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  "They may do that, anyway," Frank pointed out. He laid a hand gently on Chris's shoulder. "You have to tell us who those men were."

  Chris sighed and leaned back against Callie's car. He seemed to be deep in thought.

  "All right," he said slowly, reluctantly. "Those men — I used to work with them. The man with the glasses is Dr. Finn Liehm. A scientist—and very brilliant."

  "And the other?" Joe asked.

  "That must have been Gregor Krc." He pronounced it Kirk. "They are both members of the Czechoslovakian secret police—what is called the STB."

  "The STB," Joe said, smacking his fist into the palm of his hand. That explained the man's training at least. "But what're they doing here?"

  "I think I can guess," Frank said. "It's something to do with Alexander Janosik, isn't it?"

  Chris nodded but said nothing.

  "Why'd you call our father for help? Who are you?" Frank said.

  "Who am I?" Chris said slowly. He looked up and met Frank's questioning gaze. "My name is Chris Hardy."

  Frank and Joe looked at each other. "Chris Hardy?" Frank asked. Joe just stared at him. "Is that what you meant before — about us all being - family? Are you related to us?" "To your family — to you two especially," Chris said. "You see, I'm your brother."

  Chapter 3

  FRANK STARED at the computer screen in stunned silence. "I don't believe it," he said, shaking his head. "I just don't believe it."

  He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He'd been up since six that morning, trying to make sense of Chris's story. Now it was almost ten o'clock, and the only way things did make sense seemed as impossible now as it had the past night.

  "Our long-lost brother," Joe had said when Chris first made his incredible claim, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "Come to claim the family fortune, I suppose?"

  But Chris had ignored Joe's mocking comment and hadn't backed down. Without a word, he'd handed Joe his driver's license.

  It was for one Chris Hardy, of 112 Smith Street, Northampton, Massachusetts. According to the license, Chris was twenty-six years old, stood 5'10" tall, and weighed 165 pounds. He had light brown hair and brown eyes. It was all there in living color in a smiling photo.

  "So what if you have a license?" Joe asked, after they'd driven back to the Hardys' house and were standing on the walk before going in. "Do you really expect us to believe that you're our brother? I mean, why would our parents keep a secret like that?"

  "I see they remodeled the front porch," Chris said, looking at the house.

  Joe's mouth dropped open.

  "How'd you know that?"

  Chris smiled sadly. "I used to live here, too, you know." Then he'd reached into his wallet and handed Joe a yellowed, square snapshot — a shape not printed anymore. It was a picture of a young couple and a boy of not more than five or six, standing together on the Hardys' front porch—before it had been redone.

  Frank had peered over his brother's shoulder to get a closer look. He recognized the couple immediately. Although they were a lot younger than he could remember ever seeing them, Frank knew it was a picture of his parents. And the boy? Although Frank couldn't swear to it, he did look a lot like Chris would have at that age.

  "Photos can be faked," Joe had said. Of course, he was right. But after Callie had left, Chris told Frank and Joe things about their parents and relatives that he couldn't possibly have known, unless ... Unless he really was their brother.

  He knew about Aunt Gertrude's secret passion of reading old mystery novels.

  "And I'll bet she really loves this, too," Chris had said, pointing to the Hardys' VCR. "She can watch spy movies whenever she wants to now, right?"

  Frank had smiled at that—Aunt Gertrude loved nothing better than to settle back in the couch, shut out the lights, close the door, and put a movie on the VCR. In fact, the more he talked to Chris and watched him walk around his house, the more he liked him.

  Especially when he'd proven to be a computer buff as well.

  "Nice," Chris had said, studying Frank's system. "Small, but very well thought out." Then he smiled. "I've got a different setup — a lot bigger. You're more than welcome to have a look at it."

  "I'd like that," Frank said, smiling slowly.

  "I'd like it better if you answered some of our questions now," Joe said, cutting in. "Like — "

  "Can't they wait until morning?" Chris asked. "It's past two now."

  Frank had been shocked to discover Chris was right—the time had passed very quickly. They'd all gone to bed, putting Chris in the guest room upstairs. Yet even though he liked Chris, Frank still didn't believe his story. So he'd gotten up early this morning, and, using access codes a hacker friend had given him, he'd logged on to the Bayport City Hall computer. He had expected the records to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Chris's story was false.

  He'd gotten the surprise of his life.

  Chris Hardy was real. But Frank couldn't call his mom and dad to verify it — they were deep in the wilderness.

  "I don't believe it," Frank said again, shaking his head at the computer screen. "I just don't believe it."

  He was looking at a notice of birth for one Christopher Edward Hardy, parents Fenton and Laura.

  Frank pulled Chris's social security number and found a grade-school transcript for him— from the same school that both he and Joe had gone to. Chris had gone there until he was six and a half years old, at which point all trace of him disappeared.

  About the time I was born, Frank realized.

  He picked up Chris's driver's license for the umpteenth time and stared at it. All the details matched their contact perfectly. If it was a forgery, Frank had to admit it was the best he'd ever seen.

  At eight-thirty this morning he'd even asked a contact of his at the Department of Motor Vehicles to check out the Massachusetts license.

  She'd called back an hour later to verify that it was real.

  He put the license down. None of this made any sense. He was getting a headache. And he was getting hungry.

  The doorbell rang. It was Callie.

  "Morning." Frank gave her a quick kiss at the doorway. "You look wide-awake and ready to face the day." She was wearing a pair of khakis and a bright green sweater underneath her jacket.

  Callie looked him over and shook her head. "I hate to say what you look like."

  "That bad, huh?" Frank tried to stifle a yawn. "I've been awake for a while—checking up on my new brother."

  "Oh, Frank, come on," Callie said, hanging up her coat. "You don't really think—"

  "Hey, what's all the racket?" Joe stood at the top of the stairs in his gym shorts and T-shirt, his wavy hair tousled into curls from sleep. "Don't you know there are people trying to sleep up here?"

  "You're right — we'll try and keep it down," Frank said. "Chris's first night back home should be a restful one."

  Joe and Callie both looked at him as if he'd gone crazy.

  "What have you found out, Frank?" Callie asked.

  He yawned again and stretched. "I'll explain over breakfast."

  Joe came downstairs then and somehow convinced Callie to cook.

  "Well, I'm still not ready to accept him into the family," Joe said, swirling his pancakes in a small stream of syrup.

  Callie nodded. "Neither am I." She was sitting next to Frank on one side of the breakfast table, with Joe directly across from them.

  "And I don't understand why you let him stay here last night instead of going to the cops," she continued. "You don't know anything about him."

  "He knows a lot about us." Frank put his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his hands.

  "Too much, I say." Joe grabbed the last of the pancakes off the platter set between them on the table. "Look, Frank—instead of proving who he isn't, let's just find out who he is."

  "Has he told you anything else—about himself, his connection with those guys in the Mercedes, with Janosik?" Callie asked
.

  "We didn't find out much more about his connections with anyone. We got a little sidetracked last night with family history," Frank admitted.

  "Well, I think it's time we got back on track," Joe said. "I owe that driver a thing or two—and they owe us for one new window on the van!" He carried his dishes to the sink. "I'll get dressed, and then we can have a little brotherly chat with our visitor." He smiled at Callie. "Thanks for the breakfast, Callie. You're a great cook."

  Frank shook his head. How Joe had managed to talk Callie into making breakfast. . .

  Callie turned and punched him playfully on the arm. "How come you never say anything nice about my cooking, Frank?"

  Joe winked at him.

  Maybe Chris will turn out to be my brother, Frank thought, watching Joe head for his bedroom. It's about time for a new one.

  When Joe came back downstairs, he found Frank, Callie, and their friend Phil Cohen huddled around the breakfast table. The dishes had been cleared and put away, and what remained of the videocassette Frank had taken out of Chris's jacket the night before was spread across the table.

  "The tape itself looks fine — all I have to do is splice it back together and put it in a new case," Phil was saying. He was slightly built with long-ish, dark curly hair and quick, deft hands. Phil was also Bayport's resident electronics genius. "Then it should be as good as new."

  "We'll be really interested to see what's on it," Frank said.

  "You think it might prove Janosik's innocence?" Callie asked.

  "I hope so."

  "Maybe it's an old home movie," Joe said, breaking into their conversation. "Hey, Phil."

  "Hey, Joe," Phil returned the greeting. He swept up the pieces of the videocassette into a small case he'd brought with him. "Heard you had a little excitement last night." Joe smiled. "A little," he said. "So when do I get to meet this new brother of yours?"

  Frank stood. "You'd both better let Joe and me talk to him first. He may be a little nervous."

  The two brothers went upstairs to the guest room. "I don't care how nervous he is," Joe said, knocking heavily on the door. "We need to start getting some answers."

  There was no answer from inside.

  "Chris? You in there?" Frank called.

  He turned the knob slowly. The door swung open.

  "I don't believe it," Frank groaned.

  Joe slammed his hand against the wall.

  The blankets lay on the floor. The sheets had been rolled tight and tied together. One end was knotted around the bedpost. The other hung out of sight—out the window.

  Chris was gone.

  Chapter 4

  "So MUCH FOR ANSWERING all our questions in the morning," Frank said, surveying the room.

  Callie and Phil joined them after hearing Joe's outburst. "So what are you going to do now?" Callie asked. Frank pulled the sheets back into the room, untied them, and bundled them up in his arms.

  "I think Joe had the right idea before," he said, leading them all downstairs and dropping the sheets in the laundry. "Find out who Chris really is."

  "And how are we going to do that? We still don't know anything about him!" Joe protested.

  "We do know one thing—where he lives."

  "Right—if the address on his license isn't a fake," Phil pointed out.

  "We can check with the phone company to see if he's listed there," Callie said. She picked up the phone.

  "You could also try to find out more about Krc and Liehm," Phil suggested. "Maybe the Czech embassy knows something about them."

  "About the STB?" Joe shook his head. "Not very likely."

  "And they wouldn't tell us if they did," Frank said. "Especially if those two are involved in a plot to smear Janosik."

  Callie hung up the phone. "There is someone named Hardy in Northampton on Smith Street," she said. "But the number's unlisted."

  "Which leaves us with only one way to find out if it's Chris," Frank said. He turned to Joe. "Can we take the van?"

  Joe frowned. "I had to take the window on the driver's side off completely."

  "You'd better get it replaced if we're going to drive all the way to Massachusetts," Callie said. "The weather report said it might rain."

  "What do you mean, 'we'?" Joe asked. "This case may be too dangerous for you."

  Frank nodded. "I'm afraid Joe's right, Callie."

  Callie glared at both of them. "Forget what I said about getting that window replaced. You're both all wet already!"

  "Ouch," Joe said, shaking his head. "I'll check the repair shops."

  It took them almost an hour to find a shop that could replace the window, and another five hours of steady driving before they reached the outskirts of Northampton. They had stayed off the big interstate highways and stuck to smaller roads, which made for a more scenic drive if a longer one. By the time they drove into Northampton, both of them were anxious to get out and stretch.

  "Hey," Joe said, pointing ahead. A huge shopping mall sprawled on both sides of the road. "Let's stop and get something to eat before we look for Chris."

  Frank yawned. His lack of sleep was beginning to catch up to him. "I guess I could use a cup of coffee."

  They locked the van and entered the mall. "All right!" Joe pointed to a sign ahead that said, "Humongous Hamburgers." He grinned. "I see what I want!"

  "You go ahead," Frank said, catching sight of a coffee shop. "I'll meet you back here."

  He strolled over and stood in the entrance for a moment. The coffee shop was empty, except for a waitress who sat on a stool at the far end of the counter. Her back to the door, she was counting out change and watching a small black-and-white television set. Frank walked in. "Excuse me," he called. The clatter of a fresh handful of change from her apron drowned out his voice.

  Frank walked toward the counter. He was about to tap her on the shoulder when he noticed a newspaper lying in the last booth. It was a Boston paper — the Tribune—and it was opened to the international page. The headline had caught Frank's eye "Bum Czech?" The byline was Jean Eykis's. He read on.

  "Alexander Janosik, the noted Czechoslovakian dissident, will deliver the keynote address at a special Harvard symposium on Saturday. Janosik, whose vigorous opposition to the repressive policies of the Czech government has made him a hero here and in Europe, has recently been accused of accepting money from the CIA in exchange for his anti-Czech speeches. Exclusive sources have promised to provide this reporter with proof of Janosik's guilt before he addresses the symposium on Saturday."

  The waitress looked up. "Sorry, hon, I didn't see you there. Did you want something?"

  "Never mind," Frank said, bolting out the door.

  He found Joe talking to a tall, pretty, dark-haired girl outside the hamburger shop.

  "I don't get up here too often," Joe was saying, "but maybe if you give me your number, we could — "

  The girl laughed.

  "Excuse me," Frank said. He grabbed Joe by the arm. "We're leaving."

  "Hey, wait a minute," Joe said, trying to plant his feet. "What's the big rush?"

  "Duty calls," Frank said.

  "You'll have to excuse my brother," Joe said. "But look, if you're ever in Bayport — "

  "I'll know who to avoid," she said, turning around and flouncing off.

  Joe watched her walk off and sighed heavily. "You're ruining my life, Frank."

  Frank ignored Joe's comment and told him what he'd just read.

  "But Chris promised us that Janosik was being framed." Joe shook his head. "Where is this reporter going to get proof of his guilt? From Liehm and Krc?"

  "Maybe," Frank said. "What we need right now is information. Let's try Chris first. Come on."

  "Smith Street," Joe said, turning off the main road onto a quiet, residential block. The houses lining the street were old and small, but they looked well kept. Children were playing in one of the front yards.

  "A nice enough neighborhood," Frank said. "There's number one-twelve." He pointed to a
brick house with a postage-stamp garden about halfway down the block on the right side.

  They drove past it slowly. "That's the one," Frank said. "The mailbox says C. Hardy."

  "Our first lucky break," said Joe, parking the van. "Let's see if he's home."

  They crossed the lawn to the front door, and Joe rang the bell. Frank peered in through the front window. "I don't see anyone," he said.

  "And nobody's answering the bell." Joe pushed the buzzer again and then pressed his ear against the door. "I can't hear anything, either. It must be broken." He knocked heavily on the front door—and it swung open.

  Frank knelt down beside the door and examined it. "The lock's been smashed."

  Joe stepped past him into the house. He groped around for a light switch, found one, and flipped it on. Frank heard him breathe in sharply. "That's not all that's been smashed around here. Take a look at this!"

  Frank followed him in. They stood in a small entranceway. Directly ahead of them was a staircase. To their right was the living room, which now looked like a disaster area.

  Furniture had been overturned and thrown around the room, papers and books strewn across the floor, and the carpet had been ripped up from the floor in several spots.

  "Wow," Joe said quietly. "Someone wanted something pretty bad."

  "Here's something they didn't want — something that proves this is Chris's place, anyway," Frank whispered, picking a picture up off the floor and showing it to Joe. It was the same photo Chris had shown them last night, the picture of himself and their parents. Joe tapped Frank on the shoulder and pointed down the hall under the staircase. A light shone from beneath a door at the end of the hallway. "I think somebody's in there!" he mouthed.

  They tiptoed down the hall runner, and Frank put an ear to the door.

  "Someone's in there, all right," he said directly into Joe's ear. "I can hear papers rustling."

  "What are we waiting for, then?" Joe whispered back. "Maybe it's Chris."