The Pacific Conspiracy

"Man, it's just too hot," seventeen-year-old Joe Hardy said, setting down his groceries on the sidewalk. He wiped his face with the bottom of his T-shirt, which was already soaked.

People rushed by him on the crowded sidewalk, streaming in and out of the entrance to the supermarket. None of them, Joe noted crossly, seemed to be sweating, which made him feel even more conspicuous than ever. Of course, being six feet tall with blond hair, he would stand out among these people anyway. Almost everyone around him was shorter and darker. Then again, this was Djakarta, the capital of Indonesia, so what did he expect?

The natives must be used to the heat, he thought, picking up his groceries and cradling them in his arms. How anyone could get used to ninety-degree heat and ninety-percent humidity he didn't know. At eleven in the morning, it already was so hot he'd have bet he could fry an egg on the sidewalk.

Not that people in Indonesia ate eggs. At least, not the people he was with. Grapefruit and tea was all the Assassins seemed to need. Joe was ready to kill for a hamburger about now.

He shook his head to clear it. This was no time to think about food. He and his older brother, Frank, were in the middle of the most dangerous case of their lives. Through a remarkable series of events they had managed to infiltrate the Assassins, the deadliest group of terrorists in the world. The Assassins were a group of fanatics who, Joe knew, wouldn't think twice about killing him or his brother if they found out who they really were. Joe and Frank were actually working for the Network, a top-secret U.S. government organization.

No one would believe that a couple of teenagers such as Joe and Frank were government agents. They weren't, really. The whole thing had started with their doing a little preliminary detective work for their father, the world-famous private investigator Fenton Hardy.

The boys had been flown down to Atlanta, Georgia, to check out a series of luggage thefts plaguing Eddings Air. As they were uncovering the luggage theft ring they ran into the Assassins, who were trying to steal one piece of luggage - a fly fishing rod case containing notes describing a breakthrough discovery by Dr. Nikolai Stavrogin.

Dr. Stavrogin, Frank and Joe had discovered, was one of their country's foremost nuclear physicists. He had come up with a simple new method for creating an uncontrolled fusion reaction, which is what a hydrogen bomb blast is. Joe didn't entirely understand the method, but he knew the equations made it possible for the Assassins, with the right materials, to make a thermonuclear device of massive power. The Assassins had kidnapped Dr. Stavrogin, who later had been rescued by the Hardys and the Network.

Joe and Frank, along with Gina Abend, an employee of Eddings Air, had trailed the Assassins to Alaska. Although they had rescued Dr. Stavrogin from the terrorists, they failed to prevent the death of Gina, Joe noted sadly.

He and Frank had conned the terrorists into accepting them into their group. The Assassins had brought them first to Hawaii and then to Indonesia, where they'd spent the past two weeks sitting around. The most exciting thing they had allowed Joe to do was shop for groceries that day. Hardly terrorist work, Joe thought.

Just then someone slammed into his right arm, and Joe dropped his groceries.

"Maaf!"

He turned to see a young woman shaking her head at the groceries, which were spilled all over the sidewalk.

"Saya kurang mengerti," Joe replied. It was the only Indonesian he knew. It meant, "I don't understand."

"Ah," the woman said. "Apa saudara dapat bitiara bahasa Inggeris?"

Joe shook his head. "I don't get that either."

"I asked if you spoke English," she said, smiling. "I said I was sorry also," she added, kneeling down on the sidewalk. She began picking up his produce and stuffing it back into the bag. "I was in a hurry."

"I didn't see you, either," Joe said. And no wonder. She was barely five feet tall, about his age, with long black hair, a round, pretty face, and caramel-colored skin.

"You're an American," she said.

"That's right," he answered. "Joe Hardy."

"Endang Merdeka." She popped the last grapefruit back into the grocery bag, then stood and smoothed her long, colorful skirt. "What brings you to Indonesia, Joe?"

Joe shrugged. "Touring the sights."

"The grocery stores?" she said, shaking her head. "You ought to spend your time here doing things more unique to our country. Have you eaten padang yet? Or seen the wayang kulit?"

"No," Joe admitted.

Endang frowned. "What you need is a guide." She reached into her bag and pulled out a yellow handbill. There was a drawing of two strange, distorted figures on it. "There is a wayang kulit performance tonight at our national art center, the TIM. You can meet me there at eight."

She turned the handbill over. "It's easy to find," she said, scribbling down directions with a pen. "Tonight. Eight o'clock. You won't forget, will you?"

Joe shrugged helplessly. The truth was, he would have loved to go, even though he didn't know what a wayang kulit was, but the Assassins would never let him. He was surprised they had left him alone this long at the store.

Even more surprising was their allowing Frank to remain on the boat alone that morning. Joe didn't believe for a second that Frank had an upset stomach. Frank was up to something, he was sure of it.

"It's very important that you come, Joe," Endang said.

"Hardy! Where are you?" a voice called out before he could answer her.

Joe recognized that voice. It belonged to Boris, one of the Assassins. Boris had pretended to be unable to speak much English when they first met. Joe now knew it was so he could spy on Joe and Frank, because not only could the man speak English, he also was an American.

Joe turned in time to see the giant walking toward him. Not a real giant, of course, but at six feet, four inches tall, the bearded Assassin towered over the Indonesians rushing by him.

He and Frank had met Boris in Alaska. That was his entire name - Boris. It was an alias, just like the names of the other Assassins they'd met there, Bob and Bill. All three were with them in Indonesia, along with two other terrorists, one of whom was named Butch.

Joe was half expecting that he and Frank would be expected to change their names to Buck and Buddy.

Boris was scowling at Joe. He was probably angry because Joe hadn't waited for him inside the store.

Joe was more frightened of the guy coming out of the store behind Boris, though.

"Joseph," was all the newcomer said.

This man didn't look like much of a threat at first glance. A few inches shorter than Joe, in his midforties, whipcord thin, with graying hair and mustache, he was pretty nondescript. Until you focused on his eyes.

The irises were almost completely black. They were so black, Joe had at first thought the man must wear contact lenses. Nwali wasn't the kind of man to wear contact lenses, though, he'd discovered in the last two weeks. In that time Nwali had not spoken a single word more than was absolutely necessary, had not allowed any deviations from or questions about his orders, whether they concerned cleaning the massive supply of firearms the group had or cooking dinner. He was their leader, a frugal, hard man who lived by a demanding, Spartan code.

He was also crazy, Joe had decided, a man who should be locked up someplace by himself for a long, long time.

"I thought I told you to wait inside by the entrance, Joseph," Nwali said.

"I was tired of getting shoved aside by Indonesian housewives with shopping lists. Then I ran into this woman," Joe said, turning to Endang.

She was gone. He scanned the crowd quickly, but she was nowhere in sight.

"That's funny," Joe said. "She was here a minute ago. Anyway, she gave me this." He handed Nwali the yellow handbill.

The man studied the piece of paper. "Wayang kulit?" He sounded amused. Then, for the first time since Joe had met him, Nwali smiled.

"You know what it is?" Joe asked.

Nwali gave the handbill back to Joe. "Yes."

"She seemed to think it would be worth seeing," Joe offered.

"You're not here as a tourist," Boris said harshly.

To Joe's surprise, Nwali disagreed. "Everyone should see a wayang performance at least once. It is the ultimate expression of Indonesian culture. I haven't seen one myself in years." The Assassin leader clapped a hand on Joe's shoulder, and Joe had to repress an instinctive shudder.

"But for now we have work to do."