Disaster for Hire

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Frank went to help Prynne get up as Chet slowly joined them.

  "Thank you, boys," said Prynne faintly. "I feel all right now, I ... " He swayed, and clutched at Frank's shoulder for support.

  "Sir," said Frank, "I think you may need medical attention. You could have a concussion or internal injuries. Why don't I stay with you while Chet looks for the authorities."

  Even though he was battered, Prynne hadn't lost his pride. "Don't be ridiculous!" he snapped, straightening his clothes and glaring at Frank. "I'm in no need of anything, except the opportunity to go back to my cabin to lie down."

  Frank looked narrowly at the man's pale face. "Look, Mr. Prynne, someone has to let the ship's captain know what just happened. Even if you won't see a doctor, we can't just — " "I have only one need right now," Prynne said, cutting him off. "And that is to get back to my bunk and rest. If you want to help me, you can help me there." Frank and Chet looked helplessly at each other as their teacher tottered into the passageway.

  Chet stared after him. "What do you think we should do?" he asked.

  Frank didn't speak at first. Then he shook his head. "I think if we follow him, we'll probably get our heads bitten off. Maybe we'd better do what he says. Let's turn in for the night and take care of business in the morning."

  But Chet was still curious. "Do you figure those two guys really wanted to dump the professor over the side?"

  "It looked that way from where I was standing." Frank gave Chet a puzzled look. "Two guys? Didn't you see the third guy?"

  Chet stared. "What third guy? All I saw was the two we went after, the ones with Prynne. There was another?"

  "There had to be," answered Frank. "After I took care of the one I grabbed, someone jumped me from behind and tried to dump me overboard. There didn't seem to be a thing I could do about it. Then someone took the new guy off me. I thought maybe it was you."

  "Don't look at me," protested Chet. "I thought my man was down and out, but he tripped me up somehow, and I think he kicked me in the head before he took off. By the time I came to again, there were just the three of us."

  Frank was at a loss. Who could have saved him? He walked over to the rail and looked out at the sea, trying to put it all together.

  Chet joined him. "There was something else kind of funny, Frank. I can't be sure of it, but — "

  "What?" Frank turned to his friend.

  Chet shrugged. "Everything was pretty mixed up and dark, but I thought the guy who attacked me was one of those guys from the restaurant this afternoon."

  The Hardys got up at noon the next day to find the sun shining, the winds calm, and the sea smooth. Joe stretched and yawned, sitting up in his bunk while Frank did pushups, all the exercise their cramped cabin allowed.

  Interrupting a pushup, Frank lifted his head to glance at his brother. "Looks like you're back among the living today," he observed.

  Joe swung his legs out of the bunk and sat up, smiling. "It's amazing," he said. "Today I feel great and ready to eat about ten pounds of steak. Last night if someone had asked me to choose between food and being tossed over the side of the ship, I'd have had to flip a coin."

  Frank got to his feet. "Funny you should mention going over the side," he said. He told Joe about the events of the evening before.

  Joe's smile faded as he listened. "Sounds like a pretty close call," he said.

  Frank shrugged.

  "I should have been there for you," Joe growled.

  "Hey, go easy on yourself," said Frank. "When you're sick, you're sick. Anyway, Chet did a pretty good job standing in for you."

  "I don't like this," Joe insisted with a frown. "Something's not right. Let's find the captain and let him know — "

  "Whoa, take it easy." Frank raised his hands. "I think it'd be better if we talk to Prynne first. Whoever attacked him has nowhere to go — they're still somewhere aboard."

  Joe jumped to his feet. "Then let's get cleaned up, find Prynne, and talk to him—after we find something to eat."

  Frank grinned as he pulled on a pair of jeans. "Trust you to get your priorities straight."

  A few minutes later they entered a small snack bar on an upper deck. Phil Cohen and Chet Morton were sitting at a table, and Phil waved the Hardys over.

  "Chet told me about the fun and games last night," said Phil as the Hardys sat. "You okay, Frank?"

  "I've got some bruises where I hit the rail."

  Frank rubbed his ribs. "No big deal — it could have been worse. How are you feeling?"

  Phil smiled weakly. "Now that my stomach is back where it belongs, I'm fine. Last night it kept trying to crawl out through my throat."

  Joe said, "I think some plain breakfast food will help keep mine in place. What's safe to eat here?"

  Chet looked up from his plate. "Try some of these cakes, Joe. This one's my favorite. It's filled with chopped nuts and cinnamon, and the honey is the best I've ever tasted. And they have this soda, it's a kind of sour cherry flavor, I think it's called, uh, veeseenada, or something, and — "

  "Easy, big fella," said Phil, laughing. "Don't strip your gears." Then he turned to Frank and Joe. "You'd probably like this spinach pie," he said. "And the cakes are good, if you have a serious sweet tooth, like our pal here."

  They signaled to a waiter, who took the Hardys' order. Before he could leave, Chet stopped him. "Um, as long as you're here, bring a couple more of those spinach pies. Oh, and a couple of the ones filled with custard."

  The waiter gaped at him, not certain he'd heard correctly. "You want two more of this and two more of this one here? Yes?"

  "And another one of these veeseenadas to wash it down," finished Chet happily.

  Chet noticed the others grinning at him, and shrugged. "It's the sea air," he said.

  "Yeah, right," said Joe.

  "Take it easy on Chet," Frank cut in. "He had a busy time last night.

  "Speaking of last night," Frank continued in a more serious vein, "maybe it'd be better if we kept all of that to ourselves for a while. At least until we've talked to Prynne anyway."

  Chet and Phil agreed to keep quiet.

  "Have you seen Prynne today?" asked Frank.

  "Nope," answered PhiL "We got up late and came right in here."

  From outside came a babble of cheers and excited voices. Nicholas Kaliotis stopped in the entrance and saw the students.

  "Better eat fast, friends, we've arrived! We are coming into the port of Salonika!"

  An hour later the ship had docked, and the group was waiting on deck to disembark. There was still no sign of Morton Prynne.

  "I don't think he wants to show himself until the last possible minute," Joe muttered. Then he nudged Frank. "There he is now, over there where the gangplank is being hooked up."

  The Hardys made their way over to Prynne. He stood waiting, unsmiling.

  "How are you feeling today?" asked Frank as they joined him.

  "Thank you, I feel quite well," said Prynne. He turned back to look at the dock.

  Frank kept on. "We didn't want to do anything until we had seen you and talked it over. But I think it's a good idea to report the attack before the guys responsible have a chance to get off the ship and disappear."

  Prynne swung around to glare at Frank. "Attack?" he repeated. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

  Chapter 4

  FRANK AND JOE gave each other a startled glance. "You do remember last night, don't you, Professor?" he said. "The guys who were trying to dump you over the rail? The ones that Chet and I took care of for you? Does any of this ring a bell?"

  "If I were you," Prynne answered coldly, "I would put such business completely behind me. The Greek authorities take a dim view of rowdy young people, even young people who carry American passports."

  "Rowdy?" Frank exclaimed in disbelief. "Now, wait just a minute! I mean, I don't expect any medals or anything, but I don't call saving you from an attack being 'rowdy."

  Prynne gave Frank an icy sco
wl. "Let us get this clear," he said. "For your information, Mr. Hardy, there was no attack."

  While Frank gawked, Prynne went on. "Last evening I was suddenly taken with a severe case of seasickness. I felt extremely weak, dizzy, and feverish, and feared that I might pass out. Two passengers very kindly offered to help me outside, where they thought the fresh air might help to revive me.

  "No sooner had they assisted me to the deck than we were set upon by two maniacs. Quite understandably, my helpers beat a hasty retreat, frightened out of their wits.

  "If I had not felt so wretched, I would have taken you to task then and there for your foolish behavior. Now let's have no further mention of this regrettable affair."

  But Frank was not about to let it drop.

  "Just a second, Mr. Prynne. What about the third man, who attacked me after we had dealt with the first two? And one of your 'helpers' looked just like one of the 'drunken sailors' who attacked us at the restaurant yesterday. What about that?"

  Prynne's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You clearly saw his face?"

  "I didn't. But Chet's pretty sure."

  "I see," Prynne said with a smirk. "On a dark night, while the two of you were engaged in your disgraceful roughhousing, your friend was 'pretty sure' he recognized a face. Do you expect anyone to believe such a story?"

  "But, what about the third man," Joe put in, coming to his brother's aid.

  "Ah, yes, the third man," Prynne replied. "As to that, I'm afraid I have nothing to say. Perhaps you tripped over each other in the confusion of the moment. In any event, I strongly suggest that you put this embarrassing matter to rest. That, at least, is what I intend to do."

  Prynne stalked away, to show that, for him, the subject was closed.

  Joe was steaming. "Do you believe anything he said just then?" he demanded.

  Frank shook his head. "There's something going on with Prynne, and it's not just seasickness. But if he won't open up, we're out. Let's just keep our eyes open."

  After the ship moored, the crew ran down the gangplank and the passengers disembarked. At the foot of the ramp, Frank and Joe noticed a small knot of people waiting to greet them.

  The American students circled around the little welcoming group and Morton Prynne performed introductions.

  In the middle of the welcomers stood Spiros Stamos, a stocky man with jet black hair and a bushy mustache of the same color. With him was his sixteen-year-old son, Andreas, who was thin and intense, all bones and angles, like a greyhound.

  Also on hand was Spiros's seventeen-year-old daughter, Clea. She had her father's glossy black hair, which she wore long and loose. It framed a beautiful face, with golden skin, highlighted by huge dark brown eyes. She was wearing a brightly colored skirt and a snow-white blouse.

  When Joe Hardy's turn came to be introduced he shook hands with the father and son, saying he was pleased to meet them.

  Then Joe was face-to-face with Clea. He took her hand and said, with his warmest smile, "I'm really pleased to meet you."

  But Clea just gave him a "How do you do" and an impersonal handshake.

  While Peter and his Greek relations embraced and exchanged bits of family news, the other Americans waited to board a bus to the hotel.

  Phil moved next to Joe. "Clea is cute — you planning on getting to know her better?"

  Joe looked shocked. "Hey, come on. This is a different country, a different culture. You can't just start talking to a girl the way you would at the Bayport Mall. You have to take it slow. Just watch and learn."

  Frank walked over then and tugged on Joe's arm, leading him away. "Don't be too obvious about it," he said quietly, "but take a look at the big car by the gangplank. See anyone familiar?"

  Joe turned casually to check out the car. He recognized one drab figure moving through the crowd of brightly dressed tourists.

  His code name was the Gray Man, and he worked for a super secret government organization known only as the Network. He was a heavy hitter in the game of international intrigue.

  "What's he doing here?" Joe wanted to know. "And what was he doing on our ship?"

  "Maybe it's a coincidence," replied Frank. But he didn't believe it, and neither did his brother. The Hardys and the Gray Man had crossed paths before. Sometimes they'd helped one another, sometimes they'd found themselves fighting the Network.

  Could the Gray Man have been the mysterious rescuer who'd come to Frank's aid last night? If so, why hadn't he made himself known?

  Frank watched as the Gray Man got into the large American car and took off.

  Frank turned to his brother. "One thing's for sure," he said. "If there's any connection between the Network's business and us, we're involved in something a lot more dangerous than a student tour."

  Chapter 5

  THE WELCOMING PARTY that evening was a serious party. The crowd of forty seemed to be carrying on about ninety conversations at the same time, and the air was full of shouts, laughter, and music. The tiny Old Quarter restaurant was bulging at the seams.

  But from the moment he spotted Clea in the crowd, Joe had eyes and ears for no one else. If she'd looked good that afternoon, she was a knockout that night in a simple linen sleeveless dress.

  Joe said to Frank, while never taking his eyes off her, "Is she or isn't she gorgeous?"

  Frank had to agree. "Clea's something special, all right. But remember—the kind of stuff that goes over with the girls back home may flop over here. Take your time."

  But Joe had a glow in his eye, and he wasn't about to be steered away from his target. "We're supposed to be getting acquainted,: right?" he reasoned with his brother. "Well, I' ve got some acquainting to do."

  He purposefully moved off through the crowded room.

  Clea had been helping one of the Bayportt students choose food from the buffet table, but; by the time Joe got there, she had vanished into the mob. In her place stood Chet, who was busy getting acquainted with a dozen kinds of Greek noshes.

  "You see Clea around?" Joe asked.

  "She was here, but she went off that way," Chet replied, gesturing vaguely while maintaining his focus on the goodies. "Hey, Joe, you ought to try some of this stuff. It's good!"

  "You must have a dolma," said a female voice on Chefs other side. He looked around to And a pretty girl whose big smile showed off the dimples in her cheeks. She fluttered long eyelashes at Chet, who blinked back uncomfortably.

  "I am Alma," she said, taking Chet's plate and adding tidbits to what was already on it. "Uh, hi. I'm Chet." "Chet. I like that name. Chet. It's a strong name, fit for a big man. Here." She handed his plate back. "This is a dolma, a grape leaf stuffed with lamb and rice."

  Chet sampled, and his face lit up. "Hey, this is great! What's it called again?"

  "Dolma. I made it myself. I am a very good cook. One day I will marry a man with a great love of food."

  Chet squirmed, not sure how to reply to the girl. Joe grinned. "How do you like that? The way to this girl's heart is through your stomach."

  Chet glared at Joe, and then turned back to Alma. Before he could think of anything to say to her, his eye met those of a hulking Greek teenager, who stood a few feet behind the girl. He had muscular arms folded across a barrel chest, short, bristly hair, and dark, flashing eyes.

  When he saw Chet looking at him, his eyes flashed even more and his face gathered itself into a dark scowl. Chet turned back to Alma.

  "Say, um, do you know who that big guy is?" Chet asked. "He keeps staring at me."

  Alma looked over, then giggled. "Oh, that is only my older brother, Aleko. He is — I do not know the word in English — when he sees me with a boy, he is — "

  "Jealous?" inquired Chet faintly.

  Alma gave him a brilliant smile. "Yes, that is the word. He is very jealous. One time he — Where are you going?"

  Chet dove into the thickest part of the crowd, putting as much distance as possible between himself and Alma. Alma frowned and pouted, then followed him. A moment
later, the menacing Aleko followed her.

  Frank had gotten into conversation with Andreas Stamos, whose initial shyness had given way to enthusiasm when he spoke of the great love of his life—long-distance running.

  He announced proudly to Frank, "I'm going to be a marathon runner. Perhaps by 1996 I can compete in the Olympics for my country. I'm the best junior distance runner in Salonika."

  Spiros looked down at his son, clearly proud of the boy's achievements. But he only said, "Remember, past accomplishments mean nothing, unless you go on working. All over Greece, all over the world, there are strong, fast boys. Winning will come to the one who wants it the most and tries the hardest."

  Andreas grinned. "Every week I run forty to fifty miles."

  "Wow — pretty heavy-duty," Peter Stamos said, joining them.

  "Next year I'll be running more. When the time comes, I will be ready."

  "I bet you will." Frank was deeply impressed by the young runner's determination.

  Joe had been making polite chitchat for what seemed like hours, maneuvering to get close to Clea. Every time he got within feet of her, he found himself trapped in another round of introductions. But now, it looked as if his moment had finally arrived. Clea was standing by herself, rearranging the platters of food. Joe walked up to her.

  "Can I give you a hand with anything?"

  Clea turned toward him, looking at him from those amazing eyes. "No, thank you," she said with a smile. "I've just finished."

  Joe toyed with some of the food, picking a few tidbits up and dropping them on a plate. "This is some party your family has put together. You went to a lot of trouble for us."

  "To the Greeks, blood ties are important," she said. "This was a very special occasion, our first meeting with our American cousin. Also," she added after a pause, "we wished to give your group a proper welcome."

  "Well, speaking for myself," Joe said, "I sure do appreciate it."

  Clea continued to smile. "Do you?" she asked sweetly.

  "Absolutely." Joe smiled broadly at her.

  "Then what I suggest you do," Clea said, "is go to my father and tell him. He is, after all, the one who went to the greatest trouble."