Strategic Moves Read online

  "This outfit feels like a straitjacket," Frank said with a laugh, adjusting his white fencing jacket.

  "Have you not fenced before?" Petra asked.

  "Yes. But it was some time ago - and in a suit that fit." Frank looked up into the bleachers, where the other students had gathered. "Looks as if you're the only girl," he said, indicating the others.

  Frank and Petra joined the five other students, all boys, who were sitting together in the bleachers, talking and looking around.

  Petra was adjusting the straps of her mesh mask, before putting it on. Frank thought he read worry in her eyes.

  "You'll do fine," he said.

  "I'm sure I will," Petra said with a sly smile.

  "Good morning, gentlemen," said a tall man in fencing gear as he approached the seven students. He was taller than Frank, broad-shouldered and square-jawed, with deep-set eyes. Something about the man looked familiar to Frank. "And lady," the man added with a nod toward Petra. "I am Mr. Fitzhugh. You know me as the director of the International Classroom. I will also be your fencing instructor. It is a pleasure and an honor to welcome each and every one of you here."

  Fitzhugh went on to explain that the students would study electrical fencing as opposed to dry fencing. In dry fencing, the athlete used a rubber-tipped foil and relied on the honesty of the opponent and the astute observation of the judge. In electrical fencing, the foil was plugged into a small transformer. Each fencer wore a vest - known as a lame - woven with metal wires. The foil's tip was spring-loaded. When it touched the vest, the metallic lame would close a circuit and one of two lights would flash on. A green light meant the hit was valid. A white light signaled an off-target hit.

  "I know from your resumes," Fitzhugh continued, "that all of you have fenced in your own schools, and so I will not insult you by reviewing the basics. Limber up and we'll begin our first match in ten minutes."

  "Hey, aren't you Frank Hardy?" one of the students asked as Frank stretched his legs.

  Frank looked up. The student had dull blond hair that fell to his shoulders in thick strands. He seemed older than the other students and had a mustache that looked more like a piece of dirty old carpet than hair.

  "Yes," Frank said.

  "Hey, man, I'm Chris St. Armand. From California." Chris held out his hand.

  "Nice to meet you," Frank said, grabbing Chris's hand.

  "Your brother's my roomie."

  "I see." Frank twisted to the side, stretching his muscles.

  "Yeah. You know, your brother is one uptight dude. I know what his problem is, though."

  "What?" Frank said, wishing he was somewhere else talking to anybody but Chris St. Armand.

  "He needs to learn to skateboard. You know, ride the concrete curl. Do three-sixty ollies. Feel the wind in his hair." While he talked, Chris pretended he was skateboarding.

  "Who's your friend?" Petra asked as she joined Frank and Chris.

  "Petra, this is - " Frank began.

  "Wow, a fencing chick. Far out."

  Fitzhugh cleared his throat and spoke. "Very good, students," Fitzhugh said. "Who wishes to be one of the first contestants?"

  "I do, sir," Petra said, stepping forward.

  "Me, too," Chris said, hopping into the fencing lane and jumping up and down.

  Fitzhugh frowned at Chris. "Yes, well, all right."

  Petra entered the fencing lane.

  "Don't worry," Chris said to Petra. "I'll take it easy on you."

  "Thank you," Petra said without emotion.

  Petra and Chris adjusted their lames and slid their wire mesh masks over their heads and faces. Chris also put on black gloves. Gloves were optional in fencing.

  "E n garde, chick," Chris said, taking his stance, his foil in his left hand.

  "En garde," Petra said. She crouched.

  Frank couldn't see her face, but from the cold tone of her voice and the confident and strong way she held herself in her stance, Frank could tell that Chris St. Armand was in for a fight.

  Fitzhugh gave the signal. Chris lunged forward with a sweeping motion. Petra moved to her left and brought her foil over and down. The tip hit in the center of Chris's lame, where the heart was located.

  "Hit!" Fitzhugh cried out as the green light flashed on Chris's side.

  The first match had taken just under one second.

  Chris flipped up his mask, his face red and angry. He stared at Petra, then turned, swinging his foil in a deadly arc.

  "Good job," Frank said as Petra got a drink from the refreshment table.

  "He is too sure of himself," Petra replied. "And not too sure of me." She smiled.

  Frank looked past Petra at Chris. He was standing at the end of the fencing lane, next to the electrical transformer into which his foil was plugged.

  Petra returned to her spot on the fencing lane, and they began their second match. The winner of two out of three matches would be declared the victor.

  Chris began more seriously and fended off Petra's thrusts. He countered with downstrokes that were quick and displayed a fury that had been lacking in his first match. Petra had to retreat, regroup, and then attack again and again.

  Chris backed up, his foil held down, giving Petra a clear shot. Petra lunged. Chris twisted to his right, and Petra's foil missed his chest. Then he flipped his foil to his right hand and pressed the tip against Petra's wire mesh mask.

  Sparks flew from the mask and the foil.

  Petra screamed, dropped her foil, and tried to pull the mask from her head.

  The transformer hummed, then smoked, and sparks flowed out like a fireworks fountain.

  Frank sprang from the bleachers and ran toward the pair. Chris let go of his foil, but it stayed attached to Petra's mask, the foil acting as an arc welder.

  Frank swung his foil in a downward stroke and knocked Chris's foil to the floor.

  The sparks stopped, and the transformer sputtered one last time before dying out.

  Petra crumpled to the floor. Frank carefully and slowly slid the mask off as Fitzhugh and the other students gathered around.

  Petra's face was ashen, and she wasn't breathing.

  Chapter 5

  "The ancient and dark Thames River runs through the center of Oxford and has helped to shape the city's history since the first Celtic warriors settled on its fertile banks fifteen hundred years ago.

  "The inhabitants have always been fiercely independent people, and Oxford was a hotbed of dissent during many of England's internal wars. The people have exercised their independence in regard to the mighty Thames as well. During its short course through Oxford, the Thames is called the Isis, named for the Egyptian goddess who gave birth to the other gods."

  Joe wondered why the instructor was droning on about the history of the river when all Joe wanted was to learn to be a better sculler.

  The sculling instructor was a thin, pale man whose voice was more annoying than commanding. He came only to Joe's chin. His hair was dark and shiny from the hair cream that kept it flat against his head. His name was Mr. Lewis, and Joe wondered if the anemic-looking man could even lift an oar, let alone row a boat.

  And it was chilly. Joe and the other students, numbering an even twelve in all, were wearing white shorts, light blue T-shirts, and deck shoes. A slight breeze off the river also clothed them with a layer of goose bumps.

  Real smart, Hardy, Joe thought. You stand out here shivering your bones while Frank's inside a warm gym with the prettiest girl on campus.

  "You there, young man," Mr. Lewis was saying.

  Joe had been staring at the coffee-colored Thames, his eyelids growing heavy from the hypnotic effect the slow-moving and steady river had on him. The Thames was peaceful and calming. Joe shook his head and looked up. Lewis stared back, his lips white from being pressed tightly together.

  "Yes, you, young man," Lewis said, pointing a bony finger at Joe.

  "Yes, sir," Joe said.

  "Are you interested in learning to scull or merel
y sleeping the day away?"

  The other students snickered.

  "Mr. Lewis," Joe said clearly, "I'm interested in learning to scull the Isis, not write a history paper on it."

  Several students, including Ziggy, laughed out loud.

  "That will be quite enough!" The students stopped abruptly. Mr. Lewis walked up to Joe. "So you would like to scull, Mr., uh ... "

  "Hardy," Joe said.

  "An American," Lewis replied. Joe didn't like the accusatory tone in the man's voice.

  Joe stared down at the man. "Yes, sir. And I'd like to scull very much."

  "Then scull you shall."

  The instructor walked past Joe to a two-man boat bumping up against the dock. The boat was ten feet long, pointed at both ends, and narrow, just large enough to hold two people. Sculling was named for the oars - sculls - used in the sport. The object was to follow a course, and the first to cross the finish line was declared the winner.

  "I believe you have made him angry," Ziggy whispered as they walked to the scull.

  "Don't worry. I can handle anything he dishes out," Joe said with confidence.

  Lewis was sitting patiently in the boat. As Joe stepped into the boat, it rocked to the right. Joe lost his balance and fell into the chilly Isis.

  He surfaced a second later, choking and spitting out water.

  "Wow! This is freezing!" Joe shouted.

  The students on the dock erupted in laughter.

  "You must learn to get into the scull before you can properly handle one," Mr. Lewis said, his voice and face lacking emotion.

  Joe swam to the dock and pulled himself up. He wasn't sure, but Joe suspected Lewis had purposely tipped the boat.

  Joe kept his eye on Lewis as he slowly climbed into the bow. Mr. Lewis sat in the stern.

  They rowed out to the middle of the river.

  "We will take the short course, since you are a beginner," Mr. Lewis said.

  "I've rowed before," Joe replied, frowning.

  "If you insist. The advanced course it is, then," Mr. Lewis said calmly. "I will call cadence. That means I will keep time."

  "I know what it means," Joe said through clenched teeth. He was freezing, and he had to force himself not to shiver, at least not in front of Lewis.

  They approached the starting line at full oar-full speed. Joe counted and synchronized his breathing with every third stroke.

  "Stroke ... stroke. Stroke ... stroke," Lewis called out in a steady rhythm.

  Joe's arms began to burn. This is crazy, he thought, we must be rowing one stroke every two seconds. Joe hadn't stretched, and his muscles were resisting his commands for more power and more speed.

  Lewis increased the tempo. "Stroke, stroke, stroke."

  Joe pushed and pulled faster. Sweat fell from his brow and stung his eyes. He lost count of his breathing and began to gasp.

  Joe couldn't believe his ears when Lewis increased the speed again.

  Joe's head began to ache. Breakfast hadn't been very filling, the morning was chilly, he was soaked to the skin, and a mouse of a man was putting Joe through a mean workout.

  "Faster, Mr. Hardy," Lewis said steadily, as though he wasn't even breathing hard. "Port!"

  Joe eased up on his port oar and pulled harder with his starboard oar. The scull smoothly turned and glided around a small buoy. They were halfway through the course.

  Lewis kept up the insane cadence. "Stroke, stroke, stroke."

  Joe's muscles began to tighten. He regained control of his breathing. He strained at the oars, calling up reserve energy. His heart beat madly, and the sound echoed in his ears.

  Just when he thought he could go no farther, Lewis yelled, "Oars up!"

  Joe lifted his oars, straining to keep them erect.

  They glided to the dock. The students were laughing and clapping and pointing at Joe.

  Lewis hopped from the boat. Joe pulled himself up and stepped onto the dock, small cramps gripping the muscles in his legs.

  "You did quite well, Mr. Hardy. For an American." Lewis was beaming with a broad, thin-lipped smile.

  Joe was annoyed by the continuing laughter of some of the students.

  "What's wrong?" he asked no one in particular.

  "You were rowing by yourself," one student answered in a Spanish accent.

  "What?" Joe turned to Lewis, shaking with anger.

  Lewis just stood there with his thin smile and oil-slicked hair, beaming triumphantly at Joe.

  Joe sighed and turned to find Ziggy. But Ziggy was not in the crowd of students.

  "Have you seen Ziggy?" Joe asked the Spanish student.

  "Who?"

  "Pyotr," Joe said.

  "He is talking to a man," the student said. He pointed behind him. "Over there."

  Joe looked past the student. Ziggy was talking to Aleksandr behind a light blue Ford sedan about thirty yards away. Ziggy kept shaking his head and waving his hands in a negative manner.

  Joe pushed his way through the students and walked slowly toward Ziggy and Aleksandr. He didn't like the way Aleksandr was pointing at Ziggy in short, jerky jabs, and as Joe got closer, he could hear Aleksandr speaking in an angry voice.

  Joe also noticed that the blue sedan was not empty. Two men sat in the car, one behind the steering wheel, the other in the rear, his back to Joe.

  The driver was facing Joe, his arm resting on the back of the seat. As Joe walked nearer, the driver got out of the car. He was an older man, tall with white hair and a hard look on his face. The driver reached into his jacket and pulled something out. Joe immediately recognized the object the driver held at his side. It was a 9-mm Beretta automatic pistol.

  The man in the backseat waved at the driver, and the driver holstered his gun and got back inside the car.

  Joe suddenly realized that this was the same car Frank had seen near the alley last night. Joe began to trot over to the car.

  Aleksandr turned and spotted Joe. Then he grabbed Ziggy, pushing him toward the car. Ziggy resisted and tried to pull away.

  "Hey!" Joe shouted, and began an all-out sprint.

  Aleksandr twisted Ziggy's arm behind his back and shoved him into the backseat. He then jumped in and slammed the door shut. Ziggy was now between Aleksandr and the other man in the back. A man in a gray suit.

  The car lurched forward as Joe reached it.

  "Hey!" Joe shouted again and pounded on the trunk lid of the blue sedan.

  Ziggy continued to struggle with Aleksandr and the other man in the back.

  The car pulled away from Joe. Joe jumped and landed on the trunk. He gripped the sides of the car to keep from falling off.

  "You!" Joe shouted.

  The man who had remained in the backseat of the car suddenly turned around. Joe gasped as he recognized the ordinary features of the Gray Man.

  The car turned sharply to the right, and Joe flew off the trunk and rolled several times across the brick road.

  Chapter 6

  Petra gasped and began coughing.

  Frank raised his head. When he noticed that Petra wasn't breathing, Frank had begun mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

  Petra opened her eyes. "What happened?" she asked weakly.

  "You got a little jolt," Frank said. "How do you feel?"

  "I feel as if I have been kicked by a horse."

  Frank helped Petra sit up slowly. She rubbed the back of her neck.

  "Will you be all right?" Fitzhugh asked.

  "Yes. Thank you," Petra replied, still weak.

  Frank helped her to stand.

  "Very good." Fitzhugh turned to the other students. "Find a partner and work on drills for the time being." He turned to Frank. "That was quick and accurate thinking, Mr. - "

  "Frank Hardy," Frank said. He looked among the students and suddenly realized that Chris had conveniently disappeared.

  "Ah, yes, from the United States."

  "Right." Then Frank said to Petra, "You'd better sit down." He helped her over to the bleachers.
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br />   "Thank you," Petra said. "What happened?" she asked again.

  "This young man saved your life," Fitzhugh replied. He held up Petra's fencing mask. The wire around the right cheek area was charred and melted. "In another second or two this would have burned through to your skin."

  "I do not understand," Petra said.

  "I think I do," Frank said. He walked over to the transformer Chris's foil was plugged into. He yanked the plug from the wall, picked up the transformer, and returned to Petra and Fitzhugh. "The juice on the foil was turned up all the way."

  "Goodness," Fitzhugh blurted, his eyes wide circles of concern. "That's never happened before! What an accident!"

  Petra gasped.

  "I hope the young man wasn't harmed," Fitzhugh said. "I wonder where he's gotten off to." Fitzhugh headed for the locker room.

  Frank waited until Fitzhugh had left the area. Then he turned to Petra and said, "I don't think this was an accident."

  "What?" Petra asked. Frank could tell that the bravery she had shown in fencing was replaced with the fear she had displayed the previous night.

  Frank sat next to Petra, the transformer in his hands. "These things don't turn themselves up. I think Chris turned up the power all the way."

  "Why?"

  Frank smiled. "I think you embarrassed him with that first hit."

  "I had no intention of embarrassing him. I was only doing my best."

  "I know," Frank said, smiling. He stood. "I suggest we find Chris and explain to him about the need to display good sportsmanship."

  "No violence," Petra said, standing.

  "No," Frank replied. "Just a little persuasion."

  Frank didn't want to say anything else to frighten Petra, but he didn't like the coincidence of the attempted kidnapping the night before and the attempt to hurt Petra that morning.

  Chris was nowhere to be found in the gymnasium, so Frank and Petra changed back into their street clothes and left.

  Petra wanted to rest, so Frank walked her back to her room and then headed for the docks. He wanted to check up on Joe and Ziggy. He hopped down the stairs and ran into Joe, who looked as if he had been ran through a blender on high speed.