Too Many Traitors (2 page)

The Hardys went into the cafe, and soon a waiter brought a tray of sausages, toast, and oranges and set it in front of them.

"Let's hit the beach this afternoon," Joe said after finishing an orange.

"Mmmm?" Frank said, his mouth full of toast.

"When the tour's over. We've got the afternoon free, remember?" Joe held up a hand and studied his skin. "I've got to work on my tan."

"And the girls," Frank said.

"And the girls," Joe admitted, laughing as he called the waiter over. He got the bill, dug a handful of Spanish pesetas from his pocket, and dropped them on the table.

The sun had already made the city hot. It was cooled only by an occasional ocean breeze. The street was busy, clogged with cars in the road and pedestrians on the sidewalk. Despite the antiquity of many of the buildings, Malaga was as modern as any city.

Which is what Martin would tell us, Frank thought. If he were here.

As they passed their car, the driver waved at them and then crossed the street. He drew a long white envelope from his pocket and handed it to Frank without a word.

"It's from Martin," Frank said after tearing the envelope open. He had several sheets of paper with typing on them. The top sheet read: Dear Frank and Joe,

Sorry I can't be with you this morning. Continue without me. The driver knows where to take you. Good luck.

Martin

Under the first sheet were more papers, detailing the tour and the special features and history of the places they were scheduled to see. "Does this mean we can go straight to the beach?" Joe asked.

"We've got the car for only a couple of days," Frank said, slipping the notes into his shirt pocket. "Plenty of time for the beach later. Let's go see the town while we can."

"Can we get a new driver?" Joe whispered as they crossed the street. "This one's not my choice for tour guide of the year. He looks like his face will fall off if he smiles."

"I know what you mean," Frank whispered. The driver opened the back door for them. Frank and Joe slid in. "He doesn't smile, he doesn't talk, and I still haven't gotten a good look at his face," he said so only Joe could hear. The door slammed behind him. "But think of it this way: Who looks a gift horse in the mouth?"

The driver got in and turned on the ignition. The limousine roared to life, then pulled into the traffic. In seconds the Hardys found themselves swept along through the streets of Malaga.

As they neared the city's waterfront, traffic thinned out, and the car cruised the Paseo del Parque beside the harbor. "Look," Joe said, pointing at the palm-shaded walkways that lined the marina. "It looks like California." "But there's something you won't see in California," said Frank, reading the tour notes. He pointed - to an ancient limestone church crowned by two towers. "That cathedral dates back to the sixteenth century."

To Frank's surprise, the limousine drove right past the cathedral and turned a corner, heading back to the center of town. "Hey!" shouted Frank. "We were supposed to stop there!"

"No time," said the driver, his voice a harsh whisper. "What do you know?" Joe said. "He talks." "Great." Frank gave the driver a sour look, then studied the notes again as the car traveled the Malaga streets. "Can you see where we are now?"

Joe craned his neck. "The Plaza de la Merced. Any idea what that is?"

The limousine screeched to a halt at the curb. "Thirty minutes," the driver muttered.

"This isn't exactly the tour I had in mind," Joe said as they climbed out of the car.

Frank pocketed the notes. "According to Martin, the birthplace of Pablo Picasso is right near here. Let's go find it."

Joe shrugged, and together they crossed to the far side of the plaza. After a short walk they found a small building. Like many other buildings they had seen, this one had old wooden shutters on its windows and small balconies on every floor. A small sign was tacked up next to the door, and among the Spanish words was the name Pablo Picasso.

"This must be it," Frank said. "You'd think it would be a lot less ordinary looking, wouldn't you?" He squinted at the notice. "I wonder what this says."

Joe gently nudged his brother aside. "Let an expert translate. I've been waiting to try my high school Spanish."

"A memorial is to be erected here to commemorate the birth of the great artist Pablo Picasso," said a soft voice behind them. "This will become an official historical site."

The Hardys turned. And Joe smiled. A pretty young Spanish woman, dressed in a print blouse and denim skirt, was standing and staring at them with large brown eyes.

"Thank you," Frank said. He held out his hand. "I'm Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe. We're Americans."

The woman's eyes narrowed, and she made no move to shake Frank's hand. "The sky is bluer in Barcelona," she said. "That's very interesting," Frank replied. "The sky is bluer in Barcelona," she repeated, tension sounding in her voice.

The smile faded from Joe's lips, and he looked bewildered. "Want to get something to drink, Frank?" "Sounds like a good idea," Frank answered.

To the girl he said, "Thanks again for your help." Before she could react, the Hardys moved away from her.

"The sky is bluer in Barcelona!" she shouted desperately, but they were already halfway across the plaza. Curious stares from passersby silenced her.

"What was that about?" Frank wondered aloud. "It almost sounded like some sort of code."

"Beats me," Joe said. "Nice looking, but — " He shook his head and sighed. "Why do I always run into crazy ones?" Wistfully, he glanced over his shoulder for a last look at her.

At first he thought she was waving. Then he realized she was pointing. That's when he saw a man, dressed in a dark suit and sunglasses, step from a doorway.

As he looked around, he saw three similar men moving into position all around the Plaza de la Merced. They were all closing in on the Hardys.

"We've got trouble," Joe yelled. "Head for the limo. Quick!"

Frank nodded and broke into a sprint. In seconds they had reached their car and scrambled into the back seat. The four men were only yards away. "Windows up," Frank ordered. He pressed the button on the window control, but nothing moved. "Driver!" he called. "Get us out of — "

He stopped. Their driver wasn't in the car.

"Are the keys in the ignition?" Frank asked Joe. He glanced out the window. The four men were closing in.

"Nope," Joe replied, leaning over the front seat. His hand scooped down and came back up with a false beard and latex nose in it. "But I found part of our driver."

"A disguise?" Frank's bewilderment changed to anger. "We've been set up!"

A hand thrust through the open car window. In it was a small-caliber pistol. Frank looked up to see a man in sunglasses grinning unpleasantly at him. The man's three companions stood around the car, each guarding one door. Another limousine, with a diplomatic license plate, appeared from around the corner.

In a thick Russian accent the gunman said, "You are to be coming with us. Now."

"Any idea of what's going on?" Joe asked Frank as the men outside began to pull open the doors.

"I'm not sure," Frank said, "but I have this weird notion we're being kidnapped by the KGB!"

"THE KGB?" SAID Joe. "Well, I hope they get a real kick out of this." He slammed his heel into the unlocked car door, smashing it open. It struck the man outside, knocking him backward into the gunman behind him.

Joe barreled out of the car.

The man standing outside Frank's door raised his gun. Instantly, Frank drove his fist through the open window and into the man's stomach. Caught off guard, the Russian doubled over.

The fourth man swung his pistol toward Frank, but it was too late. Frank caught his wrist and hauled up. The man flew into the car, banging his head against the roof. As he fell away, Frank swung his door open, leaping out of the car.

"This way!" Joe shouted, and Frank followed him toward the corner of the block. Already, the Russians were recovering, and Frank knew they'd be after them in seconds.

"I think we can lose them," Frank told his brother as they ran down a narrow street. Just ahead was a busy intersection. The traffic made it almost impossible to cross. "If we can just get to the other side — "

He scanned the intersection for a break in the traffic, but there was none. The rapid footsteps behind them raced closer, and Frank could hear words muttered in Russian. There was no time to wait, he knew. They had to make their move now.

He hurled himself into traffic. Tires screeched and horns blared as drivers slammed on their brakes. "Turistas locos!" someone yelled, and others joined in. Frank ignored them, focusing on nothing but the other side of the street. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Joe keeping pace with him.

At last they jumped over the far curb. "Made it," Frank said breathlessly.

"Keep running," he told Joe, and both broke into a sprint again. Their gamble hadn't worked too well for them. Traffic had now ground to a stop, and the Russians were crossing the street with ease.

The Hardys reached an alley. Ducking into it, they slowed down. The alley was damp and littered with piles of garbage, and the buildings it ran between were close enough together to shade it from the sun. "Shhh," Frank said. "I'm pretty sure they didn't see us come in. If we're quiet, they might pass by."

As Frank spoke, the Russians appeared at the end of the alley. Frank and Joe crouched against a wall, dropping out of sight behind a garbage pile. Cautiously, they peered over the top of the garbage. They hadn't been spotted.

The four Russians were standing on the street, arguing. One pointed into the alley and another pointed down the street. Finally, two of them went down the street.

The other two drew their guns and stepped warily into the alley, slowly moving toward the Hardys. One of the Russians kicked at a garbage pile, scattering it everywhere. He shook his head at his partner, and they cautiously moved closer.

"They must think we're hiding in the garbage," Frank whispered to Joe. "They underestimated us at the car, but I doubt that's going to happen again."

"Let's make it happen," Joe whispered back. As the shadow of a gun fell over his face, he dug into the garbage and flung it into the air. Instinctively, the Russians spun and took aim at the flying rubbish.

Joe rushed between them, catching each of them around the waist with an arm and forcing them back against a wall. Before they could react, Joe threw a punch at the Russian to his left. The man toppled to the ground.

As he whirled to deal with the other one, Joe felt the sharp smack of metal against his temple, and he staggered back, pain exploding behind his eyes. Through the haze he could see the Russian's gun. It was what had hit his head, he knew, and now it was aimed at his chest.

"Hiii-ya!" Frank shouted, and his foot lashed out, kicking the gun from the startled Russian's hand. The heel of Frank's hand smashed into the Russian's jaw, and the man dropped.

Joe rubbed his head, clearing his vision. "Two down, two to go," he said. They ran for the far end of the alley.

"I'd rather we didn't meet the other two again at all," Frank replied. "Let's try to get back to the hotel." "Do you hear something?" Joe asked. Frank listened. Circus music, but distorted, he thought. Tinny, like guitar music. He didn't know what it could be.

The alley opened into the back of a churchyard. "Through here. It'll be quicker," Joe said, and they entered the church. Its high, domed ceiling was painted with angels. Set into the walls were wooden statues of saints.

Frank pulled open the front door of the church, and he and Joe froze.

In the street in front of the church was a parade. The sidewalks were lined with spectators. "Buenos dias," said a voice behind them.

They turned. A priest stood in the aisle, dressed in a traditional black cassock. He smiled at them and said, "Every year we have a street festival at this time. Come! You are welcome to join us."

With a slight bow he closed the doors of the church and led them down the steps to the street. Halfway down, Joe nudged Frank in the ribs.

"Look," Joe said, nodding toward the street.

Frank peered through the crowd, and his heart sank. Across the street, on the other side of the parade, were the other two Russians. They were watching them.

"Keep going," Frank told Joe. "They won't try anything with this many people around, and it'll be easy to lose them in the crowd."

They left the priest and started walking beside the parade. Frank could see the Russians on the other side keeping pace with them. But the brightly dressed marchers and rows of carts pulled by oxen and decorated with streamers and flowers kept the Russians from crossing the street.

"That keeps them in their place," Joe said, laughing. "They'll never get to us."

"We have to go to them sooner or later. Our hotel is in that direction. We'll have to cross over."

A squad of musicians, mostly drummers, followed the lines of carts. Frank stared down the length of the marchers until he saw the end of the street. "It looks like the parade's coming to another plaza. Maybe we can get across there."

On the other side of the street, the Russians shadowed them step for step.

At the plaza, people in traditional Spanish costumes danced on the pavement. Women in long, full dresses, flowers in their hair, twirled arm in arm with men in short vests, white shirts, and tight black slacks.

As the Hardys were passing them, the dancers went into the crowd and pulled spectators into the dance with them. "This way," Frank told Joe. "I have an idea." The Hardys skirted the circle of dancers, watching the Russians move around on the other side.

"Now," Frank said, and he stuck out a hand. A woman caught it and tugged him into the circle. Almost before he knew what was happening, Frank was passed from woman to woman. Dizzy from the spinning, he kept his eye on the Russians as he drew nearer and nearer to them with each step. Behind him, Joe was also dancing, waiting for Frank's next move. As he passed the first Russian, Frank grabbed the man's wrist and pulled him into the dance, handing him to the next woman in the circle. The woman laughed and pulled the Russian along, and Frank stepped out of the dance and into the crowd.