Hostages of Hate (3 page)

"You're sure you want to draw all this attention to yourself?" the Gray Man asked.

O'Neill looked around at the gathering crowd and blanched. He quickly took off.

"Um, thanks," said Frank.

The Gray Man slowly shook his head. "Who else but you would be throwing punches in the middle of a crisis — especially at a U.S. Espionage Resources agent?"

"Espionage Resources?" Joe glanced after the government man, who had now disappeared. "But his name tag said he was with the National Advisory Committee on Terrorism."

The Gray Man rolled his eyes. "A front organization," he said. "You don't think he's going to advertise, do you?" He tapped his own name tag.

Joe read, "'H. P. Gray, Council on International Law.'"

A dignified-looking elderly lady appeared beside him. She wore a name tag for the same organization. But the Hardys knew her real job. She was the head of the Network, running it from a mansion in Virginia. They had saved her from an assassination attempt in an adventure they called The Lazarus Plot.

"We're surprised to see you here, ma'am," Joe said.

"But why?" the woman asked with a dazzling smile. "I'm the honorary chairman of the Council on International Law. I have to put in an appearance, even though I detest the idea of a meeting about something as violent as terrorism."

The Hardys saw the ironic glint in her eye.

"Well, I'm glad to see you. We've got something for the Network," Frank whispered. Walking to a corner, he told her about Callie's message.

The smile disappeared from the woman's face. "There's nothing we can do about it."

"Nothing?" Frank repeated.

She said no more, just walked off into the crowd.

"Interagency politics," the Gray Man whispered. "Our people are not supposed to get involved."

"But what about the message?" Frank asked. "Can't we talk to whoever is running the case?"

Now it was the Gray Man's turn to give them an ironic smile. "Would you believe U.S. Espionage Resources?" he asked. "You blew your chances with Roger O'Neill. He'll never listen to you now. And even if he believed you, there's nothing to be done."

The sour look on the government man's face intensified. "It doesn't matter if there are two men or two hundred aboard that plane. They've got guns, and innocent passengers will get killed if we try anything. Not to mention that bomb."

The Gray Man took a deep breath. "We don't even know that there are just two terrorists." He raised a hand as Frank started to protest. "I'm sure your girlfriend saw two terrorists. But they may have additional people planted among the passengers, ready to leap into action if needed."

He let that sink in for a moment, looking at their mutinous faces. "So do me a favor. Leave this one to the professionals." Then a glint came into his eyes. "But if I know you two, you won't butt out. So I'll do what I can to help—which won't be much." He shrugged.

"The Network can't be officially involved. Still, if we get a chance to show Espionage Resources up ..." He grinned. "Interagency politics works both ways." He nodded a goodbye and disappeared into the crowd.

Frank smiled bitterly at his brother. "Just great. Callie risks her life to get a message out from that plane, and nobody wants to hear it— officially."

"Maybe you just didn't tell it to the right person," Joe suggested.

Frank turned to him. "You mean Dad?"

Joe nodded. "Seems worth trying."

Fenton Hardy was amused to hear about the code. "And all these years I thought you were just getting an education," he said.

But he was deadly serious when he heard about Callie's message. "Only two," he said, eyes thoughtful. "That's a help. Let's see if we can get hold of one of the house phones. There are a lot of people I'll want to call." Before they could set off, however, a TV crew surrounded Fenton and the boys.

"Mr. Hardy," said the correspondent. "I'm Gil da Campo. EuroNews Syndicate. Could we take a few minutes of your time? We'd like your comments on the hostage situation."

Fenton Hardy stared at him. "There's nothing to discuss. As far as I'm aware, the situation hasn't changed."

Then he realized that the camera was already running. "What is this?"

"I understand that one of the hostages, a Miss Shaw, is a friend," — a close friend — of your son." Gil da Campo extended his microphone to Frank. "How does it feel to have a loved one trapped aboard the plane?"

"What?" Frank stepped back as if the mike thrust in his face were a live snake. A cameraman with bright red hair stepped forward, focusing in.

"Gustave!" da Campo shouted. "Tight close-up!"

The Minicam operator darted around Fenton Hardy, pursuing Frank. But the Hardys were able to escape into the crowd. The EuroNews crew fell behind them. "Thank you for your comments!" da Campo called.

Fenton Hardy shook his head as he rejoined his sons. "Let's get to that phone," he said.

While their father made his calls, Frank paced back and forth, trying to work off his anger.

"You've got to hand it to these ANWO guys," Joe said. "They've got guts. How do you think they managed to gimmick all the TV sets in here?"

"A VCR broadcaster, like the gadget that lets us see rented films on all the sets in the house," Frank responded absently. Then he stopped in his tracks. "That's the question I should have asked," he said. "I'm really losing it."

"Well, you answered it now," Joe said. "Maybe we could track it down."

"With all the TV people around here?" Frank shook his head. "Network, local news, foreign syndicates like the one that nailed us on the floor out there." He paused. "What was it that terrorist said on the tape? That the demands would be passed on to the media."

The Hardys looked around the conference center, which was still crawling with TV crews. "What better place to give a tape to a newsman?" Joe asked.

Fenton Hardy returned, "My friends in high places thanked me for the information but don't know what to do with it. Officially, the government is still formulating policy."

"Which translates to stalling for time," Frank said.

"But they do have a new line on this Army for the New World Order," Fenton Hardy said. "It's a real lovely group. They recruit anybody, from either end of the political spectrum. The only unifying force is that they want to destroy the world as it is now. When that's done, they'll fight among themselves to decide what the new world order will be."

"Sounds great," said Joe.

"Problem is, their ideas may be nutty, but their leader is brilliant." Fenton Hardy's face was grim. "He's only known as the Dutchman. CIA reports have him coming from Germany. The FBI's files say he's from Holland. And Espionage Resources believes he's a South African. He'd worked for a lot of wild causes, then went freelance, planning raids and bombings for other terrorist groups. Looks like he was raising money for his own bunch the whole time."

"So now we have AN WO." Frank ran a hand through his hair. "We just had a thought about their next move."

Fenton Hardy nodded as he listened to the boys' suspicion that the taped demands would be passed on to one of the media people. "I think we can ignore the small outfits and the foreign groups," he said. "These guys will go for the big league." He smiled. "Well, there are three network news offices here, and three of us. What do you say we each keep an eye on one of them?"

The news office was humming, everyone moving at high speed. People walked in and out, getting new film packs, batteries, and cups of coffee to recharge themselves. Frank even saw some familiar faces as correspondents checked in.

But his job was boring. All he could do was keep an eye on as much as he could see. That wasn't what he wanted to do. He wanted to move, to do something to help Callie. Frank almost grinned to himself. Now I know why Joe hates stakeouts so much, he told himself.

He stifled a yawn and looked longingly at half a ham sandwich left on one of the desks. Then a man passed the desk, and Frank came alert.

Gustave, the redheaded cameraman who had chased him across the convention floor, walked into the office. He stopped by a rack of videotapes and slipped a cassette box out of his pocket. The boxes in the rack were all black. The box in Gustave's hand was red. He slipped it into the rack, turned around, and walked out.

Frank stepped back, not wanting to be recognized. But he did notice one thing — the badge on Gustave's chest. It was a network badge, not the EuroNews tag he had worn before.

Letting Gustave get a small lead on him, Frank swung onto the cameraman's trail. He's up to something, Frank told himself. But will he be our first link to ANWO?

All of Frank's attention was on Gustave. So when he felt a hand on his shoulder, he jumped. "Cool off," a voice whispered in his ear. He turned to see Joe's grinning face.

"Saw you walking off, and you didn't look like you were heading for the John."

Frank quickly explained the situation with Gustave. "I think he's connected with ANWO. The only problem is, how do we prove it?"

Joe's grin got wider. "I've got a way." Frank's eyes continued to follow Gustave as his brother whispered in his ear. Both Hardys grinned at each other. Then Joe faded into the crowd as Frank continued tailing Gustave.

Gustave Villen slipped into a quiet stairwell, ready to disappear from the conference. He was completely unprepared when the door banged open again, hitting him in the back. He staggered forward, nearly tumbling down the stairs.

Gustave whirled around to confront the cold, furious face of the guy his crew had filmed. "I - I'm sorry about the interview, Monsieur Hardy." His voice went high with fright. "It's my job — "

"Shut up, creep." Frank Hardy had cut him off. "I know you've got some kind of connection with those guys on the plane. I'm going to find out what it is."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Gustave protested. "I'm a Belgian citizen, working for EuroNews — "

"That's no EuroNews tag on your chest," Frank said, breaking in. "I saw you sneak into that news office and plant a tape. If we play it, I bet we'll find ANWO's list of demands. You're working for them. And you're going to tell me all about it, right?"

Gustave realized he couldn't deny the accusation. He didn't even try. His eyes went cold, and a gravity blade appeared in his hand.

One flick of his wrist, and the four-inch knife blade clicked into position. Then he lunged forward, giving Frank Hardy his answer — an overhand stab, aimed straight at his chest!

CAUGHT OFF GUARD, Frank had just a second to respond. He threw himself to one side just before the knife point reached his chest. The desperate jump left him off balance. He went down on his right knee, then leaped to both feet again.

The force of Gustave's thrust actually sent the knife into the metal door, scoring the paint. But Gustave recovered quickly and whirled around, his back to the door.

He blocked Frank's path back to the safety of the convention floor.

Gustave grinned. He had him now. If Hardy tried to head down the stairs, he'd have Gustave's knife at his undefended back all the way down. He could try to back off from Gustave and take the stairway up to the next floor. But he'd be slow moving backward—and if he turned to run, he would again present Gustave with an undefended target.

And even if he made it to either floor, he couldn't escape. The doors were locked. Gustave's associates had taken care to leave open only the one stairwell door and the door to the underground parking lot.

Full of confidence, Gustave advanced. He'd herd this Frank Hardy back until he had him in a corner. Then he'd silence him—permanently— and be on his way.

Frank Hardy gave ground slowly but steadily. From Gustave's crouch and the way he handled his weapon, Frank could see that the Belgian knew his way around knives.

Even in the half-light of the emergency stairs, the blade of Gustave's knife glittered.

Frank tried to circle around Gustave, but there wasn't enough room to maneuver on the cramped stairwell. Gustave slashed at Frank, forcing him back again. Then he laughed. "Non, non, Monsieur Hardy. You don't want to rush back to the seminar now. Not until we have finished our little tete-a-tete."

I'm running out of time—and room, Frank thought. He faked left, and as Gustave moved to block him, he jumped to the right, onto the stairs leading up to the next floor.

Frank scrambled up the stairs, grabbing for the handrail. Gustave charged after him, his knife at the ready. Got to time this just right, Frank told himself, casting a glance over his shoulder. Gustave had just gotten into the perfect position for Frank to attack. With both hands on the railing, Frank pushed off, lashing out with his left foot in a karate kick.

His heel caught Gustave right on the point of the chin.

Gustave's head snapped back, and he tumbled down to the landing below. He landed flat on his back, his arms flew out, and the knife went skittering from his nerveless grasp.

When Gustave started taking notice again, he saw Frank Hardy wedging the knife into a crack in the concrete stairs. Frank stomped down on it, snapping the blade in two.

Then he loomed over Gustave. He was still breathing heavily from the fight, and his face was red. But it was the murderous fury in his eyes that made the Belgian terrorist cringe. "Please — " he said.

"Now you're asking for favors." Frank's voice was hoarse as he looked down at Gustave.

All the fight knocked out of him, Gustave got up on his hands and knees, trying to scuttle away.

But Frank grabbed and twisted a clump of Gustave's red hair in his hand. "Now I know you're one of those ANWO creeps. You're working for the guys who've got my girlfriend. I'm going to find out what you know, or you're going to go flying down these stairs—headfirst."

Frank tightened his hold on Gustave's hair as he dragged him up the stairs. "Talk—while you still can."

"Monsieur, you don't understand. They'd kill me. I — I can't."

"We'll find out about that," Frank said grimly. Either you start talking, or I'll fling you down this flight of stairs, then the next one, and the next — " He yanked Gustave's head back so he could look him in the eye. Frank looked angry enough to do it.