Dead on Target (5 page)

Struggling to focus his half-blinded eyes, he caught a glimpse of gaily patterned cloth - the same pattern as the dress old Martha was wearing. But she had become amazingly spry as she pushed him aside and dived for an object on the floor. The grenade!

Frank lunged over her, blindly kicking out with his foot. His toe hit something solid, sending the grenade skittering along the floor.

The woman whirled on Frank, hissing something in a language he couldn't understand. She fumbled for a second with the large pin on her blouse. Frank squinted. No, it was too long to be a pin. It was more like the blade of a stiletto.

She slashed at Frank, who drew back and stumbled into the Gray Man, who'd also risen from his seat.

Before Frank and the Gray Man could disentangle themselves, the female terrorist had rushed down the aisle and grabbed the stewardess, who was trying to pick up the grenade.

The stewardess had been on her knees. The terrorist grabbed her by the hair and held the knife to her throat. "Nobody moves," the terrorist said, a smirk on her face, "or this one dies." She looked down at the grenade in the stewardess's hand. "Hand that up slowly. And do nothing foolish. "

Frank stood frozen. Once the grenade was in the woman's hands, they'd all be dead.

"Wait a second." The voice came from behind him. "I'm an American official. If you want a hostage, I volunteer. Let the stewardess go." It was the Gray Man. He held his hands out to show that they were empty and pushed past Frank, masking him.

The female hijacker hesitated, stepping forward slightly, glancing at the distraction. Frank realized he'd never have a better chance. He launched a flying kick, past the Gray Man's side, past the stewardess's ear-right to the pit of the female terrorist's stomach.

The woman folded in the middle. At the same time, the Gray Man swept his arm out, pushing the stewardess away. Then Frank lashed his foot out again in a high kick. It connected with the female terrorist, and she flew down the aisle, landing flat on her back, the knife flashing just inches from the stewardess's face.

The Gray Man moved fast. One foot landed on the blade of the knife; the other kicked the woman's hand away.

Joe Hardy was hauling the unconscious male terrorist out of the seat where they'd fallen. The man hung limply in Joe's arms. The dangerous spray can rolled into the aisle. Frank stood blinking, still trying to work the chemical out of his eyes.

The Gray Man ripped off his tie and knelt by the stunned female hijacker, binding her hands. Suddenly he let go with one hand and reached for her jaw, but she twisted her head away. He grabbed her again, wedging her mouth open, "Too late!" he said, frustrated.

The woman's breathing became labored. Her body began jerking uncontrollably in convulsions. By the time Frank and Joe had rushed over, the woman had fallen back, suddenly still, her lips already turning blue.

A new scent filled the air. It was the smell of almonds, bitter almonds. "A cyanide capsule," the Gray Man exclaimed. "She's poisoned herself!”

A SHOCKED SILENCE hung over the plane for the rest of the trip across the Atlantic. The loudest things Frank and Joe heard were nervous murmurs among the passengers. Some wanted to return to the airport, but the Gray Man vetoed that, virtually commandeering the plane with his government authority.

The grenade had been locked away, and crew members gently removed the female terrorist from the cabin. The male hijacker sat in the first seat again, tied up and gagged. The Gray Man had checked out his mouth and carefully removed the cyanide capsule that was hidden in a false tooth.

After that, the Gray Man spent most of the flight up in the cockpit. He emerged only after the plane landed. "Come on." He beckoned to the Hardys. Stepping into the cockpit, Frank and Joe found the plane doors open, a ladder reaching up to them.

"You know, I expected better accommodations at Heathrow," Frank said.

"This doesn't look like the London airport," Joe added, peering out the door, "unless they knocked down the arrival buildings and moved a bunch of carrier jets in."

Frank looked out at a squadron of fighter planes lined up on the tarmac.

"It's a RAP base near Portsmouth," the Gray Man explained. "Now if you'll kindly get down that ladder, you'll be out of the way of those military policemen who are waiting to come aboard.”

Frank and Joe stared down at the airmen clustered around the ladder. They wore white armbands and carried pistols. "What are the military police doing here?" Joe asked.

"The MPs? Two jobs. One, they're collecting our tied-up friend for delivery to British Intelligence. Two, they're keeping everyone else aboard the plane." "Why?"

"To keep our arrival secret. We know the Assassins arranged this hijacking. But all they'll know is that the whole plane has disappeared probably on its way to Libya," the Gray Man explained with a grim smile. "They won't know we're here in England. Maybe it will give us the advantage of surprise. "

"But the people on the plane - "

"Will stay there, until the operation is finished." The Gray Man gestured to the ladder. "Now get down there. We have a helicopter waiting to take us and our friend the hijacker to London. "

In the distance, an army copter dropped lightly to the concrete runway, its rotors idling. Frank and Joe clambered down the ladder, followed by the Gray Man. Then the MPs climbed up, and soon the hijacker was being lowered to the ground in a sling.

With the Hardys supporting the bound captive on each side, they followed the Gray Man to the copter.

"Perkins!" the Gray Man said when he saw the pilot. "I didn't think you'd been demoted to chauffeur.”

The pilot, who had a round, pink face and a silly grin, looked like a dopey young English lord from an old movie. "My pilot's license is approved for helis. And Nigel wanted absolute security on this trip."

"Orders from the very top, eh?" The Gray Man returned the grin. "Boys, let me introduce Edwin Perkins. Don't let that dumb smile fool you. He's chief aide to Sir Nigel Folliott, head of British Intelligence. Perkins, Frank and Joe Hardy. " "You aren't introducing your silent friend over there?" Perkins nodded to the bound hijacker.

"He wouldn't talk even if the gag were out of his mouth," the Gray Man replied.

"Probably not, if he's what you say he is," Perkins said as the copter lifted off. "It's very rare to get your hands on an Assassin-alive, that is."

As if to prove Perkins's words, their captive made a lunge for the door as the helicopter leveled off fifty feet from the ground.

"What the - !" Joe grabbed the guy before he could plunge through the door.

"He's really trying to kill himself," Frank said quietly.

"So how do we make him talk?" Joe whispered back.

After the helicopter landed at the secret British Intelligence center, that was exactly the problem facing the interrogation experts. "What's your name then, mate?" one of them asked.

The prisoner stared in stony silence. With his old-man makeup completely off, he looked hardly older than the Hardys.

"He might as well still be wearing the gag," Joe said.

They watched as the interrogators played "Good Cop/Bad Cop." The one who spoke first was friendly and fair. The other was hostile and scary.

"How's it going? Any way I can make it easier for you?" the Good Cop said.

"You can take these off." The prisoner gestured at the heavy manacles that held him in his chair.

"Those are for your own good. We've seen what you've tried to do." The Good Cop shook his head. "I was thinking more along the lines of something to drink."

"Forget it," the Bad Cop cut in. "We're not here to coddle this scum." He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. "I've got a list of questions here, and I expect to get them all answered.”

The questioning went on and on, with no effect, not even when the Bad Cop started roughing up the terrorist. The prisoner actually laughed. "You think I do not know this game?" His laughter grew louder. "Assassins do not tell secrets."

He nodded toward the Hardys. "Maybe your game would work on those two. They are just boys." "We were good enough to capture you," Joe said.

"Oh, yes, the great fighter." The prisoner's smile was mocking as he looked at Joe. "Did losing that girl make you fight harder?"

Joe's face went pale and hard. "You know about that?"

"Oh, I did not have anything to do with it," the prisoner said, watching the muscles in Joe's neck tighten. "Except, of course, to work with the bomb - " Before anyone could move, Joe was in midair, leaping at the prisoner. The chair and the bound man fell to the floor as Joe smashed into them, locking his hands around the terrorist's throat.

"Joe, stop it." Frank tried to pull his brother free, but he couldn't break Joe's choke-hold. The two burly interrogators and Perkins had to step in as well. Finally, the prisoner lay gasping on one side of the room. Joe struggled in the interrogators' grasp on the other side. There was no light of reason in his eyes, and his face was murderous.

"This guy was playing you," Frank shouted into Joe's face. "He can't kill himself, so he's got to get himself killed. That's why he worked on you. "

Joe stopped trying to break free. "So he's alive," he growled at last. "He still hasn't said anything.”

"Ah, but I think that will change now. I've been waiting for our expert to arrive. And here he is," Perkins said as the door to the interrogation room swung open.

In walked a short, bald man with a plump, shiny face. His watery blue eyes darted nervously around the room from behind the thick lenses of his glasses. "I - is it all right to come in?" he asked.

"This is your expert interrogator?" Joe stared in disbelief.

"Thanks to the miracle of modern chemistry, yes," said Perkins. "Go on, Fosby."

The little man opened the case he was carrying and loaded a hypodermic needle. Then he crossed the room to Joe and the two interrogators. "Hold him firmly now." "Not him," Perkins said. "The chap on the floor."

As soon as the terrorist saw the needle, pulled himself upright and rushed for the door. He didn't get far. The interrogators were waiting. In five seconds he was back on the floor in a hammerlock, his sleeve rolled up. Moments later, the injection was beginning to work.

"This is one of our better truth serums," Perkins said, watching as a dreamy look came over the prisoner's face.

Fosby was talking to him in a gentle voice. "What's your name, son?" The prisoner slurred words for a second or two, then said, "Hassan." "I want you to tell me some things, Hassan. You'll do that for me, won't you?" "I ... tell ... "

"I want to know about the London safe house," said Fosby. Frank and Joe glanced at each other. So the Assassins had a hideout in town!

"The safe house," Fosby repeated. "I want the code words to get in. You know them, don't you?"

Hassan's face went tight as he heard the words "safe house." At the mention of "code words," he began to shake and twitch. His eyes opened wide with horror as he screamed something in a foreign language.

Fosby's voice grew sharp. "Forget that. Forget it. Rest ... " He looked over at Perkins. "Sorry, sir. He's been conditioned against giving that information away. If I press, he'll just go into a fit like that and die."

Fosby paused and rubbed a hand over his shiny scalp. "Standard procedure among the Assassins. All of them undergo the conditioning from time to time. Helps them keep everything secret. "

Perkins's face was thoughtful. "We'll have to work our way back to the last conditioning session then. Start with his last mission."

"Hassan," Fosby said gently, "tell me about the hijacking."

"Rush job." Hassan sighed. "Four of us to go for American operation. We hardly arrive, when Selim and Rashid are sent off. Then Leila and I are ordered to get on plane. Almost no time to get tickets. " "And the disguises?" Fosby asked.

"They were ready-and the wheelchair. It is a standard way to board planes." "You say it was a rush job?" "We were given the description of a man. Eliminate him and anyone with him," Hassan said. "Destroy entire plane if necessary."

Joe looked at the Gray Man. "You're famous," he whispered.

"Afraid we would miss the plane," Hassan went on. "How did they know?" Frank whispered. "Shhh." Joe wanted to hear the next question. "Who gave the order?" Hassan began to sweat. "A voice on the phone. He gave us orders only that once."

"Hassan, you know his name." Fosby was leaning forward, eyes sharp. "I-am not. . ." The twitching was back now. "Hassan, you know who it was." "Cannot." Hassan's arms began to jerk against his manacles.

"We're getting close to his conditioning," Fosby said. "Hassan," his voice prodded. "His code name."

The prisoner's eyes were bugging out of his head. His face was red and strained as he almost gobbled the words. ". . . taken over American operation. Very important. . ." "Important?" Fosby echoed. "Important mission," Hassan said. "What mission?" "Don't know. Don't know!" The words were almost a scream.

"Who? Who is it, Hassan? Who's running the mission?" Fosby asked.

It looked as if the fit would tear the prisoner apart. Finally, he wailed an answer, "Al-Rousasa," and collapsed.

That name seemed to mean something to the intelligence people in the room. Frank and Joe saw the Gray Man's eyes light in recognition.

"Who's this Al-Rousasa character?" Joe wanted to know.

"A very heavy hitter on the international terrorism scene." The Gray Man frowned. "He may be the one who set the bomb in your car. But if he's involved, there's something much bigger going on in Bayport."

"Al-Rousasa." Frank repeated the name. "What is that? Arabic?"

"It's a code name," the Gray Man said. "Literally translated, it means 'The Bullet.' “His face was very grim. ”And they say that whenever the Bullet is aimed, the target is dead."

FRANK AND JOE watched in silence as the interrogator knelt by the captive. "We'll get no more from him now," Fosby said. "Not for a long time-if ever."

"Well, we know nothing more about the safe house," Perkins said, "and if we believe our sources, half of the Assassins' leadership council is in there right now."