Countdown to Terror Read online

  "What's going on?" asked a young guy with carrot-colored hair. He wore an apron over jeans and a T-shirt and held a knife in his hand. Frank figured he must be an assistant cook.

  "You wouldn't believe us if we told you," Shauna said.

  "Have you called the fire department?" Frank asked.

  The guy stared. "Why? Bob's out there with the fire extinguisher."

  A moment later Bob came swinging back in through the doors, coughing his head off. "Too much," he gasped. "Call the fire — "

  A blare of sirens cut him off. Someone else must have noticed the smoke.

  "Out, out." Bob made shooing gestures, and the kitchen staff meekly headed out the rear door. Wisps of smoke were now coming through the thin gap between the swinging doors.

  Frank and Joe followed Shauna out the door as the first wave of fire fighters arrived.

  "Well," said Joe, "I don't think there'll be a party tonight."

  Shauna nodded, a little forlorn. "Tonight— and quite a few other nights," she agreed. Then her face became furious looking. "Imagine the nerve of that guy! He could have killed us."

  "I think that was the idea," Frank said a little dryly. Then to his brother he said, "Those other six guys must have sneaked back on the boat when we weren't looking."

  Then his face grew even more serious. "Too bad we didn't get a look inside that case," he said. "I'd have liked to see if that bomb had a Fellawi loop."

  "A who - what?" Shauna asked.

  "My brother's a bomb buff," Joe told her. "He knows everybody's trademarks." More to Frank, he pointed out, "If you'd gone to take a look, the bomb would have blown up in your face."

  Shauna poked them both. "So—what do we do now?"

  Frank grinned. "That's usually Joe's line— and what do you mean, 'we'?"

  "Well, these terrorists or whatever they are have just put me out of a job," she said. "It seems only fair that I should get a shot at revenge. Besides," she pointed out, "you really need someone who knows the town. Otherwise, you'll just waste more time looking at empty forts."

  Frank looked at Joe. "Looks like we've got ourselves a native guide."

  "A very pretty native guide." He turned to Shauna. "Okay, lead us to Fort Needham — a nice, confusing route, to give anybody following us a headache."

  "Right." Shauna led them around the block, where an ancient stone facade hid an ultramodern hotel. She led them through the elegant lobby, past a row of shops, then up an escalator. They found themselves on another shopping arcade, with a walkway at the end leading to another building.

  As they walked above the early evening traffic, Frank and Joe looked back to see if they could spot a tail. Nobody was there.

  "I've seen a lot of these walkways downtown," Joe said. "Why do you use them instead of walking in the fresh air?"

  "If you were here in the winter, you wouldn't ask," Shauna replied. "Besides, it beats climbing up and down hills, which isn't fun in ice and snow."

  In the next building she led them through several shops and made a couple of unexpected turns, again to shake or isolate any tails. None showed up.

  Shauna then took them out a back entrance, around the mall, down several streets, three-quarters of the way around a churchyard, and then finally to Gottingen Street.

  Joe shook his head in defeat. "If that didn't turn up anyone following us, I'd say we were in the clear."

  "Right," said Frank. "Let's head for the park—and keep our eyes open."

  They reached Fort Needham without seeing anything out of the ordinary. "I don't get it," Frank said, leaning against the strange bell tower on the bluff. His eyes bored out toward the harbor in the distance. "If they caught us once, why couldn't they catch us again?"

  "Dumb luck?" Joe suggested, sitting on the grass to rest his feet. Shauna sat beside him.

  "I don't like to credit things to luck," Frank said. "It's not logical, rational, or—I don't believe this!"

  He stepped back against the cement of the bell tower, keeping out of someone's sight. "Joe," he said calmly, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice, "look who's here."

  Easily—with no fast movements to catch anyone's attention—Joe rose to his feet. He turned as if he were talking to Shauna, then glanced over to where Frank was looking.

  He couldn't believe his eyes. There, walking down a path in the park with the sun very low in the sky behind him, was their old pal, the guy in the turban. Now he was leaving the path and heading down a grassy slope to a side street.

  From their position on top of the bluff, the Hardys and Shauna could see his course clearly.

  "What do you think?" Joe said. "He didn't act like he saw us. He didn't act like he was looking for us. Maybe he's doing just what it looks like — maybe he's just cutting across the park."

  "Or maybe," Frank said, "he's setting us up again. I'd hate to get locked up in a room with another bomb."

  "I say we follow him." Joe started along the path, hands in his pockets, as if he were taking a stroll.

  Mr. Mustache never looked back as the side street became a flight of stairs, leading down to the waterfront area.

  "I wonder what he wants down by the dock?" Shauna said.

  That end of the harbor didn't have the bustling energy they'd seen on piers on the rest of the waterfront. Railroad tracks, a warehouse or two, and what looked like a sheet-metal shop made up most of the landscape.

  The building their quarry headed for was definitely a rundown warehouse. It took the three a little while to get close. The area was fiat pavement, like a gigantic parking lot. They couldn't risk being seen by the turbaned man— even if he wasn't looking back.

  Using what cover they could, they finally made it to the building. The door stood wide open.

  "Shauna," Frank whispered, "you stay here as lookout. Give us a whistle if anyone comes along."

  She nodded, taking a position by the corner of the building.

  Frank and Joe stole inside. Dead ahead of them, across the vast room, were wide-open loading bays. No one was around. To their right were storage bays, with a hodgepodge of smallish boxes, bales, and crates.

  "So, can you tell me if the ship has finally been unloaded?" The voice came from a glassed-in office in the left corner of the floor. The Hardys didn't have to worry about being spotted — nobody had washed the glass in years.

  Frank frowned. The voice had a trace of an accent. But he couldn't quite place it.

  Joe and he darted for shelter behind some boxes when they heard the office door rattle.

  "I knew it was important to you, Mr. Singh." A man in a stained jacket came out of the room, followed by the turbaned guy. "That's why I kept an eye out for it. Came in just this afternoon, so I kept it out special. You were lucky I decided to work late tonight."

  The man stopped in the middle of the room to pat a long, bulky packing case. "See? She's right here. Pity you didn't bring your truck."

  "Can I use your phone? I'll call for the truck."

  "Fine, and then we'll go over the shipping papers."

  Frank and Joe stayed low in the shadows as the two men headed back to the office.

  As soon as the door was closed, they sneaked over to the crate. A shipping manifest was taped to the rough wood, along with a bill of lading.

  Frank quickly scanned over entries like factor, port of embarkation, transshipment point, until — "Here it is — consignee. That's the person who's supposed to receive it."

  He read the name typed beside the form entry. "Forte Brothers, Inc."

  He raised an eyebrow at Joe. "I think we've found our fort."

  Chapter 10

  "BUT I'D LIKE to know what kind of presents these Forte Brothers are getting," Joe said. He looked around for a crowbar or anything to wedge the crate open.

  Just then Shauna's whistle sounded from outside.

  Joe dashed for the doorway, then back. "There're the lights of a car in the distance, and it seems to be heading this way."

  Frank took off running for a corner of the warehouse, where he'd spotted a forklift truck. "Joe, start looking through those storage bays. We need a crate about the size and shape of this one."

  While Joe darted down the alleyways of the bays, Frank turned on the engine of the forklift. All this frantic action took place in nearly absolute silence. Joe's footfalls were smothered by the rubber soles of his running shoes. And the forklift had an electric motor, which only gave off a low hum as Frank maneuvered it to the crate.

  Frank lined up the blades of the forklift with the openings in the wooden skid under the box. It took him only a moment of fumbling to figure out how to lift the fork up so he could move the crate away. He quickly got the knack, and soon was trundling the crate to the back of a storage bay where Joe stood. Joe was beckoning frantically and pointing down the bay. Halfway down the alley was a crate nearly identical to the one Frank had just moved.

  Frank dropped off his cargo and maneuvered in to pick up the new box. He whispered to Joe, "Go and take the papers off the crate— carefully. We don't want a torn packing slip making them suspicious when we put those papers on the new crate."

  With the new crate secured on the forklift, Frank spun and drove out to the spot where the original crate had been. The car must be at the warehouse by now, and he hoped Shauna had sense enough to hide.

  He carefully lowered the crate, disengaged the fork, and backed up. Joe ran over to the crate and smoothed on the papers he'd taken from the original crate.

  Frank drove quickly to put the truck back where he'd found it. Just as he was jumping from the driver's seat, he heard the sound of a vehicle pulling up outside and the honk of a horn.

  The office door opened, and Frank dove for cover behind the forklift.

  Joe was out in the open, standing next to the crate. A good twenty feet of open space separated him from the nearest storage bay. Realizing he'd be seen if he made a run for it, he ducked down behind the crate.

  The warehouse manager and Mr. Singh, as he was called, stepped out of the office. "These must be my people now," Singh said.

  Joe held his breath. Would they notice anything odd? The forklift wasn't exactly where it had been. Neither was the crate. But the two men hardly gave the area a second glance.

  Joe let out an inaudible sigh of relief as he heard their footsteps move away from him. He peeked around the side of the crate to see the backs of the two men heading for the warehouse door.

  A van stood just outside, its doors open. This was the only chance he'd get. Rising to his feet, Joe darted noiselessly for the nearest bay—and safety. In seconds he had worked his way down an alley and found a nice pile of boxes to hide behind.

  Frank had slipped from behind the forklift to find a hiding spot, too. He watched as Singh, the warehouse manager, and three other guys approached the crate in the center of the floor. The manager pawed around in his soiled jacket, finally coming up with a pen. "Sign here and here, and the shipment's yours."

  He sighed. "Must be tough for the relatives to wait for it to come by boat. Pretty sad."

  "Sadness is our business," Singh replied. "And it was a monetary decision for them. Air freight is so very expensive."

  The manager was still shaking his head as he walked over to the forklift. He turned it on, then expertly whipped it around, bringing it over to the crate. "Better move your van to the loading dock," he said. "It'll be easier."

  The manager then drove the forklift and its burden over to the open side of the warehouse. He was silhouetted against the darkening sky, easing the machine down to the end of the loading bay.

  The van backed up to the dock, then Singh and one of the other guys stepped out of the back doors, carrying something between them. Neither Frank nor Joe could see it clearly. But it seemed to be a collapsible metal frame on wheels.

  They set it up on the floor of the bay. Several grunts later, they had the box on their collapsible stretcher and wheeled it into their van.

  Singh waved goodbye to the manager, then he took off.

  After driving the forklift back to the far wall, the warehouse manager strolled back to his office.

  joe could hardly wait for him to close the door. He'd found a crowbar, and he was itching to get the top off the mystery crate. He popped out of his hiding place.

  Frank appeared, too, and headed past Joe to the door. "I'm going to tell Shauna what's going on," he whispered. "She's probably getting worried out there."

  "Uh, right," Joe agreed. He tapped the crowbar in his open palm. "Well, I'll get started on the crate."

  "Just do it quietly," Frank said. "Any sound of splintering wood will bring our friend out."

  As if on cue, a muffled noise came from inside the office — the sounds of a war. Joe grinned as he heard a cavalry bugle, gunshots, and war cries. "He must have a TV in there," he said. "As long as the shooting keeps up, we can afford a little noise."

  Nothing appeared to be stirring outside — then Frank caught a flicker of movement. It was Shauna, peeking round the corner of the building.

  "Frank!" she gasped. "I didn't know what had happened to you."

  "We pulled a switcheroo," he explained to her. "The box they left with wasn't the box they came for."

  "Where's Joe?" Shauna wanted to know.

  "Inside, opening the real crate. We want to know what these guys were supposed to get."

  Curious, Shauna started toward the door. Frank gently took her arm to stop her. "We need you out here still. Our box isn't going to fool those guys very long — just till they open it up. Keep an eye out for them. As soon as you see them coming, warn us. Okay?"

  Shauna pouted for only a second but then had to admit that Frank was right. "But I want a blow-by-blow description," she warned.

  Frank grinned. "Joe has an instant camera. He'll take pictures."

  He went back inside to bring his brother up to date. Joe had loosened all the nails on three sides of the box, and was working on the last one. He chuckled when Frank told him of his promise. "Well, I've got the camera right here," he said, touching a pocket in his summer-weight jacket. "I suppose we'll need the evidence, anyway."

  Joe pried up the last of the nails, then silently pulled the lid of the crate free. He propped the lid against a pile of boxes, then turned back to watch Frank burrow through packing material.

  "So, what is it?" Joe asked.

  Frank had finally scooped enough of the packing stuff out of the way and stared down.

  "Would you believe a coffin?" he asked.

  Chapter 11

  FRANK AND JOE both leaned in and began sweeping the packing material out with their arms. Together, they cleaned off the whole top, creating a snowstorm of polystyrene peanuts.

  The box inside the crate was dull silver in color, about seven feet long and three feet wide. The top was in two sections, with a hairline crack between them.

  As he stared down at the grim-looking shape, Joe Hardy had to admit that his brother's first guess was right. They were looking at a coffin.

  "Well, this explains what Singh was talking about," Frank said. "Remember when he was talking with the manager? He said something like, 'Sadness is our business.' "

  Joe nodded. "Yeah. I guess if we looked up Forte Brothers in the phone book we'd find out that they're funeral directors."

  "Probably," Frank agreed. He stared at the coffin for a moment, poked against the top, and then looked over at his brother. "You have your Swiss army knife? I need a screwdriver."

  "What do you need a screwdriver for?" Joe asked. Then, when he figured it out, he looked at Frank's determined face, appalled. "Oh, no," he said. "Wait a minute. You're not going to open this thing, are you?"

  "Just the top half," Frank admitted.

  Joe stared. "You've finally lost it completely. We know what's in there. Who are you expecting to find, Count Dracula?"

  "We don't know what's in there," Frank replied. "But I think we ought to find out." He held out his hand for the knife.

  Joe Hardy finally dug it out and handed it over. "This coffin has spent weeks on some freighter," he said. "Remember what the manager said about the relatives waiting. Are you sure you want to open it? I mean, after all, what would you expect someone to ship to a funeral parlor?"

  "You're forgetting that these guys aren't normal funeral directors." Frank bent over and reached under the sides of the coffin, feeling for the screws that held the top closed. "They shoot guns and leave bombs around. That's not normal—unless Halifax has a shortage of dead people and they're drumming up business."

  "It all sounds weird to me." Joe shook his head in disbelief.

  "No, it all makes a horrible kind of sense," Frank insisted as he worked on the screws. "A phony funeral home would be a perfect cover. I mean, who would bother a mortician? And if he has the odd body to get rid of, it couldn't be easier — "

  He grunted as a tight screw resisted him for a second. "And if you were smuggling things into a country, what better way than in a coffin? Who'd check it out?" A little more work, then Frank straightened up suddenly. "That's it. The top should lift off."

  Joe stepped away from the coffin. "What if you're wrong? This could be pretty gross." He shuddered. "Horrible, I mean."

  "Don't be silly." Still, Frank took a deep breath before he swung the top open.

  He looked in and quickly shut the lid. The coffin wasn't empty — it did contain a body.

  "See, I told you, "Joe said.

  But Frank slowly eased the lid up again for another look. This time he reached in and dug his fingernail into the face of the body.

  "Have you gone crazy?" Joe said louder than he'd intended.

  "Nope. And this isn't skin under my nail. It's wax. At first glance the dummy looks real, but it's made of wax."

  When he pulled down the blanket covering the body, Frank found a little door in the left-hand side of its chest. Joe stared. The door was right where the heart would be on a living person.