DB eyed him doubtfully. ‘A mouse?’ she said. ‘Here at the museum? Who's a spy?’ She grabbed him by the arm. ‘Whoa, buddy. Your blood sugar must be low. Better get you some lunch. There's no such thing as spy mice.’
Oz slowly lifted the baseball cap off his knee. Glory stood motionless. If I run for it now, she thought, I could probably make a clean getaway. Instead, she waved.
DB's mouth dropped open.
Oz grinned. ‘Delilah Bean, meet Morning Glory Goldenleaf.’
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
‘I do not believe I am having this conversation,’ said DB flatly a short while later. ‘I do not believe I am talking to a mouse.’
‘A mouse who needs our help,’ said Oz.
‘We're the ones who are going to need help if your dad finds us here,’ said DB, glancing over her shoulder at the cafe's back entrance.
‘And I'm toast if anyone spots me talking to you two,’ said Glory.
Oz placed his hand, palm upward, beside her again. ‘Then there's just one thing to do,’ he said. ‘You'll have to come home with me. Both of you,’ he added, nodding at DB. ‘We can talk in private there.’
Glory hopped on to Oz's hand and he tucked her into the breast pocket of his polo shirt. He stowed her gear – skateboard, helmet and backpack – safely in the pocket of his jeans, then followed DB back into the cafe.
‘There you are, my little gingersnap,’ said his father as he slid into the booth. ‘I was beginning to worry about you.’
Oz took a bite of his grilled cheese – still good, even if it was cold. ‘Is it OK with you if DB and I go back to our house to hang out for a while?’
‘Fine with me if it's fine with DB's mother,’ replied his father. He turned to DB. ‘Why don't you give her a call? You can use the phone in the kitchen.’
He glanced at the clock on the wall as DB scooted out of the booth. ‘If you can wait five minutes while I finish up here, I can drive you partway. I have to pick up a few things for tomorrow night's party from the caterers in Georgetown.’
A few minutes later, Oz's father dropped them off in front of Thomas Sweet, the ice-cream shop at the corner of Wisconsin and P Streets. Oz gazed longingly through the window. Bittersweet – a dark chocolate confection that was his favourite flavour – was calling to him.
DB plucked at his sleeve. ‘Not now, Oz,’ she said crossly.
Oz moved reluctantly past the shop and led them towards Q Street. As soon as they were away from the busy foot traffic of Wisconsin, he tapped lightly on his shirt pocket. ‘You can come out now,’ he whispered to Glory.
Her elegant little nose popped out, followed by two bright little eyes. ‘Hey, I know where we are,’ Glory said, looking around. ‘This is my neighbourhood.’
‘Really?’ Oz was surprised. ‘You live in Georgetown? I thought you lived at the Spy Museum.’
Glory gave a tiny snort. ‘Why would I live there? Do humans live where they work?’
‘Well, no, I just thought –
‘You have a lot to learn about mice,’ said Glory. ‘I commute, just like everyone else.’
‘What, now you're telling me mice ride the Metro?’ asked DB.
‘No, we leave that to the rats. We use Pigeon Air.’
Oz and D B craned their heads back and stared up at the sky.
‘Really?’ said Oz.
‘Only way to fly,’ Glory replied. She began to bounce excitedly. ‘There it is! There's my home!’
She waved a paw towards a heavy wrought-iron gate. The words DUMBARTON OAKS 1920 were picked out along it in gilded curlicues, along with interwoven patterns of gilded leaves and acorns. Behind the gate's black bars a long gravel drive swept up towards a grand mansion surrounded by formal gardens.
‘You live in a mansion?’ exclaimed Oz. ‘Cool!’
‘Not the house, you goose, that oak tree there, just inside the gate,’ Glory said. ‘Goldenleafs have lived there for hundreds of years.’
Oz turned and pointed at a brick townhouse directly across the street. ‘You're not going to believe it, but that's my house right over there. Glory, we're neighbours.’
DB was still staring at the oak tree. ‘So do you live in the tree all by yourself?’
‘Heck no,’ said Glory. ‘I live there with my mother and father – Her voice faltered slightly. ‘With my mother, I mean. And my brothers and sisters.’
‘How many of you are there?’
‘Let's see,’ said Glory. ‘There's six of us in the muffin batch, and the four cookies – Snickerdoodle, Macaroon, Hermit and Brownie – and Truffle and Taffy, the babies. That makes an even dozen of us now. Used to be seventeen, though, before the French pastries moved out. They're all grown up.’
‘Seventeen?’ Oz gave a low whistle.
‘French pastries?’ added DB, with a puzzled look.
‘Croissant, Eclair, Petit Four, Napoleon and Chantilly,’ explained Glory. ‘It's a Goldenleaf thing. My mother's from the Bakery Guild. She named all of us after sweets.’
DB raised her eyebrows. ‘And I thought it was bad being named after my great-aunt.’
Inside the Levinsons' townhouse, Oz set Glory down on the kitchen counter and popped a plate of frozen cookies into the microwave. ‘They're best when the chocolate chips are gooey,’ he said.
Just the way I like them,’ Glory agreed.
Oz poured milk for himself and DB, and rustled up a thimble for Glory. ‘So,’ he began, pulling up a stool. ‘Where exactly is Dupont's headquarters?’
Glory, who was perched on the edge of the cookie plate, took a sip of milk from the thimble and wiped her whiskers delicately with the corner of a napkin. ‘The entrance is under a bench at the Dupont Circle Metro station,’ she replied. ‘That much we know for sure. My father was the last mouse to try to infiltrate – he led a Mouse Guard commando squad on a special mission last July. They were ambushed. The others got out safely, but my father… my father…’
Her voice trailed off. Glory stared down at her cookie. ‘Dupont posted us his tail,’ she whispered.
‘That's horrible!’ cried DB.
Glory nodded. ‘It was horrible. My poor mother…’ Again, her voice trailed off.
‘And now you're on his hit list,’ said Oz, looking at Glory's own little tail with concern. ‘Glory, I don't think you should go through with this. Not with the Black Paw hanging over you. You're marked for death! It's far too dangerous. Couldn't we just toss some rat poison down there?’
‘Dupont's stupid, but he's not that stupid,’ said Glory. ‘Every rat in DC knows about rat poison. No, I have to go in. Unless I get the Kiss of Death back, how am I ever going to feel safe again?’
Oz prodded at his glasses with his finger, leaving a chocolate blotch on one of the lenses. He sighed. ‘Well, if you're determined to go, I guess we can't stop you. We need to figure out a way to get you in and out safely.’
The three of them were quiet for a while, the only sound the munching of chocolate chip cookies.
‘I've got it – how about a disguise?’ suggested DB. ‘Like at that workshop this morning. We could dress Glory up as a rat.’
Oz eyed Glory dubiously. ‘She'd be the smallest rat in history. Have you seen some of the bruisers patrolling the Metro tracks?’
‘I agree,’ said Glory. ‘Dupont would sniff me out in a heartbeat.’
The three of them were quiet again for a bit. Then DB sat bolt upright.
‘The Trojan Horse!’ she said.
Oz and Glory looked at her blankly.
‘What?’ said Oz.
‘The Trojan Horse! From your social studies report, Oz, remember? It's perfect.’ She ran to the front hallway, where she had left her backpack, and brought it to the kitchen. DB pulled out the fake fizzy drink can she'd purchased at the Spy Museum gift shop. ‘It's just the right size for Glory,’ she pointed out, unscrewing the top. ‘We just need to poke a few airholes here and there, and roll herin.’
‘Hey, that's not a
bad idea,’ said Oz, taking the can from her and inspecting it. ‘But how do we get her out again?’
DB bit her lip. Glory stroked her tail. Oz took another bite of cookie. The three of them were quiet again as they considered this.
‘My father's old fishing rod might do the trick,’ Oz ventured.
DB looked at him as if he had two heads. ‘What?’
‘You'll see,’ he said, darting through the basement door. He returned again a minute later covered in cobwebs and waving a dusty fishing rod. ‘Watch,’ he said, unreeling a piece of transparent line from the reel. ‘We tape this end to the can – duct tape should work – then roll her in. When Glory's ready to go, we reel her back out.’
Glory leaped off the cookie plate. ‘It just might work,’ she said, her whiskers beginning to twitch in excitement. She crawled inside the can. ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice echoing tinnily, ‘there's definitely enough room in here for me and the Kiss of Death.’ She crawled back out again and began to hop up and down along the counter. ‘Oz, DB, this is a stroke of genius!’
‘But how will we know when Glory's ready for us to pull her out?’ said DB.
Glory stopped hopping. Oz looked crestfallen. The three of them were quiet again.
‘Unless,’ Oz suggested, ‘we can figure out a way to rig the can with a transmitter or something.’
At this, a slow smile spread across Glory's face. ‘That's easy,’ she said. ‘I know just the mouse for the job.’
CHAPTER
TWELVE
‘I do not believe I am seeing this,’ said DB. The three of them were up in Oz's room, sitting at his desk. ‘I do not believe that mice know how to use computers.’
Glory grinned, flipping neatly through the air from the B key to the U key on the keyboard. ‘Hey, I'm a trained professional,’ she said. ‘I used to do this for a living.’
Oz and DB watched in amazement as Glory leaped and twirled and somersaulted expertly from one letter to the next. A message began to appear on the screen:
From:
[email protected] To:
[email protected] Re: Top Secret – For Your Paws Only – Urgent
Bunsen, I'm in trouble. I desperately need your help. Can you meet me at the Spy Mice Agency entrance at 1530 hours? Don't let anyone know about this, and don't let anyone see you. Especially not Fumble.
Glory bounced back and forth across the keyboard as she continued the message, listing the items that she wanted to borrow.
‘There,’ she said with satisfaction as she made one final soaring acrobatic leap and pressed ‘Send’. ‘That should take care of things.’
‘This Bunsen of yours, will he do it?’ asked DB. ‘Will he help us?’
Glory cocked her head, considering. ‘Bunsen is true blue,’ she replied finally. ‘A real pal. He'll help.’
‘So that solves your problem, but what about ours?’ asked Oz. ‘We still need to figure out what to do about Jordan and Tank.’
‘I'm working on that,’ said Glory, nibbling on a chocolate chip. ‘You say he'll be at the party tomorrow night?’
Oz nodded. ‘For sure. He and Tank are all fired up about it. I heard them talking on the bus.’
‘Perfect,’ said Glory. ‘That gives us the opportunity – now we just need a plan of action.’ Her brow furrowed in concentration; she took another nibble of chocolate chip. Suddenly, she started to laugh. It was a delightful sound, like the pealing of a very small silver bell, and Oz and DB both smiled.
‘Oh, that would be fun,’ Glory said. ‘Risky, but fun.’
‘What?’ asked DB.
Glory ignored her. She began to pace up and down across Oz's desk, chuckling and talking to herself. ‘Couldn't do it all on my own, though. At least I don't think I could. Hmmm. That could be a problem. Still, maybe there's a way –’ She stopped and gave Oz and DB a speculative glance.
‘I think I've got an idea for the trap. But I need some way to get Jordan and Tank to a specific spot at a specific time tomorrow night at the party. I need some bait.’
Oz looked at DB. DB looked at Oz. They both sighed.
‘That would be us,’ said DB. Her smile had vanished, and she sounded cross.
‘Right,’ said Glory breezily. ‘You two are the bait.’
‘Surprise, surprise,’ muttered DB under her breath.
‘You have to be disguised, though,’ said Glory, continuing to ignore her. ‘From what Oz has told me, Jordan and Tank are a lot like Dupont – stupid, but crafty. If they recognize you right away, they may get suspicious. Or they might pounce too soon.’
‘I was planning on going as James Bond,’ said Oz in a shy voice.
DB's eyes widened in surprise. ‘Really?’
Oz reddened. ‘It's just a costume,’ he mumbled defensively.
‘No, I didn't mean – I only meant – that's awesome.’ DB sounded flustered. ‘Double-O-Seven is my favourite spy too.’
Oz gave her a sidelong glance. ‘Yeah, he's cool,’ he admitted, adding in a low tone, ‘a lot cooler than I'll ever be.’ He dropped his gaze and fiddled with his napkin.
Glory looked at Oz, her bright little eyes full of sympathy. ‘Oh, I don't know, Oz,’ she said softly. ‘I'd say you have all the makings of an excellent spy.’
Oz looked up. ‘Really?’
Glory nodded. ‘Sure. You're smart, you're observant, you know how to keep a secret. Brave too. It takes a lot of guts to start all over at a new school year after year, and that's not counting the sharks.’ Oz gave her a grateful smile. ‘However,’ Glory continued briskly, ‘the tuxedo thing won't work at all. Not this time around, Oz. You need to be completely unrecognizable.’
‘That's not going to be easy,’ said Oz unhappily, gazing down at himself. ‘I'm pretty hard to hide.’
The three of them were quiet again. Then Oz blurted out, ‘The Trojan Horse!’
DB stared at him. ‘You're going to go as a can?’
Oz shook his head impatiently. ‘No, but the whole can thing's given me an idea.’ He held out his hand and Glory climbed on to his palm. ‘I need to call Australia.’
‘I'm still not sure about this,’ said Bunsen. ‘I could lose my job if anyone caught me lending you this stuff from Deep Freeze.’
‘I know you could, Bunsen, but you're the only mouse I can trust right now,’ Glory replied. ‘Everyone else will try and stop me.’
‘Which is exactly what I should do,’ said Bunsen, his whiskers quivering in disapproval. ‘Dupont's lair! Glory, you must be crazy. He sent you the Black Paw! It's far too dangerous.’
‘Dangerous times call for dangerous measures,’ countered Glory. ‘It could mean all-out war if we don't get that Kiss of Death back. I, for one, will never be safe again. The last I saw of your homing device, Bunsen, it was strung around Dupont's neck. Can't you track him from Central Command and keep me posted on his whereabouts? That way he won't be able to sneak up on me.’
Bunsen crossed his paws on his chest. ‘Track him from Central Command? You are crazy, Glory! If you do go in, it has to be a solo mission. Unauthorized. Off the radar screen. I can't be caught monitoring you from Central Command. That homing device is useless to us now.’ He began to pace. ‘I still don't think you should be attempting this on your own. Julius is sending in a special recovery team tomorrow morning. Can't you just let them take care of it?’
‘I lost it – it's my responsibility to get it back,’ said Glory stubbornly. ‘And when I do, Julius will have to give me my job back. Anyway,’ she added, scuffing a paw on the hallway floor and giving Bunsen a sidelong glance. ‘I'm not entirely alone.’
Her colleague breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Well, that at least is good news!’ he said. ‘So B-Nut is going with you, then?’
Glory shook her head. ‘Nooooo. Not B-Nut.’
‘Hank?’
Glory shook her head again.
‘Who, then?’
‘Bunsen, if I tell you this, you have to promise you won't turn me in,’ Gl
ory said, taking his paw in hers and giving him a pleading look.
Bunsen glanced down at their intertwined paws and blushed a warm shade of pink that spread from the tip of his nose to the tip of his snowy white tail. ‘Well I, I –’ he stammered, then stopped. ‘Turn you in?’ He looked at Glory suspiciously. ‘Glory, what have you done?’
Glory dropped his paw. She hung her head.
Bunsen was aghast. ‘Glory, you don't mean to say, you didn't, you haven't – oh, Glory, you haven't spoken to humans!’
‘But they're good humans, Bunsen, honestly they are!’ Glory burst out defiantly. ‘True blue. And almost as smart as mice. You'll like them.’
‘Like them! Glory, you broke the Mouse Code!’ Bunsen tugged on his ears unhappily. ‘This just keeps getting worse,’ he moaned. He paced up and down again, wringing his paws. ‘I'll be fired now, too, I just know it. I'll end up polishing test tubes at Uncle Fahrenheit's lab back in Baltimore.’
‘Bunsen,’ said Glory sharply. ‘Get a grip. No one is going to find out.’
The slim white mouse drew himself up to his full height. ‘There's only one thing to be done,’ he said. ‘I'm going with you.’
Glory blinked at him in surprise. ‘But, Bunsen, you're a lab mouse! I mean, it's very sweet of you to offer, but really, I can handle this by myself.’
‘No, I insist,’ said Bunsen. ‘Otherwise, the deal's off and the equipment goes back to storage.’
‘Aw, come on, Bunsen! You've never gone out in the field before! You don't have the training for this kind of thing!’
Bunsen looked hurt. ‘It's not as if I don't have a brain,’ he said.
‘I didn't meant to insult you –’
‘Besides, you're going to need technical support. That at least is entirely clear.’ Ignoring Glory's protests, Bunsen pulled a large baby sock duffel bag out from the shadows and opened it. ‘Let's see, transmitter, check. Field agent regulation microphone and earpiece, check. Tool kit, check.’
‘Oh, very well, then,’ said Glory, a bit crossly. ‘Let me just get Oz and DB.’