Flintskin’s black heart gave a leap. It leaped so hard it thumped against his ribcage like a piece of coal. This photograph was obviously important. He didn’t know who the tiger was, but he was certain that Papa Ratzi would. This was his chance to get one up on Mavis and make the Big Ratzi proud! His paws were shaking so much with excitement that he was barely able to type an email to Papa Ratzi. Hastily, he took a photo of the image and attached it to his email before pressing SEND.
It didn’t take long for a reply to come.
HA HA HA HA HA! WELL DONE, FLINTSKIN. THIS IS A REAL SCOOP! SO AMURA, THE WHITE SIBERIAN TIGER, HAS STOLEN THE DIAMOND, THE FAT CAT! THIS PROVES THAT THE RUSSIANS WEREN’T BEHIND THE THEFT AFTER ALL! BUT LET’S CREATE SOME MAYHEM! SEND THAT PHOTOGRAPH TO MINSKY-THE-TERRIBLE AT ONCE. MY INTELLIGENCE HAS INFORMED ME THAT HE IS AT THE RUSSIAN EMBASSY IN KENSINGTON. LET’S SEE IF HE IS AS CLEVER AS YOU ARE. IF HE IS, HIS MINKS MIGHT TAKE THE OPPORTUNITY TO STEAL INTO TIGER TOWERS AND GET THE DIAMOND FOR THE PRESIDENT OF RUSSIA. ONCE IT IS BACK IN MOSCOW, WE WILL PUBLISH THE NEWS ALL OVER THE INTERNET. THE PRIME MINISTER WILL BE FURIOUS. THE KING AND QUEEN WILL BE FURIOUS TOO. THIS MIGHT EVEN LEAD TO WAR BETWEEN RUSSIA AND BRITAIN. WOULDN’T THAT BE AWESOME!
You can see how diabolically the mind of Papa Ratzi worked.
Flintskin wasted no time in emailing the photograph to the minks at the Russian Embassy. Once he had done it, he was very pleased with himself, and, imagining the reward Papa Ratzi was going to give him, he stood on his chair and did the war dance of the Ratzis, known as a Driggle. He wiggled his wrinkly bottom and waved his long, greasy tail in the air like a lasso. The other Ratzis stopped what they were doing and stared at him suspiciously. What was he so pleased about?
Mavis was drawn away from the Grub Cupboard by the sound of Flintskin singing as he driggled. She made her way slowly to her desk. Flintskin was grinning at her, a grin so wide and happy that it put fear into her heart. She dropped her gaze to the bin. The empty bin. Where was the photograph?
Then she saw it on Flintskin’s desk.
She stared at Flintskin in alarm. What had she missed? She hadn’t seen anything of interest in the photograph at all! But, just as she was about to bash him with her claw, there came the soft lullaby music ‘Rock-a-bye Baby’ which was the sound of Papa Ratzi’s incoming texts.
The Ratzis turned their attention to the rolling hologram of words that now appeared in the air, as if by magic.
FLINTSKIN HAS DISCOVERED WHO HAS THE DIAMOND. WELL DONE, FLINTSKIN. YOU WILL RECEIVE A BIG REWARD . . .
Mavis lunged at Flintskin, claws raised, teeth bared, but Flintskin was too quick for her. He leaped from desk to desk so that Mavis had to chase him around the office. What made her crosser than anything was the way he paused every now and then to driggle, just for her.
Deep beneath the Russian Embassy in Kensington, Minsky-the-Terrible was in the banya (which is what the Russians call a bath house), sitting in a cloud of steam, when he heard a ping on his smartphone.
Normally, he would not have looked at his phone while in the banya – the banya is a place of relaxation – but, since the Siberian Diamond had been stolen, the Russian President had started fretting: what if the diamond was to fall into the wrong hands? This was Russia’s chance to get it back. Minsky sensed the text might be important and thought he’d better take a look.
Due to the warm steam Minsky had felt very relaxed, but now he was agitated. He feared that he would be called into action, because in his day there had been no mink more terrible than him. But he was old now and his terrible days were over. However, in spite of that, he was, undeniably, a little tempted to get involved (he liked the idea of the glory of bringing the diamond home to Russia), but the truth was he was not in London for the diamond. He had long retired from working for the Kremlin and was in fact here for a prestigious judo competition. Being a competitive mink, he was determined his team should win. He was not at all happy that the diamond had been stolen at the very same moment that he and his team had come over to London to compete. It wasn’t good for their concentration to be distracted by such a drama.
Reluctantly, he delved into the pocket of his dressing gown that hung on a hook on the wall and pulled out his phone.
When he saw that there was an email from Rat Central, he opened it with interest.
He looked at the photograph of the diamond attached to the email and immediately saw a grinning white tiger’s face in the reflection of the glass cabinet (minks have little eyes as sharp as needles, like their teeth). ‘Well, well, well,’ he mumbled in surprise. ‘If it isn’t our old friend Amura. Who’d have thought it?’ He clicked his paws and the other minks who were wallowing in the baths and sweating in the steam rooms stopped what they were doing and hastily gathered round. ‘Get dressed,’ he ordered. ‘We’re not practising judo this evening. We’re going to Hampstead!’
Judo can wait, he thought with mounting excitement. This is just too tempting to resist.
Flintskin’s driggling was very annoying, but Slippery Mavis was not called Slippery Mavis for nothing. She was cunning and clever and, as soon as she found out that Papa Ratzi had ordered Flintskin to email the photograph to Minsky-the-Terrible, she decided to ruin their plan. While Flintskin was distracted, doing the Ratzi war dance on the desk while the rest of the Ratzis danced with him, she slipped on to his chair and put her sticky claws on his keyboard. Licking her chops with glee, she sent a copy of the photograph to The Grand Burrow – on Flintskin’s computer.
If those Royal Rabbits get their hands on the diamond, they’ll give it back to the Queen and that will make Papa Ratzi very cross, she thought to herself cheerfully. So cross that he won’t reward Flintskin after all. In fact, when he finds out that the email was sent to The Grand Burrow on Flintskin’s computer, he might lop off his ear instead. She began to laugh. She laughed so loudly that her flabby belly wobbled like a jelly.
Flintskin glanced back at her and his face darkened with concern.
But it was too late.
Mavis had already pressed SEND.
Deep beneath The Grand Burrow, Rappaport, the bald-headed, blotchy computer expert rabbit, dressed in a three-piece pinstriped suit and a grubby shirt, which had once been white, was on duty in the lair. He was watching his screens in the security room, rubbing the scurf off his flaky pink head and picking his nose, when he suddenly saw the email from Rat Central. Breathing heavily, he hurried up the tunnels to the great hall, then on up the winding staircase towards Nelson’s war room.
Frisby, the Major-domo, red-faced and pompous, stopped him with her big staff. ‘The Generalissimo is in a meeting with the Hopsters, Rappaport. Come back later,’ she said.
‘Announce me at once,’ Rappaport demanded, wiping his sweaty brow with a grubby handkerchief. ‘This is an emergency.’
Frisby huffed crossly, but she banged her staff three times against the double doors, opened them and announced in a high, operatic voice, ‘Rappaport, Generalissimo. Apparently, it’s an “emergency”.’
The scruffy, paunchy rabbit hopped into the room in a state of high excitement. His glasses had misted up, he had an orange stain on his tie and he was twitching more than usual.
‘What have you got for me?’ Nelson asked.
‘Generalissimo, I have just received an email from Rat Central,’ he said.
Nelson raised his eyebrows. ‘Rat Central?’ he repeated in surprise.
‘It’s a photograph of the diamond. Here, I’ve printed it out for you.’
He placed it on Nelson’s desk. The old buck looked at it and then he laughed. A deep belly laugh that roused the other rabbits’ curiosity and sent them hopping over to his desk to see what was so amusing. Laser and Clooney could see it easily, but little Shylo was straining until Zeno lifted him off the ground so that his hind paws dangled in the air. Even Horatio pushed himself up from his comfortable armchair and limped across the floor to join them.
When Shylo saw the photograph, he imm
ediately spotted the tiger’s face in the glass. He might have been a weak and feeble bunkin, but he was very clever and quick-witted.
‘Mystery solved!’ said Clooney with a laugh. ‘Looks like it wasn’t the minks behind the theft after all but a tiger!’
Shylo’s ears stood up straight. His niggle had been right. It wasn’t the Russians! ‘Who is this tiger?’ he asked as Zeno put him down.
‘Rappaport?’ said Nelson.
The mangy buck shrugged apologetically. ‘I’ve run a facial recognition program, but have come up with nothing,’ he replied.
Belle de Paw studied the photograph carefully. ‘I bet she’s not a white tiger at all but a yellow one,’ she trilled. ‘No tiger is that white!’
Horatio stepped forward and tapped his walking stick a couple of times on the floor. ‘That, my friends, is Amura. I’d recognize her face anywhere.’ The Royal Rabbits stared at him in surprise.
‘Are you telling me that you know this tiger?’ demanded Zeno.
‘If I had had the misfortune of knowing her, I would not be standing here now. Tigers like to eat rabbits,’ Horatio replied.
‘Who is she?’ Nelson asked.
‘She’s a white Siberian tigress and belongs to a very wealthy Russian woman who likes to collect exotic animals. She lives in a very big house in Hampstead called Tiger Towers. It won’t be difficult to find. She has Siberian wolves as well, which are very fierce. I would not like to meet them on a dark night.’
‘How do you know about this tiger?’ Laser asked curiously – after all, it had been many years since Horatio had been in Moscow.
Horatio chuckled and he looked down at Shylo and winked. ‘I know because I have had endless hours in the countryside to read. You see, one learns a great deal from reading, as Shylo will tell you.’ The little rabbit felt his chest expand with pride.
‘You read about Amura in a book?’ said Zeno, crinkling his nose because Zeno rarely read anything.
‘I read about Amura in a newspaper,’ Horatio corrected him. ‘There was once a big article about her owner, the Russian billionairess, in The Times. I was intrigued.’
‘Very well,’ said Nelson. ‘If she does indeed have the diamond, I suppose it’s in Hampstead. But why would the Ratzis want to help us?’
‘They don’t,’ said Clooney. ‘Ratzis want to create havoc.’
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Zeno boomed.
‘It sure doesn’t!’ agreed Laser.
‘It’s a trap,’ said Belle de Paw.
Nelson rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘If the Ratzis want to create havoc, why not simply inform Minsky-the-Terrible that Amura has the diamond?’ he wondered aloud. ‘The minks steal it back, the diamond goes to Moscow and the good relationship between Britain and Russia is put in peril. Papa Ratzi would love Britain to be furious with Russia. Peace is what he hates the most.’
‘There is only one thing to do,’ Belle de Paw suggested with growing excitement. ‘We go to Amura’s house and find out.’
‘Yes!’ enthused Zeno, who loved action more than anything. ‘Just say the word, Generalissimo, and I’ll send my Thumpers into battle.’
Shylo glanced at Horatio who was deep in thought. His face was serious and worried. The little bunny felt anxiety build in his belly.
Nelson nodded. ‘You’re right, Zeno. Even though we don’t know the Ratzis’ plans, we need to get the diamond back as soon as possible. I want all my Thumpers to go to Hampstead at once . . .’
Horatio put up a paw, which silenced the room. ‘I would advise caution, Nelson,’ he warned. ‘The Ratzis’ plot is sure to be diabolical. We mustn’t fall into a trap.’
‘Leave the strategy to me, brother,’ said Nelson. ‘It’s been years since you were in The Grand Burrow and in much of that time I have stood behind this desk and given the orders.’
Horatio shook his head. He looked down at Shylo, who gazed up at him with wide, fearful eyes. Shylo agreed with his old friend: something wasn’t right at all. Surely the Ratzis would rather the diamond went to the minks than the rabbits?
Nelson turned to his Hopster rabbits. ‘Zeno, I need you to surround the property. Clooney, Shylo and Laser, I want you to find a way into Amura’s mansion and bring back the diamond.’
‘And me?’ asked Belle de Paw. ‘I should go too. No one knows more about diamonds than me!’
‘I want you at the periscopes, Belle de Paw. I need to know everyone who comes and goes from the palace.’
‘But—’
‘No discussion, Belle. You are assigned the job you do best, here in The Grand Burrow. I cannot have everyone out in the field.’
Belle de Paw pursed her lips and scowled.
Just then, Shylo’s stomach made a loud moaning noise.
‘Is that a niggle or a rumble?’ Nelson asked.
‘A rumble,’ Shylo replied, not entirely sure (as I told you, it’s difficult to tell).
‘Then first you must eat,’ said Nelson, glancing at the bunkin who was peeping over the side of the desk with large, hungry eyes. ‘There’s no point going into battle on an empty stomach!’
While they dined on celery soup, parsnip pie and carrot crumble, Horatio whispered into Shylo’s ear: ‘I sense there’s more to this than anyone has imagined.’
‘Is it sure to be a trap?’ Shylo asked, feeling a lot better now that his belly was full.
‘Most likely,’ the old buck replied. ‘If the Ratzis have sent that photograph to us, they will most certainly have sent it to Minsky-the-Terrible as well. Go with your eyes open, Shylo. If you expect a trap, you can avoid it. You must use what you think are your disadvantages to your advantage.’
Shylo frowned.
‘You are small; the Hopsters are big and tall. They don’t have noses as sensitive as yours and you are curious and keen to learn while the Hopsters think they know everything. And remember the most important thing of all I taught you.’
‘What’s that?’ Shylo’s ears stood to attention.
‘Life is an adventure. Anything in the world is possible – by will and by luck, with a moist carrot, a wet nose and a slice of mad courage! You are braver than you know.’
It was late afternoon when Clooney, Laser, Shylo, Zeno and his Thumpers took the underground cart to Hampstead Heath, emerging near the Ladies’ Pond. As they set off, Shylo caught a brief whiff of Belle de Paw’s exotic perfume and he hoped she wasn’t cross that Nelson had not allowed her to come with them.
The wind ruffled Shylo’s fur as the cart rattled swiftly along the railway tracks. As they sped in a northerly direction, his legs began to feel weak and his ears went droopy, flying out behind him. He didn’t want to look scared, but, as much as he tried, he could not get his ears to stand up straight. However, he had no desire to stay in The Grand Burrow. He wanted to get the diamond back, because it had been his fault that it was stolen in the first place and he still felt sick every time he thought of it. Yet he was terrified. He just hoped that, when the moment came, Horatio was right and that, somehow, he’d be braver than he knew.
Minsky-the-Terrible and his special commando unit of minks, all sleek brown fur and white judo pyjamas, climbed out of their black van and approached the grand white Tiger Towers mansion. Silky, serpentine and lithe, they crept along in the shadows, bellies low to the ground, paws padding silently over the pavement, alert to every sound and smell, ready to pounce at any moment.
Minsky was at the front. He was bigger and more muscular than the other minks, and keen to lead the way to find the diamond. He was the strongest mink in the whole of Russia – probably in the whole world. Amura’s wolves would surely be no match for him!
The company of minks slid through the black railings that surrounded the property and made their way to the garden at the back of the mansion. Minsky had been there before, by invitation, when Amura had just arrived in London ten years before. She had wanted to maintain a good relationship with Russia in those days and had fed him the most scrumptious fea
st he had ever had. Who’d have thought a mink would like fluffy powder-pink marshmallows with a sprinkling of caviar?
Hiding in the bushes, he took a silver flask of kompot out of the pocket of his judo jacket and had a swig. The sweet Russian drink made of cooked apricots and sour cherries made him feel even stronger. He passed it to the other minks and swept his eyes over the garden, which extended out on to Hampstead Heath.
Just then, Minsky noticed a movement on the heath. He pricked his ears and sniffed the air with his snub nose.
‘Royal Rabbits!’ he said, picking up their scent. Hastily, he put the flask back in his pocket. ‘What are they doing here?’ he asked. Then he saw, through the darkness, a large number of giant rabbits leaping stealthily over the railings (and one very small one squeezing through). They had reached the mansion not the way Minsky and his company had come, from the front, but from the heath here at the back.
He snarled and said something very rude in Russian, which will not be printed here. ‘Have those Ratzis double-crossed me and sent the photo to the pesky Royal Rabbits too?’ he smouldered. ‘Well, my fellow minks, it seems we may have a fight on our hands.’
Zeno assembled his Thumpers in the bushes at the edge of the garden, facing the mansion. Clooney and Laser checked out the lawn and surrounding shrubbery.
Shylo picked up a strange scent on the wind. It wasn’t fox or rabbit but something else entirely. Something he had never smelled before. It had to be the minks. ‘We have company,’ he said, gingerly poking his nose out of the bush to take a look. ‘Minks, I think.’
‘Are you sure you’re not smelling fox?’ Clooney asked him.
‘No, this is different,’ murred Shylo. The smell seemed to come from the shrubbery to their left. Then he saw them. Shylo shot back into the bush as if something had stung his nose. ‘Over th . . . th . . . there!’ he stammered in terror.
Royal Rabbits of London Page 4
