For Your Paws Only (12 page)

“Offer us?” snarled Piccadilly suspiciously. “And what exactly do you want in exchange for this plan of yours?”

“Me?” said Dupont innocently. “Why, whatever makes you think I'd want anything in exchange?”

The big British rat snorted. “Let's just say your reputation precedes you, Dupont, you greedy, conniving—”

“Look who's talking!” Dupont's beady red eyes flashed in anger, and the two rodents started to square off again. Once again, Brie stepped forward. “Boys, boys,” she said, cuffing her cousin affectionately and placing a restraining paw on Piccadilly's brawny shoulder. “We'll never get anywhere eef zees continues.”

Reluctantly, Stilton Piccadilly backed away. Dupont collected himself, then continued. “As I said, I have a plan. What we rats need to do in order to squash our enemies once and for all—what we need to do to ensure a mouse-free world”—he paused dramatically—“is to learn to READ!”

Dupont surveyed the sewer in triumph. If he'd been expecting applause, however, it was conspicuously absent. His fellow rats were silent. They stared at him blankly.

Stilton Piccadilly burst out laughing. “Read?” he said with an incredulous sneer. “That's your plan? We learn to
read
?”

“No rat worth his whiskers needs books,” muttered Gorgonzola. “Books are for humans.”

“And those miserable short-tails,” added Muenster.

Even Mozzarella Canal looked bewildered at his nephew's pronouncement. “I don't get it, Roquefort. Where's the fun in learning to read? Sorry, pal, but I thought you were going to declare war! You know, paw to paw, fighting it out in the streets, a nice juicy game of rat-and-mouse. That sort of thing.”

A low buzz went up as the rats began discussing Dupont's plan.

Dupont looked around the sewer desperately. “Don't you understand?” he cried. “Reading is the key to everything! Reading is what has allowed the mice to keep us down here, in the dark, a race of sewer crawlers, instead of taking our rightful place as leaders of the world! Think of it, my friends! I'm the descendant of royalty! We're all the descendants of royalty. My ancestors lived in a castle, just like yours! How many of you live in castles today?”

The rats fell silent again, considering his point.

Dupont pressed on. “Don't you see? If we can read, we can steal mouse mail, intercept mouse messages, learn all the mouse secrets. We'll know what makes them tick, and we'll be one jump ahead of them every step of the way. Wherever they turn, we'll be there. Whatever move they try, we'll be there. We'll outmaneuver, outwit, and outsmart them every step of the way. All because we can READ!”

He pumped his paws in the air. “Reading rats will rule the WORLD!” he cried. “Reading rats are the rats of the FUTURE! We'll make mousemeat of those small-paws! They'll be EXTERMINATED once and for all! Bye-bye!
Ciao! Auf wiedersehen!
And our planet will finally be MOUSE-FREE!” His speech ended in a triumphant screech.

The assembled rodents burst into applause, and Dupont's rats-in-waiting scampered to the front.

“MOUSE-FREE FROM SEA TO SEA!” cried Limburger Lulu and Limburger Louie, as the other rats joined in the chant. “MOUSE-FREE FOR YOU AND ME!”

Stilton Piccadilly swaggered forward. “You're all talk, Dupont,” he said flatly. “Show us a rat—any rat—who can read, and I'll show you a sideshow freak.”

Dupont bared his fangs at Piccadilly in a cold smile. “I'm one step ahead of you, old chap,” he replied. He cracked his tail and Gnaw shot forward out of the shadows. “Get me a copy of the
Tattletail,
” he ordered. “Final street edition.”

“Yes, boss,” said his aide, and scrabbled away. He returned a short time later, dragging a newspaper behind him. “Hot off the press,” he huffed, breathless from his task.

Dupont grabbed the newspaper and held it up in his scruffy paws. “Exhibit number one,” he announced to the Global Rodent Roundtable. “The
Tattletail.
” He cracked his tail again. “Scurvy, you go first.”

The bony rat scuffled reluctantly to the front of the crowd, his whiskers trailing on the floor in fear. He peered at the paper, cleared his throat, and haltingly started to read aloud. “ ‘Call Her Sugarpeas!' ” he began.

“That's ‘paws,' you idiot! ‘Sugar
paws
!' ” snarled Dupont.

Scurvy quailed. He squinted at the newsprint doubtfully, then continued. “ ‘One Night Only! Miss Cherry Jubilee' . . . ‘Stealing Acorns'?”

“ ‘Stealing acorns'?” said Stilton Piccadilly, shaking his head in disgust. “This is supposed to be a useful skill? The one that will secure our future?” He eyed the crowd of rats, who stirred uneasily and muttered in disapproval. “I'll take claws and jaws any day.”

“Give me that, you useless rodent,” Dupont snapped, grabbing the paper away from Scurvy. He scanned the headline. “It's ‘Steel Acorns,' not ‘Stealing Acorns'!” he exploded. “Idiot.” He glared out at the other rats. “Steel Acorns. You know. That ridiculous mouse rock band.” He looked down at the paper again, and his gaze fell on a photograph in the center of the page. His fiery red eyes narrowed. “Now that's a familiar set of ears,” he said softly to himself.

“THIS is your secret plan?” sneered Piccadilly. “THIS is supposed to save our world? A concert announcement? Like I said before, you aren't fit to lead us, Dupont.”

Dupont thrust the paper under the British rat's hideous snout. “Oh yeah?” he growled. “Take a good look at this picture. Recognize anybody? Like maybe the mouse who stole your playthings this morning?”

Stilton Piccadilly's face grew red with rage. “You said her name was Glory Goldenleaf, not Cherry Jubilee!”

“She's a
spy,
you fool! She works for the Spy Mice Agency. Don't you ever go to the movies? Obviously she's here undercover. Tracking
us.
Only now—BECAUSE I CAN READ!—we've got the goods on her. And we're going to use that information—which we
have why? BECAUSE I CAN READ—to take her down!”

An excited murmur arose from the other rats as the full import of Dupont's plan finally dawned on them. Dupont began to strut back and forth. This new development was better than he could have imagined. Everything was going according to plan. Better than plan. He had the Global Rodent Roundtable all eating out of his paw.

“Ladies and not-so-gentlerodents, I think this calls for a demonstration of our new strength,” he announced. “I think this calls for”—he paused for a moment—“a RAID!”

DAY TWO • WEDNESDAY • 1430 HOURS

The practice room at
BANANAS! fell dead silent as the eavesdropping mice stared at the cell phone screen, then at each other. A raid? Here? Tonight?

It was one thing to hear Julius calmly describe the frightening prospect of a world with literate rats, and another thing altogether to hear Dupont himself outline his plans. A future with reading rats was a truly shocking prospect, and a feeling of helplessness and doom settled over them like a cold fog.

“Mousemeat,” whispered Glory. “We're all mousemeat. This is worse than the Black Paw.”

“Black Paw?” asked Squeak.

“Dupont's hit list,” Glory explained. “I've been on it for a while now. He almost got me last month.”

Get a grip, Goldenleaf,
she ordered herself sternly. She was beginning to depress herself, and as mission leader, she needed to rally the troops, not be a fearmonger.

“Dupont may be able to read, but he doesn't have access to human technology yet,” she said briskly. “Thanks to Bunsen, we're still one step ahead of him.”

Bunsen's nose glowed pink with pleasure again at the compliment.

“Plus, the rats may think they have the element of surprise, but that still belongs to us,” Glory continued. “And we're going to use it to our advantage. They want to raid us, let them raid us. We'll be ready for them when they get here. And what's more, I think this is a golden opportunity to turn the tables on them.”

“How?” asked Squeak.

“Bait 'em,” said Glory simply. “Plant a little misinformation. They think they can read? Fine. We'll give them something to read. Lead them right into a trap of our own. And once we've got them cornered—
bam
! End of rats.”

“What do we use for bait?” queried Bubble.

Glory looked around the room. “One of us,” she replied. “Someone who's a good actor, and who won't buckle under the pressure.”

Hotspur preened. “That would be me. As my uncle always says, ‘right tool for the right job.' ” For once he was quoting Julius instead of Shakespeare. “We Folgers are known for our cool heads—and for our acting skills. Living so close to the Bard as we do.”

Glory had to admit this was true. Some of the Entertainment Guild's brightest stars had grown up at
the Folger Shakespeare Library. Hotspur's own sister Ophelia, for one. She narrowed her eyes, considering. Glory was pretty sure that Snotspur smelled the spotlight. A major coup against the rats—and not just one rat, but a whole pack of international kingpin rats—would be a career boost beyond his wildest dreams. Glory could practically see him measuring her tail, to see how much of it he could step on in his rush up the Spy Mice Agency ladder. Well, this was her show, her mission, her first big break, and she wasn't about to let him snatch it away from her. Or steal the credit.

“No, Hotspur,” she said. “You heard him—it's me that Dupont wants. And it's me he's going to get.”

Bunsen gave a squeak of alarm. “What!” he protested. “Glory, we can't send you into the lion's den—er, rat's lair. Not again.”

“The lab mouse is right, for once,” agreed Hotspur. He flexed his bicep. “This is a job for a stronger, more seasoned Silver Skateboard agent.”

“Nobody's sending me anywhere, Bunsen,” Glory said, ignoring Hotspur. “I'm volunteering. ‘The noblest motive is the public good,' remember?”

“The Spy Mice Agency motto,” Bunsen replied glumly.

“I'm not sure this is such a good idea,” cautioned B-Nut. “You barely got out alive last time you pulled this kind of a stunt. I think we should run it by Julius first.”

Glory nodded. “Fair enough,” she said. “We'll e-mail him as soon as we hammer out a plan. And once we get a paws-up, we'll send a note by pigeon post to Oz and D. B. Gather around, spy mice. Here's what we're going to do.”

DAY TWO • WEDNESDAY • 1545 HOURS

Lavinia Levinson gazed down
at the sheet of paper in her hand. “This is for a school project?” she asked.

“Uh-huh,” said Oz, squirming slightly at the fib. He consoled himself that it was for a worthy cause. Plus, it was true that every experience he'd had with the mice was educational. He was learning to become a secret agent, wasn't he?

Mrs. Levinson tapped out the lively beat on the coffee table in front of her and hummed a few bars. “It's good,” she said in surprise. “Catchy tune. And I love the title, ‘Born to Shake My Tail.' Did you two write this?”

Oz and D. B. exchanged a glance.

“No, a friend of ours wrote it,” Oz replied.

His mother raised an eyebrow. “A fifth grader?”

“Um, no—he's a little older. Teenager. We met him at the Spy Museum.” Oz thrust the microcassette recorder into his mother's hand. “Just sing into the microphone,
okay? And don't sing it like your normal stuff. Not that your normal stuff is bad!” he hastened to add. “It's just this is more, you know, rock music.”

D. B. glanced at her watch. “We should hurry,” she said. “They're going to announce the Bake-Off winners soon.”

“Pushy, pushy,” said Lavinia Levinson in mock complaint. “You're worse than my conductor.” She rose from the hotel-room sofa, took a deep breath, and began to sing.

DAY TWO • WEDNESDAY • 1700 HOURS

Roquefort Dupont stared up
at the giant TV screen on the wall of the dining concourse at Grand Central Station.

The Global Rodent Roundtable had broken up for dinner. The rats had agreed that filling their bellies in preparation for the raid was the first order of business. Dupont's Uncle Mozzarella was leading one group on a tour of the Dumpsters of Little Italy, world-famous for their delicious pasta, cannoli, and other Italian delicacies. Gorgonzola, for whom that cuisine wasn't anything special, was escorting Brie and another contingent to Chinatown instead. Limburger Lulu and Limburger Louie had gone with them, practically sick with excitement at the prospect of an outing.

Dupont had remained behind at Grand Central with Scurvy and Gnaw. He was in the mood for shellfish, and the Oyster Bar was one of the best spots in town to indulge.
Plus, he wanted to practice his speech for later tonight. He had the G.R.R. election in the bag, he was sure of it.

“The results of the Twenty-Fifth Annual Mayflower Flour Bake-Off are in!” blared the television. Dupont slurped an oyster and watched idly as footage from the Waldorf-Astoria's ballroom rolled. “This year's winner, in the adult division, is Mrs. Mary Lou Swenson of Oshkosh, Wisconsin, for her cheese twists,” announced the enthusiastic reporter. “In the junior division, the top prize went to Ozymandias Levinson and Delilah Bean, students at Chester B. Arthur Elementary School in Washington, D.C., for their delicious pumpkin chocolate-chip bread.” The reporter popped a piece in her mouth. “Mmm, mmm. Delicious. Good job, kids.”

The camera zoomed in on Oz and D. B., who held up a plate displaying their blue ribbon-adorned results.

“I've seen those humans someplace before,” muttered Dupont. He whirled around. “Scurvy! Gnaw!”