Strategic Moves (10 page)
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
"We will find her," Krylov said, rejoining the group. He rubbed his fingers together. "Whoever it was used plastic explosives."
"Is anyone really surprised?" Frank asked sarcastically.
"I will take Pyotr to the Russian embassy in London," Krylov announced. "He is not safe here."
"I wish to look for my sister," Ziggy insisted.
"You will not be able to find her," Krylov said. "And I will not take a chance on you being kidnapped, too. Come, you must pack."
Krylov grabbed Ziggy by the arm and led him to the men's cottage.
An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of Frank's stomach. Krylov was Aleksandr's boss, and Aleksandr did not like Americans or the new detente.
The paramedics placed Katrina on a gurney and wheeled her to the waiting ambulance. A respirator covered her face, and an IV bottle was feeding her glucose.
The dark night was cut sharply by the blue flashing of the various emergency vehicles' lights. Frank, Joe, and the others watched as the doors of the ambulance were shut. The ambulance sped away, its eerie wail echoing throughout the night. Commander Collins followed in his car.
"I hope Katrina is okay," the Gray Man said.
"That's just great coming from you," Joe blurted.
"What do you mean?" The Gray Man's usual dull expression was replaced by one of surprise.
"She said you took Petra." Joe stared hard and deep at the Gray Man. They had been good friends once, but now Joe felt as though he was staring at a dangerous enemy.
"That's ridiculous," the Gray Man said.
Fitzhugh cleared his throat. "Our young friends are obviously confused."
"Yes," the Gray Man agreed, nodding his head. His eyes darted from Frank to Joe. "I think it best that Frank and Joe be placed in protective custody."
"What are you trying to hide?" Frank asked the Gray Man heatedly. "Why didn't you tell us about Chris St. Armand?"
The Gray Man looked surprised. "Who?"
"He was my roommate," Joe replied.
"Impossible," the Gray Man said. "St. Armand was dismissed from service months ago."
"Why?" Frank asked.
"He tampered with some documents we had received from a field agent in Turkey," the Gray Man explained. "He and other agents were feeding the Network and BCI disinformation."
"What's disinformation?" Joe asked.
"Intentionally false information about other countries." Frank explained.
"What was the disinformation?" Joe asked.
"We should not be discussing this," Fitzhugh said. His voice sounded nervous.
"St. Armand provided disinformation that the Soviet Union was planning to crush the reform movements in Eastern Europe," the Gray Man continued. "He was hoping that the United States, Britain, and the other NATO allies would react by increasing their military presence in Western Europe, thus destabilizing the new relationship between the Soviet Union and the West."
"As well as the CRAY satellite negotiations," Frank added.
"That's right," the Gray Man said, nodding.
"You mentioned that other agents were involved," Frank said. "Who were they?"
"They were British," the Gray Man replied. He looked at Fitzhugh. "But we never caught them."
"They got out of the country before they were found out," Fitzhugh said quickly.
"How do we know that you didn't take Petra?" Frank challenged.
The Gray Man looked Frank in the eye. "I didn't, Frank. I'm one of the good guys."
"Why did they take Petra and not Ziggy?" Joe asked.
"They made a mistake," Fitzhugh said angrily. He turned to the Gray Man. "I still say these young men should be put in protective custody."
"I think you're right," the Gray Man said, his voice tired.
"We want to find Petra," Joe insisted.
"There are three things I don't like about you two," Fitzhugh said angrily. "You're brash, you're impertinent, you're noisy, and you're Americans."
"That's four," Frank said.
"And I'm American," the Gray Man said. "Do you dislike me as well?"
Fitzhugh's cheeks puffed out. "Hmph!" He motioned to two men standing by the blue British Ford sedan.
"Bert," Fitzhugh addressed the shorter agent, "these two young men are in need of our protective services," Fitzhugh said. "Take them to the farmhouse."
"Yes, sir," Bert replied.
"We're not going anywhere," Frank said sternly.
With surprising speed, the shorter agent grabbed Frank's arm and twisted it behind his back.
"Now, don't give us any trouble, lad," he said in a harsh cockney accent.
The second agent reached into his jacket and started to pull out a Colt .45.
"Not here, Jenkins," the Gray Man ordered.
"Yes, sir," Jenkins said. From his accent Frank guessed that he was an American.
"No need for weapons," Fitzhugh agreed. "I think our young guests realize the foolishness of resisting."
"Okay," Frank said, and Bert released him.
"I want to help find Petra!" Joe wasn't ready to give in so easily.
"I'm sorry, Joe," the Gray Man said. "The stakes are too high."
Bert and Jenkins pushed the brothers toward the sedan as Fitzhugh and the Gray Man got into another car and pulled away.
"Why are you letting Fitzhugh run things?" Frank shouted back to the Gray Man. "Why are you trying to keep us quiet?"
"Shut up," Jenkins ordered, and pushed Joe forward.
Frank felt betrayed by the Gray Man. For all he knew, Mr. Gray could be part of the conspiracy. And Fitzhugh's anti-American sentiments had finally shown through. In fact, Fitzhugh sounded like a British version of Aleksandr.
The British agent who worked with St. Armand was never caught! The thought struck Frank like a thunderbolt. And why was Fitzhugh so sure that the kidnappers had made a mistake in taking Petra instead of Pyotr?
"It's your fault," Frank angrily said to Joe.
"What?" Joe's voice registered shock and confusion.
"It's your fault," Frank repeated. "If you'd done your job, none of this would have happened."
"What are you talking about?"
Frank stopped and shoved Joe. "I'm talking about the incompetent way you've handled this case all along!" Frank shouted. Then he winked.
Joe had to stop himself from smiling. He shoved Frank back.
"Yeah? Well, you're the moron who came up with the great idea." Joe swung at Frank.
Frank ducked and struck Joe in the midsection.
The two agents laughed. Bert, the short one, said, "We're going to see a brawl, Jenkins. I'll wager on the blond one."
"You're on," Jenkins replied.
Frank and Joe continued to push and shove, holding on to each other's shirts, working their way closer to the two agents.
"Looks more like a wrestling match than boxing," Bert said, disappointed. "Come on, you two, knock each other's brains out!"
"Now!" Frank shouted.
Frank landed a solid right to Bert's jaw while Joe hit Jenkins in the chest with a spinning karate kick. The agents fell to the ground simultaneously.
"Their car," Frank said with a nod to the blue sedan.
Joe sprinted past Frank and hopped into the driver's seat - and only then remembered that the driver's seat in British cars was on the right. He scooted over, reached under the dash, and yanked down on the wires. He took out his pocketknife and cut a large red wire, then a green wire, then stripped both of them, hoping that the wiring in British cars was the same as in American cars. After all, the car was a Ford.
Frank jumped into the passenger seat as Joe touched the wires together. Sparks flew in the darkness. The engine turned over but didn't start.
"Come on, come on," Joe ordered the engine as it continued to grind. He stomped on the gas pedal.
"Let's go, Joe," Frank said, his voice strained and nervous.
Joe glanced into the rear-view mirror. The two agents were running up fast behind the car, guns drawn, Bert with a 9-mm Beretta and Jenkins with a .45 automatic.
Joe touched the wires again, and the sedan fired to life.
"Halt!" Bert yelled as he approached the car. We're out of here!" Joe shouted. He shifted the car into first and floored the accelerator. The rear tires spit up mud and grass as they tried to grip the ground for traction. The debris hit the two agents.
"Stop! Now!" Jenkins yelled, wiping mud and grass from his face. He leveled his .45 and fired. The rear windshield shattered.
Frank slumped down in the front seat.
"Frank!" Joe shouted above the roar of the engine.
"I'm okay," Frank said. "I'm ducking. Something you ought to consider doing."
"No need," Joe replied. "We're long gone." He shifted gears. "What's the plan?"
"What plan?" Frank asked. He sat up and looked behind him. They were driving east on the High, out of Oxford.
"You don't have a plan?" They passed Magdalen College and crossed the bridge. "You always have a plan."
Frank remained silent. They passed the neat little row of houses Frank had noticed three days earlier and were quickly in the country heading toward London.
Frank didn't like the similarities between Fitzhugh and Aleksandr. And how was St. Armand able to bluff his way onto the International Classroom rolls? Fitzhugh was the director. He had a hand in selecting students. As a BCI director, Fitzhugh had to have known that St. Armand had been fired from the Network. And the British agent hadn't been caught. Fitzhugh said Petra's kidnapping was a mistake. How did he know that?
"Where to?" Joe asked.
"I don't know yet," Frank said. "Would it surprise you to learn that Fitzhugh is behind Petra's kidnapping?"
Joe drove in silence, the wind blowing back his blond hair. A moment later he said, "No."
"You want a plan?" Frank asked, not expecting an answer. "Let's cool it for a while in the country. Then we can double back and get Ziggy out of the cottage."
"What about Petra?" Joe asked.
Frank sighed. "Whoever has Petra may use her as a bargaining chip to get Ziggy. He's the one they really want. Besides, Fitzhugh was upset and said that they had made a mistake. How would he know they had made a mistake?"
***
The Hardys drove around for an hour, then made their way back into Oxford from the south.
They parked the car a block from the cottage and worked their way slowly and cautiously back to the cottage, hiding in the shadows and against the buildings. They had to watch out not only for Network, BCI, and KGB agents but also for the local police. It was midnight, and Frank and Joe were behaving like criminals.
They stopped a short distance from the rear of the men's cottage.
"Can you see anything?" Joe asked.
"No," Frank replied, exhaustion etched into his voice. He squinted as he tried to see through a window of the cottage. "It's dark inside."
"You think Ziggy's still in there?" Joe was just as tired and just as anxious as Frank.
"Only one way to find out."
Frank and Joe began walking toward the cottage, the darkness providing cover for them.
"They could have moved Ziggy while we were driving around in the country," Joe said.
"That's possible," Frank agreed. "Let's keep low."
Frank and Joe bent over and scrambled the rest of the way to the cottage. They leaned against a wall, catching their breath.
"What do you think?" Joe whispered.
"Let's try the back door," Frank said.
They crouched and moved closer to the back door. Joe took out his pocketknife and slid it between the door and the jamb. A moment later he had opened the door.
They crept into the kitchen. Frank pointed toward the living room. They tiptoed to the door way.
Joe pointed to himself and then toward the living room - he was going first.
A light flared on as Joe started out into the living room.
"No need to sneak around, Mr. Hardy," Bert, the British agent, said. "Come in, please."
Bert hadn't seen Frank, so Frank began backing away from the doorway. He stopped as he felt the cold steel of a gun barrel against his neck and heard the sharp click of a hammer being locked into place.
"Not running out on the party, are you, friend?" Jenkins asked in a distinctive American accent.
Frank raised his hands and walked into the living room. Joe was standing by the couch, his hands clasped behind his head. Frank joined him as Jenkins stood beside his British partner.
"You Yanks ain't as smart as you think you are," Bert sneered, "comin' back here and all." He glanced at Jenkins. "Looks like we caught ourselves a couple of kidnappers."
"Right, Bert," Jenkins replied. "We're going to be heroes."
The men raised their guns and pointed them at the Hardys.
"Night-night, gents," Bert said, smiling, showing his teeth.
"Are you ready to die for the Gray Man?" Frank asked Jenkins.
"I'm ready to die for my country," Jenkins replied. "Just as you're about to do."
"What if the Gray Man isn't working for his country? What if the Gray Man is working for the Soviets?" Frank looked deep into Jenkins's eyes, searching for a reaction, but the agent was a veteran and his poker face was blank, hard as stone.
"You're an amateur," Jenkins said to Frank, his voice flat.
"That may be true," Frank replied. "But I'm not a traitor."
"What do you blokes mean?" Bert asked.
"We mean that someone has been manipulating events from the first day, trying to cause an international incident," Joe said.
"That's crazy," Bert blurted.
"Exactly," Frank said. "That's why Joe and I have been trying to stop it."
"Who's behind it?" Jenkins asked.
"We're not sure," Joe said. "Ever hear of a Network agent named Chris St. Armand?"
"Yeah," Jenkins said.
"He's here in England," Frank said.
"Impossible," Jenkins shot back.
"Why?" Joe could see a rising doubt in Jenkins's face.
"He was canned from the agency," Jenkins explained.
"What about Fitzhugh?" Joe asked Bert.
"What about him?" Bert kept his pistol at waist level, pointed at Joe.
"How much do you trust him?" Joe lowered his arms slowly.
"Fitzhugh's retired, only used on special occasions. He's a fine chief." Bert's voice lacked the confidence to back up his words.
"We're concerned only with the safety of Ziggy and Petra," Frank said. He, too, lowered his arms.
"We returned to find out if Ziggy was safe," Joe added.
"He's safe," Bert replied.
"He's gone with a Soviet operative to a safe house. He'll stay there until this is over," Jenkins said.
"Who's the agent?" Frank asked. "Krylov?"
"No," Bert said. "The young one."
"Aleksandr!" Joe exclaimed.
"That's the one," Bert said.
"Where's this safe house?" Frank asked.
"I think we ought to call Mr. Gray and find out what to do with these two," Jenkins suggested, glancing at Bert.
"Yeah," Bert agreed. "I don't like the look of things." He made a move toward the phone.
"You call Mr. Gray, and you'll be putting the lives of two young Soviet nationals in danger," Frank warned.
Bert's hand was inches from the phone, hovering above it, his bulldog face showing uncertainty and indecision. He unclutched and clutched his gun. Then he moved away from the phone.
"How do we know what you say is true?" Bert asked.
"This might help." Frank slowly slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out the lighter. He tossed it to Jenkins.
Jenkins caught it, turned it over, and read the inscription. "It's St. Armand's all right," Jenkins said to Bert. He put the lighter in his jacket pocket.
"Where's the safe house?" Joe asked.
Bert looked at Jenkins, who nodded.
"Fitzhugh wanted the Zigonev kid away from Oxford. He persuaded Krylov to have Aleksandr take the boy to a safe house near Stonehenge," Jenkins explained.
"Fitzhugh and Aleksandr, again," Frank hissed.
"That's too close to the antique shop," Joe added.
"Don't you see?" Frank asked the two agents. "Fitzhugh, St. Armand, Markham, and Aleksandr are all involved in a plot to destroy the relationship between the Soviet Union and the West."
"Why would they want to do that?" Jenkins asked.
"To save their jobs," Joe answered.
"I don't know if I trust these two," Bert said to Jenkins.
"What choice do you have?" Frank asked.
"How could we know about the antique shop and St. Armand unless we also knew about the conspiracy to kidnap the Zigonevs?"
"He's got a point," Jenkins said.
"A dull point," Bert countered.
Jenkins tucked his gun into his shoulder holster. "They may be teenagers," he said to Bert, "but they have a good rep within the Network. I'm willing to take a chance."
Bert reluctantly agreed. He uncocked his gun and put it into its holster.
"We'll take our car," Bert said. "I bet you two left it somewhere nearby."
