Strategic Moves Read online

"What happened? Where's Ziggy?" Frank asked when he noticed that Ziggy was not with Joe.

  "That's what I'm going to find out after I wash up and change," Joe said heatedly as he headed for his room. "We were right all the time: the Gray Man is involved in trying to kidnap Ziggy."

  "How do you know?" Frank followed Joe up the stairs and down the hallway to their rooms.

  "Because I saw the Gray Man, Aleksandr, and another man kidnap Ziggy!"

  Joe quickly explained about the sculling lesson. Then he told Frank how he had watched helplessly as Ziggy was abducted.

  "Aleksandr may be a double agent," Joe spit out. He fumbled for the room key in his pocket.

  "Well, stay tuned, buddy," Frank announced. "Petra had a close call, too."

  Joe turned to look at his brother, his blue eyes flashing anger.

  Frank calmly explained about the fencing "accident."

  "Petra's okay," Frank concluded. "She's resting in her room."

  Joe unlocked the door and threw it open.

  "What the - " Joe gasped.

  Frank looked into the room. He'd seen beaches after a hurricane that looked better than Joe's dorm room. Joe's clothes and other belongings had been thrown around the room. All the drawers had been pulled out and tossed about.

  "Someone's been searching the room," Joe said as he stepped around the debris.

  "More like destroying the room," Frank replied.

  "His things are gone," Joe announced.

  "What?"

  "Chris's things are gone. This is all my stuff."

  "That kind of narrows down the suspects, doesn't it?" Frank said. "We've got to call the authorities."

  "Who? The Gray Man has the Network behind him," Joe fired back. "He's got enough resources to fight off an army."

  "How about the Soviet embassy," Frank suggested. Then he spotted an oblong object on the floor and picked it up. It was a cigarette lighter. He began to read the inscription.

  "Excuse me." A voice came from behind Frank and Joe.

  They spun around. Frank shoved the lighter into his front pocket. Aleksandr stood in the doorway.

  "You!" Joe shouted, lunging at the Soviet attaché.

  Aleksandr gasped as Joe jerked him into the room and kicked the door shut with his heel. He held Aleksandr by the lapels of his jacket.

  Joe's voice was a low growl. "You've got some explaining to do, and you can do it with or without your teeth."

  Aleksandr showed no emotion, no fear. He stared blankly back at Joe and said flatly, "I prefer to speak with my teeth."

  "Wise decision." Joe let go of Aleksandr.

  The Russian straightened his collar, tie, and jacket. The man kept his eyes on both of the Hardys and spoke in a slow, thick Russian accent.

  "Let me begin by saying that Pyotr and Petra Zigonev are safe. You are not to worry."

  "Petra's gone, too? Why did you kidnap them?" Joe demanded.

  Aleksandr was unmoved by Joe's outburst. "They are not kidnapped. They are safe. It was necessary to take Pyotr and Petra to a safe place so they could be briefed."

  "About what?" Frank asked. He leaned against the empty dresser, his arms crossed.

  "Mr. Gray said you could be trusted," Aleksandr said, looking relaxed now. "I am not so sure. You are young."

  "You're the one who needs to earn our trust," Joe said. "Frank and I were trying to help Ziggy and Petra. We don't know you from Peter the Great."

  "Why are you, a Soviet KGB agent, working with an American Network agent?" Frank asked calmly.

  "How did you know I was KGB?" Aleksandr asked tersely.

  Frank smiled. "I didn't. Until now."

  Aleksandr frowned. "Mr. Gray warned me to beware of you. He says you are cunning."

  "It figures that the KGB could be working with the Network, although I don't know why," Frank replied.

  "Nor shall you. Not yet," Aleksandr said. He shifted his weight. "What do you know about Sergei Zigonev, Pyotr and Petra's father?"

  "That he is a KGB administrator who specializes in communications," Joe answered. He remained squared off in front of Aleksandr, his muscles tense, ready to move quickly if Aleksandr tried anything.

  "Yes. Pyotr would have told you that much."

  "What else should we know about him?" Frank asked.

  "Sergei Zigonev is involved in delicate negotiations with American and British authorities to establish a communications link between our countries." Joe looked confused. "An open telephone line, if you will," Aleksandr explained. "So we can call each other and ask about the weather."

  "For what purpose?" Frank asked.

  "That is classified," Aleksandr said, his brown eyes looking past Joe to Frank. "Glasnost has transformed my country, and we are reaching out to the rest of the world."

  "So what's the problem?" Joe blurted. "You took Ziggy and almost killed me, all because you wanted to reach out and touch the rest of the world with a telephone call?"

  "This is the problem." As Aleksandr began to explain, there was a tiredness in his voice, but his sharp features had relaxed. "We have learned that not everyone is happy with the new relationship between the USSR and the West," he said. "These people would like to see the negotiations break down and the tensions between our countries rise again."

  Frank pushed off from the dresser and stood next to Joe. "And the best way to do that is to kidnap a national hero. Especially a teenage national hero."

  "You are correct. Pyotr is admired and adored by our leaders and by all of his countrymen," Aleksandr explained. "He is a symbol of our hope for the future, and he is an example for others. If anything were to happen to him here on British soil, in a foreign country, after he has been befriended by two Americans - "

  "Then the negotiations will be called off and the old cold war started all over again," Frank concluded.

  "It is probable," Aleksandr said.

  "What is the name of the organization that wants to harm Pyotr?" Frank asked.

  "We know of no name," Aleksandr replied.

  "Only of their intent. Our information is sketchy at best."

  "That still doesn't explain where Ziggy is," Joe said, resuming his hard stare.

  "If you wish to see Ziggy, I am instructed to take you to him."

  Joe's anger flared up. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?" Joe pushed past Aleksandr, opened the door, and started down the hallway.

  Joe was waiting outside when Frank and Aleksandr left the building. The afternoon sun, at its zenith, was a bright yellow, beating back the few clouds that hung over the Brasenose dormitory.

  "Why didn't you try to help us last night with the two men in the alley?" Joe asked sharply as they walked down the sidewalk that ran alongside the building and led to the parking lot. Joe stayed on the outside, with Aleksandr in the middle and Frank closest to the dormitory.

  "We were about to do just that when we noticed that you had the situation under control. We left to follow the two men, but they had disappeared."

  "Did you find them?" Joe asked.

  "No," Aleksandr replied.

  "Who was the third man with you?" Frank asked.

  Gray dust floated down in front of Frank's face, and he blinked his eyes, wiping at the dust. He looked up. One of the stone gargoyles perched on top of the four-story Brasenose dormitory teetered back and forth.

  "Look out!" Frank heard Joe shout.

  Frank looked up to see the large gray mythical beast - with the face of a toothy, smiling demon, the wings of an eagle, and the legs of a lion - swooping down on top of him.

  Chapter 7

  Frank felt himself being pushed from behind. He sprawled onto the grass, sliding on the well-mown lawn. He heard a crash and then several thuds. Small, sharp shards of stone hit Frank in the arms and face. He jumped up and turned.

  "Are you okay?" Joe asked, a haze of stone dust enveloping him.

  "Yeah," Frank answered, brushing himself off. He looked behind Joe. "Aleksandr!"

  The Russ
ian lay on the ground, covered with stone dust, one large piece of the gargoyle lying by his head.

  Frank pushed past Joe and ran to Aleksandr. He turned the Russian over. His face was scratched, but he appeared to be okay.

  "I think I pushed him too hard," Joe said as he joined Frank. "I shoved both of you at the same time. I think he hit the sidewalk instead of the grass as you did."

  "Well, he's out cold," Frank announced.

  Joe looked up at the top of the building. A dark head peered over the edge of the roof.

  "You!" Joe shouted, and pointed. Frank followed Joe's gesture. The head disappeared. "I'm going after him!"

  Joe bolted into the dormitory. He had to fight his way through the people trying to get outside to look at the accident.

  Joe grabbed a short, bald man wearing wire-rimmed glasses. "How do I get to the roof?" he shouted.

  "Up - up those stairs," the man stammered.

  "Any other way up or down?"

  The man shook his head. "No. Only those stairs."

  Joe let go of the man and bolted up the stairs. "Coming through!" he shouted as he dodged several more people coming down the stairwell.

  He got to the third floor and slipped going around the landing, knocking down another man.

  "Sorry," Joe yelled without breaking stride as he leapt up the steps.

  He reached the fourth-floor landing and turned. Something below caught his eye. The man he had just knocked down was staring up at him, a crowbar in one of his black-gloved hands, his face covered with sweat and the black and gray stubble of a two-day beard. The cap he was wearing made his head appear flat on top. He was the stocky older man from the alley.

  "You!" Joe shouted, and he bounded down the stairs.

  The man threw the crowbar at Joe.

  Joe jumped to one side, slamming into the tiled wall. The crowbar hit the stairs and clanged down to the third-floor landing.

  The man darted down the stairwell. Joe jumped the remaining stairs and then headed down to the second floor. The man was short, overweight, and looked to be in his fifties, but he was fast.

  He ought to be, Joe thought. He's running for his life.

  "Stop that man!" Joe ordered as they reached the crowded first-floor lobby.

  But everyone moved aside, out of the way of the fleeing man, giving the thug a clear path to freedom.

  "I ... said ... stop!" Joe yelled, and he lunged at the man, hitting him at waist level with a backbreaking tackle.

  The man seemed to bend into a sideways V as his feet slid out from under him and he bent over backward. They hit the well-waxed wooden floor with a fleshy smack and slid several yards before crashing into a wall. The stocky man's head hit the wall, and he groaned and went limp. He was unconscious.

  "Are you all right, sir?" a young woman asked, her face showing shock and confusion.

  "Yes," Joe said, standing and brushing himself off. "Did anyone call the police?" he asked the astonished crowd.

  "I did," said an older man. He opened the can of tomato juice he was holding. "Would you mind telling me what's going on here?"

  "May I have that juice?" Joe asked the man, trying to sound as calm and polite as the circumstances would allow.

  The man hesitated, looked at his tomato juice, then at Joe's smiling but determined face. "Well. I suppose. If you must."

  "Thanks," Joe said, grabbing the can. He tilted the can and poured the cold juice onto the stocky man's face.

  "I say," the older man complained, flustered. "That was perfectly good juice."

  The stocky man gasped for air as the juice hit his face.

  "On your feet, creep," Joe ordered. He reached down, grabbed the man's collar, and lifted him. "Where's your partner, flathead?"

  The man only gurgled tomato juice. "Can't ... breathe," the man gagged in a gravelly voice.

  "Get up!"

  The man stood, his legs wobbly, and faced Joe.

  He rubbed his throat and gasped for air, avoiding Joe's fiery blue eyes.

  "Why'd you try to kill us?" Joe demanded to know.

  "I'm afraid I will have to ask the questions," a deep male voice said behind Joe.

  Joe spun around. A man in his early fifties wearing a well-fitting blue English police officer's uniform stood with his hands clasped behind his back. Another police officer stood at his side. Joe acknowledged the authority etched into the man's face and voice and moved aside.

  "Thank you, Mr. Hardy," the police officer said. He pointed to the stocky man. "Take that man into custody, Officer Blake.

  "Yes, sir," Officer Blake responded. "Come along, you." Blake grabbed the thug by his collar and all but dragged him out through the front doors.

  "How do you know my name?" Joe asked the police officer.

  "Oh, sorry," the man said, watching Blake and the small man. He turned and held out his hand. "I'm Commander Collins, Oxford police."

  Joe grabbed the man's hand and shook it.

  Collins continued. "I spoke with your brother outside. He said you had gone after the man suspected of having vandalized the building."

  "I don't think vandalism was what he intended," Joe remarked as they headed for the doors.

  "Yes, well, we'll have to find out about that, won't we?" Collins smiled. In a way, the Oxford police commander reminded Joe of a friendly Chief Collig back in Bayport.

  A friendly Chief Collig? Joe thought with a shudder. That's a contradiction in terms. Maybe I got hit in the head with that crowbar.

  Joe found Frank standing next to Aleksandr. The older Hardy was giving a statement to another English police officer.

  "You look okay," Joe said to Aleksandr.

  "I understand that I have you to thank for saving my life by shoving me onto the sidewalk," Aleksandr said coldly.

  "Hey, you don't have to thank me," Joe said with an edge to his voice. "It was either eat a little concrete sidewalk or get eaten by a one-ton gargoyle." Joe nodded at the shattered statue.

  Aleksandr looked as if he wanted to strike out at Joe. Instead, he turned to the police officer interviewing Frank and said, "You know you cannot hold me?"

  "Yes, sir," Collins replied. "You are free to go."

  Aleksandr walked away from the group.

  "You're not going to let him go, are you?" Joe all but shouted.

  "Aleksandr has diplomatic immunity," Frank replied.

  "Oh," Joe said with disgust. "We're going with him." Joe wanted to find Ziggy.

  "Sergeant," Collins said to the other police officer. "Take these two young men to headquarters and hold them until I arrive."

  "Yes, sir," the sergeant said with a salute. "This way, gentlemen." The sergeant pointed toward a blue and white panel van marked Oxford Police Department.

  "What's wrong, Joe?" Frank asked in a low voice as they neared the panel wagon.

  "I don't like the idea of Aleksandr not being questioned," Joe replied in the same low whisper. "And the guy who tried to do us in with that gargoyle is the same guy who tried to kidnap Ziggy last night."

  "I recognized him when they brought him out," Frank replied. "Perhaps we can question him on the way to the police station."

  Joe liked the idea. They would be alone in the back of the van with the stocky man on the ride to the station. That would give them plenty of time and opportunity to find out what was going on and whom the man worked for.

  But when the sergeant opened the door, Joe saw that the back of the panel van was empty.

  "Where's the other guy?" Joe asked.

  "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," the sergeant replied.

  "The man my brother caught trying to escape after he knocked that gargoyle off the roof," Frank explained.

  The sergeant smiled. "I'll never understand American humor. You two young men are the ones being arrested."

  Before Frank and Joe could say anything, he shoved them into back of the panel wagon.

  Joe sprawled and slid across the metal floor. Then he heard th
e door shut. The inside of the van was pitch dark. A distinct click resounded throughout the back of the panel wagon.

  "Hey!" Joe shouted. He darted for the back door and yanked on the latch. "It's locked!" He pounded on the windowless panel door. "Let us out!"

  The van's engine turned over, and an overhead light came on, nearly blinding Frank and Joe. Then the van lurched forward, throwing Joe against the back door.

  Joe stomped up to the front of the van. He pounded on a metal sliding panel. "Hey! What are you doing?"

  The panel slid open. The sergeant was driving and Commander Collins sat in the passenger seat.

  "I'd advise you to be seated," Collins ordered.

  "What's going on? Why are we under arrest?" Joe demanded to know.

  "Sit down, now!" Collins pointed a black steel pistol at Joe's face.

  Joe backed up, his hands raised. The panel slid shut and was locked.

  "What's going on?" Joe asked, looking at Frank, who was seated on the metal bench welded to the side of the panel van.

  "From the looks of things," Frank replied calmly, "I'd say we've been arrested."

  "Why would the Oxford police want to arrest us?

  "I wouldn't know about the Oxford police. But these guys want to question us." Frank locked his hands behind his head.

  "What are you talking about?" Joe sat across from Frank.

  "Did you notice what kind of gun that commander pointed at you?"

  "I got a real good up-close and personal look," Joe said sarcastically. "A nine-millimeter Beretta. What about it?"

  "First of all, English police officers are not issued weapons, not even commanders. Second, that particular make of Beretta is a fifteen-clip special that's custom-made for one organization: BCI - British Counterintelligence."

  "So these guys aren't Oxford police, and we're not going to the Oxford station," Joe stated.

  "Right." Frank sniffed. "From the smell of things, I'd say we're in the country."

  Joe sniffed, too. "Smells like a stockyard," he said, wrinkling his nose.

  They rode in silence for a few minutes, and then Frank pulled the cigarette lighter from his pocket.

  "Where'd you get that?" Joe asked.

  "I found it in my room just before Aleksandr showed up." Frank turned the lighter over.

  "Chris smoked. That's one thing we argued about last night." The previous night seemed a lifetime away, and Joe wished he had kept a better eye on the skateboarder from California.