But the office remained silent, even when Frank cautiously levered up a ceiling tile. Frank looked down through the opening and saw an empty desk. He quickly worked to enlarge the hole, then crawled through. When Joe joined him seconds later, Frank was already at the door, trying the handle It turned without a problem. Easing the door open, Frank and Joe scanned the corridor. Their eyes darted around, sensitive to the slightest movement. No one was there.
They walked down the corridor, pausing at each intersection, checking out their surroundings before moving.
Joe brought them to a halt when he heard low conversation not far away. The boys looked around a corner and saw a garage filled with a dozen men dressed in the same black clothes the Hardys wore but carrying Sterling submachine guns.
The Gray Man and Edwin Perkins entered through another doorway. Perkins was slipping a pistol into his holster. "Sergeant Morris," he called to a gray-haired veteran, "let's get this show on the road."
"All right," roared the sergeant. "Into the lorry!”
The troops started clambering inside a large, battered panel truck, and the garage door rose with a metallic clatter.
"They're leaving," Frank whispered when all the men were aboard. "Not without us!" Joe responded.
The truck's engine roared to life. Joe sprinted across the garage, leaping onto the rear bumper and wrapping his arm around a pole at the back of the truck. He waved his arm in a silent "Come on!" to Frank. Shaking his head in amazement, Frank grasped a metal projection on the other side just as the truck lurched into motion.
The ride through South London was short. Even so, the Hardys were nearly thrown off several times as the truck jounced over badly paved streets.
The neighborhoods of red brick houses that the truck passed through became seedier and poorer... Frank and Joe saw many stores that had been boarded up. They noticed that signs were written in Arabic letters - Pakistani.
Frank knew that people from all over the old British Empire-from the West Indies, Africa, and Asia-had come to the neighborhood of Brixton. And they'd stayed there. He even saw burned buildings, leftovers from riots. It was easy to see that the Assassins knew what they were doing when they picked Brixton for their safe house.
The truck bounced heavily as it turned onto a cobblestoned street with many of the cobblestones missing or broken. Most of the houses on the dead-end street were just shells, but one dingy three-story building still showed signs of life. At least curtains were flapping in the windows.
Down the block, a group of city construction workers struggled to repair a broken streetlamp. And at the corner a gang of Pakistani workmen tried to renovate a burned-out shop. The only other car on the street was a Post Office van. The mailman was just climbing out.
But everything changed as the truck rolled to a stop right in front of the safe house. The shop windows turned into clouds of tinkling glass shards as the workmen inside-Gurkhas, Nepalese soldiers who joined the British Army-let loose with machine guns. Their covering fire tore into the windows of the upper floors of the safe house.
Machine guns were snatched out of the "construction workers' " toolboxes, too. Even the "mailman" whipped a Sterling from his sack, hosing the ground-floor windows with bullets.
The doors of the lorry flew open, and the attack force pelted out to add to the fire. When the Gray Man saw the unexpected hitchhikers, he froze, pistol in hand, his eyes bulging. "What the - get down, you idiots!"
He leaped to the ground, pulling the Hardys into the cover of the truck. All around them, bullets still flew. : Six men rushed up the front stairs of the safe house with a battering ram, swinging it back even as they ran. The ram smashed into the door, bounced back, and was swung forward again and again. With practiced rhythm, the team kept slamming away.
Finally, the hinges began to give. With a grinding noise, the door cracked, then sagged. The team hurled the ram forward, sending the door crashing in. Unslinging their guns, they covered the front hall of the house. "Nothing moving, sir," the sergeant in charge called as Perkins and his team ran up the stairs.
"No response to our fire, either," Perkins said, peering inside. "Let's go in." Pistols and machine guns poised, they entered the hallway.
The covering fire stopped, as everyone waited tensely to hear what was in store for the raiding team. The minutes straggled by, but the street remained silent. "Getting right spooky, it is," one of the covering gunners muttered.
From inside the house came the sounds of doors being kicked in. Occasionally, one of the raiders would appear at a window, waving an "all clear." Once, a couple of shots rang out, but the sergeant shouted, "False alarm."
Finally, Perkins appeared in the wrecked doorway, his pistol holstered and a frustrated frown on his face. "No one's there!" he said.
The Gray Man headed up the stairs. "Could they be on the roof?" he called.
"Not unless they flew," Perkins replied as Frank and Joe joined them. "There was enough dust on the top floors to grow crops." He stared at the Hardys for a moment. "And what are these two doing here?"
The Gray Man smiled without mirth. "Well, they've arrived just in time for the search."
Since the all clear had been given, the house filled with searchers, from the top to the ground floors. Using plans picked up from the Hall of Records, they even checked for secret passages in the walls.
"This is ridiculous," Perkins groused as they headed down into the cellar of the building. "They can't have disappeared. Our people have seen Assassins going in. They've spotted leaders here. And we've had the building surrounded."
"No windows or anything overlooked?" the Gray Man asked.
"We worked from those plans," Perkins replied testily. "There's no way in or out that wasn't guarded."
"I guess that means they're down here, then." The Gray Man shone his flashlight around the cellar. At one time partitions had been up, but the makeshift walls had all come down. In one corner, they saw the remains of the coal cellar. In another, some crates apparently had been disassembled. Perkins looked at the piles of wood.
"Some of these have armory markings," he said, his voice going hard. "Stolen weapons, probably."
"Looks like they were storing lots of things here," Frank said.
"The question is, how?" said Joe. "And where?"
"Well, the answer may be over here." The Gray Man had been shining his flashlight along the floor. He stopped it in another corner of the cellar. Set in the concrete floor was a heavy wooden trapdoor.
"It certainly does explain everything," the Gray Man said. "My nose told me about it since we were on the stairs. Didn't you catch the earthy smell down here? Turned earth, as if someone had been digging. I'll bet that little addition won't appear on any of your official plans," he said to Perkins.
Perkins stared. "You're saying that they dug an escape tunnel?"
The Gray Man nodded. "A lot of work, but it paid off for them, didn't it?" He knelt by the trapdoor. "This could lead just next door, or to another building entirely. Or they could have cut into the sewer system."
"Wherever it leads, I'm sure it's far from here," Perkins said gloomily.
"There's only one way to find out." The Gray Man reached down and grabbed the ring-pull on the trapdoor.
Something clicked in Frank Hardy's mind, something about the way the Assassins worked. Unconsciously, he'd been expecting it ever since they'd come into the building. But there'd been nothing "Wait a second!" he yelled, running forward. "These guys love bombs! It could be booby - "
The Gray Man had already heaved the door up. He and Frank disappeared in the flash of an explosion!
Chapter 10
THE BLAST OF the demolition charges threw Joe Hardy and Perkins to the floor. Immediately, they scrambled to their feet and ran to the two still figures lying by the wrecked trapdoor. "Frank,” Joe managed to choke out, "Not Frank, too."
But as he reached his brother, Frank began to stir, pushing himself up on one arm. "The door shielded m
e from the worst of the blast. But him-" he mumbled, looking toward the Gray Man. "Was I able to push him far enough away?"
Perkins knelt by the fallen agent, looking very different from the aristocratic pilot Frank and Joe had met at the airfield. His face was covered with dirt, and the beginnings of a bruise showed on his cheek. His expression was serious as he checked for a pulse. "He's still breathing," he said. "Which he wouldn't be if you hadn't pushed him away. But ... " He shook his head. "He's very bad."
"Mr. Perkins'" Sergeant Morris and a private came down the stairs. "Are you all right? The whole house feels like it's going to go!"
From the ceiling overhead came ominous creaking and groaning sounds. The foundation of the century-old house had been severely shaken.
"We've got to get out," Joe's voice cut over the noises. "Give us a hand here."
He helped Frank to his feet as the two soldiers helped Perkins gently pick up the Gray Man. "Up the stairs - hurry'" Perkins shouted.
The creaking in the ceiling became a horrible grinding noise. "Some of the beams must have cracked," Frank muttered as they stumbled up the stairs. Just as they reached the doorway a big section of the first floor sagged, then crashed into the basement, right onto the spot where they'd been standing seconds before.
The entire house then began to sway and to crumple inward. Dozens of hands grabbed Frank and Joe, hustling them away. More helped to move the injured Gray Man.
Frank and Joe stood at the entrance to the dead-end street, watching as the old brick building collapsed completely.
"I'll tell you one thing," Joe said quietly as the roof fell in. "What?" asked Frank. "They'll never call that a safe house again."
By then, fire engines and emergency personnel were arriving. Tender hands bundled the Gray Man aboard an ambulance. "You're coming along, too," said Perkins, leading Frank and Joe to the medical people.
Doctors at the-hospital declared that Frank was merely shaken up. They were much more grim about the Gray Man's condition and immediately wheeled him into surgery. "Come on," said Perkins when he found the Hardys pacing around the waiting room. "What now?" asked Frank.
"I'd say it was time for you two to wash up and get some fresh clothes and maybe some rest. Then perhaps we should get you in to talk with the Chief."
"The Chief" turned out to be Sir Nigel Folliott, head of British Intelligence. Hollywood couldn't have gotten a better actor for the part. Folliott was a man with a mane of ginger hair going silver, and large, handsome features. As Perkins ushered the Hardys into his huge wood paneled, book-lined office, Sir Nigel rose from his old-fashioned teak desk.
"I've been getting regular reports from the hospital on our friend," he said after introductions had been made. "He's remarkably fit for such a nondescript-looking sort. The doctors say he'll pull through." Joe and Frank smiled at that. "However," Sir Nigel went on, "he'll be in hospital for some time. And he's still not conscious. I understand you joined his investigation," - he coughed - "rather informally. So the question is, what do I do with you?"
"When, Sir Nigel, we have some questions," Frank said. "We came here after the Assassins. Have any more been caught?"
"Frankly, no," Sir Nigel said. "We found the tunnel they used. hard to miss, actually. They used too much explosive to seal off the digging and blew out one of the nearby roads. Blasted thing went three blocks to an abandoned building. Well outside the cordon we'd drawn up."
“So they got away,” Joe said, disappointed.
"From that building, yes. From London . . . well, that's another story. We've sealed the city. Buses, motorways, airports, even the shipping routes are being watched."
"You're saying it's impossible for them to escape?" Frank asked.
Sir Nigel shook his head. "Not impossible but very dangerous. If they want to escape arrest, they'll have to lie low for the time being."
"That means they won't be able to have much to do with whatever is going on in Bayport," Frank said. "I suppose that's a win."
"And you've already cost Al-Rousasa the reinforcements he was expecting-that pair who tried to hijack your plane," Perkins pointed out.
"That's a victory, too." He smiled. "In case you're wondering, the people who were on the flight with you are now arriving in London - a little stiff from having to sit around in the plane so long, but otherwise safe and sound."
"The surviving hijacker can't tell us anything more about the planned terror campaign in the U.S.," Sir Nigel said. "We've passed everything we found on to your government.
"But the question still remains-what about you?" His face grew serious as he went on. "Perkins told me a bit about your backgrounds and why you've involved yourselves in this case. I tell you frankly, I don't approve of people with personal axes to grind."
"So what do you figure on doing?" Joe cut in. "Do you want to keep us here?" His scowl clearly showed what he thought of that idea.
"Sir Nigel," Frank said more diplomatically, "if you've informed the American authorities of what's going on, maybe you should send us back to Bayport so that we can" - he paused for a second - "give whatever assistance we can."
"What are you talking about? ’Give whatever assistance we can’?' Joe burst out. "I want to kill - " A look from Frank silenced him.
"Um, I mean, I really want to see this Al-Rousasa caught," Joe said. "And if there's anything I can do to help-" "We do know the town," Frank put in.
Sir Nigel gazed at them seriously. "Under the Official Secrets Act, I'd be quite within my rights to keep you. But under the circumstances, I'll accept your promise to tell no one - no one about what took place after you left Bayport."
He smiled suddenly. "I can see that you both feel strongly about getting home. And that was Perkins's suggestion as well."
He picked up an envelope from his desk. "These tickets are for the next flight. Somehow, I suspected - you'd want to be on it."
Frank took the tickets gratefully. "You're right, Sir Nigel. Thank you."
Perkins was just opening the door for them when they heard a disturbance in the outer office.
"I demand to see Sir Nigel!" a voice cried angrily. "That collapsed building was a safe house for the Assassins, and I want to know - "
Frank recognized the voice and quickly shut the door.
"That's Dad," Joe whispered. "What do we do now?"
"Sir Nigel," Frank said, "I think we have a problem." Quickly he explained Fenton Hardy's arrangements for them and where they were supposed to be. "So if our father finds us here, we'll give away the whole show."
"Well, you are heading home now," Sir Nigel said with a conspiratorial smile. "Perkins, why don't you go out there and talk to Mr. Hardy? In the meantime, I'll show the boys the other exit from the office."
On the flight home, the Hardys talked quietly about their narrow escape.
"If Dad had seen us coming out of that office, he'd have skinned us alive," Joe said.
Frank nodded. "It's just lucky that we heard him before he saw us."
"He didn't seem happy," Joe went on. "Maybe his investigation isn't coming along too well."
"No better than ours, I guess." Frank closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat.
"Well, Dad's got a tighter schedule than we have, Frank. He can't stay undercover forever. There's that big Walker rally at the mall. He's the head of security. He'll have to be there."
Frank's eyes snapped open. "What idiots we've been," he said, breathing hard. "What?" Joe said.
"A bombing at the mall. What connection does it have to Iola? Why was she at the mall?" Frank turned to his brother, who was staring at him doubtfully. "Joe, what do we know about this Al-Rousasa?" "He's an Assassin. A heavy hitter never misses." "Besides that," Frank said. "Remember what that guy we caught told us." Joe pulled his brows together as he thought. "He was supposed to be in America to run a big terror campaign.” "And?" Frank prompted. "And what?"
"That campaign had its timing thrown off by a special job." Frank shook his he
ad. "Don't you see?"
"See what?"
"Iola-all of us-were at the mall for a dress rehearsal of Philip Walker's appearance this Saturday. Suppose that bomb in our car was a dress rehearsal, too. Suppose Al-Rousasa was practicing how he'd assassinate Philip Walker!"
Chapter 11
FRANK HARDY'S FIRST question on landing at the airport was, "Where's the phone?" Joe stared in surprise. "Phone? I thought we were going to get right in the car and ... oh - “
"Right," Frank said. "No car."
Joe jingled the change in his pockets. "And not enough money for a cab."
Frank led the way to a pay phone. "I'm going to see if I can get hold of Callie. She'll give us a lift. And then our first stop is the police station."
Frank made the call; then he and Joe waited for Callie. Frank looked impatiently at his watch until Callie's green Nova finally pulled up. "Frank! Joe!" she called. "Where have you guys been? I've been trying to call - "
Frank gave her a quick kiss. "I can't explain right now, but we've got to get to the police station.”
Callie's dark eyes narrowed in concern when she heard their destination. "We're going to be cutting it mighty close," she said as they got in. "The day shift ends right now."
The street in front of the station was jammed with patrol cars. "Looks like the changing of the guard," Frank said as Callie pulled up at the corner.
He and Joe piled out. "Let's just hope the people we've got to see haven't left yet.”
They ran through the big double doors and across the corridor to the desk officer. "Excuse me," Frank said. "I'd like to talk to whoever is handling the security for Saturday's rally at the mall.”
The man behind the desk was a stranger. "Look, boys, right now isn't the best time - "
Behind him a door opened, and Con Riley stepped out, dressed in street clothes. "Hi, boys," he said when he noticed Frank and Joe. Seeing the frustrated look on their faces, he turned to the man behind the desk. "Aw, stop giving them a hard time, Jerry. I know these guys."
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