Read The Pacific Conspiracy Online
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
The Pacific Conspiracy (2 page)
"It's about time you got here," Bill said. He was leaning against the side of the beat-up old cargo van they had taken into town earlier that morning. As he talked he popped a handful of peanuts into his mouth and then tossed the shells into the gutter. He'd been eating peanuts night and day for two weeks and showed no sign of stopping.
Joe smiled wearily. "Long lines at the store."
The sliding door on the side of the van was open. Joe set down his bags and tried to wipe his forehead. His T-shirt was so soaked that it did-no good.
Boris set his bags down next to Joe's. The big man didn't seem to be bothered by the heat.
"I have good news," Bill said, straightening up and stretching. He was wearing military khakis, and he, at least, looked as sweaty as Joe felt. "Krinski's back. We can finally get this operation going."
Joe's heartbeat tripled.
"And there's still no sign of any Network agents," Bill added.
"Bahasa," Nwali interrupted, raising a hand. Bill glanced at Joe and resumed speaking, but in what Joe knew was Indonesian.
Joe listened helplessly. There was something they didn't want him to know about.
"Hold on," Joe blurted out. "If this is about the Network, they killed my friend, remember? I've got as much right to know what's going on as anybody else."
Boris put a hand on his shoulder. A very big hand.
"You've got the rights we give to you," he said.
"I didn't join the organization to carry groceries." Joe picked up Boris's hand and removed it from his shoulder. "I want to know what's happening."
Boris grunted. Bill folded his arms across his chest. Both turned to Nwali, who stared at Joe for what seemed a full minute before speaking.
"Perhaps my comrades didn't explain the way our organization works when you were recruited," Nwali said finally. "Let me rectify that error."
He took a step forward so that he was within inches of Joe.
"You'll carry groceries for the rest of this mission if we decide that is what we need you to do. We will decide what you have a right to know, and when. You, in turn, will follow our orders exactly. Is that clear?"
"Yes," Joe said, sensing Boris waiting and ready for action. These guys would kill him if he gave them much more trouble. "But I want you to know I'm not in this for the money. I want to nail the people who killed Gina."
"Of course," Nwali said. "For now, though, you do as you're told."
Right, Joe added silently. Until Frank and I find out what you're up to. Then you belong to the Network.
Nwali climbed into the front passenger seat while Joe and Boris settled themselves in the rear among the supplies.
So Krinski's arrival was what they'd been waiting for the past two weeks. Now all he and Frank had to figure out was who Krinski was, and where he and the Assassins planned to sell Stavrogin's equations.
The van pulled out into traffic just as a horsedrawn cart pulled out of a side street ahead of them.
Bill honked the horn loudly. "Move that thing!"
The cart's driver, an elderly man in a colorful, patterned shirt, turned and smiled at Bill. His passengers, a bearded man and a blond woman, glared at the van momentarily, then resumed talking to each other. Judging from the clothes, Joe figured the man and woman were tourists.
"It's going to take us twenty minutes to go a block at this rate," Bill said, shaking his head. "Why do they still permit those things on the street?"
"They look kind of cool," Joe said.
"Cool?" Nwali asked, turning to him. "As in quaint?" He sounded angry. "Look at these people."
Joe looked. They were driving down a large avenue now, and one entire side of the street was filled with small stalls, with merchants selling native handicrafts of every kind. There was even a group of dancers in a small space between two stalls.
"Hawking their traditions, their very beliefs, older by a thousand years than those of the West, for the almighty dollar. It disgusts me," Nwali said, shaking his head.
Joe didn't know what to say, and he certainly didn't want to get Nwali any angrier at him, so he kept his mouth shut.
"All this has to change," Nwali said. "And it will, soon enough." The Assassin leader turned in his seat again and spent the rest of the ride back to the waterfront in silence.
Joe was also quiet as he tried to figure out what Nwali's cryptic last words had meant.
***
"Move away from the keyboard, Hardy," Butch said, drawing his knife.
"Take it easy," Frank said, standing and stepping back. "Like I said, the door was open."
"Don't waste your breath," Butch said curtly. "Now turn around."
Frank complied, his mind racing as the Assassin checked him for weapons. No matter what kind of explanation he came up with for being in the room, Nwali wasn't going to buy it. That meant he and Joe were dead men. He had to get off the ship and warn his brother. There was an American embassy in Djakarta; if the two of them could make it there, they'd be safe.
"Do you really think Nwali would trust you here all alone?" Butch said. "No. While the others went to town and Bob went to check on his helicopter, I stayed here to keep an eye on you, and look what I found. Now move," Butch continued. "Out on deck."
Frank felt the sharp point of the knife digging into the small of his back as Butch shoved him out of the cabin, which he locked. Frank had to shield his eyes when he went up on deck. The sun was directly overhead and unbelievably bright. He felt the pressure in Butch's knife hand ease up just a fraction. He must have been blinded by the sun, too.
Frank spun at that moment and grabbed the Assassin's wrist with both hands.
"You fool," Butch said, straggling to break his grip. "I'll kill you."
"Why not drop the knife instead?" Frank said. He let go of the Assassin's wrist with his right hand and drove his right fist straight into Butch's stomach. He heard the man gasp and brought his left knee up into Butch's knife hand. The weapon clattered to the deck.
They dived after it at exactly the same time. Frank got there first, grabbed the knife, and somersaulted away from Butch. When he turned back to face him, Butch was standing motionless, staring at him.
"You're dead, Hardy," Butch said. "Nwali will kill you when he returns. Or perhaps he'll give you to Boris."
Frank felt the deck railing at his back. For a second he considered jumping overboard and swimming for shore, but that would mean leaving Joe to these creeps.
"Why don't you use that knife, boy?" Butch taunted, circling him. "Or don't you know how?"
"I know how," Frank said, unsure that he could, even if it came down to his life versus Butch's.
Butch must have read the hesitation in his eyes. The man charged him, ducking under the knife, and tackled him. Frank fell back, crashing into the wooden handrail that circled the ship.
There was a loud crack. The next second the two of them were hurtling through the air, heading for the ocean below!
Frank felt Butch's grip loosen and fall away. A split second later he slammed into the ocean. At almost the same time he heard Butch hit the water next to him.
Before he knew what was happening Frank felt the Assassin's hands on his arm. He was trying to get the knife away from Frank.
"Not so fast," Frank said. He raised his right knee up to his chin and then thrust it forward, catching the man in the chest. The blow caught Butch just right and knocked him back.
Butch recovered and lunged for him again. This time Frank wasn't quick enough to escape, and Butch forced his head underwater with one "and. He ripped the knife out of Frank's grasp with the other.
Frank was desperate to free himself - he couldn't breathe. Everything was happening in slow motion. Butch's knife slid through the water next to Frank. Frank kicked away, and the knife missed his shoulder by inches.
"Hold still!" Butch yelled. He seemed to be moving at half speed, too. Fighting in the water was tiring both of them. The Assassin had the edge, though. He was willing to kill, and Frank wasn't.
Frank kicked and shot upward so his head could break the surface. Gasping for air, he looked toward the waterfront. It was half a mile away.
Even though he was exhausted, he forced himself to swim in the direction of the docks. It was his only way out. Ignoring the tightness in his lungs and the pounding of his heart, Frank pulled with all his strength.
The next thing he knew, he was touching wood. A dock. He broke the surface and looked around. There was the motorboat that had ferried him and Joe to the Hatta that first night. He pulled himself up onto the planking.
Suddenly agony erupted along the back of his right leg.
He fell backward into the ocean. Butch, just a few feet behind him, had slashed him with the knife!
"Let's see you swim now," the Assassin said, his mouth twisted in a cruel imitation of a smile.
Then all at once Butch screamed.
Frank didn't know what had happened. Then he saw a flash of gray and black stripes slither past him. Frank shuddered. It was a snake.
"Help me," Butch cried out. He dropped the knife and turned back toward the dock.
"Easy," Frank said. He swam up beside him and gave the Assassin a boost up onto the dock. As he did so a thick white plastic card fell out of Butch's pocket. Frank grabbed it and shoved it in his own pocket.
He pulled himself up on the dock and helped Butch lie down. The man was hyperventilating now, and on his right leg a nasty-looking bruise was beginning to swell. Whatever kind of snake had bitten him must have been poisonous.
"Take it easy," Frank said. "We'll get a doctor."
Butch convulsed once, then clutched Frank's shirt with a hand. His eyes glazed over. Frank touched the side of his neck. No pulse, nothing. The man was dead.
"What's happening?"
Frank turned.
Joe was standing on the pier above him, looking down. Next to him, eyes fixed on Frank, was Nwali.
***
"You're sure you're okay?" Joe asked.
"Fine," Frank said, checking the slash on the back of his leg. "The cut's not that deep."
He and Joe were sitting side by side on their bottom bunk. The bed took up most of their small cabin. The only other furniture was a small built-in dresser with three drawers and a tiny mirror screwed to the wall just above it. It wasn't much but right then Frank felt lucky to have it.
The alternative would be a spot on the floor of the Assassins' van, where Butch was right now. Boris was taking his fallen comrade's body to be buried. If not for that snake, Frank and Joe would be sharing that spot on the van's floor.
"I think Nwali bought your explanation," Joe said.
Frank shook his head. "I'm not so sure." He'd told the Assassins' leader that he and Butch had been roughhousing on deck and fell against the rail, which broke. The two had fallen into the ocean, where Butch had been bitten by a snake. An accident, pure and simple.
Nwali hadn't asked a single question when Frank finished telling his story. He'd just nodded his head and then had Joe escort Frank back to their cabin.
"How much worse off could we be, anyway?" Joe asked. "It's not like they tell us what's going on now."
"That's true," Frank admitted. "We still don't know what we've been waiting for for the past two weeks or who this mysterious Krinski is."
"I think we'll be finding out soon enough," Joe said.
"Oh?" Frank turned to Joe, who had a half smile on his face. "And why is that?"
"Because he's here."
"What?" Frank asked excitedly. "You saw him?"
"Take it easy," Joe said. "No, I didn't see him, but Bill said he'd arrived." With that he told Frank everything that had happened to him that day, starting with his run-in with Endang.
"I almost forgot," Frank said when he finished. He pulled out Butch's thick white plastic card from his pocket and handed it to Joe. "What do you make of this?"
"It looks like one of those magnetic ID cards," Joe said. He turned it over. Both sides were completely blank. "Where'd you get it?"
"From Butch, before he died." Frank took the card and slipped it back in his pocket. "Keep an eye out for where we might use it."
Joe nodded just as the door to their cabin swung open.
"All right, you two, out on deck," Bill said, stepping inside and focusing on Joe. "You wanted to do something besides carry groceries, here's your chance."
"Really? What's up?" Joe asked.
Bill smiled. "Come topside and you'll see."
They followed him up on deck to find another ship pulled up near them. The newcomer was an unmarked freighter, all rusted metal and peeling gray paint, slightly larger than theirs. A small crane set in the middle of the second ship was lowering crates directly into the Hatta's cargo hold.
"Break for a minute!" Bill yelled across to the man operating the crane. He turned back to the Hardys. "I want you two to go below and stack those crates. Make sure we're not unbalanced."
He pointed to the top of a metal ladder poking out of the hold. "You climb down over there. When you're done give a yell up, and we'll send more crates down."
"I think we can handle that," Joe said. Without another word he disappeared down the ladder. Frank followed him into the freighter's dim, musty cargo hold.
"Whoa, it stinks in here," Joe said, holding his nose. "This must be Boris's room."
"Very funny," Frank said. The hold was only about six feet high, so he knew he'd have to crouch down to move about. As he stepped off the ladder he did bump his head on the single source of light, one bulb dangling from a fraying electric wire. The bouncing bulb cast strange shadows on either side of him, like those from a strobe light.
Frank quickly counted a half dozen crates scattered about the hold, with "SMCS" stenciled on them in letters about six inches high. Each crate was approximately the size of an old steamer trunk.
"Let's stack three on each side," Frank said, taking hold of one crate and sliding it toward him. "Grab the other end."
"Aren't you forgetting something?" Joe asked. "Don't we want to see what's inside these crates?"
"Of course," Frank answered quietly. He glanced upward. "But let's make a little noise for our friend up there first. Let him think we're hard at work." He set the crate down and slid it flush against the hold's side, letting it drag against the ground so that it made a huge scraping sound. "What do you think these initials stand for?"
Joe shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe that's what's in them, something called SMCS. There's only one way to find out for sure, though."
The lid of the crate was nailed shut. Frank came up with a crowbar discarded in a corner. He jammed it into the space between the lid and the edge of the crate and ran the bar around the edge of the crate several times. He was able to pry the top up gradually without bending the nails, and finally the lid came off.
To Frank's surprise, the crate was filled with instruction hard hats.
"I don't get this," Frank said, shoving the lid back on the crate. He and Joe quickly pushed the nails back into place. "Let's try another."
"Hurry it up down there!" Bill shouted down. "What's taking you so long?"
"We're almost done!" Frank yelled back.
Joe had moved to another crate that had red Indonesian writing stenciled across it. He was busy prying off its lid. He was faster at it than Frank had been.
"Want to bet the lunch pails are in this one?" he asked as the lid lifted up with a screech.
Frank reached around Joe and dug his hand into the crate. "It's straw," he said, pulling out a handful. "It must be covering something."
He dug in deeper, and his fingers touched metal. Carefully he pulled out an oblong metal framework about the size of a milk crate.
"What's this?" Frank asked, holding it up to the light. He spun it around in his hand and studied it from every angle. It looked almost like some sort of helmet, but the space inside was barely big enough for a child's head.
Then the realization hit him.
"You look sick," Joe said. "What's the matter?"
"I feel sick," Frank replied. He held out the lattice of metal for his brother to examine. "You know what this is?"
Joe shook his head. "From the tone of your voice, I'll bet it's not a lunch pail."
"You can say that again. What we have here," Frank said quietly, "is part of the reaction chamber for a hydrogen bomb. This" - he pointed to the empty space in the center - "is where the plutonium goes."
For once Joe was speechless.
"The Assassins don't plan on selling Stavrogin's formula to anyone," Frank said. "They're going to build a hydrogen bomb themselves."
