Goldwhiskers

  WARNING:

  This book will self-destruct if it falls into the wrong hands. Make that paws. Rat paws. [You know who you are.]

  After being tipped off by an anonymous source (known only as ‘Deep Rodent’), Heather Frederick knew what she had to do. She had to go undercover. She had to find out for herself the truth of what was happening beneath the floorboards.

  Now she has broken cover to write books about the spy mice. ‘The world needs to know the peril facing the brave members of the Spy Mice Agency,’ she reports. She refuses to divulge her code name on the grounds that it would place her in danger. In addition, all the names in this book have been changed to protect active undercover rodent operatives.

  Books by Heather Vogel Frederick

  Spy Mice: The Black Paw

  Spy Mice: For Your Paws Only

  Spy Mice: Goldwhiskers

  Heather Vogel Frederick

  SPYMICE

  Illustrated by Adam Stower

  PUFFIN

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  penguin.com

  First published in the USA by Simon & Schuster, Inc. 2007

  First published in Great Britain in Puffin Books 2007

  1

  Text copyright © Heather Vogel Frederick, 2007

  Illustrations copyright © Adam Stower, 2007

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  EISBN: 978–0–141–90163–3

  For my true-blue sisters Lisa and Stefanie,

  with whom I shared a happy childhood interlude in England

  CHAPTER ONE

  DAY ONE – MONDAY 0001 HOURS

  At exactly one minute past midnight, a large black taxi turned into the sweeping drive in front of London’s Savoy Hotel.

  A mouseling stepped out of the shadow of the kerb as the vehicle approached. Its headlights caught the hopeful gleam in his bright little eyes. He watched as the cab pulled up smartly in front of the entrance. It swished through a puddle as it did so, drenching him with icy water.

  The mouseling slumped back against the kerb, the hopeful look instantly extinguished. He’d thought that perhaps his luck had finally changed. It hadn’t. Not one bit. He swiped dejectedly at his sodden face with a grimy paw and sneezed. What a horrid night! The skies were spouting the kind of cold, sleeting rain that only London in late December could produce – and now this. His slight body shook violently, and the mouseling wrapped his tail tightly round himself in a vain attempt to keep warm.

  Shivering, he watched as the cab driver hopped out and trotted round to open the door for his passengers. The mouseling’s tummy rumbled. Not only had he had no luck tonight, he’d had nothing to eat either. He hadn’t earned it yet. ‘Only mouselings who sing for their supper get their supper,’ Master always said.

  And the mouseling desperately wanted to please Master. Master was the giver of all that was good: food, warmth, praise. The mouseling owed Master his life. Before Master, he’d been nothing. An urchin. A throwaway. ‘Nobody wants worthless street trash like you,’ Master reminded him often. Reminded all of them often. ‘Nobody but me.’

  Still shivering, the mouseling peered over the kerb as two pairs of feet emerged from the taxi: a lady’s and a gentleman’s. His tiny heart began to beat a little faster. Maybe his luck had changed after all. The gentleman’s shoes were highly polished and expensive-looking. The lady’s stylish sandals criss-crossed her pale toes with narrow straps. Useless for walking, especially in this weather, but perfect for making an impressive entrance at one of London’s poshest hotels. Which was just the sort of thing that toffs liked to do.

  ‘You can always tell a toff by his shoes,’ Master had instructed. ‘That and his bags. Toffs like to spend money on shoes and bags.’

  The cab driver removed a trio of suitcases from the taxi’s boot and placed them on the pavement. The mouseling watched intently. He lifted his grubby little nose into the air and sniffed. Leather! Expensive leather. Hope soared in him once again. This was what he’d been waiting for all evening. These were just the sort of bags that toffs liked to take to fancy hotels.

  And toffs – upper-crust, well-heeled, wealthy humans – were what the mouseling was after tonight. What all Master’s mouselings were after in every corner of the city tonight.

  The small mouse’s tummy rumbled again. Right, then. Time to get to work if he fancied any supper. He shouldered his soggy duffel bag (made from the toe of a sock) and with a practised leap swung himself up over the kerb. As the taxi pulled away, he tumbled into the cuff of the gentleman’s well-cut trousers, and a moment later the Savoy’s doorman ushered the two human guests – and one unseen mouseling – inside the hotel.

  CHAPTER TWO

  DAY ONE – MONDAY 0600 HOURS

  The British airport official looked up from the desk at the chubby boy standing in front of him. ‘Purpose of your visit?’ he asked.

  The boy, who was sweating profusely, prodded at the round, wire-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose. ‘Uh, I guess, uh –’ he stammered, still a bit groggy from the long flight from Washington DC. Nervous too. This was his last hurdle. Once he passed through immigration and customs he was home free.

  ‘Purpose of your visit?’ repeated the official. There was a note of irritation in his voice. Behind the boy, a long line of waiting travellers snaked through the airport’s crowded screening area. ‘Business or pleasure?’

  ‘Um,’ said the boy. A bit of both was the correct answer, but how many ten-year-olds had business in London? He didn’t want to arouse suspicion. He couldn’t afford to do that. Not with what he had hidden in his shoe. ‘Um,’ he said again.

  ‘Are you hard of hearing, lad?’ demanded the man, glaring at him. ‘What’s your name, anyway?’ He squinted down at the passport that lay open on the desk in front of him. His bushy eyebrows shot up and disappeared beneath the peak of his uniform cap. ‘Ozymandias Levinson? Blimey, who names a kid Ozymandias?’

  A blush eclipsed the boy’s round moon of a face. ‘It’s just Oz, actually,’ he muttered. He glanced anxiously over to where his parents, whose passports had already been approved, were waiting.

  Oz had never seen such a busy air
port. Heathrow was a virtual crush of humanity. The corridors and waiting areas were jammed with people of all shapes and sizes and colours 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 pushchairs. 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 some day. 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 favourite 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 the customs checkpoint,’ he said severely.

  Another official in uniform hustled over. He placed a newspaper on the desk 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 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 airport 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 official stamped Oz’s passport and waved him on towards customs. Oz trotted over to where his father was standing, next to Oz’s friend and classmate Delilah Bean, better known as DB.

  ‘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 aeroplane had taken off last night from Washington. He ran into the gents and locked himself in a cubicle. 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 DC, 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 fitted Oz.

  Oz turned the shoe upside down gently. ‘You OK?’ 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 anticlockwise. Again, nothing. Oz looked down at his feet and chewed his lip. It was the left shoe, wasn’t it? Could he have got 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 air holes? 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 swivelled the heel with all of his might, and this time it opened, revealing a secret compartment.

  ‘You OK, 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 air holes 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 was hardly ‘just’ a mouse, thought Oz, smiling back at her. She was an elite Silver Skateboard agent with Washington DC’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 email Bunsen as soon as we get to the hotel and let him know I’m OK. 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 air holes for safety and soft cotton-wool 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 holiday of it, and they’d invited DB 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 favour. I’ll be in rehearsal most of the time, and poor Oz will be bored to tears.’

  Once Glory heard that Oz and DB 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 holiday, 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 mousepower as they worked to keep their world safe from the likes of Dupont a
nd Piccadilly.

  Glory shouldered her backpack. She had high hopes for this visit. A holiday, 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 on to 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 DB.

  ‘Everything OK?’ 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 bear-like arm her husband had draped round her shoulders, and her mouth fell open. The world-famous diva let out a gentle snore. DB 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 DB this excited – or this happy. Usually she had no problem finding something to complain about. This new and improved DB was a little unnerving.

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

  ‘Look!’ squealed DB. ‘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 DB 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.’