Just then, the Chester B. Arthur Elementary school bus pulled up, along with the Channel Twelve news van.
‘Your mum's here with her camera crew!’ Oz said. ‘And so's our class.’
He and DB stood very still as the fifth and sixth graders got off the bus and filed past. Their schoolmates were in high spirits, laughing and jostling one another as they pushed into the building. Some of the girls wore glasses and carried notebooks (‘Harriet the Spies galore,’ whispered Oz), and there were a lot of trench coats and dark glasses.
‘Hi, sweetie!’ said DB’s mum, aiming a pat at the costume's rump. ‘Don't you two look adorable.’
‘Mu-um!’ DB wailed. ‘We're not supposed to look adorable. We are the Trojan Horse! We are full of fierce warriors. Go away!’
Amelia Bean gave the back end of the donkey another pat and moved off towards the National Security Adviser. Her camera crew, busy panning the illustrious crowd, followed.
‘What's Mrs Busby wearing?’ asked DB, once she was gone.
‘Um, she's got something wrapped around her head,’ whispered Oz. ‘I think she's Harriet Tubman.’
‘She spied for the Union army during the Civil War when she led slaves to freedom, right?’ said DB ‘That much I do know. How about Jordan and Tank?’
Oz squinted through the costume's eyeholes. There they were, the last stragglers off the bus. ‘I see Tank,’ he reported. ‘What a moron! He didn't even bother to wear a costume. No, wait, I'm wrong. He –’
‘He what?’ DB demanded.
Oz snorted in disbelief. Tank had what looked like gold foil wrapped around the index finger of his right hand. ‘And you thought putting a Trojan Horse sign on our costume was lame,’ he said. ‘Wait till you get a load of this.’
‘What? What's he wearing?’ DB demanded again.
‘He's got gold wrapping paper on his finger. Get it? Goldfinger? You know, the bad guy from the Bond movies?’
DB groaned. ‘Definitely lame,’ she agreed. ‘How about Jordan?’
Oz looked over at Jordan Scott. His heart sank. Sometimes life was so unfair. Jordan was dressed exactly how he, Oz Levinson, future secret agent, would have dressed for the masquerade party if he hadn't been stuck in a stupid donkey suit. His classmate wore a black tuxedo, white dress shirt, and black bow tie. There was a red carnation in his lapel. His hair was slicked back, and he had a smug smile on his face. He didn't look twice at the Trojan Horse as he sauntered past into the museum.
‘Well?’ DB was getting impatient.
Oz sighed deeply. ‘Bond. James Bond.’
‘Figures.’
The headphones crackled to life, and Oz and DB both jumped.
‘It's Dupont!’ came B-Nut's excited cry, instantly wiping all thoughts of Agent 007 out of Oz's head.
‘Where?’ Bunsen and Glory asked at the same time.
Just coming out of the Chinatown exit at Gallery Place. And there must be hundreds – whoa, make that thousands! – of rats on his tail. No pun intended. This could be bigger than we thought.’
‘I'll alert the Mouse Guard,’ said Bunsen crisply. ‘We may have to fly in reinforcements from Annapolis. Glory, Oz, DB, are you ready?’
‘Affirmative,’ they answered.
‘They're moving down Seventh Street,’ reported B-Nut. ‘Once Dupont makes the turn on to F, the rats will head straight for the museum.’
‘Get ready,’ said Bunsen, his voice squeaking slightly with tension. Oz and DB stepped out to the kerb.
‘Rounding the corner – you should see them any second,’ B-Nut reported.
‘Get set!’ said Bunsen.
‘There they are!’ cried Glory.
As the rats advanced down F Street, led by a swaggering Roquefort Dupont, pandemonium broke loose in front of the museum. Taxis and limousines screeched to a stop. Brakes squealed. Cars honked. Costumed guests and bystanders screamed.
‘What the –’ DB's mother swivelled around and shaded her eyes against the glare of the headlights. ‘Holy smokes!’ she cried. ‘Camera! I need a camera on the double!’
The Channel Twelve news crew came running. They stopped in their tracks when they saw the rats.
Oz and DB stepped into the street.
‘Delilah Bean, you get back here this instant!’ DB's mother called.
‘Just keep walking,’ said Oz.
‘Delilah Bean, do you hear me?’
‘Keep walking, just a few more steps.’
‘Delilah Bean, I'm warning you!’
‘I am so grounded,’ groaned the back end of the Trojan Horse as DB ignored her mother and moved reluctantly forward.
Oz stopped and faced the tide of oncoming rats. The rodents slowed at the sight of the unusual four-legged creature, and the back of Oz's neck prickled in revulsion. Never in his life had he imagined there could be so many rats. The street was paved with them, thousands of small furry bodies that advanced in one massive pack, like a fur carpet shuffing down the street. Thousands of hairy snouts pointed in his direction, sniffing the air. Thousands of eyes glowed red at him in the stalled traffic's headlights. Oz tried not to think about what it would feel like to have all those rodents crawling over his body. Those sharp claws! Those long, hairless tails! He shuddered.
‘The name is Levinson, Oz Levinson,’ he whispered to himself, trying to bolster his faltering courage.
‘How's it look?’ asked DB.
‘You don't want to know.’
‘Oh, man,’ his classmate wailed. ‘I can't even see anything and I'm scared out of my wits.’
‘Steady now, children,’ said a voice through their headphones. It was Julius. ‘Have courage.’
The elder mouse's voice was calm and even, and somehow just knowing he was there made Oz feel better. He forced himself to breathe deeply.
‘Ready with the net?’ asked Bunsen.
‘Affirmative,’ Oz replied.
‘Gym bag?’
‘Got it,’ said DB.
‘Now!’ cried Glory, leaping out from her hiding place inside one of the donkey's ears. She stood on the Trojan Horse's forehead and cupped her paws around her mouth.
‘Hey, Dupont!’ she called. ‘Roquefort Dupont!’
Dupont stopped in his tracks. Scurvy and Gnaw tripped over his tail and tumbled to the ground behind him. ‘Idiots,’ growled Dupont. The wave of rats halted.
‘Up here!’ Glory waved.
Dupont lifted his mangy snout into the air and bared his sharp yellow teeth. ‘Well if it isn't little Glory Goldenleaf,’ he snarled. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’
Glory tossed a small ball of yarn over the side of the donkey costume and rappelled neatly down on to the toe of Oz's trainer.
‘Steady,’ said Bunsen in his ear. ‘Hold your position.’
Oz held his position – and his breath. Out of the corner of the Trojan Horse's eyehole he could just make out Glory's tiny form planted defiantly on his shoe. Bunsen was right about her – she was incredibly brave. Especially in the face of an enemy like Roquefort Dupont, who was easily the biggest rat Oz had ever seen.
‘What's he look like?’ said DB tensely.
‘Not good,’ Oz whispered. ‘Huge. Nearly as big as a cat. And he has red eyes and sharp yellow teeth and –’
‘Sorry I asked,’ muttered DB.
Oz continued to stare through the eyehole at Dupont. He remembered what Glory had said about him – that he was evil, and mean, and really, really scary. There was no arguing with that.
‘You want me?’ cried Glory, not a quiver of fear audible in her small mouse voice. ‘Come and get me!’
‘I believe I'll do just that,’ said Dupont, and took a step forward. ‘There's no escaping the Black Paw, remember?’
‘Hold your ground!’ whispered Bunsen. ‘Steady!’
Without warning, Roquefort Dupont lowered his head and charged. He was surprisingly fast in spite of his bulk, and he covered the few feet of ground between him and Glory in less time than Oz would have t
hought possible.
Oz almost missed him. Almost.
At the very last second, he whipped the fishing net out from under the donkey costume and brought it whooshing down on Dupont. The rat shrieked with rage as its mesh entangled him. Just as quickly, Oz whipped the net back under the Trojan Horse costume, whisking Dupont out of his followers' view.
Scurvy and Gnaw blinked in surprise. The mass of rats behind them hesitated, confused.
Inside the costume, all was chaos. It was all Oz could do to hang on to the net. Dupont bucked and snarled, thrashing and clawing at the trap. Oz gripped the handle in his left hand, and with his right struggled to hold the top of the net tightly shut.
‘You'll pay for this,’ rasped Dupont.
Oz gasped in shock. He dropped the net.
‘Oz!’ cried DB in dismay.
Somehow, Oz hadn't expected the rodent to speak to him. Hearing Glory and her friends talk was one thing, but coming from Dupont it was nothing short of terrifying.
Dupont gave a triumphant cry and redoubled his efforts to disentangle himself. As he scrabbled towards the opening in the mesh, Oz dropped to his knees and lunged for the net's handle. Dupont slashed at him with his sharp claws and fangs.
‘GET OUT OF MY WAY!’ the rat howled.
Sweat poured from Oz as he struggled frantically to regain his hold on the fishing net. He couldn't let Dupont get away. Not now. Not after all their efforts.
‘Gotcha!’ he said, finally scooping the net up again.
‘Hang on, Oz!’ Glory called, scrambling up his trouser leg to safety.
‘I'm trying,’ Oz replied through clenched teeth. ‘But you'd better hurry.’
Outside the costume, Oz could hear the clicking of thousands of rat claws against the pavement as the mass of rodents shifted uneasily in the street.
‘Where'd he go?’ he heard Gnaw ask.
‘Beats me,’ Scurvy replied.
‘I'M IN HERE, YOU IDIOTS!’ screamed Dupont.
Oz quickly swung the net against the fabric to muffle his voice.
A rat snout poked under the bottom hem of the costume and snuffled suspiciously at Oz's feet. It was Gnaw. ‘Boss? Was that you?’
Oz felt rat whiskers brush against his ankle. He felt a rat snout venture up under his trouser leg. Oz panicked.
‘Run, DB!’ he cried. ‘Run!’
‘No, Oz!’ shouted Glory. ‘Stop!’
He ignored her and took off towards the museum, dragging DB stumbling behind him. The mob of rats shuffled uncertainly forward. They were still confused, but they had caught the sharp scent of fear, and it excited them.
‘You know our orders!’ shouted Gnaw. ‘SWARM AND SURROUND!’
Oz ran faster than he had ever run before in his life. He ran blindly, feverishly, charging forward without even bothering to look through the costume's eyeholes. All he could think about was Dupont's wall of horrors. Were his own ears destined to be added to the rat leader's trophies? He gripped the fishing net tightly as he ran, and it flapped rhythmically against the wire mesh framework of the costume, Dupont grunting with each step that he took.
Oz ran fast, but it wasn't fast enough.
In a flash, the rat mob had him surrounded. Oz turned this way and that. He was lathered in sweat and breathing hard.
‘Let – me – THROUGH!’ He spat the words out, but to no avail. No matter which direction he turned, his feet encountered a mass of furry bodies. Finally, he stopped, panting. His shoulders sagged. It was hopeless. ‘Sorry, DB,’ he whispered. ‘Sorry, Glory.’
‘Don't give up yet,’ Glory urged. ‘Hank, B-Nut, you're on!’
At Glory's command, Hank swooped low towards the mass of rodents. B-Nut leaned over his wing and flipped a switch on a small box that hung from the pigeon's neck. ‘Me, Roquefort Dupont!’ boomed a voice from the hearing-aid amplifier inside. ‘The descendant of kings!’
Thousands of rats looked up at the sky, baffled. In the glare of the headlights, they could only see the silhouette of a pigeon. Not a rodent moved, except Dupont, who was still struggling mightily to escape from the fishing net.
‘I can't hold on much longer,’ Oz said grimly. He shot a worried glance at Glory. Had his moment of panic messed things up completely? What if Dupont's followers didn't take the bait?
‘Just another second or two,’ Glory whispered encouragingly. ‘Bunsen's been splicing tape all afternoon from the dog-doo transmitter feed. It's brilliant.’
Hank and B-Nut buzzed back and forth over the mass of rats. ‘Those mice think they can outwit me, but I'll show them who's boss!' cried the recording. ‘My ancestors kept mice as servants! I am Roquefort Dupont!’
‘It's the Boss!’ Scurvy shouted. ‘The pigeon's got the Boss! GET THAT BIRD!’
At this, Hank flapped off away from the museum – enticingly low, so that the rats would think they stood a chance. Led by Scurvy and Gnaw, the entire mass of rats shifted direction, moving away from the Trojan Horse that contained Oz and DB. Picking up speed, they began to chase after Hank. People crowded out of their cars and taxis and limousines to watch. Party-goers flocked to the kerb, open-mouthed at the sight of a mob of rodents in pursuit of a pigeon. Dupont's recorded shrieks could be heard echoing in the distance long after pigeon, pilot and Washington's entire rat population rounded the corner of F Street and disappeared from view.
‘I do not believe I just saw that,’ said DB's mother. ‘Did we get that on film?’
‘Well done, ' Oz heard Julius exclaim jubilantly over his headphones. ‘Well done, indeed.’
Oz could feel Glory bouncing excitedly up and down on his shoulder. If he hadn't still been clinging to the fishing net so tightly, he would have felt like bouncing himself. Glory turned towards DB. ‘Ready?’ she cried.
DB held up the open gym bag in response.
‘Now!’ Glory ordered, and in one lightning movement Oz jerked the net towards the bag and dumped Dupont inside. DB zipped it shut, instantly muffling the rat's furious snarls. Now it was her turn to hold on for dear life.
‘You've gotta help me, Oz,’ she said desperately, as Dupont thrashed and pummelled at the bag. ‘He's going to get away.’
Sure enough, just then Dupont managed to slice through the fabric of the bag. An enormous, dingy paw appeared and scrabbled frantically for freedom. Oz reached over to stuff the paw back inside, and the rat slashed at him with his sharp claws.
‘Ow!’ cried Oz, drawing his hand back in pain. He grabbed the fishing net angrily and swatted at the paw with the handle. Hard. Dupont roared with rage. Oz gave the bag another whack, and the paw withdrew.
‘Take that, Roquefort Dupont!’ said DB, the back end of the Trojan Horse wagging as she did a little victory dance. ‘Take that, rats! You don't know who you're dealing with!’
‘I'll tell the Mouse Guard to stand down,’ said Bunsen. ‘Oz, you and DB deliver the prisoner. Glory, slip away as soon as you can and meet me at the next rendezvous.’
If the Trojan Horse seemed a bit more frisky as it made its way through the crowd – Dupont was still putting up a struggle inside the gym bag, albeit a more subdued one, thanks to repeated swats with the fishing net handle – no one said a word. The bystanders were too busy babbling about the rats.
Oz and DB ducked around the corner of the museum on to Ninth Street. Dumbarton Goldenleaf stepped out of the shadows. ‘Good job, kids,’ he said. ‘We'll take it from here.’
DB set the gym bag on the pavement and Oz, still nursing his wounded hand, gave it a final thwack for good measure. A team of Mouse Guard commandos materialized and formed a circle around the wriggling bag. They waited for General Goldenleaf's command, then hefted it on to their brawny shoulders. Oz watched as the mice spirited the gym bag down the street towards the museum's employee entrance.
‘Mission accomplished,’ he said to DB. He turned his head to where Glory still stood perched on his shoulder. ‘Sorry I almost messed up.’
‘Never mind about that, Oz. Every spy al
most messes up now and then,’ she assured him. ‘Look at me. I'm a prime example! But the important thing is, we did it!’
Oz grinned. ‘We did, didn't we?’
As they trotted back around the corner of the building, DB's mother spotted them. ‘Delilah Bean, what in tarnation is going on?’ she demanded.
DB shrugged, and the back end of the Trojan Horse twitched again. ‘I have absolutely no idea, Mum.’
‘You kids better get inside,’ said her mother. ‘There's something strange going on in this city tonight.’
‘You think that was strange?’ whispered Oz to DB as they moved inside. Just wait. It ain't over till the fat lady sings.’
Upstairs on the second floor of the Spy Museum, the Hallowe'en party was in full swing.
Twinkling lights had been strung around the mezzanine windows, in front of which stood a row of tables covered in white linen cloths. Clusters of costumed party-goers gathered nearby, plucking appetizers from silver trays and talking in excited voices about what they had just witnessed outside. Others leaned over the railing and gazed down into the lobby, where a huge papier-mâché pumpkin had been placed over the statue of Feliks Dzerzhinsky's head. The museum was gussied up to the gills, with black and silver streamers hanging from the ceilings and real pumpkins scattered here and there, along with scarecrows sporting sunglasses and trenchcoats.
From inside the ballroom could be heard the lively strains of a jazz combo bopping its way through a medley of famous spy theme songs.
‘Do you see them?’ whispered DB.
The Trojan Horse's head wagged back and forth as Oz scanned the crowd for Jordan and Tank. He spotted his father ladling punch into a cup for DB's mother. Behind her, the Channel Twelve camera crew wandered through the costumed crowd, looking for famous faces.
‘No,’ he said. ‘They're not out here. Must be in the ballroom.’
They trotted slowly forward through the doors. The music grew louder. Again, Oz scanned the room, a little more anxiously this time. What if Jordan and Tank had gone home or snuck off into the exhibits?
‘There they are,’ Oz reported in relief. ‘By the car.’
‘Perfect,’ said DB. ‘Knew they couldn't resist the Aston Martin.’