Hostages of Hate (8 page)

"We're aiming for Sheridan Circle," Pia said. "Maybe we can walk beside the freeway and then climb up."

Frank and Joe just shrugged. The climb down hadn't been fun. Somehow, they suspected a climb up would be even worse.

Pia led the way through the underbrush, guiding herself by the gleam of headlights on the freeway nearby. Finally, they reached the grassy margin of the freeway.

"Just a couple of blocks now," Pia said.

"How high up?" asked Joe. "We still must climb the ravine."

"It's worth it," Frank whispered. "At the end of it, we meet the Dutchman. And when we get him ... "

The brothers caught up with Pia, who had suddenly stopped. Then they saw why.

Parked by the side of the road was a car — a large black car. It looked horribly familiar. So did the man leaning against the fender — their old friend, Roger O'Neill.

They could see the look on his face in the intermittent beams from headlights — the smile they had seen before.

"Well, well, well," O'Neill said, crossing his arms. "Now, why did I expect to see you here?"

FRANK AND JOE glanced at each other. How had O'Neill followed them? He must have known about the tunnel. And when the cop reported seeing the kids near the store, he could have added it up and tailed them.

But no more time to wonder; in about three seconds, O'Neill would open his mouth. Pia would find out that they weren't Franz and Josef, and she'd never lead them to the Dutchman. Even if she informed on her leader, considering O'Neill's track record, he'd lose the guy. Or worse, he would blow the plan.

There was only one thing to do. Frank stepped forward. "I do not understand, sir." He looked pleadingly, desperately, into O'Neill's eyes. "We were just walking."

O'Neill leaned back on the fender. His nasty smile only grew larger. "Yeah. Through the water. Stop giving me this innocent act. I've got you, dead."

He drew himself up, reaching under his jacket for his gun. "You are under — "

"Schwein!" Joe burst out. If he was going down the tubes, he decided to go down in character.

O'Neill jerked out his .38 Special. "You little creep!" He swung the pistol up and caught Joe on the side of the head. Joe crumpled to the ground. O'Neill brought the gun around for another blow.

Frank had no choice. He launched off on his right foot, his left foot sweeping up. The high kick caught O'Neill in the forearm, swinging the gun off course.

Twisting around, O'Neill aimed at Frank. But Joe threw himself at the government man's knees. They both went down in a heap, O'Neill clubbing Joe again.

Frank jumped forward, and O'Neill revealed his own martial-arts training. He launched a snap kick at Frank's head. This wasn't a blow meant to stun. It could injure, even kill.

Frank barely saw the foot coming at the side of his head. But O'Neill's timing was off. There was the briefest hesitation in his attack, and that saved Frank's life.

He scrambled desperately away, and O'Neill's heavy shoe just grazed his ear. Frank jumped back. As O'Neill regained his feet, the gun came up again, and this time Joe was in no shape to help. Frank tried a desperation play, his right leg sweeping around in a circle to catch O'Neill behind the knees.

The government man toppled to the ground. Frank swung him around, one arm immobilizing O'Neill's gun hand. His fingers reached for the pressure points in the neck. Seconds later, the agent sagged, unconscious.

Frank felt no triumph. If he had had troubles before, he had major ones now. Breaking and entering—or, rather, exiting—and now attacking a federal officer. If Frank couldn't free the hostages after all this, he'd probably be better off flying away with the hijackers.

Pia bustled in and frisked the unconscious government man, digging out his wallet. While she withdrew to examine the papers, Joe came over from the car, carrying a couple of pairs of handcuffs. "We're in luck," he whispered. "The car's empty."

Frank shook his head again. "I'm still not thinking straight. It never even occurred to me to look."

Joe grinned. "I think I know why he didn't want Peterson or his driver around. Looks like O'Neill wanted all the glory for capturing us."

"Well, I don't know how this will look on his record." Frank jerked O'Neill's wrists behind his back and cuffed them. He used the other pair of handcuffs on the government man's ankles.

"Help me get him in the car," he whispered to Joe. "Then we've got to get out of here."

"Right," said Joe. "Somebody is sure to report your roadside karate demonstration."

As the Hardys tucked the government man into the backseat of the car, Pia reappeared with O'Neill's ID in one hand and his gun in the other.

"U.S. Espionage Resources," she said flatly, bringing up the gun. "He deserves to die."

"No time," Frank said quickly, smacking the barrel with the flat of his hand, forcing it down. "We must get out of here. And a shot will make more people remember us."

He took out his handkerchief and wrapped it around the pistol, taking it from Pia. "No fingerprints," he said. Then he took the wallet. "And no identification."

Winding up, he flung both gun and wallet far off into the underbrush. "Now, we climb."

The ascent up the other side of the ravine was a nightmare. Now gravity was against them, and they were already tired. They were covered with sweat by the time they reached the top. Frank's face showed thin streaks of white where the sweat had cleaned away some of the ground-in dirt.

Just as they reached the top, the scream of police sirens cut the air. They looked down to see three cruisers pull up beside the black car.

"You were right," Pia told Frank. "We had to get out of there."

"And now we must get out of here," Frank said, agreeing. "Where do we go?"

"We're almost there," Pia said. "Follow me."

She led the way out of the park, cutting around a large house. "The Turkish Embassy," she said. "Good. Here's Sheridan Circle."

They stepped onto the street and saw a large open space before them. In the center was a bronze statue—the Civil War general Sheridan on his horse, leaning back and swinging his cap as if to rally his troops.

"Which way?" asked Joe.

"Around the general," Pia answered with a grin. She seemed very sure of herself as she led them past houses—more like mansions—around the circle. Frank saw lots of brass plaques.

"This is the south end of Embassy Row," Pia explained as they passed the buildings. "Romania, Ireland, Guatemala, Cyprus — "

"All next door to one another," Joe whispered. Frank gave him a look, telling him to knock off the commentary.

"The house we're heading for isn't quite so large," Pia explained. "But it is connected to one of the embassies." Her eyes became guarded once again. "The person we're going to see has powerful friends."

I'll bet, thought Frank, wondering which country was willing to help the Dutchman in America.

He had no time for other thoughts. Pia had darted down another street and stopped in front of a house that didn't look like a mansion — at least, not a very rich mansion.

She ran right up to the front door and pressed the bell. Even though the windows were dark, the door was opened immediately—as if she were expected.

Standing framed in the oversize doorway was a short, pudgy man in a sweater too large for him. His forehead was high, fringed with thinning blond hair. He had fat round cheeks, like Santa Claus, but they weren't a healthy pink. They were pale, sallow, almost yellowish. He had the look of a man who spent too much time indoors.

Quickly, he beckoned them in, then shut the door. His lips were curled in a smile, but jowls sagged at the sides of his face, pulling the smile down. His nose was short, and his glasses slid to the tip of it. His chin was weak, too small for the cheeks and jowls.

But his eyes were sharp, a sparkling blue. They darted from Pia to the Hardys as he laughed. "Ah, Pia, my poor, poor dear. You look as though you've been playing in the mud." He glanced again at Frank and Joe. "And who have you been playing with?"

"Franz, Josef," she said, "meet — Karl."

Those sharp eyes took in Frank and Joe again. "Franz? Josef?" He started speaking to them rapidly in a guttural language. German? Dutch? Frank couldn't tell.

Pia touched his sleeve, looking hurt. "I don't understand what you're saying. And didn't we agree? All members of the cause will speak English."

"Ah," said Karl. "But I did not know I was speaking to members of the cause." His eyes narrowed behind his heavy lenses. "Which is strange. I thought I knew everyone in the cause."

Frank kept his face carefully blank, hiding his excitement. They must be very close to the Dutchman now. This guy would have to be a special lieutenant. Maybe the guy they were looking for was right in this house!

"Lonnie had just recruited them," Pia explained.

"Lonnie is under arrest." Karl sounded as if he were having just an ordinary conversation, but both Frank and Joe noticed that his right hand had not left the pocket of his sweater. They knew he had a gun in there.

"I know," said Pia. "They came and warned me. Otherwise, I'd have been arrested, too!" She raised her arms, showing off her bedraggled state. "Why do you think we look like this? We've been on the run!"

Karl's hand almost came out of his pocket. "You were followed here?" His accent became much stronger all of a sudden.

Pia shook her head. "We gave them the slip.

But we had to wade across Rock Creek. And on the other side, a government agent was waiting! Franz took him out." She smiled and gave Frank an admiring gaze. In fact, Frank realized with embarrassment, it was more than admiring.

"He knocked the guy out and left him tied up in his car. Then we came here." Pia turned all business again, looking at Karl. "I think we've finally found just the people we need for the reinforcement action."

Karl smiled. "I believe you may be right," he said to Pia. His right hand finally came out of his pocket — empty. He rubbed it against his other hand with a dry, rasping sound. "But you must think I am a terrible host. Please wash up, and I will get you something to drink. Then we will discuss business, yes?"

Frank left the bathroom feeling one hundred percent better. His clothes were still damp from the trip across the creek, but at least he was clean. He had managed to remove all the dirt from his face.

He followed the scent of brewed coffee into the kitchen. It was a large room, with a huge, round oak table in the middle. Frank's stomach rumbled when he saw a silver tray piled high with thick sandwiches. Beside it were cans of soda and cups for coffee.

But the wooden chairs around the table were empty. Frank stood by one of them, hesitating.

Should he try to find the others? He sat down. Joe could take care of himself. And he wanted a look at the papers piled beside the tray.

He spread out a wide, rolled-up piece of paper and gasped. It was a plan of the airport. Marked in red was the area around Gate 61. The outline of an airliner had been inked in there. The International Airways jet!

Also on the map were arrows and notes in blue. They seemed to lead back to one of the hangars.

"Look at him!" A voice cut through Frank's puzzled thoughts. "He takes so long, I have to give a tour of the house to entertain you. Then he sneaks into the kitchen. But does he look at the food? No! He looks at the papers!"

Karl laughed heartily as he led Pia and Joe into the kitchen. "So? Do you like my plans? I worked very hard on them, I assure you."

Frank stared up in astonishment. Karl's last three words rang in his head. The same words — the same voice — as the faceless figure on the videotape. Frank couldn't believe it. This was the mysterious Dutchman? This pudgy little accountant type? Somehow, Frank had expected someone more polished, more sinister — more young. He dropped the papers and stared.

But the Dutchman stared in equal surprise when he saw Frank cleaned up.

"You aren't a Franz," the Dutchman rasped. "You're a Frank! Frank Hardy. I saw the tape that Gustave shot on television! You have a girl on the plane."

He straight-armed Joe, sending him staggering against the table. Then he whipped out a Walther pistol from his sweater pocket. "You may have found your way here, but you'll never leave. Not alive!"

THE SHOCK OF having his cover blown might have stunned even a professional into a fatal paralysis. But Frank Hardy was moving even as Karl brought his gun up. He kicked his chair away and dropped under the table as flame flashed from the muzzle of the Walther. A bullet whistled through the space where he'd been sitting an instant before. Frank hit the floor. "Missed me — Dutchman." Hearing his professional name shocked Karl into a second's hesitation. But he could afford it. He was holding a gun with twenty shots against a boy with no weapon at all.

Yet it was the unarmed boy who used that hesitation to launch an attack. Bracing his feet under the edge of the big kitchen table, Frank heaved, making the whole table tilt. Then it fell over with a crash, bouncing on the floor, scattering food and drink all over the kitchen.

The Dutchman jumped back in alarm, squeezing off a shot into the falling table. A nine-millimeter bullet tore through the oak of the tabletop. It passed over Frank's head. Close, but not close enough. Karl couldn't see where to aim.

He never got a chance for another try.

Frank pivoted around, using the table itself as his weapon. He shoved his shoulder into the tabletop and wrapped his arm around its pedestal. Joe had also dropped to the floor and behind the tabletop. He realized what Frank was up to and reached over to give him a hand. Together, they launched the table like a giant battering ram.

The Dutchman had lost the advantage. He was waving his gun, trying to decide where to shoot, when the table seemed to attack him. It caught him head-on, smashed into him, and sent him sprawling backward.

Karl hit the floor hard, arms and legs flailing. The gun left his hand, skittering across the shiny kitchen floor like a stone skipped across a lake.