It was on account of a biscuit that I came to find myself in the middle of the road in the pouring rain.

But let me go back to the beginning.

My human, Sir Archibald, was the Director of MI9, Britain's most secret counterspy agency. His was a shadowy group, far behind the scenes, vastly more secret than MI5, 6, 7, or 8. So secret, in fact, that "MI9" is not even the organization's real name. A vow of absolute silence, to which Sir Archibald was required to swear each year, prevents me from revealing even that. What I can tell you, however, is that the organization we shall call MI9 maintains a constant vigil against spies, thieves, assassins, and other generally bad guys.

On the day that changed my life forever, the British Security Service (the comparatively un-secret MI5) intercepted intelligence that a group of master spies was planning to kidnap the Queen during the Masked New Year's Eve Ball at Buckingham Palace.

Sir Archibald was informed immediately. He mobilized all available personnel to establish a secure perimeter. Meanwhile, he himself would serve personally as a last line of defense, blending in among the Queen's guests with two of his best agents at his side. The trio departed for the palace dressed, appropriately enough, as the Three Musketeers.

Sir Archibald and I were very close, and most days I could be found prowling around MI9 headquarters, a kind of office mascot. A spy's life is a lonely one, and quite often Sir Archibald would bring me along for company in the field as well. But that night, he left me behind in his quarters, a very nice townhouse on a quiet Westminster mews, only a few blocks away from the palace.

"Stay here tonight, cat, and keep an eye on things," Sir Archibald said on his way out the door. He winked. "After all, we don't have a costume for you."

And with a flourish of his musketeer's cape, he was gone.

Now, I am a cat of breeding, and honor demanded that I stay put. Not all cats are honorable, to be sure, but educated cats are schooled to value the Feline Code of Honor above all else.

As the evening wore on, however, I grew more and more agitated. Something was not right.

Sir Archibald had always valued my instincts, and I had never disappointed him. For example, when I jumped on his pillow to wake him in the middle of the night, he knew I was not begging to be let out like a common cat: experience had taught him to be in-stantly alert, listening for any intruders I had detected. Those same instincts were now telling me that Sir Archibald needed me. I slipped through an open window and into the chill evening air.

The streets of southwest London were nearly deserted, with everyone indoors preparing for the stroke of midnight. In moments, I found myself standing in front of Buckingham Palace.

Having been with Sir Archibald since kittenhood, I had acquired many useful skills, such as the ability to silently infiltrate a gathering of humans. When I slipped through the bars of the palace gates, the four sentries posted there‹tall humans in fancy red tunics and ridiculous bearskin hats‹did not even glance in my direction.

Obtaining access to the ballroom itself was a simple matter, as I had long ago developed a good rapport with the palace rats. Don't be surprised: even a palace has rats. Rodents of all kinds are easy to intimidate and make valuable informants, and the palace rats were familiar with the back ways and secret passages.

I circulated silently among the costumed guests, looking for suspicious behavior. Nothing seemed to be amiss until I spotted the sleek Siamese and knew mischief was a-paw.

She was curled innocently by the roaring fireplace on a leopard-skin rug. As I drew closer, she yawned and looked at me drowsily through half-lidded eyes of startling blue. Siamese cats are as beautiful as they are intelligent, and their facility with language makes them very popular as companions for master spies.

I followed the lady as she stretched and then headed toward the pastry tables. Even if she was innocent, she was quite captivating and certainly worth a closer look, I reasoned. A most delicious perfume wafted from her well-groomed fur.

When I reached the pastry table, I paused to lick a small dollop of whipped cream that had fallen to the floor, and I lost her in the press of human legs and feet. I sank low to the ground and peered into the corners just in time to see a slender, black-tipped tail disappear through a door leading to a darkened side chamber. I prowled closer to investigate.

The chamber was temporarily serving as the ballroom's coat closet and was full of elegant overcoats and hats and intriguing-smelling furs. I slipped inside and sniffed the air.

A voice behind me drawled, "And vat's your name, handsome?"

She may have been a Siamese, but the accent was Russian. That tipped me off immediately. But danger and perfumed cats are an intoxicating combination, so I played along. She was half my size, I told myself. I could handle her with both paws stuck to a tree.

I spun around. She was leaning lightly against the door frame, haloed from behind by the ballroom lights.

"The name is Bristlefur. James Edward Bristlefur." I bowed gallantly. "Are you with one of our guests?"

"How very puuurceptive."

She nosed closer, her breath smelling enticingly of salmon. I closed my eyes and felt her whiskers brush against mine.

"Oh, James," she murmured. "It's a pity you have to go, just as things are getting so interesting."

"Go?" I said. "Where am I going?"

The foregoing is excerpted from The Stink Files, Dossier 001: The Postman Always Brings Mice by Holm & Hamel. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission from HarperCollins Publishers, 1350 Avenue of the Americas, NY, NY 10019

Imprint: HarperCollins; ISBN: 0060529792; On Sale: 06/15/2004; Format: Hardcover; Subformat: ; Length: ; Trimsize: 5 1/2 x 8 1/4; Pages: 144; $14.99; $21.99(CAN)