Operation: Golden Bum Page 3

  Fangs peered at the screen for a second, then his eyes flicked back up at me. “The homing device is still working – and we can track Sizer wherever he goes?”

  “To within thirty centimetres.”

  “And he’s bound to run straight to Disgusto to warn him we’re on his trail…”

  “Exactly.”

  Fangs beamed. “That’s brilliant.”

  I blushed beneath my fur. “Thank you, boss.”

  “Brilliant of me to point out that the tracking device would melt once the kettle was used and so giving you the idea.”

  I smiled. “Yes, it was brilliant of you. Well done, sir.”

  Fangs pulled his sunglasses from his pocket and slipped them on. “All in a day’s work, Brown. Now where’s our dastardly dentist headed?”

  The green dot was moving quickly along the streets of the French capital on the map open on my laptop screen. After a few moments, it stopped.

  Fangs squinted at the screen. “What’s happening?”

  “It looks like Sizer’s gone inside somewhere.”

  A few mouse clicks later, and I had access to one of the nearby traffic cameras. I zoomed in on a brass plaque above the door of a large building.

  “It’s the British Embassy,” I gasped.

  Fangs arched an eyebrow. “If Sizer has run to tell Disgusto we’re on his trail, then Disgusto must be at the embassy too.”

  “I don’t like it,” I said. “An embassy is a government building, just as the German Consulate is, which is where everyone was robbed last week.”

  “The robbery Phlem was certain Disgusto had committed.”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “So let’s get to the embassy and stop him.”

  “We’ll have to be careful, boss. The prime minister’s there tonight, giving a speech, remember. Phlem will go mad if we charge in, causing trouble.”

  Fangs smiled. “Phlem won’t know anything about it. Not if we go in disguise…”

  Thursday 1935 hours: British Embassy, Paris, France

  The word “disguise” turned out to be a little too grand a term for the way Fangs and I ended up dressed.

  After arriving at the British Embassy, we skirted round to the back of the building, where we found two waiters taking a break outside an open door to the kitchen.

  “Right,” Fangs hissed. “I’ll give them the old karate chop to the back of the neck to knock them out and then we’ll drag them behind the bins and steal their clothes.”

  A few minutes later, we were climbing into the uniforms of the now unconscious waiters. There was one problem, though… The uniforms were both much too large.

  “This never happens in movies,” I muttered as I tightened my utility belt around trousers that were at least three sizes too big. “We look like a pair of clowns.”

  So, uniforms hanging off us, Fangs and I each collected a tray of drinks from the serving hatch in the kitchen and stepped out into the banqueting suite. The sight of it took my breath away.

  It was the size of a football pitch. I’d been to towns that were smaller than this room. Huge stone pillars stretched up to a glass-domed ceiling and dozens of beautifully laid tables covered a thick carpet. Smartly dressed waiters and waitresses sailed from table to table, offering a choice of drinks to guests that included the richest, most influential people in the world. Politicians passed the time with princes, landowners laughed with lords, and businessmen bantered with barons. Everyone here was important and wealthy, and if the Great Disgusto was here too, that could only mean trouble. We had to find him, and fast.

  I scanned the room. I could see no sign of Disgusto or Nicolas Sizer, but I did spy the British prime minister, Sir Hugh Jands, stepping up to a microphone that had been set up on a small stage. After glancing at a sheaf of notes in his hand, he ran a finger through his bushy moustache and then coughed politely. The noise echoed through the sound system.

  The chatter in the banqueting hall subsided – and that’s when I saw it. Snaking out from behind the stage was a thin wisp of green smoke. It had to be the same gas that had knocked out Sizer and Fangs at the surgery – and now it was about to flood into the British Embassy!

  “Ladies and gentlemen, mesdames et monsieurs…” began the prime minister, oblivious to the green smoke that was now wafting around his polished shoes.

  I tapped one of my front teeth with my tongue. I knew the tooth would be glowing blue as the radio link activated. “Fangs,” I hissed. “Look at the stage.”

  Fangs didn’t reply. I looked around and spotted him serving a drink to a young woman in a red dress on the other side of the room. “Fangs,” I said again, but he gave no indication that he had heard me.

  The prime minister, now ankle-deep in emerald-coloured fumes, was continuing his speech. “…It gives me great pleasure to welcome you all here tonight for what I trust will be an evening to remember.”

  “Fangs!” I barked. We had to evacuate the place before everybody fell victim to the gas. I clamped my paws over my ears to block out the background noise and tried to make out what Fangs was saying through our two-way radio. I didn’t like what I heard…

  “The name’s Enigma,” he said. “Fangs Enigma.”

  Surely he wasn’t going to do this now.

  “…Perhaps after Sir Hugh has finished his speech, we could take a stroll along the banks of the River Seine?”

  He was going to do this now!

  I raced over and prodded him. “Boss, I think we should keep our minds on the job.”

  He glared down at me. “I have got my mind on the job, Brown,” he hissed. “I’m busy interrogating a suspect.”

  I glanced at the young woman standing before us. She had thick red hair, porcelain-white skin and big green eyes. Huge diamond earrings dangled from her ears, and she was clutching a scarlet handbag that matched her dress, lipstick and perfectly manicured fingernails.

  “Hi,” she said in a thick, deep Southern drawl. “My name’s Milly. Milly O’Naire. Your friend here was just telling me about the banks of the River Seine. Do you think one of those banks will have a cashpoint machine? I’m a little short of spending money.”

  “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about money,” Fangs said. “I can open you a cuddle account for free.”

  I almost screamed with frustration. Everyone – from the prime minister down – was about to be gassed, and my boss was busy chatting up a girl! It looked like saving them all was going to be up to me.

  Dumping my tray of drinks, I raced for the stage, planning on grabbing Sir Hugh and dragging him away to safety when—

  CRASH!

  Something small, hard and covered in jewellery attacked me from the right and sent me hurtling into a nearby table. A tiny, grey figure landed on my chest as I fell. It gnashed at me with its sharp teeth while raining down blows with its miniature fists. It was a gnome. A gnome wearing a designer tracksuit and a backwards baseball cap. After grabbing the creature by its collar, I held it at arm’s length.

  “Yo, yo!” it cried angrily. “My name is Hip Hop. I’m the master of rhyme. The master of crime. Don’t you waste my time!”

  Then he began to make a noise like a beat box. “Ba-bum-bum-chi, bum-bum-chi. Ba-bum-bum-chi, fwee-hee, fwee-hee, fwee-hee, fwee!”

  I was beginning to wonder whether I’d hit my head on the table as I’d fallen, when I heard a crash from the stage. Sir Hugh Jands was stumbling around, trying to waft the green gas away, and he’d knocked over his microphone. There was no way I could get him and everyone else out before they started to fall unconscious. I had to find a way to block the air vent – but how?

  “Yo, yo!” rapped the gnome. “Don’t mess wit’ me. I’ll bust yo’ face. Make you a disgrace. A waste of space!”

  The gnome! Of course. I leapt up onto the stage, then ran past the prime minister and slammed Hip Hop against the air vent, using his body to cut off as much of the gas as I could. He only covered about three quarters of the vent, and
thin tendrils of green still leaked out, but it was the best I could do.

  The gnome struggled furiously.

  “Yo, yo!” he shouted. “Let me go. Now this ain’t cool. I ain’t no tool. Release me, fool!”

  “Oh, shut up!” I said, snatching the gnome’s baseball hat from his head and stuffing it into his mouth.

  I spotted something glinting in the darkness of the air vent beyond Hip Hop. Something that glinted like gold. I grabbed my night-vision goggles from my utility belt, pushed Hip Hop’s head to one side and peered into the gloom.

  Staring back at me was the ugly face of the Great Disgusto.

  Thursday 2002 hours: British Embassy, Paris, France

  “Fangs!” I yelled into my blue tooth. “I’ve found Disgusto, and I’m going after him!” Without waiting for a reply, I dropped the gnome and wrenched the cover off the air vent. It was a squeeze to get in, but the metal tunnel then widened out enough for me to crawl inside it on my hands and knees.

  Luckily, the flow of pungent gas seemed to have stopped. Cool air rushed past me thanks to the air-conditioning system. It blew away the remaining fumes, allowing me to see better. I doubted it would be strong enough to clear the entire banqueting hall, however. It would be up to Fangs to save the people there.

  Up ahead, the Great Disgusto was crawling away from me as fast as his hands and knees could carry him. He turned a corner in the pipe and disappeared.

  “Disgusto!” I shouted, making the turn myself. “This is Agent Brown of MP1. You are wanted for questioning in relation to—” Something was pulling me back. I looked over my shoulder, afraid that Hip Hop had crawled into the air duct after me, but the gnome wasn’t the problem. My waiter’s trousers had caught on a loose screw jutting out of the tunnel wall.

  I tried to free myself, but I couldn’t reach the screw and the tunnel was too narrow for me to turn round and unhook the trousers by hand. I jerked my leg from side to side in an effort to rip the material.

  “Well, well, Agent Brown,” said a voice behind me. “It appears that you are trapped.”

  The Great Disgusto had backed up in the tunnel and was gazing over his shoulder at me. Luckily, his body was in the way, so I couldn’t see much of his hideous face.

  “You’ve made a big mistake, Disgusto,” I growled. “As soon as I’m free, you’ll be coming in for questioning.”

  “No,” said the Great Disgusto quietly, “I won’t.”

  What he did next was the last thing I would ever have expected an internationally wanted villain to do. He pulled down his trousers to reveal a gleaming golden bottom – and he farted in my face.

  Stinking green gas – the same gas that had filled the dentist’s surgery and the banqueting hall – flooded the air-conditioning tunnel. Then everything went black.

  I came round about an hour later. Disgusto was, of course, nowhere to be seen. Groggily, I kicked my leg, ripping my trousers free from the screw. Then I edged back along the tunnel until I reached the banqueting hall.

  It was total chaos. Everyone in the room – guests and waiters alike – had been gassed. They were all slowly starting to regain consciousness, woozily sitting up as though they had woken from the deepest sleep of their lives.

  I found Fangs lying face down in a large salad on one of the buffet tables. “Come on, boss,” I said, helping him to his feet and pulling a stick of celery out of one of his nostrils. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I’ve had a hard night on blood milkshakes.” Fangs groaned, clutching his forehead. He began to pat his pockets. “Where are my sunglasses?”

  “Never mind that,” croaked a man at the next table. “My wallet’s gone!”

  “And my necklace!” cried a woman. “All my jewellery’s missing.”

  One by one, people discovered that all their belongings had been taken. From tiaras to the waiters’ wages – everything was gone.

  Disgusto either hadn’t thought to rob me or hadn’t had time because I still had my utility belt and mobile phone. “I think we’d better call the police,” I said, and then I told Fangs what had happened in the tunnel.

  Within half an hour, uniformed officers had arrived and were taking statements from the guests and waiting staff. “This is a waste of time,” grumbled Fangs. “We should be out there, looking for Disgusto. He might know where my sunglasses have gone.”

  “And everyone else’s belongings,” I reminded him. I was busy trying to hack into the embassy’s security network on my laptop.

  “Yes, of course,” agreed Fangs quickly. “All that other stuff too.”

  Once inside the network, I played back the footage from the closed-circuit television cameras inside the banqueting suite. A crisp black-and-white image sprang to life, and I smiled.

  “Got them!” I said.

  The recording showed the Great Disgusto, Nicolas Sizer and Hip Hop walking among the unconscious figures of the embassy’s guests and waiters. Each of them wore a gas mask to protect them from the remnants of the noxious fumes. Fangs and I watched the trio remove wallets from people’s pockets, unclasp necklaces from throats and pull rings from fingers. At one point, Disgusto turned towards the camera, revealing a pair of dark glasses over his eyes.

  “My sunglasses!” exclaimed Fangs. “That gas must be powerful stuff if he was able to take those from me without a fight.”

  “It’s very powerful,” I agreed. “I just can’t believe it came from Disgusto’s bum.”

  “And you say his bottom was gold?” Fangs said.

  I nodded. The image of the golden behind was burned into my memory. I was sure I’d never forget it.

  “Was it painted gold? Was he wearing some sort of artificial buttocks?”

  “I don’t know. I only got a quick glance before he used it on me.”

  “And it farted out the same gas we saw at the dentist surgery?”

  “Exactly the same – which means Disgusto was already at the surgery when we arrived. I thought the gas attack there was a little convenient.”

  But Fangs wasn’t listening. Milly O’Naire had finished giving her statement to the police and was heading our way.

  “Puppy!” Fangs cried. “Tell the police to arrest Miss Milly O’Naire.”

  Milly froze, her eyes widening with horror. “What? Why?”

  Fangs’s lips curled up into a smile. “Because it must be illegal to look that beautiful. Maybe I could take you to dinner and question you further?”

  Milly smiled and ran her fingers through her hair, making her diamond earrings sparkle in the light. “I’m afraid I’m late for another appointment.” She opened her red purse and produced a business card. “Why don’t you give me a call sometime?” She raised herself up onto her toes and kissed my boss on the cheek, before striding, hips wiggling, from the room.

  Fangs leaned back to watch her go, accidentally resting his hand on a tray of nibbles instead of the table. The tray flipped up, showering his face with food. A prawn hung from his right ear like a bright pink earring.

  Like an earring! I’d almost missed a vital clue.

  “You were right!” I exclaimed. “We should have got the police to arrest her. Milly O’Naire is in league with the Great Disgusto.”

  “What are you talking about?” Fangs asked.

  “She was still wearing her earrings. And she opened her purse to hand you her card.”

  “So?”

  “So Milly O’Naire is the only person in this room who wasn’t robbed. We’ve got to stop her.” I ran towards the main entrance of the embassy, skidding through the marbled entrance hall and leaping down the steps that led out onto the street – but I was too late.

  Milly O’Naire had disappeared.

  Thursday 2313 hours: MP1 Sports Car, Paris, France

  Fangs spun the wheel of the sports car and skidded onto Avenue des Champs-Élysées, the needle on the speedometer twitching at just below a hundred kilometres per hour. “Any sign of her?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” I
replied, scanning the crowds of tourists through my binoculars. “But we have to find her. Disgusto, Sizer and Hip Hop disappeared long before we regained consciousness. Milly’s our only link to them.”

  “Then we’ll keep looking,” said Fangs, swerving to avoid a cyclist. He mounted the roundabout in the centre of the road and took a short cut beneath the Arc de Triomphe.

  As far as we knew, Milly O’Naire was travelling on foot, or at best had hailed a taxi cab. We, on the other hand, had access to one of twelve high-powered motor vehicles that MP1 kept parked in key locations all over Paris – just as they did in all the major cities of the world. All Fangs had had to do was press his thumb against the sensor on the door lock, and we had transport.

  “You gave her your real name,” I said to Fangs. “Do you think she knows who you are?”

  Fangs shook his head. “I don’t think so. She just gave me her card and asked me to call.”

  “Her card!” I exclaimed. “Can I look at it?”

  Fangs handed over the lightly scented business card.

  “Perfect,” I said. “It’s got her phone number on it.”

  “Don’t you think it might give away the fact that we’re following her if you call to ask where she’s going?”

  I flipped open my laptop. “I’m not going to call her. I can track the position of her mobile phone via the GPS software.” I launched the program, linked up to the several communications satellites orbiting above us and then tapped in Milly’s number. Almost instantly, a green dot began to flash on the screen. I dragged a digital map of Paris over the image to get a precise location.

  “She’s moving fast,” I said, watching as the dot whizzed along a main street. “She must be in a taxi after all.”

  “Where’s she headed?”