking up her words and relaying them to her colleagues.

“Don't panic,” panted Oz, as much to himself as to his classmate. The sharks—taller, slimmer, and much faster—were gaining on him.

“You're going down, Fatboy!” called Jordan.

Amelia Bean glanced over from where she was busily filming the view. She took one look at her daughter's red-faced, sweaty friend being hotly pursued by Jordan and Tank and hustled across the observation deck. Jordan and Tank screeched to a halt.

“What's going on here?” D. B.'s mother demanded.

“
Ozymandias
brought a pet with him,” announced Jordan triumphantly. “It bit Tank.”

Tank held up his wounded finger and adopted a sorrowful expression. His mother swooped down on him, clucking in alarm. “Shermie! You're wounded!” she cried. She kissed the wounded finger and Tank turned beet red. “My baby needs first aid! He might have rabies!”

Mrs. Wilson whirled around to Oz. “What were you thinking, bringing a pet with you on this trip, you horrid boy!”

Oz gaped at her. “I don't own a pet,” he said. It was the truth. The Acorns were friends and colleagues, not pets.

“He's lying,” said Jordan. “It's right there, in his pocket. A vicious hamster. Big fat one.”

Oz reached up and held his pocket open. Mrs. Wilson peered in. So did D. B.'s mother. “Empty,” she said. “Jordan Scott, are you making trouble again?”

“Again?” said Mrs. Scott, rushing to her son's defense. “My Jordan never makes trouble.”

“It's in one of his other pockets then!” said Jordan, desperate to be believed. “I swear, I saw it. It bit Tank!”

Tank held up his wounded finger again as proof.

Oz took off his jacket and handed it to Jordan's mother. She searched the pockets, but all she found was his CD player. Oz turned his pants pockets inside out. He shrugged. “See?” he said. “No hamster.”

Jordan wasn't about to surrender so easily. “He had a hamster, I swear it!” he repeated stubbornly.

Oz's mother appeared, accompanied by the Mayflower Flour man. He was still dressed as a pilgrim.

“Oz doesn't have a pet hamster.” Lavinia Levinson's voice was deep and imperious, and she looked every inch the diva in her flowing caftan. She stared at Jordan. He swallowed hard and backed away. “First the eggs and now this?” she said. “I'm beginning to think perhaps Amelia is right. Perhaps you are a troublemaker.”

Mrs. Scott stepped forward. “Now see here—” she huffed.

“Ladies, ladies,” said the Mayflower Flour man as the two mothers started to square off. “I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation for this.”

Everyone looked at Oz. “This was in my pocket,” he
said calmly, holding up an open safety pin. “When Tank reached in, he must have pricked his finger on it.”

“There, you see?” said the Mayflower Flour man, clearly relieved. “It's all a simple misunderstanding.”

“Quick thinking, Oz!” cried Lip through the headset. “You rock, dude!”

D. B. grinned and gave him a thumbs-up. A small smile played on Oz's lips.
Now that's more like it, Levinson,
he congratulated himself. James Bond himself couldn't have done better.

Jordan and Tank glared at Oz. They didn't know exactly how, but they knew they'd been outfoxed.

Round one, sharks, thought Oz. But round two most definitely went to the Spy Mice Agency. The score was tied now, sharks against field agents. They were going to have to stay on their toes, though. There was more than one battle in a war. The sharks wouldn't give up. They never did, once they'd scented blood.

“Prepare yourselves, everyone,” he whispered into his headset. “This isn't over yet. We're in for a fight.”

DAY TWO • WEDNESDAY • 1200 HOURS

“ ‘What stars do spangle
heaven with such beauty?' ” quoted Hotspur, sweeping his paw toward the constellations painted on the sky-blue ceiling of Grand Central's main concourse.

“Let me guess,” said Glory. “The Bard?” She glanced over at her brother and rolled her eyes. Between his bragging and the endless quotes from Shakespeare, Snotspur was really getting on her nerves. Some of the female mice really fell for that sort of thing, but not Glory. She'd found it annoying back in spy school, and she still found it annoying now.

“There you are!” cried Hotspur, as two bedraggled mice limped around the corner of the marble stairs where Glory, Hotspur, and B-Nut were hiding. “Meet Bubble Westminster and Squeak Savoy. Our counterparts from MICE-Six.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Bubble with a formal bow.

Glory cocked her head and regarded the sturdily built field mouse with bright little eyes. He reminded her a bit of Julius. Was it the bow tie? No, she decided, although Julius often wore one, too. It was the dignified air.
Church mouse,
she thought. With a name like Westminster, Bubble had to be from the Cathedral Guild. Quiet and aristocratic, church mice made excellent field agents, their placid exteriors concealing brave hearts and nerves of steel. Glory shook her new colleague's paw.

“Many thanks for saving our tails,” said Bubble.

Squeak Savoy extended her paw as well. She gave Glory a grateful smile. “Piccadilly hit us from behind. We never saw him coming.” She shivered. “For a while there, I thought . . . we both thought . . . ” her voice trailed off.

Glory patted her shoulder. “I know the feeling,” she said. Even now, her stomach tightened, remembering Dupont's lair. She knew exactly what it felt like to think you were going to die, torn to shreds by your worst enemy.

“I could use a good strong cup of tea,” said Squeak, brushing at her pearly gray fur. It was matted with grime from being dragged across the floor of the train station.

Glory was surprised to see that her British colleague was a full-blooded house mouse. They were rare among the field agents—well, except for the Folgers, of course, but they were a breed unto themselves. Most house mice
were like Glory's own bakery-born-and-bred mother, gentle and home-loving, and they tended to gravitate toward sedate careers. Until recently, Glory had been ashamed of her house-mouse heritage. She didn't want to be thought of as quiet and meek, and she certainly didn't want a sedate career. She wanted a life of adventure, just like that of her father, the famous field mouse General Dumbarton Goldenleaf.

Squeak noticed Glory inspecting her fur. She smiled again. “Hotel Guild, both sides,” she said.

“Bakery Guild, my mother's side,” replied Glory, chagrined that she'd been caught staring.

“You take after your father, though,” noted Squeak. “As do you,” she added, with a nod at B-Nut.

“You've met him?” asked Glory's brother in surprise.

Squeak shook her head. “We saw pictures in your file,” she explained. “Sir Edmund Hazelnut-Cadbury briefed us thoroughly for this mission.” She swatted more dust off her soft gray fur. “MICE-Six wasn't quite sure what to do with me at first,” she continued to Glory. “So few of us house mice qualify as field agents. And Sir Edmund is quite traditional. But he couldn't ignore my track record—or the fact that I earned top marks on all our spy-school exams.”

Glory liked this feisty Brit. Squeak Savoy was definitely a kindred spirit. “I'm afraid tea will have to wait,” she said, glancing regretfully at the large brass clock that adorned the concourse's information booth. “It's
noon, and Oz and D. B. will be here any minute.”

“How will we recognize them?” asked Bubble.

“Let's see, Oz is on the, um, plumpish side—”

“Fur color?” asked Squeak.

“Pale for Oz, dark for D. B.,” Glory replied. Which wasn't too much of a fib, if you counted hair as fur.

“How about tails?” asked Hotspur. “Long or short?”

“Um,” said Glory, stalling for time.

“There they are!” cried B-Nut.

Across the train station's enormous lobby, the Mayflower Flour man appeared, leading the Bake-Off finalists behind him. They followed him to the information booth, heads craned back as they looked up at the restored grandeur of the concourse's star-spattered ceiling.