The Pacific Conspiracy

  Hardy Boys Casefiles - 78

  The Pacific Conspiracy

  By

  Franklin W. Dixon

  (No. 3 in the Ring of evil Trilogy.)

  Chapter 1

  "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."

  ***

  If I'm going to do this, Frank Hardy thought, it has to be now, while I'm alone.

  He brushed a strand of dark hair out of his eyes, and knelt next to the locked door. Then he jammed the small piece of metal into the keyhole and twisted the knob with his left hand, trying to get the tumblers to fall into place. The piece of metal was an old fishhook he'd found lying on the floor of the ship's engine room. He'd spent almost an hour bending it into a shape he could use.

  Frank had wanted to get into this cabin since the first night he and Joe had been brought there from their late-night flight into Djakarta from Hawaii. They'd been whisked by van and then motorboat to this ship, an old frieghter called the Hatta, moored a few hundred feet off Djakarta's busy waterfront.

  After they'd been shown to their bunks in a forward cabin Frank had been too keyed up to sleep. He'd wandered out to get a drink of water from the galley when he was stopped by the sound of voices. Curious, he'd followed the sound and found the door to this cabin open.

  Nwali and Bob were inside, seated before a computer, pointing at the monitor and arguing. On the screen was an image of a mountain with a series of colorful Chinese pagodalike structures in front of it. He also saw a Modem and a shortwave radio next to the computer. When Nwali turned and saw Frank the expression in his eyes had been almost lifeless and flat, but truly terrifying.

  "Never come in this room again. Never," Nwali had intoned. Frank knew that if Nwali caught him breaking that command, he'd kill him.

  That had been the most important incident to occur during their two-week stay in Djakarta until this morning, when Nwali had announced they would go into town for supplies.

  Frank and Joe had spent the past two weeks playing endless card games and talking. In all that time none of the Assassins had uttered a single word about their mission. Clearly, they were waiting for someone to come or for something to happen.

  Frank guessed that the Assassins were planning to do something with Dr. Stavrogin's equations. But what? Sell them to the highest bidder? A lot of countries would be willing to pay top dollar, and the thought of some of the world's dictatorships getting their hands on a nuclear bomb terrified Frank.

  He wished he'd had more of a chance to talk to the Gray Man before they left Alaska. The Gray Man was high up in the Network and had helped the Hardys infiltrate the terrorist group.

  Frank was sure the Gray Man hadn't told him and Joe everything. He remembered the tension in the man's voice when Frank mentioned that a certain Krinski now had Stavrogin's equations. The Gray Man had sounded panicked - and his reaction scared Frank.

  Since they'd left Alaska Frank hadn't heard anything from the Gray Man or from the Network. So when Nwali had suddenly announced that they were going into town for supplies, Frank pretended to be sick. That left him alone on board with a chance to break into the cabin he now knelt in front of.

  All at once the lock mechanism gave, and the door clicked once and popped open. Frank slipped silently inside.

  A pale shaft of yellow light was coming through the cabin's lone porthole, but the brightest thing in the room was the blinking green cursor on the computer screen. He smiled to himself as he let his eyes adjust to the darkness. They'd left the system on. That made his job a lot easier.

  Now the other objects before him were taking shape. Shortwave radio. Cellular phone. He stepped forward and lowered himself into the chair before the computer, his fingers poised above the keyboard. He was going to try to contact the Network.

  Frank didn't like breaking procedure, but he wanted at least to let them know where he and Joe had ended up. He planned to log on to a computer network and leave a coded message for the Gray Man. Maybe then Frank could ask some of the questions that had been bothering him for the past two weeks.

  Before Frank could hit the first key, though, he heard wood creak behind him. Could they be back so soon? Frank spun around in his chair.

  "What are you doing here?" The Assassin named Butch was standing in the doorway, glaring at him.

  "The door was open," Frank said.

  "You lie. The door was locked. It's always locked." The man held a ring of keys, which he quickly shoved into his pocket.

  "Answer me, Hardy," Butch said, stepping forward. Jammed in the leather belt around his waist was a knife. "What," he said, reaching for the knife, "are you doing here?"

  Chapter 2

  "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.