The Trophy of Champions (17 page)

‘Really?' Whisker said with sudden interest.

Papa Niko waited for the rest of the crew to disembark and then whispered, ‘Listen, the story goes like this. According to legend, the mighty Greek army once besieged a heavily fortified city named Troy. After countless failed attempts to penetrate the high walls, the Greeks built a huge, wooden horse and left it at the gates of the city. The Greek army then pretended to sail away and the victorious Trojans pulled the horse into the city. Unbeknownst to the Trojans, a small band of Greek warriors were hidden inside the horse. That evening, the warriors crept out and opened the city gates. The rest of the Greek army sailed back under the cover of darkness and stormed into the city.
'

He slashed his paw dramatically through the air. ‘In one fell swoop, the Greeks defeated their enemy and won the war! How ‘bout that for a stealth operation?'

‘It's an impressive story, I agree,' Whisker said, not wanting to dampen Papa Niko's enthusiasm. ‘But I doubt Gustave is going to fall for a giant horse.'

Papa Niko sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose you're right. A six-metre horse on a pier does seem a little out of place …' His voice trailed off.

In a rare passage of silence, the two rats followed their companions along the narrow dock until they reached a life-sized cut-out of Frankie Belorio. The painted figure of the famous bilby held a shiny, blue fishing rod in one paw and a small sign in the other. The sign's bright yellow writing read,
If it's not a Rodney's Rod, it's a stick!
A few feet away, a second cut-out was wrapped in thick lengths of rope. Only the bilby's long ears were visible above the coils. A wooden plaque on the dock read,
Champions trust Rodney's Rope to keep their precious assets secure!
A third cut-out of Frankie Belorio was visible, halfway up the steep steps to the town. From a distance, its outline resembled a rabbit or a hare.

‘Ah ha!' Papa Niko exclaimed, spotting the wooden figure. ‘What about a Trojan Rabbit?'

‘It makes more sense than a horse, but it's still too suspicious,' Whisker said, racking his brain for a better solution. He thought back to the two rabbits loading cargo onto the
Velvet Wave.
‘What we really need is something large and edible.
'

‘A
Trojan Pie!' Papa Niko gasped. ‘Why didn't we think of it sooner?'

‘Better still,' Whisker said, growing in excitement, ‘what about a Trojan Pasty? It would be far less obvious and we can fill it with turnips and parsnips and all the other vegetables that rabbits love.'

‘By Zeus, I think you've got it!' Papa Niko cried.

‘And if we made several medium-sized pasties rather than one colossal one,' Whisker continued, ‘Horace and I could be smuggled on board in one of Gustave's food crates.'

‘You're forgetting one thing,' Pete said, eavesdropping from a few paces ahead of them. ‘Once you've penetrated the
Velvet Wave
, how are you going to reach the trophy room undetected? Gustave's goons will paint your pasties purple before you're out the pantry door.'

‘Point taken,' Papa Niko sighed. ‘We'd be hard pressed to get past a dozen armed guards.'

‘It could still work,' Whisker said, refusing to shelve the plan, ‘if we had an irresistible distraction.'

‘A distraction to get the rest of us covered in purple paint,' Pete sniggered. ‘You heard Baron Gustave. One speck and we're history.'

‘Okay, then what about this,' Whisker said. ‘Suppose none of our crew were actually involved?'

‘It won't work,' Pete said stubbornly. ‘I've read the fine print. It's against the rules to let civilians do our dirty work –'

‘I didn't mean civilians,' Whisker cut in. ‘I meant him.' He pointed to a fourth cut-out of Frankie Belorio, positioned on the balcony of a monumental sandstone hotel. Frankie's arm was raised above him, as if waving to the arriving tourists.

‘I'm not quite following you, Whisker,' Pete said, screwing up his nose. ‘How will a sponsorship deal for Trojan Pasties get us past an arsenal of paint pellets?'

‘The cut-outs aren't for advertising,' Whisker laughed, ‘they're for romancing.'

Papa Niko removed his cap and scratched the top of his head. ‘Zeus's underpants! I don't remember the Trojan Horse story being this complicated.'

‘Hear me out,' Whisker said, his tail shaking excitedly. ‘What better way to distract Gustave's boys than with a boat-load of beautiful bunnies. We'd need to give our Frankies a makeover, but with a palette of paint, the right accessories and some romantic moonlight, we'll have the entire crew believing they're in bunny heaven.'

‘Mythical maidens ahoy!' Papa Niko cried, clapping Whisker on the back. ‘Now that's a plan with
Greek legend
written all over it.'

Pete let out a long, wheezing sigh. ‘Is it just me, or does every one of Whisker's plans involve dressing up in ridiculous costumes?'

Eager to share their ideas with the rest of their companions, the three rats caught up with the crew in a small square at the top of the steps. Stately buildings rose around them, curving in a line along a crescent-shaped street. There were boutiques and bakeries, cake shops and clothing stores as far as the eye could see. After ‘Mission Trojan Pasty' was approved by the head coach, the party split into small groups to scrounge up supplies for their elaborate raid.

Mama Kolina and Granny Rat headed for the village market to purchase fresh vegetables and puff pastry. Aphrodite and Hera wandered down the fashion strip on the hunt for feather boas, sequinned tops and posh-looking coats. Pete clomped off in search of a painting supplies shop with the goddess of the arts, Athena, chattering away beside him about her love of the great masters de Rattio and van Rodent. Ruby and the Captain departed for the industrial section of town to secure a cart to haul the supplies, and the others were instructed to beg, borrow or barter whatever Frankie cut-outs they could get their paws on.

It took Whisker, Horace and Fred several hours of doorknocking before they found a shopkeeper willing to part with her ‘precious Frankies.' The shop in question, Nana's Knitting, was a run-down looking store with peeling paint and a musty smell
.
The old ewe behind the counter complained her cut-outs had done absolutely nothing to boost her sales of wool and knitting needles.

‘Death Ball fanatics are hardly the knitting type,' Horace sniggered, as they lugged six cardigan-wearing Frankies out of the shop.

With their official duties taken care of, the three rats made their way to the Fish ‘n Ships Inn – the rendezvous point for the crew. The inn was situated on the outskirts of town, halfway up the hill, and backed onto a deserted farm.

On their way up the hill, they passed several information plaques describing the history of the popular inn. Built by a rich merchant mink over a century ago, the building had been constructed to resemble a giant, stone ship. The lower two floors formed the ship's hull, complete with a restaurant, dance floor and gaming rooms. Two large accommodation towers rose from the building like the masts of a ship. The penthouse level of each tower contained an authentic crow's-nest balcony with three-hundred-and-sixty degree views. Billowing blue flags flew from each tower, displaying the golden crest of the inn: three fish in a ship.

In keeping with the nautical theme, the entrance to the inn was accessed via a long, wooden gangplank that led from the cobblestoned street to the first floor.

Waiting at the end of the gangplank, the three rats were soon joined by Papa Niko and Rat Bait, carrying a brightly coloured cut-out. The only Frankie they had managed to source was a paint-splattered, hole-ridden target from the Paint Pellet Parlour.

‘We'd best not mention any of these to the real Frankie,' Rat Bait suggested as they stashed the wooden figures in a rocky crevice under the gangplank. ‘Do ye think he'll be in?'

‘Of course he'll be in,' Papa Niko exclaimed, striding up the plank to the fish-shaped saloon doors. ‘It's lunch time, and Frankie never misses lunch.'

Frankie Belorio

The stylishly dressed bilby sat on a high-backed bar stool, surrounded by sketch artists, reporters and the usual hangers-on. He slicked back his ears, straightened his long nose and posed for yet another picture. Across the room, Whisker and his companions waited patiently for Frankie to finish his official promotional duties.

‘I always eat lunch at the Fish ‘n Ships Inn on a Thursday,' they heard him say loudly. ‘Where else can you order a bowl of steamin' hot Ship-Shaped Chips covered in the Inn's famous seaweed seasoning?'

On cue, a mink waitress appeared from the kitchen and plonked a large bowl on the bar in front of him.

‘Mmm, delicious!' he exclaimed, reaching into the bowl. He pulled out a potato wedge with a toothpick flag and held up the boat-shaped morsel for the entire restaurant to see. ‘Now this is premiership-winning material!'

There was a flurry of activity from the tables around the room, as patrons tried to grab the waitresses' attention. ‘Yoo hoo, over here … can I add a bowl of chips to my order …? Make that two bowls …'

As the flood of orders were taken, Frankie dropped the Ship-Shaped Chip into the bowl without tasting it and, with a tired sigh, stood up from his chair. He brushed the sketch artists aside with a flick of his paw and began making his way across the room. He was halfway to an exit door when he noticed the five rats waiting in the corner. His tired eyes lit up with recognition.

‘Coach Niko!' he exclaimed, throwing his paws in the air. ‘And little Horace. What the exploding artichoke are you doing here?'

‘We've come to see you, Frankie,' Papa Niko said, rushing over and giving him a big hug.

Frankie clapped Papa Niko on the back and laughed out loud. ‘Well, this is a splendid surprise. I didn't expect to see you until the start of the winter season. You will join me for lunch, won't you? I was gonna order room service, but it's much nicer with guests in the VIP lounge.' He pointed to a small mezzanine level to the side of the restaurant, where velvet-cushioned couches and carved coffee tables overlooked the ocean.

‘Of course we'll join you, Frankie,' Horace burst out.

‘An' how ‘bout we order a few jugs o' berry juice to commemorate this momentous occasion,' Rat Bait added, licking his lips.

Frankie whistled to the waitress behind the bar. ‘Hey Delores, tell Chef I need a barrel of raspberry juice and a banquet for six pronto –' He glanced up at the hulking figure of Fred and added, ‘On second thoughts, you'd better make that eight.'

Whisker had never been in a VIP lounge, and he'd certainly never eaten a five-course banquet of the finest delicacies a restaurant had to offer. Unsure how he should act, he sat nervously to Frankie's left and waited for the bilby's lead. It didn't take long for Whisker to realise that Frankie wasn't a silver-service kind of celebrity. Despite the eight different utensils in front of him, Frankie chose to eat each course with the same fork, freeing up his other paw for expressive paw gestures.