Hostages of Hate

by Franklin W. Dixon

  "We regret this demonstration, but your government must be made aware of our seriousness ... " The man's hand tightened on Callie's shoulder as he aimed the gun.

  "Oh no," Joe breathed.

  "NO!" The cry was torn from Frank as he leaped at the set.

  But even as he moved, the picture disappeared. The screen went blank.

  Chapter 3

  ABOARD THE PLANE, Callie Shaw shut her eyes and struggled not to let her fear show on her face. These guys will never see me cry, she promised herself. And they won't see me beg.

  Behind her, she heard the terrorist's voice. For once, it wasn't full of icy confidence. "What? What are you doing?" he cried, surprised.

  Callie opened her eyes to see Pauline Fox standing beside her cameraman. "I turned off the camera," the newswoman said. "Our live feed is off — there are just blank screens out there now." Her voice shook as she glared at the terrorist. "I will not stand here and film a murder for you."

  The gun muzzle at Callie's head quivered with the terrorist's annoyance. "You will show what we tell you to show."

  "No," said Pauline Fox.

  "You are a news broadcaster," said the gunman. "You are supposed to report the news." He gestured at Callie. "This is news."

  "It's cold-blooded killing. And I won't play a part in it."

  "We could get other news-people in here — " The terrorist's voice was cold and confident again.

  "Not after what just went out," Pauline Fox retorted. "They know what you're up to. Nobody will give you live airtime."

  The terrorist stood for a long moment, his gun still resting against Callie's temple. Then the cold metal left her head. "Into the other cabin," he ordered abruptly.

  Professor Beemis and Mrs. Thayer hurriedly got to their feet, scuttling for the cabin door.

  Callie turned back at the door to see that the gun was now aimed at Pauline Fox and her cameraman. "You too, Miss Fox."

  A hand grabbed Callie by the hair, hauling her into the economy cabin of the plane. "Inside, you," a voice screamed in her ear.

  She turned to look into the second hijacker's face, which was not protected by a mask. His dark eyes were level with hers as he dragged her along — he was only as tall as she was. But he had a wiry strength and a machine gun in his hand — she wouldn't argue with him.

  The man's eyes burned like coals against the dark tan of his face, his coarse black hair dancing wildly as he pushed her down the aisle. The tan business suit he wore was now blotched with sweat stains at the back and under the arms. "Sit here," he shouted, thrusting her into an aisle seat.

  Callie glanced around the semidarkened cabin. All the window shades were down, to keep the police from seeing what went on inside. The men on the plane had been put in the window seats. Some of them nursed bruises where the terrorists had hit them. "Neutralizing them," the gray-suited terrorist had called it. Breaking their spirit is more like it, Callie told herself. Showing them that two guys with guns can beat up a planeful of unarmed men.

  Only women were now sitting in aisle seats. They figure women are too weak to attack them as they pass in the aisles, Callie realized. She watched the man's back. Maybe I'll have a chance to give them a nasty surprise.

  The tan-suited terrorist walked up and down the aisle, his Uzi at the ready. He whirled around when the other terrorist entered the cabin — with Pauline Fox ahead of him. The cameraman had been locked in the cockpit.

  "Calmly, Habib," said the gray-suited gunman as his comrade's gun snapped into firing position.

  "Do not think this is his real name. We use false names."

  "What is she doing here?" Habib yelled, anger thickening his accent. "Lars, I do not have my mask."

  "It is necessary." Lars pulled his mask off too, revealing a pale face that looked as if it had been chiseled from ice. Handsome as that of a statue, and with about as much feeling. His eyes were like twin blue pebbles as he looked at his partner.

  "Miss Fox will not cooperate in transmitting all of our message."

  "That's Ms. Fox, and I won't — " The rest of Pauline Fox's words were cut off as Habib charged down the aisle and pointed his gun at her. The muzzle was only inches from her face.

  "You will do this thing!" His voice was almost a scream.

  Pauline Fox stood very still as she stared at the gun. Even though her face was pale, she shook her head. "No."

  "I will kill you then!"

  Then Callie called out, "You do that. And you can kiss goodbye any hopes of getting your precious message out."

  Habib whirled around, ready to smash his gun into Callie's face. But the blue-eyed man reached over to grab the other's arm. "Why do you say that?" he asked Callie.

  "The news-people won't give you a second on television if you kill a reporter."

  The cold blue eyes narrowed, considering that fact. Then they turned and gave Pauline Fox an appraising look. "You are a brave woman to refuse us even after we have threatened you. So I will no longer threaten you. But what happens if I threaten someone else?"

  Pauline glanced at Callie, but the gray-suited man shook his head. "I was thinking about your cameraman. We could execute him instead of Miss Shaw. It would not be a problem."

  "But how can you shoot the cameraman?" Callie said. "Who'll run the camera?"

  Lars gave her a chilly smile. "I know much about machinery—of all kinds. Running the videotape could be arranged." He looked at her. "Easily."

  "But you'll have the same problem. Shoot me, shoot my cameraman, and you'll be like poison to any other news-people." Pauline Fox stared at the two terrorists. "They'll know you can't be trusted."

  Lars pulled on his mask. When his face was hidden again, he spoke to Pauline. "Congratulations, Miss — no, Ms. Fox," he said. "You have won this time. There will be no execution. And your cameraman will be allowed to leave without harm."

  Callie went limp with relief. Pauline took a long, deep breath and then moved toward the exit where the cameraman would be released.

  But Lars barred her way.

  "Unfortunately," he said, "I cannot let you leave. You know too much."

  "You mean, how many—" Pauline said.

  "How many of them there are." Callie cut her off. Oh, Frank, were you watching? Did you get my message?

  Lars nodded. "I am afraid I cannot let you go off and tell your police. You will have to join the other hostages. I will inform your cameraman." He moved toward the cockpit.

  Pauline Fox stared after him, dazed. In two seconds, she had gone from neutral observer to helpless pawn.

  "Down! Sit!" The newswoman was shoved into the seat across the aisle from Callie.

  Pauline stared around wildly. "What? How?"

  "No talking!" The terrorist's voice rose in a screech. Pauline Fox took in the gun clutched in his hand, the venomous look in his eyes — and stayed silent. The man smiled in triumph and started patrolling the aisle again.

  Pauline Fox slumped limply in her chair, arms wrapped around herself as if she were warding off a chill. Her usually perfect hair was askew, and her skin was gray.

  Glancing around to make sure the gunman wouldn't see or hear her, Callie whispered, "Thanks. You saved my life. That was pretty brave."

  "Brave? So were you." Pauline turned hopeless eyes toward Callie. "But I think I just traded my life for yours."

  Chapter 4

  FRANK HARDY SLAMMED his hand down on top of the television set. "They can't stop it there! What happened to Callie?"

  R. O'Neill, the government counterterrorist expert, and Professor Hayden glanced at each other. Then O'Neill asked, "You know the girl, huh?" He tried to soften his voice. "Well, we'll know soon enough."

  "She slipped a message across!" Frank told them. "There are just two guys aboard the plane. Only two! The cops outnumber them a hundred to one. They should be able to sneak up on them — "

  He stopped as he saw the disbelieving look on the government man's face. "A message, eh, kid?" O'Neill patted Frank on t
he shoulder. "Good work."

  "You can see it," Frank went on desperately. "Get a videotape of that interview on the plane. The close-up of Callie. I'll show you the code we used."

  "Sure, kid." O'Neill patted Frank's shoulder again, then started to walk away.

  Frank grabbed his arm. "You've got to listen to me!"

  The government man shook himself loose. But in a smooth move, Frank grabbed the guy's arm once again and sent him tumbling to the floor.

  Joe jumped and put a restraining arm out to keep Frank from doing anything else. "I don't think you convinced him," Joe whispered in his brother's ear.

  "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me," Frank said to the man.

  "You little twerp!" O'Neill growled, getting back to his feet. He looked ready to deck Frank, until a hand landed on his elbow. O'Neill's glare of annoyance turned to a look of shock. "You!"

  The man restraining O'Neill looked perfectly ordinary. In fact, he looked almost too ordinary, from his rumpled suit to his slightly scuffed shoes. But looks could be deceiving. And it was obvious that O'Neill recognized him.

  The Hardys knew him only by his code name, Gray Man. He was an agent of the ultrasecret government organization called the Network, and he sometimes acted as their contact man.

  "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."