Free Blackout by Andrew Cope

cat,’ she ordered. ‘And we’re going to find him now.’
    All of a sudden the professor could see Sophie as a young Mrs Cook. Resistance was futile. He nodded wearily. Sophie had rummaged in his pockets and found his mobile. ‘His translating collar,’ she reminded him, ‘has a tracking device. So track him!’
    Professor Cortex stabbed at a few buttons
and a map appeared. ‘Agent CAT is close,’ he said, a note of surprise rising in his voice. ‘Within half a mile in fact. That way.’ He pointed across the river. ‘But it’s very strange,’ he said, shaking his mobile to see if he could get a different reading.
    ‘What’s so strange, Professor Calamity?’ urged Sophie.
    ‘Agent CAT is three-hundred metres above sea level.’
    ‘On a plane?’ panicked Sophie. ‘Someone’s catnapped poor old Shakespeare and they’re flying him out of the country!’
    ‘No, Sophie,’ said the professor, looking at the tracking device and shaking his head. ‘Agent CAT isn’t moving. He’s three-hundred metres in the air, that-a-way.’ The scientist turned and pointed towards the red dot. The children followed the line of his finger.
    He was pointing at the Shard.

13. No Lives Left?
    The
children had decided not to ask Mum and Dad. ‘They’ll just say no,’ decided Sophie, ‘and “no, you can’t go and rescue Shakespeare from the diamond thief” is absolutely the wrong answer.’
    They had marched the confused scientist off the boat and along the Thames embankment. Ben had Googled ‘the Shard’ and was checking the details on his mobile phone. ‘Viewing platform on level seventy-two. But there are eighty-seven floors. Wikipedia says the top two floors are residential,’ he read. ‘But it doesn’t say who owns them. Three-hundred metres. That must be the very top floor.’
    Sophie led the way. She marched forward, a frown fixed on her freckled face. Ben, Ollie and the professor scampered behind.
    ‘Soph,’ yelled her big brother. ‘We need a plan.’
    ‘I’ve got a plan,’ she thundered, marching faster. ‘I’m going to the top of that building to rescue my cat.’
    The small gang approached the foyer. A guard in a peaked cap looked them up and down. ‘We’ve got a booking at one of the restaurants,’ fibbed the professor, regaining some composure. ‘Me and my, erm, kids?’
    ‘Your name, sir?’ asked the guard, his eyes scanning a computer screen.
    ‘His name is Professor Cortex,’ snorted Ollie. ‘And we’re here to get to the top floor to rescue our cat. It’s all of our’s cat really, but Sophie’s the most. We’ve got some dogs too,’ he offered, smiling. ‘But they couldn’t come to London because we’ve been on a boat and so we only brought our puss. We’ve tracked him down to here. Well, up there actually.’ Ollie pointed his finger skywards. ‘He’s got a translating collar, you know.’
    The professor saw that the security guard was confused. ‘We’re here for Shakespeare,’ he explained.
    ‘Then you’ll need a theatre, sir,’ advised the
guard, feeling one of his headaches starting to pound.
    ‘If you could just let us up to the top floor, we’d be very grateful,’ said Professor Cortex, pressing a £20 note into the guard’s hand.
    The man pocketed the crisp twenty. All of a sudden he looked interested. ‘The top floor, sir,’ he said, ‘is out of bounds. It’s reserved. To be honest, sir, even I don’t know what goes on up there. But there have been some strange goings-on,’ he confided, lowering his voice.
    ‘Such as?’ asked the professor, rummaging in his wallet for another £20.
    The security guard waited for the note to land in his palm before continuing. ‘The top two floors, sir,’ he said, ‘are residential. The most expensive apartments in the world.’
    ‘And with the best view,’ suggested Professor Cortex, attempting to hurry the man along. ‘So what kind of
strange
goings-on?’
    Another £20 was pocketed. ‘There’s a