Disaster for Hire Read online

  Frank's jaw hurt, but he would not give Theo the satisfaction of rubbing it and admitting to the pain. "I don't know what kind of information you think you can get out of me. I'm just a student on an exchange program."

  "Either you are a fool, which I doubt, or you take me for one." Theo leaned in until his face was inches from Frank's. "I want to know exactly where your criminal accomplices are to meet with the American spy. He will not escape the forces of justice in any case, but if you tell us the exact location of the meeting, it will be easier for him—and for you."

  Frank took a deep breath, but let none of the relief and happiness he felt show in his face. Maybe Joe and the rest of the northern party had somehow managed to get free of the ambush.

  "Spy? Criminal accomplices? Listen, Theo, I'm telling you, you're making a mistake. We came here to study history and culture.

  "I tell you what, check with my brother Joe. He'll be happy to explain how we've always wanted to visit Greece and soak up all this ancient history."

  "I look forward to the chance of having a long, long meeting with your brother, when such a tiling is possible. But for now," Theo said, "I am talking to you. So, stop this pointless lying. Where is this meeting to be?"

  Frank shrugged and shook his head. "Sorry, but I'm afraid I can't help you."

  Theo's eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed together into a thin, bloodless line. He handed the flashlight to one of his henchmen and reached into his jacket, pulling out a large, nickel-plated 9mm automatic pistol. Holding it casually at the bridge of Frank's nose, he asked, "Perhaps this will help your memory a little?"

  To Frank, the barrel of the gun looked about the size of a manhole cover. But he gave Theo his most innocent, puzzled look and replied, "There's nothing I can tell you. And if you shoot me, then there definitely will be nothing I'll be able to tell you."

  "Shoot you? Oh, no, my young student friend, I would never dream of shooting you." Theo's mouth curved up into a smile, and that smile was the ugliest expression he had shown yet — the look of a shark that had just sniffed out a tasty meal.

  "No, you are to remain alive for the time being," Theo went on. "But I am going to introduce your friends here to a very old custom of our country — one which your brother and you, with your great interest in Greek history, will no doubt find fascinating."

  Theo put his gun away and climbed the steps out of the cellar, returning a moment later with a small clay pot in his hand. "It is a kind of lottery," he explained.

  Pulling a knife from a sheath on his belt, Theo crossed the basement. The wall there had once been decorated with black and white tiles. Many were now missing or broken. Theo pried several of the tiles loose, then slipped the knife back in its sheath.

  "You see," Theo said, holding the tiles out in his hand, "I have three white tiles and one black one. When the ancients had to choose one person from a group to suffer an unpleasant fate, they put tiles or rocks in a pot, like so.

  He dropped the tiles into the pot and shook it up. "Then each member of the group would pick a tile. The person with the bad luck to draw the black tile—that one would suffer. Now we relive this old Greek custom. Fun, eh?"

  Frank reached for the pot, but Theo shook his head.

  "Oh, no, my friend, you may only observe our little lottery," Theo said. "But the rest of you," — he swung his gaze over Chet, Peter, Alma, and Aleko — "will reach into the pot and choose a tile. Whoever chooses the black tile, that unhappy soul will suffer if Frank refuses to answer my questions."

  He smiled again. "Whether you live or die will be entirely Frank's responsibility."

  Chapter 12

  JOE HARDY CLUNG to the rocky surface of the old fortress tower like a fly to sticky paper. He was only halfway down when the gunman had appeared to subdue Clea.

  Apparently the enemy scout had seen only her and decided on a quiet capture. He had clamped a hand over her mouth and begun dragging her backward.

  But Clea refused to cooperate. She sank her teeth into the guy's hand. He grunted in pain and lost his grip on the girl, who darted away. He recovered quickly and lunged after her.

  Twelve feet above, Joe pushed out from the wall. Falling like dead weight, he hit his unsuspecting target squarely on the back. They both fell heavily, with the man taking most of the impact.

  Joe kicked free and got to his feet, while his dazed opponent wobbled to his hands and knees. Before he got up any farther, Joe delivered a roundhouse right to the side of the guy's head with enough power to send him flat on his face, down and out.

  Clea rushed up as Joe removed the unconscious gunman's pistol and checked the clip. There was a full load of eight shots. He made sure the safety was on and stuck the gun in his belt.

  "Are you all right?" Clea asked.

  "Never felt better," he answered, pulling a coil of rope from his pack. "Let's drag him over behind the bushes there and tie him up."

  They left the scout behind a dense growth of plants, a gag stuffed in his mouth and his hands and feet bound behind his back. By this time, Andreas had joined them. They still heard occasional firing from the other side of the tower.

  "Okay," Joe said. "Clea and I will circle in front of the tower and create a diversion with this." He patted the pistol.

  "I figure if they think they're under fire from two sides, that ought to let Andreas move down the hillside without being seen. Andreas, you have a watch?"

  "A stopwatch for my running," he replied, pulling one from a pocket.

  "Great!" exclaimed Joe. "Give us, say, ten minutes from the time we move out before you take off. And one last thing—when you get to that junction, stay out of sight until you're sure that the people you see seem friendly. Got that?"

  Andreas's eyes gleamed with excitement. "I understand," he assured Joe. Then he smiled at his sister. "Take care, and good luck."

  Clea gave Andreas a quick hug. "Run well, my brother."

  Leaving Andreas looking at his watch, Joe and Clea worked their way down the slope. They carefully started around the fortress, using all available cover once they were within sight of the attack force.

  Dodging from scraggly bush to little hillock of earth, to one of the many boulders scattered around the area, they moved in behind the enemy. They climbed a hill, at their opponents' backs. The gunmen never noticed a thing.

  "Over here," Joe whispered. He'd seen just what he wanted — a thick tangle of bushes on the hill's crest. From there they could see a section of road where Andreas should soon appear. The nearest of the opposition was about sixty yards away. Joe checked his watch and found that eight minutes had passed. They had two minutes to establish their diversion.

  Joe motioned Clea to lie flat and pulled out the automatic pistol, flipping off the safety. He drew a bead on the rock the nearest enemy was using for cover. Then, gripping the heavy pistol in two hands, as his father had taught him, he squeezed off a shot.

  Sixty yards away, the bullet smashed into a rock only a foot from the gunman, who jumped in fear and stared wildly around. Joe fired again, and a bullet ricocheted off a rock on the man's other side, sending up a shower of stone chips.

  Joe and Clea could hear the man cry out in shrill, panicky tones. Joe kept shooting until the clip was empty. The result was a frantic scramble as the bewildered attackers looked for better hiding places against gunfire from both the tower and this new threat. A burst of wild automatic fire tore through the top of a tree, but the gunner had no idea where to aim.

  Clea reached out to tap Joe on the arm. "Look! On the road!" she whispered urgently.

  Joe swung around and saw Andreas, arms churning, thin legs pumping, as he sprinted away, completely unseen by the enemy. The diversion had worked!

  Seconds later heavy fire erupted from the tower, and the attackers, now totally rattled, turned back to face their original target.

  Joe nudged Clea. "I think Phil and Prynne are giving us some cover. Let's take advantage of it and get out of here. Stay low and mov
e slowly—at first."

  They put some distance between the fortress and themselves before they felt it was safe to take off across the jagged terrain at a rapid clip. The noise of shooting soon faded behind them.

  They moved through a landscape of barren earth and stone. Drab, colorless, low trees and : bushes were the only silhouettes breaking up the monotony. There were no buildings, no signs of paved roads, in fact, no evidence that people had ever set foot there. Clea had some knowledge of the country and led the way. At one point, Joe called a brief halt and discarded their pistol, hiding it under a pile of small rocks. Clea asked, "Why don't we keep the gun?" "If we're stopped by anyone," answered Joe, "it's better if we look like a couple of innocent backpackers. And an empty pistol isn't going to be of much use anyway."

  They plodded on for a while in silence, each wrapped up in his or her own thoughts and worries about friends and relations.

  Joe began to be aware of the straps of his pack cutting into his shoulders. And his legs were sending painful messages that all this up-and downhill was getting very old very fast.

  He stopped and drew in a deep breath. "Listen, Clea." She turned to face him. "Uh, how are you doing? You want to take a breather?"

  "A breather?" she asked with a mocking smile. "Can it be that the all-American athlete is tired already?"

  Joe felt his face reddening. "Hey, give me a break!" he protested. "I'm fine, I just figured maybe you might be a little — "

  "You needn't worry about me," replied Clea coldly. "Any Greek could outlast you in crosscountry hiking. I see how the American tourists won't go anywhere if they can't take a bus or car. You're soft and weak, all of you."

  Joe's aching legs and back were forgotten in a rising tide of anger and resentment. He marched alongside her, demanding, "Why do you hate America anyway? What's your problem?"

  Clea stared at him in puzzlement. "Hate America? I don't. We Greeks owe a great deal to your country. America saved us from terrible things when my parents were young."

  Joe frowned. "I don't get it."

  "After World War Two ended, there were those who wanted Greece to become a Communist state. Many died in the fighting, and thousands of children, babies even, were carried off to be raised in Communist countries.

  When we became a tyranny, they would return as our new leaders.

  "If it had not been for American assistance, the Communists might have won. But when I see rich, spoiled American tourists who only want their comforts, I wonder if they could fight for their liberty if they had to."

  Joe had forgotten his anger as he listened to Clea's story. He walked a way before answering.

  "I never heard any of what happened in Greece back then," he said finally. "I'm glad you told me. But I do know a bit about America. Sure, there are some folks like the ones you're talking about, who come over for a good time only.

  "But I look at Bayport, where Frank and I live, and people don't look so lazy or spoiled to me. They work hard. My father, for instance, makes a good, comfortable living as a detective, but I can tell you, he's worked hard to help a lot of people."

  He looked down. "I guess that's one of the reasons my brother and I want to be like him."

  Clea shook her head. "What you say may be true, but that's just one town and only a small number of people."

  "Frank and I have met a lot of Americans. I'm not saying they're all perfect, but I don't think we're all that bad. In fact, I bet we're a lot like you. We look at some things differently, we do some stuff differently. But I guess we're the same in more important ways than we're different."

  Joe broke off, seeing Clea smile at him. He looked away, embarrassed at having gone on as he had.

  "Well, anyway, that's what I think," he mumbled. "Maybe it sounds pretty dumb, but — "

  "No, not at all," Clea protested. "I don't think it's dumb at all, Joe. I think that it is probably so. Perhaps I do not know Americans as well as I thought I did. Maybe we're both learning important things from each other."

  They went on in silence again — a friendlier silence than before.

  Near the crest of what seemed to Joe like the two hundredth hill they'd climbed, he raised his hands in mock surrender and said, "Okay, I give up. I want to take a breather, because I could use a break, all right?"

  Clea began to pull off her backpack. "If you hadn't said anything, I would have in a minute or so," she admitted. "I think we could both use a little rest and something to eat."

  Joe noticed a flat ledge of rock nearby. He walked over to it, shedding his own pack as he did. "This looks like a pretty good spot to sit down for a couple of — "

  Whap! Something smacked into the pack, ripping it out of his hands. Startled, Joe yelled to Clea, "Get down!"

  She stared in surprise but dove for the ground.

  Crouching, Joe scanned the barren hillsides around them. Somewhere out there, someone had targeted them. But there'd been no sound of a gunshot.

  "We've got to get behind those rocks," he said to Clea, glancing at the only cover nearby.

  Joe and the Greek girl managed to crawl only a foot toward shelter.

  Then something went spang off the rocks right between them.

  Chapter 13

  THEO SHOVED THE small pot with the four tiles inside at Chet Morton, saying, "We'll begin with you, fat boy. Put your hand inside and pick out a tile. Quickly!"

  Glaring at the man, jaws clenched tight, Chet reached in and pulled out a tile. It sat in his large fist as he swallowed, then opened his hand. The tile was white!

  Theo was clearly enjoying the game and the fear it caused his prisoners. He moved over to Aleko, who scowled sullenly. "Now you, make your choice. Don't be afraid, boy, the odds are still in your favor."

  "I am not afraid," muttered Aleko as he pulled out a tile. It, too, was white.

  "It is the turn of the young lady," Theo said, offering her the pot. Alma stared at him, eyes wide, frozen, like a bird hypnotized by a snake. She couldn't move.

  "Come, now," Theo went on, shaking the pot so that the two remaining tiles rattled. "Get it done with, girl. You are making me angry, and that is a very bad idea. Take the tile, or I will make your brother my first victim."

  "No! Please!" cried Alma, groping inside the pot with a trembling hand. Looking at what she had chosen, she let out a soft moaning sound. Her hand fell to her side, and the black tile dropped to the cellar floor.

  Theo grabbed Alma by the wrist. He pulled her forward, away from the others, drawing the big automatic with his other hand.

  "Let her go," roared Aleko, springing for Theo's throat. The henchman with the long flashlight clubbed the brawny young Greek on the back of the head, dropping him in a crumpled heap on the ground. Alma screamed, but Theo silenced her abruptly, pointing the ugly gun at her nostrils. The room grew quiet.

  "Now then! There will be no more heroics, I hope," Theo said, looking over at Frank.

  "If you wish this girl to live, you will tell me all you know about where the meeting has been set with the criminal spy—now!" Frank gauged the distance that separated him from Theo—but with three other armed men facing him, the odds were too long. Theo held Alma by the wrist, and now, deliberately, he cocked his gun with a dry click that echoed through the room. Then the door at the head of the steps opened.

  "Theo!" called out a voice, and Nicholas Kaliotis stormed the cellar. Theo sullenly lowered his weapon. The two men shouted angrily at each other in Greek. Kaliotis turned to Frank, giving him a grim look.

  "We do not wish to hurt anyone. You will all be released unharmed, if you are cooperative."

  "Traitor!" Alma shrieked. "How can anything you say be believed?"

  Kaliotis bit his lower lip but did not look at her.

  "I tell you, we are not here to shed blood. You must tell us what you know, and you and your friends will be safe. I swear it."

  Frank studied Kaliotis for a few seconds. "Maybe you actually believe what you're saying," he answered. "I wish
that I could. We've seen too much, we know too much, and your buddy Theo seems like a guy who would shoot because he doesn't like the way we cut our hair. I don't think it matters if I say anything or not."

  "No! You are wrong, I tell you!" Kaliotis grabbed Frank's shoulders with both hands. "I would not have done this — do you think I would have brought you here to be shot?"

  Theo stepped forward between Kaliotis and Frank and shoved the Greek back and out of the way. He gave Kaliotis a look of contempt.

  "We have tried your method, and you see where it has gotten us. Now we are short of time, and we will use my way. I will shoot a prisoner now, and one for each additional minute that this stubborn American refuses to talk."

  Kaliotis started to protest, but Theo grabbed Alma once again, saying, "You are weak, my brother."

  He aimed the pistol at Alma, and once more looked over at Frank. "Well? What will it be? Nothing? Very well, then. Her death is on your head, Yankee."

  "Theo! No!" Just before Theo pulled the trigger, Kaliotis hurled himself at Theo. The pistol roared, and Kaliotis was flung back against the wall.

  Seeing his chance, Frank drove a shoulder hard into Theo's chest, knocking him down and sending the gun clattering into a corner. Chet wrenched the flashlight away from the distracted guard and brought it down on the man's arm as he raised his pistol. Then he rammed an elbow into the face of the disarmed gunman, who fell to his knees, all the fight knocked out of him.

  Screaming, Alma rushed the man with the Uzi, clawing at his eyes. Peter jumped on the guy's back, pinning the man's arms to his sides, hanging in with grim determination. The man, bleeding from the scratches that Alma had left on his face, tried to shake Peter loose, but the boy wouldn't let go.

  The remaining guard leveled his pistol, hoping for a clear shot at one of the young demons. But in the dim light the action boiled so rapidly around him that he dared not shoot.

  While he hesitated, Chet threw the long multicell flashlight at him. It struck him a glancing blow that didn't do much damage. But it was followed immediately by Chet himself, who slammed the guard against the wall of the cellar and knocked the wind out of him.