Strategic Moves Read online

  Lewis was speaking to the group as Frank walked up behind the students. Joe and Petra were at the rear of the crowd, but Ziggy was nowhere to be seen.

  "Where's Ziggy?" Frank whispered to Joe.

  Joe pointed. "Up front."

  Frank stood on tiptoe and saw Ziggy at the front of the crowd, listening intently to every word Lewis was saying.

  "Stonehenge stands ten miles north of the city of Salisbury and has existed for almost four thousand years. During the last century," Lewis droned on, "Stonehenge has received the greatest amount of damage from war, pollution, and people who have defaced the stones.

  "The only modern structure is the iron railing used to keep people away from the stones. Although most tourists are forbidden to get too near the stones, I have received security permission to allow you students to roam freely once I have finished my lecture. Now ..." Lewis continued, speaking on the four-thousand-year history of the stones from the beginning to the present day.

  "Brother," Joe moaned after a few minutes. "I could get this stuff from a textbook."

  "Yes," Petra agreed. "Mr. Lewis has a way of making this beautiful site quite boring." She turned to Joe, a sly smile on her face. "Shall we begin our tour early?"

  "Just what I was thinking." Joe returned Petra's smile.

  Joe and Petra slowly backed out and away from the other students.

  "Where are you going?" Frank whispered to Joe.

  "To get a better look at the stones," Joe answered, and he and Petra disappeared behind one of the megaliths.

  Frank didn't know what Joe was up to, but he didn't like his younger brother taking such chances, especially since he suspected that Fitzhugh was a rogue agent.

  Frank made his way among the other students, noting the bored, restless looks on their faces, and stood next to Ziggy.

  "Isn't this fascinating, Frank?" Ziggy whispered when he noticed Frank next to him.

  "Uh - huh." Frank sighed. Listening to Lewis was like playing a scratchy old record that skipped.

  "It's almost as if these stones are giant chess pieces," Ziggy whispered.

  Frank smiled. "Played by ancient Druid mystics and Celtic priests."

  "This gives me an idea." Ziggy took a small notebook from his pocket, sat down on the grass, and began scribbling. "Would you like to play chess tonight?" Ziggy didn't look up.

  Frank knelt beside Ziggy. "Are you kidding? You were leading me to slaughter before our little accident last night."

  "Yes, but I think you will find tonight's game fascinating." Ziggy scribbled on.

  "What are you working on?" Frank leaned over to look at Ziggy's notebook.

  "Excuse me, gentlemen," Lewis said loudly. "But would you mind paying a little more attention to the lecture."

  "I'm taking notes," Ziggy lied, smiling at Frank.

  Frank stood up. "Sorry," he mumbled.

  They spent another fifteen minutes listening to Lewis before the group was dismissed to explore the stones.

  Frank was eager to find Petra and Joe, but he didn't want to leave Ziggy, who still sat on the grass scribbling in his notebook. Also, Frank wanted to examine the stones himself. He would hate to have come all the way to England without getting a good look at one of the world's truly great mysteries.

  ***

  An hour later they were all on the buses, headed to the city of Salisbury to eat lunch before returning to Oxford.

  Frank explained to the others that Salisbury was famous for its many spires and the orderly way the city had been laid out in a grid. Although Salisbury had been designed hundreds of years before, the city still followed the same basic plan.

  "Nice and orderly and logical," Frank concluded.

  "There's that steel-trap mind again," Joe said with a laugh.

  Frank frowned at his younger brother.

  The students were allowed to eat at any one of the many pubs and sidewalk cafes, as long as they were back at the buses by one-thirty.

  Frank, Joe, Ziggy, and Petra decided on a small cafe away from the main street. They scanned the menu.

  "I wonder where Fitzhugh is going," Frank said.

  Joe looked up. Fitzhugh was on the other side of the street, walking quickly. He disappeared inside a shop with its name hand-printed in white letters on the picture window: Stonehenge Antiques.

  "I think I'll check out some of the local artifacts," Frank said to Joe. "Order for me."

  Frank glanced both ways and then crossed the street. He didn't know what, but something about Fitzhugh bothered Frank.

  Frank walked up to the old shop and pushed open the door, causing a bell to clang.

  "May I help you?" asked a short, bald man from behind the counter. He had been leaning on the counter, reading a newspaper. His skin was wrinkled and mottled, and he looked to be in his seventies.

  Frank glanced around the small shop, which was cluttered with rusted tools, old baby carriages, and stained tables. An assortment of stuffed animals hung on the wall.

  "I'm with the students from Oxford," Frank explained. "I'm looking for Mr. Fitzhugh, our program director. He just came in here."

  "I'm sorry," the old man said. "You are the only customer I've had in the past hour."

  "I'm sure I saw him come in here," Frank insisted. "A tall, broad man with dark eyes."

  The old man slowly shook his head. "No. As I was saying, you are the only living soul I've seen in an hour."

  "Thank you," Frank said with a sigh, and left, the bell clanging again.

  Frank spotted Joe across the street at the café. Joe nodded his head. Frank shrugged his shoulders, then pointed to an alley.

  Frank walked into the alley, which ended at a brick wall. He knew Fitzhugh had gone into the shop and then disappeared into the back of the store, but why was the old man hiding that fact? Frank wanted to find a side door and perhaps sneak in.

  He walked to the middle of the alley. There was an olive drab door on rusty hinges. Must be the one, Frank thought. He put his hand on the knob and turned. The door was locked.

  "Look who we have here, Chris," came a voice from behind Frank.

  Frank spun around. Howard Markham and Chris St. Armand stood at the head of the alley.

  "We have ourselves an alley cat," St. Armand sneered.

  "Hi, guys," Frank said calmly. Then to St. Armand he said, "Tear up any rooms lately, Chris? Or do I call you Agent St. Armand?"

  "What?" St. Armand asked, puzzled.

  Frank pulled the Zippo lighter from his pocket and held it up.

  "Where'd you get that?" St. Armand spit the question out.

  "On the floor where you left it," Frank replied.

  "Give it back to him," Markham ordered.

  "No," St. Armand said. "I want to take it away from him - after I tear him apart piece by piece."

  St. Armand started down the alley, a dark scowl on his face.

  Frank moved to the center of the alley and took a defensive karate stance. St. Armand was the same height and build as Frank. And although he was Network trained in fighting, Frank knew a few tricks, too.

  St. Armand stopped five yards from Frank. He laughed. Then he reached over his back and inside his jacket collar. He drew out a short but shiny and deadly Japanese sword.

  "Piece by piece," St. Armand hissed.

  Chapter 12

  Frank backed up to the brick wall at the end of the alley. St. Armand approached slowly but with confidence.

  "I understand you're good at fencing, Hardy," St. Armand said. "How are you with real swords?"

  St. Armand swung the sword in a horizontal arc, the razor-sharp silver blade hissing through the air.

  Frank jumped back and hit the wall. The blade came so close to Frank's face that he could feel a slight breeze from its edge. St. Armand followed through with his strike, swung the blade over his head and then down. Frank shifted to one side and crouched down. The blade hit the wall, sending sparks and small sharp shards of brick flying in all directions.

&nbs
p; Frank lashed out with a kick to St. Armand's right kneecap. St. Armand's right knee bent to the side and then back, forcing St. Armand to back up.

  St. Armand grunted.

  Frank knew he hadn't broken the knee, but he could tell by the grimace on St. Armand's face that the blow had caused a good deal of pain.

  Frank grabbed a crate and threw it. St. Armand slashed at the wooden crate, shattering it with his sword.

  "You're next, Hardy," St. Armand fumed as he approached Frank.

  "Hey! Chris!" Joe yelled from the head of the alley.

  St. Armand spun. Markham lay on the ground, unconscious, Joe standing over him. Joe stepped over the older man and walked toward St. Armand.

  St. Armand turned back to Frank, but Frank had already made his move. A solid right to St. Armand's left cheek knocked him to the ground. St. Armand tried to raise his sword, but Frank stepped on St. Armand's wrist.

  Frank put his full weight on the wrist until St. Armand opened his hand and let the sword fall out. Frank grabbed the sword and pointed it at St. Armand.

  "Stand up," Frank ordered.

  "You okay?" Joe asked as he joined Frank.

  "Yeah."

  St. Armand stood, favoring his right leg.

  "What brings you to this neck of the woods?" Frank asked.

  "I'm looking for antiques," Joe said. "I saw you go into that shop, then come out and walk down this alley. Then these two came out of the shop and followed you. You set a nice trap."

  "I didn't trap them. I didn't even know they were in the shop. The only one I saw was an old man sitting behind the counter."

  "Lucky for you," Joe began, "that I'm a detective."

  Frank smiled and shook his head.

  "Now what?" Joe asked, looking at St. Armand and then at Markham, who was still unconscious.

  "If I were back in Bayport, I'd take these two to the police station. But I don't know that I trust the local English police after yesterday."

  "No kidding," Joe said.

  "Let's see what secrets this antique shop has." Frank pointed the sword at St. Armand's stomach. "Unless you want to become a shish kebab, I suggest you behave yourself."

  "And when we're done with whoever's inside," Joe added, glaring at St. Armand, "I've got some questions about a little fencing match."

  Joe walked over to Markham, shook him awake, and pulled the groggy thug to his feet.

  They all walked into the antique shop as though they were tourists.

  "Remember me?" Frank asked the man behind the counter, who was still reading the newspaper.

  "Yes," the man replied dully. He looked at St. Armand and Markham but showed no reaction. "Did you find your friend?"

  "No, but I found these two," Frank replied. "What's in the back?" He jerked his head toward the rear of the store.

  "My home," the old man said.

  "Mind if we look around?" Frank didn't wait for an answer. He shoved St. Armand toward the beaded curtain that covered the doorway at the rear of the shop.

  While Frank guarded St. Armand and Markham with the sword, Joe looked around. The back of the shop consisted of several rooms containing some old furniture, a few pictures on the wall, and little else. No Fitzhugh. No clandestine meeting room. Nothing but an old man's home.

  "Is there something I can help you with?" the old man asked from behind the group.

  Frank turned. The old man stood in the door, an old 9-mm Beretta in his hand and a hard look in his eye. Frank recognized the Beretta as the special fifteen-clip model made for BCI agents.

  "Drop the sword," the man ordered in a soft but commanding voice.

  Frank tossed the sword, and it slid under the sofa.

  "I owe you this," St. Armand said as he drew back his fist to punch Frank.

  "That's enough, St. Armand," the old man barked. "You two young Americans have been interfering in our plans, and it is time for you to stop." The man spoke with dignity and authority, and St. Armand obeyed him without question.

  "Why do you want to hurt the Zigonevs?" Frank asked.

  "That is of no concern to you," the old man said calmly.

  "We're making it our concern," Joe blurted out.

  "Then you, too, will have to die," the old man said evenly.

  He pulled a silencer from his pocket and screwed it onto the barrel of the black Beretta. He raised the gun shoulder high and aimed it at Frank's forehead. The old man showed no emotion, but the cold hard stare of his gray eyes sent a shudder through Frank.

  Frank had seen the look before, the cold, calculating, unemotional look of a professional killer.

  Chapter 13

  The bell on the shop door clanged.

  "Is anybody here?" Ziggy asked at the top of his voice.

  Joe heard several students talking and walking around the shop. The old man hid the Beretta beneath his sweater.

  "I think I've seen enough," Joe said loudly as he headed for the beaded curtains. He stopped and stared down at the old man. "You have nothing that interests me." Joe pushed through the curtain. Frank followed.

  "This isn't over yet, Hardy," St. Armand said through gritted teeth.

  Frank turned and peered back through the strings of beads. "When it is," Frank warned, "you'll be the first to know, and I'll be the one delivering the message to you."

  St. Armand moved to Frank.

  "Easy," the old man said, and St. Armand stopped.

  Frank smiled and turned to join Joe.

  "Hi, Joe, Frank," Ziggy said as the Hardys walked to the center of the shop. "Find anything interesting?"

  "Just a bunch of junk and some rats in the back," Joe replied with a nod to the back room.

  Frank watched as the old man moved through the curtains and returned to the counter. He picked up the newspaper and began reading it without looking at the Hardys, as though nothing had happened.

  Frank, Joe, and Ziggy walked outside.

  "I brought the cavalry," Ziggy whispered under his breath. "I didn't like the way you kept going in and out, with more desperadoes joining you each time."

  "Thanks," Joe said with a smile. "Where's Petra?"

  "Looking for postcards with the other girls."

  Joe's eyes followed Ziggy's pointing hand. Even in a crowd of pretty girls, Petra was a gem among the other precious stones.

  "Have you seen Fitzhugh?" Frank asked.

  "He is on the bus," Ziggy said.

  "He must have slipped out of the shop when we were in the alley," Frank explained, shaking his head.

  They boarded the bus and once again took the long seat at the back. Frank and Ziggy sat on the outside while Joe and Petra sat between them. Moments later, all three buses pulled out of Salisbury and began the long journey back to Oxford.

  The other students were loud, and Frank welcomed the noise. He wanted to talk to Ziggy and Petra, and he didn't want to wait until they had returned to Brasenose. The talking of the other students provided a noisy cover.

  But before Frank could say anything, Ziggy asked bluntly, "Would you mind letting Petra and me in on your little secret?"

  "What are you talking about?" Frank asked, puzzled.

  "As a chess player, I watch not only the board but my opponent as well. I try to read his face, see if he is nervous, overconfident, or worried. I have been watching you two, and you have not been completely honest with Petra and me."

  Frank looked at Joe, who only shrugged.

  "That works both ways," Frank said.

  "What do you mean?" Petra asked.

  The bus took a wide turn, and they braced themselves to keep from sliding across the seat.

  "I don't believe that the attempts to kidnap Ziggy are only because somebody wants to ruin the good relationship between the Soviet Union and the West," Frank said.

  "What do you believe?" Petra asked defensively.

  "I think your father and the communications-link negotiations are part of this," Frank replied. He tried to read Petra's cool blue eyes but got only a
cold stare. He looked at Ziggy.

  Frank continued. "Your father is KGB and an expert in communications. He is negotiating with his Western counterparts for something. But what?" Frank hesitated, hoping Ziggy or Petra would answer. But the twins just sat pensively on the edge of their seats.

  "The United States has just launched a new satellite that is designed to move communications into the twenty-first century," Frank explained.

  "A spy satellite," Petra huffed. "What do friendly nations need with a spy satellite?"

  "It's not a spy satellite," Frank continued. "It's a communications satellite powered by a CRAY computer, the most powerful computer in the world. While most satellites can handle thousands of bits of information a second, the new CRAY satellite can handle a billion bits of information a second."

  "You are correct," Ziggy said with a sigh.

  "Ziggy!" Petra cautioned.

  "Frank has made the killing move and has checkmated us," Ziggy told his sister. He smiled at Frank. "Our country has always lagged behind in technology, and our people have suffered because of it. If we were allowed to come online with the new CRAY satellite, the Soviet Union will be able to advance in technology."

  "How do we know the Soviet Union won't use the CRAY satellite to spy on the free world and its people?" Joe asked.

  "My father is trying to assure your government that such a thing will never happen," Ziggy said.

  "And if your father can be distracted," Frank explained, "he may fail in his negotiations."

  "Correct," Ziggy said. "Father knew how important the International Classroom was to us and would allow us to attend only after he received certain assurances regarding our safety."

  Petra shifted in her seat. She avoided looking at Joe. "We would not have been allowed to attend the International Classroom if Mr. Gray had not assured the Soviet officials and our father that you two would be with us."

  "What?" Joe was stunned, and he stared at Petra, searching for answers.

  "I think what Petra has just told us," Frank said, "is that our selection to attend the International Classroom and our room and class assignments were manipulated so that we would be with the Zigonevs at all times."