Strategic Moves

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Noise from the tables floated in the air as thick as the pipe and cigarette smoke and became one constant drone.

  They found a table in the corner by the window and ordered.

  "What does your father do for the telephone company?" Frank asked. He was trying not to press the issue, afraid of scaring off Ziggy and Petra, but Ziggy's remark had sparked Frank's interest. So had Aleksandr's gun - and Aleksandr's apparent fear of Ziggy's father.

  Again Ziggy and Petra exchanged glances.

  "He is an administrator," Ziggy answered.

  "And what does your father do?" Petra countered.

  "He's a private detective," Joe answered. "So are we."

  "You are too young to be detectives," Petra declared. "You are the same age as Ziggy and I."

  "We help our father on cases from time to time," Frank said.

  "We even work on our own cases," Joe added. "We have a pretty good track record."

  "So you are in sports, too?" Ziggy asked seriously.

  Joe frowned at Ziggy. "What?"

  Frank laughed. " 'Track record' is an American expression. It means we've had success."

  Joe ordered a hamburger, and the others chose Welsh rabbit. The new friends ate slowly as they exchanged small talk about the differences and similarities in schools, boys and girls, parents, and everything else. Everything except the Zigonevs' father.

  They left the pub an hour and a half later and headed back to Brasenose. The streets were all but deserted. They had begun to cross an alley when a voice stopped them.

  "Excuse me," said a man just inside the alley.

  The group stopped and turned. Frank looked at the two men who faced the four teenagers. The older man was short and stocky, his unshaven face flecked with gray and black stubble. The large bags beneath his eyes gave him a tired and haggard appearance. The cap he was wearing made his head look flat.

  The other man was a couple of inches taller and was also thinner and younger than the first. He seemed nervous, always looking behind him or out into the street.

  "May we help you?" Frank asked. The two men didn't look trustworthy to Frank. And the younger man's twitching bothered him.

  The older man stared at Frank, then turned his gaze to Ziggy and Petra. After a moment he said, "Yes, you can."

  Then, like a snake uncoiling to strike, the older man pulled a small blackjack from his pocket and struck Joe on the chin. Joe staggered to one side, slamming into Frank. Both of them lost their balance and fell to the ground.

  The younger man grabbed Petra and pulled her into the alley.

  "Hey!" Ziggy yelled, and burst into the alley. Frank and Joe jumped up and followed him.

  The alley was lighted by a lone light bulb, creating harsh shadows that fell on the walls and ground. A bright glint of steel drew Joe's attention to the younger man, who held Petra. Joe saw that one hand covered her mouth and the other held a switchblade to her throat. Ziggy lay on the ground at the feet of the older man - unmoving.

  Joe started toward the younger man.

  "Don't try it, mate," the older man growled, "or we'll kill the girl."

  Chapter 3

  "What do you want?" Frank asked. "Money?" He reached behind him and began pulling his wallet out.

  The younger man holding Petra tightened his grip.

  "No funny business," the older man warned. "We don't want your stinking money, Yank."

  Joe's blue eyes closed to angry slits. He stared at the younger man. "You've got five seconds to let her go or lose that arm."

  The younger man glanced nervously at the older man.

  "Impertinent young pup," the older man spit out. "We don't care about the girl. We only want the boy."

  "What did you do to him?" Frank asked as he stood over his injured friend.

  The older man smacked the blackjack against his hand. "You figure it out." He nudged Ziggy's side with the toe of a grimy boot. "Get up!"

  Ziggy groaned and rolled over.

  When the younger man looked down at Ziggy, Joe took advantage of the distraction and lunged at him and Petra. With his left hand he gripped the man's knife hand like a vise and twisted the knife away from Petra's throat. Joe then placed a well-aimed right jab squarely in the man's face, his fist breezing past Petra.

  The man groaned and staggered back. Joe grabbed Petra and pulled her away from him.

  He turned back to the younger man, who held up the knife. Joe could tell by the panic in his eyes and the fear on his face that he didn't want to tangle with Joe. Joe swung his right leg forward and kicked the knife out of the man's hand. Without hesitation, the man spun around and ran down the alley.

  "Sammy!" the older man yelled. He turned and followed his partner through the alley, away from the Hardys.

  Frank, who was tending to Petra and Ziggy, started to chase the older man. But the man was near the end of the alley and soon disappeared down a side street.

  "Is everyone okay?" Frank asked the group.

  "Yes," Petra gasped. "Thank you.'

  Frank could tell by the short, raspy breaths Petra was taking that she was shaken up by the incident.

  "Why didn't you go after him?" Joe asked.

  "I thought I'd better make sure that Ziggy was okay," Frank answered.

  "Let's form a posse and hunt them down," Ziggy suggested.

  "They're long gone by now, cowboy," Frank replied. He smiled at the disappointed look on Ziggy's face. He had known Ziggy for only a short time, but the young Russian was already a friend. "Looks as if you and Joe are going to have twin tattoos."

  "What?" Ziggy asked.

  "The bruises from the blackjack," Joe explained, rubbing his own swollen chin.

  "Thanks for helping," Ziggy said. "We owe you one."

  "Wh - what did they want?" Petra asked, a tremble in her voice.

  "They wanted Ziggy," Frank said.

  "Why?" Tears had welled up in Petra's eyes, and Joe could tell that she was fighting to hold them back.

  "That's what we'd like to know," Joe said.

  "Shouldn't we call the police?" Petra asked.

  "Are you sure you want to do that?" Frank countered.

  "What do you mean?" Ziggy asked.

  "That older thug said he wanted Ziggy, not you, Petra," Frank said, glancing at Petra. "I interpret that to mean he wanted to kidnap Ziggy."

  "Kidnap Ziggy? Why?" Petra's voice was controlled, but Joe saw fear in her blue eyes.

  "That's what we want to find out," Frank said, his voice hard and serious. "But first, let's get out of this alley. There's a small fish-and- chips stand up the street."

  They left the alley, Frank being the last out. Across the street a car pulled out of an alley, its lights striking Frank. It turned and sped past the four of them. Although partially blinded by the lights' glare, Frank had seen three men in the car, one driving, two in back. He had recognized two of them. The driver was Aleksandr Dancek. Frank also knew the second man, who had a round, plump face and wore a nondescript gray suit. The third man, a stranger, was on the opposite side of the car in the shadows, but Frank could see that he was large with sharp, chiseled features.

  They reached the fish-and-chips stand, and Joe ordered four colas. Frank found a table away from the few customers sitting at the tables outside the stand.

  "You are joking about those two desperadoes trying to kidnap us," Ziggy said after Joe had joined the group.

  Frank didn't know if he could get used to hearing American cowboy slang spoken with a Russian accent by one of the world's foremost chess players.

  He smiled at Ziggy to try to ease the tension.

  "Perhaps you can start by telling us about your father," Frank suggested.

  "Why do you believe this involves our father?" Petra asked, her expression cold.

  "We're detectives," Joe reminded her. "We make it a habit to study people, to understand their motives. You and Ziggy have avoided talking about your father."

  "You have a choice," Frank added. "
You can continue to hide the truth from us, or you can let us help you. You wanted to pay us back somehow for helping you in the alley. As Ziggy might say, we're calling in your IOUs now."

  Petra looked down at her soft drink, avoiding Frank's eyes. Then she looked at Ziggy, who only stared at the table.

  "Ziggy?" Petra asked softly.

  Ziggy looked up. He smiled. "I believe we can trust the Hardys."

  Petra spoke. "Our father is an engineer. He is with the communications section of a national security agency."

  "KGB," Frank said.

  Petra looked stunned at Frank's comment.

  "Yes," Ziggy said. "But he is more of an administrator than a spy."

  "It makes sense," Joe said. "Kidnapping the son and daughter of a KGB official would almost ensure that the kidnappers would get whatever they want."

  "No," Frank corrected. "They didn't want Petra."

  "Why not?" Joe asked.

  "Ziggy has two things going for him that would attract kidnappers." Frank drank some of his cola. "The first is that his father is in the KGB. The second is that Ziggy is a national hero to the people of the Soviet Union."

  "Oh, I see," Joe replied, understanding Frank's point.

  Frank was tempted to tell the others about the men in the car, but decided to wait and tell Joe in private. Two questions occurred to him: Did the men in the car see the attempted kidnapping? And if they did, why didn't they stop it?

  They left the fish-and-chips stand and walked silently back to the dormitory, first escorting Petra to her room.

  They met Katrina on the stairs. She had come to check on Petra. Frank asked about Aleksandr, and Katrina replied that he was asleep.

  Why was Katrina lying? Frank wondered.

  "I am tired," Ziggy said as they neared their rooms. "I will hit the hay."

  "I'll be in in a minute," Frank said as Ziggy unlocked the door to their dorm room. "I want to talk to Joe."

  " 'Night, cowpokes," Ziggy said, and shut the door.

  "Quite a character," Frank said with a laugh.

  "You know," Joe said, "I thought I'd get a roommate from France or Poland or Japan. Instead, I get a skateboarder from California." He leaned against the wall. "So, what do you think?

  Frank knew what Joe meant. "I think we've got more than a simple kidnapping attempt."

  "Evidence?"

  Frank shook his head. "No. Just a hunch. Guess who I saw as we left the alley."

  "Prince Charles?"

  "I wouldn't have been surprised to see him," Frank said with a smile. "I saw Aleksandr Dancek driving a light blue British Ford sedan."

  "Out for an evening drive," Joe replied.

  "Katrina just said he was asleep."

  Joe raised his eyebrows. "That's right."

  "That's not all. What would Aleksandr, a Russian diplomat, be doing with the director of the Network?"

  Joe pushed away from the wall. "What is the Gray Man doing in England?"

  Joe knew as well as Frank that the Gray Man could be anywhere at any time doing anything that his duties required of him. As a member of the covert agency known as the Network, the Gray Man was primarily responsible for stopping terrorists before they acted on their mad impulses.

  "The Assassins." Joe's voice was as hard as iron.

  The Hardys had first met the Gray Man after Joe's girlfriend, Iola Morton, had been killed in a car bomb explosion. Since then, the Hardys, the Gray Man, and the Network had teamed up more than once to stop a deadly terrorist group known as the Assassins whenever they tried to bring chaos and murder to the world.

  "I'm not so sure that terrorists are involved." Frank chose his words carefully after turning them over in his mind. "Aleksandr, the Gray Man, and one other character were parked in the alley across from where the four of us were attacked."

  "And they didn't do anything to help," Joe added.

  Frank didn't like what he was about to say, but he had to say it. "Perhaps they didn't do anything to help because they wanted Ziggy to be kidnapped."

  Chapter 4

  "Why would Aleksandr be involved?" Frank said, more to himself than to Joe.

  Frank yawned and rubbed his eyes. It was almost eleven, and although he had slept on the plane from New York to London, the five-hour time difference was catching up with him.

  "A double agent," Joe replied.

  "He wouldn't risk being seen with the head of the Network." Frank yawned again.

  "I suppose you're right," Joe said with a yawn. "Who do you think the other man was?"

  "A Network agent," Frank replied.

  "Or KGB."

  Frank thrust his hands into his pockets. "This is getting deep."

  "Let's keep our guard up." Joe unlocked the door to his room. "Whoever is behind this didn't expect to fail the first time, and they're going to come out swinging."

  "But we'll be ready for them the next time," Frank said, although he wasn't comforted by the thought that there would be a next time.

  Joe stepped into his room and shut the door.

  Frank stepped across the hallway to his room and put his hand on the doorknob.

  The two who attacked Petra and Ziggy couldn't have been international terrorists, Frank thought. They acted and talked more like common criminals. Terrorists would have used deadlier means than a blackjack and a switchblade. Terrorists would not have left without their prey, even if it had meant spilling blood.

  A thump diverted Frank's attention to the closed door to the left of his and Ziggy's room. In the crack beneath the door Frank could see the shadows of someone's feet. The person was standing just inside the door. Then the light in the room suddenly went off.

  Frank crept to the door, held his breath, and pressed his ear against it. He could hear someone breathing on the other side.

  He moved back from the door, tiptoed to his room, and went in. Ziggy was asleep, so Frank left the light off. In the darkness he found the one desk in the room. He pulled his penlight from his pocket and flipped it on. He shuffled through a sheaf of papers and found the room assignment list of the international students. Whoever was next door had been listening to Frank and Joe's conversation.

  Frank wasn't surprised to discover that Aleksandr Dancek was assigned to room 209, the room next door to Ziggy and Frank.

  ***

  "Hot tea for breakfast?" Joe asked as he lifted the steaming cup of brown liquid.

  "I think our hosts are trying to let us experience as much of British culture as possible," Petra said and then sipped her tea.

  "British culture isn't going to satisfy Joe's appetite," Frank said with a straight face.

  They finished the small breakfast of tea, toast, jam, and cereal and headed out of the dining hall. Joe was still hungry and was already looking forward to lunch.

  They walked out of the dining hall in silence. It was a crisp Monday morning. The fog had lifted to the top of the spires and towers, and the sun was trying to burn off the gray haze.

  "I'd like to meet the wise guy who decided to schedule sculling lessons in the morning instead of during the afternoon, when it's warmer," Joe complained.

  The International Classroom students were required to take one academic and one sport class. Joe and Ziggy had signed up for sculling - competitive rowing - while Frank and Petra had enrolled in fencing. The morning athletic classes began at nine and ended at eleven-thirty. Students could then eat lunch in the dining hall or in town. The afternoon academic classes, from one until three, were seminar-discussions rather than lectures.

  "I'd also like to know how much physics they think they can teach us in two short weeks," Joe said, referring to the physics class he and Petra were scheduled to attend in the afternoon.

  "I don't think the idea is to teach, but to discuss new ideas," Frank said.

  "Yes," Petra agreed. "We young people are the future, and it is good that we are getting together now to discuss sports, politics, art, and other concerns. We do not want to repeat the mistakes of t
he past."

  "Let's hope not," Joe said.

  Frank nudged Joe and nodded his head to the left. Joe fell behind with Frank while Ziggy and Petra walked ahead, joined by other students.

  "What's up?" Joe whispered.

  "After sleeping on it, I think our hypothesis is all wrong," Frank replied.

  "I agree," Joe said. "The idea of the Gray Man being involved in the kidnapping of a Russian teenager sounds crazy."

  "Did you see Aleksandr this morning?" Frank asked.

  "No."

  "He's assigned to the room next to Ziggy and me. He was listening to our conversation last night."

  Joe turned his head to look at Frank. "Are you sure?" A slow anger was rising in Joe.

  "Reasonably sure. Just keep a close watch on Ziggy."

  "I'd rather watch Petra," Joe said.

  "What did you say, Joe?" Petra asked, turning around.

  Joe flushed with embarrassment. "I, uh, just said, 'See ya, Petra.' Here's the gymnasium."

  "Goodbye, Joe." Petra said. "I'll see you and Ziggy at lunch." Petra looked at Ziggy, her eyes wide and commanding. "And stay out of trouble."

  Ziggy rolled his eyes at Petra. "Yes, Mother." He nudged Joe and laughed. Then Ziggy and Joe turned down a path leading to the school's dock on the Thames River.

  "I think they get along quite well," Petra said as she and Frank entered the gymnasium. Then, unexpectedly, she asked, "Does Joe have a girlfriend in Bayport?"

  "No," Frank replied quickly and with a smile. While his answer wasn't exactly the truth, it wasn't a lie either. Joe didn't have a girlfriend in Bayport; he had several girlfriends.

  "That's nice," Petra said, and went into the girls' dressing room.

  They met several minutes later, wearing the white tennis shoes, white knee socks, white knickers, and white jackets of the sport of fencing.

  Frank looked around the old but well-maintained gymnasium. The floor and bleachers were made of oak and ash and were highly polished. Windows high up in the gym provided a steady stream of morning light.

  One odd thing about the gym, Frank thought, was the absence of basketball nets. The Brasenose gym was used for traditional British sports, like fencing, not for American games like basketball.