Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Thick as Thieves (6 page)
***
The outboard motor hummed a deep staccato tune, uneven enough to keep Joe from being lulled to sleep. As he listened, he began to notice a second, higher-pitched whine of another motor.
Someone was following him.
"Joe!" a woman's voice cried. He looked over to see Charity pulling alongside, piloting a speedboat. Between the noise of the two engines, nothing else could be heard. Charity signaled for Joe to shut off his motor. He did.
"You have to get off the raft!" she yelled.
"What?"
She gritted her teeth and waved at him to jump. "They know who you are. You have to get off that raft — "
***
"They're gone, Captain," the MP told Hammond, and Hammond frowned. He stood on the cliff, looking down at the frantic scene below. Half a dozen men were splashing in the water below, waiting for help.
"Call the Coast Guard and have them search for the boat," Hammond said. "Fish those men out and have them arrested."
A sailor with a pair of binoculars waved them at Hammond. "There's something else out there, sir. Some kind of a raft."
Captain Hammond reached for the binoculars, but Frank, who had been brought there with Chavo so Hammond could keep his eye on them, stepped forward and grabbed them. Hammond started to give another order, but Frank explained, "My brother's out there somewhere. I have to know what happened to him."
He scanned the sea. Joe wasn't among the men in the water, and Frank turned his gaze on the raft. He grinned with excitement.
Joe was standing up in the raft.
"It's Joe," he said happily, and handed the binoculars to Hammond.
A few minutes later there was a thunderous explosion, and when Frank looked through the binoculars again, the raft was a ball of fire, flying apart above the waves.
When the smoke and debris settled, Frank studied the water in horror. Joe was gone.
"JOE!" FRANK SCREAMED, starting for the edge of the cliff. Two MPs grabbed him and dragged him back.
"Take them both to the guardhouse," Captain Hammond commanded, pointing to Frank and Chavo. "I want some questions answered."
"Joe!" Frank screamed again, still struggling as he was pulled to the jeep. It was no use. The guards had him in an unbreakable grip, and he was shoved roughly into the jeep's backseat as Chavo quietly took the seat next to him.
"Stay there and be quiet," an MP growled. The guards climbed into the front seat and started up the jeep.
"I'll get him," Frank muttered as they sped through the base. "I'll get the Director if it's the last thing I do."
"Didn't I tell you to keep quiet?" the MP barked.
Chavo raised a finger to his lips, signaling Frank to stay silent. With his other hand he jabbed a finger three times at the MPs and nodded slowly to Frank.
After a long moment Frank nodded back. This was their only chance, he realized. Chavo held out three fingers and started flashing the count.
On the third count, Frank and Chavo jumped into action, clipping both MPs on the back of the neck. The men pitched forward, unconscious.
Chavo stood and reached over the driver, grabbed the steering wheel, and switched off the ignition. The jeep rolled on even after the power had been cut, sideswiped a hut in a shower of sparks, and then slowed to a halt. Frank and Chavo pulled the MPs out and propped them against the hut.
"They'll be all right when they wake up," Chavo said. He climbed behind the steering wheel.
"Let's get out of here," Frank said, seated in the passenger seat.
They sped for the main gate. The MP there stepped into their path, his rifle ready. "Stop!" he yelled. He dived to one side, though, as the jeep zoomed past him and smashed through the gate.
Once outside, Frank and Chavo scrambled to Chavo's car. As the MP started firing at them, the car roared off into the night.
"Now what?" Frank asked.
"We dump this car," Chavo said. "The police will be looking for it, and for us. I'll leave you in San Diego and rent a new car."
"Forget that," said Frank. "Where you go, I go. Where are we going?"
Chavo gave Frank a long look, then said, "Tijuana."
***
Joe woke on the floor of Charity's speedboat and wondered what he was doing there. Then it all came back to him.
He had jumped from the raft just as the night exploded in a shower of flames. But the shock waves that had pushed the still speedboat away from the scene of the blast had tossed Joe down, and he smashed his head on the wooden deck.
How long had he been out? he wondered, and decided it had been only a few seconds. Charity hadn't started the motor yet. Joe stared at the thick column of black smoke that was all that remained of the rubber raft.
"That could have been me," he said, trembling slightly as the realization caught up with him.
Charity looked at him oddly, as if surprised to see him moving. "It wasn't."
"Thanks to you," Joe replied. "Where did you get the boat?"
Charity smoothed her hair. "I borrowed it from the U.S. Navy. I figured it might come in handy."
"And here I thought you'd run out on me."
"Joe, I had to do something. They found out who you really are," Charity said.
Joe frowned. "How?"
"Well," Charity said, flashing her cat smile, "I told the Director."
"I knew it!" Joe raged. "I knew it!"
"Calm down," said Charity. She took a deep breath. "It's time I told you everything."
Joe fumed but said nothing. He stared at the misty sky and waited skeptically for her explanation.
"Oh, don't look like that," she said. "I had to turn you in, to establish my credibility."
"Sure. Your credibility. I suppose you stole the Star of Ishtar to establish your credibility."
"As a matter of fact, I did." She pulled a small wallet from her pocket, flipped it open, and held it up where Joe could see. "I'm a federal agent."
Joe read the card without interest. "No, you're not. You're a thief. This is another one of your tricks."
Charity shrugged and put the wallet away. "I know you have no reason to believe me, but I'm telling you the truth. I'm an undercover agent. I've worked for years at establishing a reputation as a master thief. It's the sort of rep that comes in handy when you're dealing with crooks."
"You were sure operating as a thief when we met you in San Francisco," Joe said, his voice still full of doubt.
"Whom did I steal from in San Francisco?" she asked.
"That was government property."
"Right," she said. "I work for the government. They set up things for me to steal, and I steal them. Then I give them back."
Nothing changed on Joe's face to indicate he believed a word she said.
"Don't look at me like that, Joe. I'm telling the truth. You could check it out yourself if we were going back to land, but we have to catch up to that cabin cruiser."
"The government didn't own the Star of Ishtar. Thanks to you, a friend of ours has his reputation and maybe his freedom on the line."
Charity lowered her eyes as if ashamed. "Yes, that's true. But I had to steal it. The Director gave each of us an assignment to prove we were qualified to take part in his caper. I had to steal the Star and give it to him, but we'll get it back when we capture him."
She looked at Joe. "When I realized you and Frank lived in Bayport, I knew I could bring you into it. I needed you for backup. Why do you think I made sure you had a trail to follow? Everything's going to work out fine. Trust me."
Frank's name stirred up Joe's anger all over again. He had, for a second, forgotten about his brother. I shouldn't trust her, he told himself, but she's the only one who can lead me to the Director and Chavo, and she might be on the level. If he was going to get his revenge, he'd have to go along.
"What was the Kid's assignment?"
"Pretty impressive," Charity replied. "He managed to get into the Soviet Historical Institute and get out of Russia with some of the czar's crown jewels. Not all of them, but enough to convince the Director he had what it took."
"So who's the Director?" Joe asked.
"I don't know. It's my mission to find out. He stays away from everyone, communicating only by television or radio."
"What's he up to?"
Charity dug under her seat and came back with a map of North America.
"Ever hear of Puerto de Oro?" she asked.
Joe thought briefly. The name was very familiar. "It's an island somewhere off the coast near Tijuana, isn't it?"
Charity nodded. "It's been billed as the perfect paradise. It's become quite a jet-set hangout. Tropical weather, gambling casinos, great beaches. A combination of Monte Carlo and Acapulco."
"The Director's going to knock over a casino?"
"You're thinking too small," Charity said, shaking her head. "He's planning to knock over the whole island."
"Impossible!" Joe answered.
"Hardly," she continued, undaunted. "It's high season for the resort, but the nights are cooling off, so almost everyone stays inside then. The place has a token force of security guards, but there aren't any other real police on the island."
"And with that gas we stole from the navy tonight, the Director can knock the whole place out," Joe said, beginning to put it all together.
"You've got it," Charity said. "Cash, jewels, gold, all kinds of riches. They'll be just lying there for the taking."
Joe heard the engine of another boat and saw a dark mass ahead of them. "There's the cabin cruiser. Let's get them."
"That might be a little hard," Charity said. "They're turning."
It was true. The larger craft was circling around, until it was aimed back at them.
"It's going to ram us!" Charity warned. She spun the steering wheel and shifted gears.
The speedboat sputtered and came to a dead stop.
"What's the matter?" Joe said urgently. The cruiser bore down on them.
Charity turned the ignition, which made a sickly grinding noise. "It's stalled," she said. "But I think I can get it started."
Before Joe or Charity could move, the cabin cruiser plowed into the side of the speedboat. When the larger craft resumed its course to Puerto de Oro, it left nothing but scrap metal and driftwood in its trail.
"GET OUT OF the car," Chavo said.
Frank Hardy, fueled by a thirst for revenge against his brother's killers, shook off his exhaustion. He was seated in the new car that Chavo had rented. They were stopped dead in traffic, with a long line of cars in front of them. In the distance Frank could see the bright lights of the Tijuana border station. "What's going on?"
"There's usually no trouble getting from the United States to Mexico," said Chavo. "Something's up. They're checking cars."
"Maybe they're looking for someone."
"Like us," Chavo agreed. "Time for another plan."
As car horns behind them began to honk, Chavo pulled the car to the curb and parked it. Quietly he and Frank left the car and under cover of darkness stole toward the footbridge that ran across the border. There was little traffic on the footbridge, and Frank could see most of the customs officers over at the auto entrance. There was only one guard on the footbridge.
"Be nonchalant," Chavo warned him. "If you're not nervous as you walk past the officer, he'll pay no attention to you."
Frank nodded and walked ahead by a few feet. The officer was standing, reading a magazine. Apparently he wasn't noticing anything at all. As Frank passed him, he glanced up and smiled as if by rote. "Welcome to Mexico, senor," the officer said. "Have a good time."
"Thank you," Frank said, and walked on.
Chavo came up behind, and again the officer smiled. But now there was a cleverness in the grin. Chavo returned the grin, but as he passed the officer, he heard, "Buenas noches, Senor Chavo."
Chavo spun to swing at the officer, but the officer grabbed his wrist and twisted it behind his back. "How is the most famous criminal in all of Mexico tonight? We have heard much of you from our neighbors to the north."
"Frank!" Chavo called.
Frank had no choice. He whipped around, catching the officer in the ribs with a karate kick. Frank felt as uncomfortable about attacking a policeman as he had about fighting the MPs, but Chavo was his only connection to the Director. As the officer staggered, Chavo turned and drove a fist into his stomach.
The officer flew back and landed, stunned, in the dust.
By now other officers had noticed the scuffling on the footbridge, and Frank saw them running toward them through the darkness. "Come on," Chavo yelled. "It's only a short way to the city."
Together they ran into the night, leaving the policemen behind.
Frank wasn't prepared for Tijuana. It was a thriving city with modern buildings and shops. As they walked down wide, newly paved streets, they passed manufacturing plants, shopping centers, and racetracks.
There was the Avenida Revolucion, a bustling avenue of restaurants, nightclubs, and small shops where, even at that time of night, tourists wandered, snapping photographs. But Frank didn't have time to be a tourist. Everywhere he looked, he saw his brother's face, and the only thing on his mind was how to nail the Director.
He also remembered Charity. It was her fault they'd gotten involved in this. Frank promised himself that she, too, should finally pay for her crimes.
"In here," Chavo said as they came to the door of a bar. It was a dingy place. The bar was long, lined with rickety stools, and the rest of the place was a dance floor, where only a few couples moved lazily to Spanish guitar music played by a decades-old jukebox. At the far end of the bar a curtain of beads covered the entrance to another room. Perhaps two dozen men were on the bar's stools.
"What are we doing here?" Frank asked.
"Trust me," Chavo said. As they walked in, he called out, "Hey! Amigos!"
As one, the men on the stools turned around and stared balefully at Chavo. Silently they fingered their drinks, and several of them pulled large knives from their belts and set them on the bar.
