Grk Undercover (22 page)

“That’s done,” said Shane, wiping oil from his hands. “She’s all ready to go.”

Just as those words left his mouth, the dog darted under the nearest helicopter and hid in the shadows. A moment later, a shout echoed across the tarmac. “Hey! You!”

Shane was surprised to see two men running toward him, carrying rifles. He wondered if he should put his hands in the air. Were they crooks? Or police? As the two men came closer, he saw that they were wearing white overalls marked with the words DOG UNIT. When they reached him, one of the men asked, “Have you seen a dog?”

“What sort of dog?” said Shane.

“A white one.”

Shane said, “Did he have black patches? And a little tail that wouldn’t stop wagging?”

“That’s him,” said one of the men.

“Where is he?” said the other.

“Why are you asking?” said Shane. “Is he yours?”

“He’s a runaway, mate.”

“We think he arrived on a plane.”

“Could be highly dangerous.”

“Probably riddled with disease.”

“Rabies, most likely.”

“Fleas too.”

“You name it, mate, these dogs have the lot.”

“Where did he go?”

Shane pointed in the wrong direction. “That way.”

“Thanks, mate,” said one of the men.

“Much obliged,” said the other.

Together, the two Dog Unit officers sprinted across the tarmac, clutching their rifles, and disappeared round the side of the hangar.

Shane wondered why he’d lied to them.

Because they were like dog police, perhaps. And he never liked helping the police.

There was another reason too. He liked that little dog. Whoever it was. He didn’t want it to get locked up by the dog unit.

Shane leaned down and peered into the shadows under the helicopter.

“They’ve gone,” he whispered. “You can come out now.”

But he was talking to himself.

The dog had disappeared.

Grk didn’t have a plan.

Like most dogs, he didn’t make plans. In fact, he never thought about the future at all.

He only really worried about food and sleep and warmth. And worrying about them took up most of the spare space in his small brain.

His body had warmed up nicely, so he went for a little walk, stretching his limbs and exploring his newfound surroundings. He didn’t wonder where he was going or what might happen when he got there. He just trotted around the hangers and across the runways, enjoying the sunshine and the warm air, stopping every now and then to have a pee against a wall or on a patch of tarmac.

Until he smelled food.

And not just any old food—one of his favorite foods on the entire planet. A treat to tempt the palate of the most discerning
canine gourmet. Not far from here, his sensitive nostrils could definitely sense the delectable scent of a chicken pie.

Mmmmmmm. That was a good smell. A chicken pie with gloopy gravy and flaky pastry and plump chunks of chicken. Exactly what was needed to fill the empty stomach of a hungry young dog.

Grk’s stomach was very, very empty. It was a long time since those sausages. All he wanted was some good food.

A chicken pie, for instance.

All his senses drove him onward, searching for the source of that adorable smell. He ran across the runway until he reached a large black van. The smell was coming from inside. And the door was open. Grk didn’t hesitate. He sprang inside. And there, lying on the driver’s seat, he found what he was looking for.

A half-eaten chicken pie. Still wrapped in its paper bag.

Grk stared at the pie for a few seconds, thinking through his options.

He had stolen things before. Food, usually. Tennis balls too. And the odd sock. He knew what happened if someone caught him. They shouted and threw their arms around and sometimes even tried to kick him.

He didn’t want to be kicked.

But the pie smelled so good.…

He couldn’t resist it. He clamped his jaws into the pastry and started eating.

He had only taken a single mouthful—and hadn’t even swallowed it properly—when he heard voices.

They were getting louder. Coming closer.

Grk looked at the pie.

What should he do? Run? Hide? Or keep eating?

The answer was obvious.

Holding the pie very carefully in his jaws, he squeezed between the seats and sneaked into the back of the van.

A moment later, two men clambered into the front of the van. They were wearing paint-splattered dungarees. The driver put the keys in the ignition, then said, “Where’s my pie, mate?”

“What pie?” said his passenger.

“I was eating a chicken pie. It’s disappeared.”

“Where did you leave it?”

“On this seat.”

“Then you’re probably sitting on it.”

“I’m not, mate. I’d known if I was sitting on a pie.”

“Maybe you lost it.”

“Maybe you stole it.”

“Oh, come on, mate. Do you really think I’d steal your pie?”

“You might.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Then where is it?”

“I don’t know, mate. Maybe you ate it.”

“I’m not an idiot. I’d remember eating a pie.”

“This is ridiculous, mate. Are we going to sit here all night talking about your pie? Or are we going to have a beer?”

“Let’s have a beer.” The driver turned the key in the ignition and started the engine.

In the back of the van, Grk was eating the most delicious pie on the planet.

Over the years, he had eaten several succulent steaks, some mouthwatering cakes, all kinds of interesting cheeses and a whole host of other fine foods, but he had never tasted anything as perfectly flaky and majestically gloopy as this particular chicken pie.

He heard the doors slamming and the men talking and the engine starting. He felt the van lurching forward. But he took no notice. All his attention was concentrated on the pie. He dug his teeth through the soft pastry and bit into a moist cube of chicken.

When Grk finally finished his meal, he sat up and looked around. His nostrils twitched. He could smell the last lingering traces of the chicken, mingling with other older, moldier scents. He wondered what else might be hidden in the van.

Time to explore!

He wandered through the back of the van, poking his nose down every hole and into every crevice.

He quickly unearthed a little trove of treasures. A moldy apple with one bite taken out of it. A square of chocolate. Some salt and vinegar crisps. A half-eaten Vegemite sandwich. Yum! Yum! Yummity-yum! He ate everything except the apple. (Grk didn’t care for fruit.) Then he licked his lips, walked three times in a circle, lay down, closed his eyes and went to sleep.

When they got to school, Mrs. Malt had a word with Tim’s headmaster, asking if the teachers could keep an eye on Tim throughout the day.

“You know what he’s like,” she said, ruffling her son’s hair. “Leave him alone for a moment and he’ll jump on a plane to Brazil or catch a train to Paris. Please don’t let that happen. We’ve already lost our dog. We don’t want to lose our son too.”

“You don’t have to worry,” said the headmaster. “Tim will be perfectly safe here.”

Tim didn’t like the sound of that.

He knew what “perfectly safe” meant.

It meant he would be watched all day. His teachers would never let him out of their sight. He wouldn’t be allowed to wander off or sneak away. They’d keep a careful eye on him.

He didn’t want them to watch him at all.

He wanted to be free.

Grk sat up. He’d heard a worrying noise. A loud rattle. Followed by a clunk, a bang and a creak.

He understood what was happening. Someone was opening the back of the van. They wanted their pie back.

But they were going to be disappointed. Their pie had gone. It was buried at the bottom of his stomach and it wasn’t coming out again.

When the pie’s owners discovered this unfortunate fact, what would they do?

They would probably kick him. They would definitely shout at him. And they might well lock him in a deep, dark dungeon for the rest of his days.

They could only do all this, of course, if they caught him.

He would have to be faster than them. And more cunning too. He would have to wriggle out of their grasp and run and run and run until he was a long, long way away from here.

He crouched in the back of the van, waiting and listening, preparing himself for the perfect moment.

He was surrounded by ladders and toolboxes covered in thick woollen blankets, but he didn’t bother investigating them. His sensitive nose had already told him that they didn’t contain food, and nothing apart from food would have interested him. He simply crouched on the floor, his muscles tensed, and listened to the rattling, the clunking and the bangs.

A door swung open. Light swarmed into the back of the van.

This was his moment—his one chance.

Grk sprang forward.

He catapulted through the open doors, bounced off one man and landed on another.

For a moment, the two men were too surprised to speak. Then they both spoke at once.

One of them said, “Wha—?”

The other said, “Jeez!”

The two men lunged forward with outstretched arms—and knocked their heads together.

“Uh!” cried one, clutching his chin.

“Ow!” cried the other, holding his forehead.

Grk had already gone. As soon as his paws touched the ground, he started running, and now he was dodging between two oncoming cars in the middle of the road.

The two men stared after him. Then they looked at one another.

“Was that a dog?” said one, clutching his forehead.

“It certainly looked like a dog,” said the other, rubbing his chin.

“What was it doing in my van?”

“I’ll tell you exactly what it was doing, mate. Eating your chicken pie.”

Grk sprinted across the road, ignoring the cars, which tooted their horns at him, and sped down the pavement. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between him and the two men.

He ran for a minute or two, then paused and looked behind him.

There was no sign of the chicken pie’s owners or their van. They weren’t following him. He had escaped.

Grk lifted his head and sniffed the air, wondering what to do next. Where should he go?

How about some food?

That was a good idea.

The chicken pie, which had filled his stomach so comfortably, had now been digested, and there was an empty space in Grk’s belly, waiting to be filled.

He sniffed the air once more.

He could smell salt and diesel and trees and sewage and people and other dogs and cats and rats and rope and rubbish and food.

Food!

What type of food?

He wasn’t sure. The source of the smell wasn’t very close. He might have to go a long way. But he was sure that the effort would be worthwhile.

He started walking.

Outside Sydney Opera House, a large crowd had gathered. All of them were dressed in their finest clothes. Beautiful women glittered with expensive jewelry and sleek men showed off their tans and their Rolexes.

Many of the richest and most important people in Sydney were here tonight. Bankers and brokers, restaurant owners and winemakers, shipping magnates, ambassadors, the owner of a TV station, a man who controlled half the copper mines in Asia, a woman whose supermarkets supplied half the homes in Australia—all of them headed into the main entrance of the Opera House.

The performance would be starting soon. No one wanted to be late.

Tonight, the Opera House was hosting an exclusive event, a special performance of
Fidelio
, Beethoven’s only opera.

The cheapest tickets cost two hundred dollars and the most expensive were two thousand. All profits went to charity.

The audience comprised many of the richest people in Sydney. Some loved opera. Some hated opera, but loved spending time with other rich people. All of them were looking forward to the night ahead.

They were sure it would be a night to remember.

The world doesn’t have many sights more beautiful than the Harbor Bridge, the colossal steel structure that joins the north and south sides of Sydney, but Grk didn’t even notice it. He trotted along Circular Quay, ignoring the glorious sights that surrounded him, and headed for the source of the smell. As he got closer, the smells grew clearer, and he walked faster. Oh, yes. Yum, yum. That smelled good. Meaty things and fishy things and spicy things too. His sensitive nose distinguished caviar and smoked salmon and chips and cheese and salami and several other smells that he couldn’t recognize but wanted to explore. Saliva collected around his tongue and dribbled out of his mouth. His head held high, he trotted down a flight of stairs
and emerged in a small loading area at the back of the Opera House.

He saw a white van. The doors were open. Men in neat uniforms were removing trays from the back of the van and carrying them through a doorway.

There was a reception after the opera. The audience, the orchestra, the singers and the conductor would mingle together, shaking hands and making conversation, drinking champagne and eating canapés.

Here they were.

Tray after tray after tray of elegant little snacks.

Just waiting to be eaten.

Grk wasn’t a bad dog.

If he’d been with Tim or Max or Natascha, he wouldn’t have gone anywhere near the white van. He would have trotted away, following his owners, confident that they would provide him with a decent meal as soon as they got home.

But he was alone.

So he had to look after himself.

And he was hungry.

His empty stomach had been sending a series of signals to his brain, begging for food, and Grk wasn’t the type of dog who ignored his stomach. Especially since the signals had been getting louder and louder as he came closer and closer to the source of these delectable smells.

Grk watched the waiters as they hurried to and fro, taking trays from the back of the van, and picked his moment perfectly. When their backs were turned, he darted forward, jumped into the van and buried his nose in a tray of spicy spring rolls.