“Video sunglasses!” said Romeo, reading the sign. “Awesome!”
Bunsen tapped his clipboard smugly. “Got it covered,” he reported. “Retrieval mission brought them in just last week.”
“So those are phony?” asked Oz curiously, pressing his nose against the display case.
“Yep,” said Bunsen. “Lab did a good job, didn’t they?”
Oz nodded. “I sure can’t tell the difference.”
Oz knew that at night, after the exhibits were closed, the museum turned into a virtual beehive of activity, as carefully coordinated Spy Mice missions got underway. Field agents like Glory and Bunsen scampered throughout the displays and offices, retrieving gadgets and whisking them down to Central Command. There, the lab mice crafted replicas from foraged items, and the look-alikes were returned to the display cases before morning. The humans weren’t any the wiser, and the switch kept potential weapons out of rat paws.
“In fact,” Bunsen continued, “I had the lab retrofit them with a bug. We’ll have audio feed, too.”
“The better to see and hear you with, my dear, eh?” asked Julius.
“Exactly. By the time we’re done with him, Dupont won’t be able to twitch a whisker without us tracking it.”
After a brief stop in the gift shop, the expedition returned to the hallway behind the café. Julius made a very dignified leap onto Oz’s palm, and Oz set him down carefully by the mouse hole under the stairs. The other mice emerged from their hiding places in his clothing and scurried down his pant legs.
“Everything we’ll need for the mission is in here,” said Bunsen, patting an old lunch bag (foraged from the museum’s lost and found) adorned with a large purple dinosaur. It still carried a faint trace of that odor peculiar to lunch bags, a combination of orange peel and wilted carrot stick and peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich.
“Don’t forget these,” said Oz, passing him two of the cipher disks. He pocketed the third.
“That’s everything, then,” said Julius. “You’re good to go.”
The mice lifted their paws in salute. Oz saluted back, swallowing hard to hold back the lump in his throat.
“Good luck, Ozymandias!” said Julius. “I’m sure the Bake-Off judges will find your pumpkin chocolate-chip bread irresistible. We certainly do. And thank you again for your help.”
“Anytime,” Oz replied.
“Later, dude!” called the Acorns.
“See you in New York!” added Glory.
“See you!” said Oz, waving. He watched as his tiny friends filed through the mouse hole in the shadows that led down to the Spy Mice Agency headquarters.
How he longed to follow them! More than anything, maybe even more than wishing he could be James Bond, Oz wished he could visit Glory’s world. He itched to see Central Command, to ride on a Popsicle-stick skateboard, to take a Pigeon Air taxi ride. He wanted to go out foraging with Glory’s brother Chip, to take a tour of the lab where Bunsen and the other lab mice tinkered with their mouse-size gadgets, to hear B-Nut and the Steel Acorns play at one of their gigs. Life would be so much easier in Glory’s world, Oz was convinced of it. Everything was so small and tidy there. And best of all, there weren’t any sharks.
Then he remembered Roquefort Dupont. Oz shivered. No sharks, but there were definitely rats. Maybe life wasn’t simple anywhere.
He picked up the equipment-filled lunch bag and went to find his dad.
CHAPTER 7
DAY TWO • WEDNESDAY • 0730 HOURS
The sky over New York’s East River was just beginning to lighten to a pearly gray as a small flock of pigeons circled Rockefeller Center. Far below, the city’s streets were already jammed with cars and trucks and taxis, the sidewalks already crowded with humans hurrying to work. Not a soul looked up. Pigeons were a common sight in New York.
One by one, the birds dropped from the sky and landed atop Thirty Rockefeller Plaza. Glory slipped down off Ollie’s back and blinked sleepily. They’d been flying all night, with only a couple of brief stops to stretch their legs.
“Nothing like taking the red-eye, eh, Sis?” asked B-Nut. He yawned and dismounted from Hank, who tucked his head wearily under his wing and was fast asleep before B-Nut had finished unloading his gear.
Glory glanced around, drinking in the sights and sounds of the city. The honk-honk of morning rush-hour traffic floated upward from the busy streets below, and a few blocks to the southwest, she could make out the flashing neon billboards of Times Square. A rush of exhilaration flowed through her, and Glory’s drowsiness fled. She was in New York!
“Where are we going now?” she asked her brother.
“You’ll see,” B-Nut replied, shouldering his backpack. Out of the top stuck his Popsicle-stick skateboard and the neck of his guitar.
Glory sighed. Her brother was being frustratingly mysterious about this cover story he’d cooked up for them.
“This way,” said B-Nut, heading across the roof. Glory, Bunsen, and the rest of the Steel Acorns followed as he led them to a large vent. The mice paused to pull out their skateboards and adjust their bottle-cap safety helmets, then sped one by one down the vent into the building’s ductwork. Bunsen, still wobbly, brought up the rear.
They emerged a short time later through a duct under the sixty-fifth floor. Bunsen shot through last, landing with a crash. The others, who were used to this, ignored him. The mice peered around. The crawl space between the sixty-fourth and sixty-fifth floors was dimly lit, and Glory squinted at a darkened sign over the set of mouse-size double doors facing them. BANANAS! it announced, the single word outlined in foraged Christmas tree lights.
“Hey, I’ve heard of this place,” said Lip.
“Hoppingest club in all of Manhattan,” B-Nut replied with a grin. He opened the door and stepped inside. Glory and the other mice followed him into a cavernous, deserted room.
“Doesn’t look very hopping,” Glory whispered to Bunsen. The room was dark and its floor completely bare. A jumble of furniture had been pushed against the walls—bottle-cork stools painted banana-leaf green, tables made from empty spools painted banana yellow, and a couple of pincushion sofas covered in jungle-print fabric. The club’s motif extended to the stage as well, which was flanked with pillars made from life-size plastic bananas.
Across the room, a lone gray mouse was sweeping the floor, whistling. B-Nut cleared his throat. The gray mouse looked up. His eyes widened.
“Well, if it isn’t my old pal B-Nut Goldenleaf!” he exclaimed, dropping his broom (a foraged makeup brush) and hustling over to them. A flashy gold chain circled his neck, from which hung an enormous letter B encrusted with diamonds. “Finally decided to take my advice and ditch that stodgy backwater you call home, did you?”
“Good to see you, too, Bananas,” said B-Nut, whose grin had broadened at the sight of the gray mouse. He extended a paw, and the mouse called Bananas shook it vigorously.
“Entertainment Guild,” Glory whispered to Bunsen, who nodded in agreement. The dramatic flair was unmistakable.
“Figured it was time to come where the action is, did you? Hit the Big Apple? See the bright lights of Broadway?”
“Just for a few days,” B-Nut replied. “Thought maybe you could squeeze my band in for a set or two while we’re in town.”
“Are you kidding me?” Bananas crowed. “The Steel Acorns? D.C.’s hottest rock band? Wait until word hits the street. This’ll really bring in the younger mice.” He rubbed his paws together in gleeful anticipation.
B-Nut turned to Glory and the others. “Acorns, meet my old pal Bananas Foster. He owns this joint.”
The spy mice nodded politely.
“This is Tulip, our lead guitarist,” said B-Nut, pointing to the dark gray mouse who had slicked up the fur on top of his head into sharp spikes.
“It’s Lip, man—just Lip,” Tulip whispered sulkily. “How many times do I have to remind you?”
“Sorry, dude,” B-Nut whispered back. He turned back to Ban
anas. “He likes to be called Lip. And Romeo here”—he slapped a paw on the shoulder of the big brown mouse who had shaved off all his fur except for a long ears-to-tail Mohawk, dyed purple—“is our bass player. Nutmeg over there is on drums.”
Nutmeg nodded a greeting. He was smaller and lighter in color than the other Steel Acorns, and he sported a studded black leather collar and a single hoop earring.
“Delighted, delighted,” said Bananas Foster, shaking paws with the three musicians. Turning his attention to Glory, he gave her a toothy smile. “And who, may I ask, is this delectable creature?”
Bunsen’s nose and tail turned pink in alarm as the nightclub owner reached out and drew Glory forward. The lab mouse stepped forward too, taking up a protective position at her side.
“She’s, uh, our lead singer,” B-Nut replied smoothly. Glory cast him a frantic glance, but her brother ignored her. “Goes by the name of”—he hesitated for a fraction of a second—“Cherry Jubilee.”
“Charmed, my dear Cherry—charmed,” murmured Bananas Foster. He bent over Glory’s paw and kissed it. “Consider me entirely at your service.”
Bunsen’s nose deepened from pink to crimson. “I’m the sound engineer,” he blurted, wedging himself between the nightclub owner and Glory.
Bananas Foster blinked at the lab mouse. B-Nut frowned. “Uh, this is, uh—”
“Bunsen Burner,” said Bunsen firmly.
“Pleasure to meet you, I’m sure,” said Bananas Foster, craning his neck over the lab mouse’s shoulder for another look at Glory.
“We’re going to need a place to practice,” B-Nut said.
The nightclub owner reluctantly pried his eyes away from Glory. “No problem,” he replied. “Plenty of space backstage. Come on, I’ll show you.”
“What’s gotten into your brother?” said Bunsen, as the two mice moved off. “For a minute there, I thought he was going to introduce me as Baked Alaska.”
Glory shook her head. “All I know is our cover story just spun out of control.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t sing!”
“Nonsense,” protested her colleague. “You can do everything.”
“No, Bunsen,” Glory replied, “I mean it. I really, truly can’t sing. Not a note! I can’t carry a tune in a paper bag.”
“Oh, dear.” Bunsen’s forehead puckered with worry.
“What am I going to do?” Glory moaned. “My first Silver Skateboard mission, and already things are going wrong.”
“We’ll think of something,” Bunsen replied. “Just play along, meanwhile.”
“What choice do I have?” Glory shouldered her backpack, and she and Bunsen followed the rest of the Steel Acorns backstage. They found B-Nut and Bananas Foster in a large room whose walls were lined with foraged egg cartons.
“Look, Glo—I mean Cherry—soundproofing!” said B-Nut. “This is perfect!”
“Perfect,” retorted his sister, flinging her backpack to the floor.
“Anything to make you happy, Cherry,” said Bananas Foster. He flashed Glory another toothy smile. The diamond-studded B around his neck twinkled in the dim light. “You need anything else, you just tell old Bananas and he’ll get it for you in two shakes of a cat’s tail.”
As Bunsen watched, scowling, Bananas Foster leaned over and kissed Glory’s paw again, tossed her a wink for good measure, then left them to unpack.
“B-Nut, what were you thinking!” wailed Glory, the minute the nightclub owner was out of earshot. “You know I can’t sing!”
“What?” said B-Nut. “I thought it was Blueberry who couldn’t sing!”
Glory stamped her hind paw in exasperation. “You nitwit! Our sister has a voice like an angel! I, on the other hand, sound like a swamp creature!”
“Well, you don’t have to get your whiskers in a twist! I can’t help it if I’m feeling a little under pressure here!”
“Can’t help it?” Glory cried. “B-Nut, you’re a professional! It’s your job to help it!”
The Acorns moved hastily out of the way. It was no fun being caught in the middle of a Goldenleaf squabble.
“Uh, excuse me!” Bunsen squeaked hesitantly. “I hate to interrupt, but I could use some help setting up the listening post.”
Glory glared at B-Nut, then sighed. Bunsen was right; they needed to focus on the mission. She’d deal with her lamebrained brother later.
“I’ll need an hour or two to tap into the building’s electrical and communications systems,” Bunsen explained. “And someone needs to locate a computer and let Julius know we’ve arrived safely.” He reached into his backpack and pulled out a pawful of tiny headsets (made from foraged cell-phone parts). “These will link us together for the mission. They’re preset to the same frequency.”
Glory slapped her headset on and willed herself to snap out of her funk. “I’ll find a computer,” she said. “B-Nut, you and the Acorns head over to Grand Central Station and keep a sharp lookout for rats. Report in if you see anything at all. We’ll rendezvous back here when Hotspur and the British agents arrive.”
As the mice dispersed, Glory jammed her safety helmet on over her headset and picked up her skateboard. “Cherry Jubilee indeed,” she muttered to herself, heading back to the ventilation duct. Bunsen had better come up with a plan soon. Otherwise, the minute she opened her mouth onstage, their cover would be completely—and very publicly—blown.
CHAPTER 8
DAY TWO • WEDNESDAY • 0830 HOURS
“Glory?” Oz looked up in surprise from the bathroom sink in his room at the Waldorf Astoria when he heard the gentle tap at the window. His tiny friend was perched atop a pigeon on the ledge outside. Setting his toothbrush down, he wrestled the sash up a few inches. “How did you find me?”
“Easy,” said Glory, slipping off the bird’s back. “I used to be a computer gymnast, remember? I hacked into the hotel’s reservation system and found your room number. Vinnie here did the rest.”
She motioned to the pigeon beside her, who lifted a leg in a jaunty salute.
“Uh, thanks, Vinnie,” said Oz. Leaning down, he whispered to Glory, “I thought you said nobody was supposed to know about this mission. Top secret, For Your Paws Only, and all that sort of thing.”
Glory patted his hand reassuringly, her soft little paw as light as a feather. “It’s okay, Oz. Vinnie works for us. He’s Hank’s cousin. Lives at the Bronx Zoo. Running Pigeon Air here in midtown is his cover.”
Vinnie winked at him, and Oz smiled in relief. “I’ve got your stuff,” he said to Glory. “I hid it in my suitcase under my pajamas.”
A strange assortment of stuff it was, too, Oz thought. He and D. B. hadn’t been able to resist sorting through the contents of the purple dinosaur lunch bag last night when they’d arrived at the hotel. In addition to Bunsen’s souped-up video sunglasses, there was a cell phone (scratched and battered, it was much the worse for wear, but it boasted a small video screen), a miniature tape recorder, a Ping-Pong ball, a book of matches, a magnifying glass, and what looked like a kazoo. Oz couldn’t imagine what Bunsen had in mind for all of it.
“Great,” said Glory. “I knew we could count on you.”
“Where are the others?”
Glory rolled her eyes. “B-Nut’s cover for us is just a few blocks away at Rockefeller Center. A nightclub called BANANAS! under the floor of the Rainbow Room.” She shook her head and sighed deeply.
“What’s the matter?”
“Oh, nothing for you to worry about,” said Glory. “My absentminded brother told the nightclub owner that I’m the lead singer. Only problem is—I can’t sing. I mean I really can’t sing. He got me mixed up with our sister Blueberry. I’ve got a voice like a bullfrog with laryngitis.”
“Oh,” said Oz. “That is a problem.”
“No kidding. Anyway, no point in worrying about it now. Our gig is hours away. What’s your schedule look like today?”
Oz reached into the pocket of his bat
hrobe and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “The first Bake-Off session is from nine to ten thirty—I mean 0900 hours to 1030 hours. Then a half-hour break. From 1100 to 1330 hours, we’re supposed to go on a tour of the Empire State Building and have lunch at Grand Central Station. Then the afternoon Bake-Off session is from 1400 hours to 1530.”
“Busy day,” said Glory. “But lunch at Grand Central couldn’t be better. We’ll rendezvous with you there. Bring the equipment with you, okay?”
“How will I find you?” asked Oz, sounding worried again.
“Don’t worry. We’ll find you.” Reaching into her backpack, Glory pulled out a small scroll of paper and passed it to him.
“What’s this?” asked Oz.
“Coded message. From Bunsen. He asked me to give it to you. Use pigeon post if you need to write him back—or if you want to contact any of us, for that matter.”
Oz frowned. “What’s pigeon post?”
Vinnie stepped forward. “One of my boys will be tailing you all day,” he explained. “You need to get in touch, you just write your message, roll it up, step outside, and hold it over your head.”
Oz grunted. “Sounds simple enough.” He unscrolled the tiny piece of paper and squinted at it.
“The magnifying glass in the equipment bag is for you,” added Glory helpfully. She climbed back up onto Vinnie. “Bunsen figured you’d need it.”
Vinnie flapped off into the air, and Oz poked his head out the window.
“Glory?” he called.
“Yes?” she said, tugging on the shoestring reins to make Vinnie circle back.
“What about the Bake-Off? Jordan and Tank have it in for me.”
Vinnie hovered in front of the windowsill so that Oz and Glory were eye to eye. Glory regarded her human friend soberly. “I know, Oz, but I can’t spare anyone yet. Not until we’ve got a handle on Dupont and the other rats. Someone will be back to help out just as soon as possible, I promise. Hang in there, meanwhile, okay?”
Oz nodded glumly. He’d been afraid she’d say that.
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