When he was one hundred feet ahead of the car, Joe slammed his heel to the pavement and jerked the front end of the cycle off the ground. The bike spun, the front wheel slammed down again, and then he was racing head-on toward the limousine.
For what seemed like an eternity, the cycle sped toward the limo, Joe's eyes fixed slightly above the headlights so the glare wouldn't blind him. Joe swerved the bike to the right of the car seconds before it would have collided with it. Tires locked and screeched, and the cycle flew into a skid, throwing Joe at the car, just as he had planned. The driver's window was open, and Joe reached through it, locking his arm around the short man's neck.
The car swerved and weaved as Oleg gasped for breath. In the back Frank slammed his elbow into Feodor's chin, stunning him.
The limo crashed into the side of the bridge, knocking Joe to the pavement. With a groan, he picked himself up. The front end of the limo was twisted against a steel railing, and no one inside was moving. Then Frank moaned, and Oleg and Feodor stirred.
"Come on, Frank," Joe called. "Let's get out of here."
"Just a minute," Frank said. He leaned over the front seat and reached into Oleg's coat. His hand came out holding a folded sheet of paper.
"Got it!" he said as he climbed out of the car. "Let's go."
As they ran across the bridge, a bullet spanged off a girder. Frank looked over his shoulder. Feodor and Oleg were out of the car, shooting at them. "They've almost got our range, Joe," he said. "We'll never make it."
Joe eyed the dark waters below. "There's one chance," he said.
"Too dangerous," Frank said. "Do you know how many people die every year by jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge? If we get caught in the undertow — " He cut himself off as he glanced over his shoulder. Feodor was down on one knee, taking careful aim.
"Right," said Joe. He knew that look in his brother's eye, the look that said one chance in a million was better than no chance at all. "Let's do it."
As another shot whizzed by, the Hardys lunged over the railing and plummeted with twin splashes into the deadly bay.
Frank Hardy swam to the surface, spat out water, and gulped in air. Treading water, he strained to pull the cord from his wrists. Above, he saw the Russians, straining their eyes to pick the Hardys out against the inky darkness of the bay. It was too dark, he knew, and the flashing red lights approaching from the distance would quickly drive the Russians off. "Stay low, Joe," he whispered. "The cops are on their way." There was no reply. "Joe?" he said louder. Still the only sound was the fierce lapping of waves. Frank peered across the night sea. Nothing else bobbed there.
Joe had not come up for air after the dive. He was gone.
Chapter 9
Just under the surface of the water, something moved. A head bobbed up, then sank again. Joe!
Frank called his brother's name, but there was no answer. He hoped Joe was only unconscious, knocked out by the impact. But Frank had to wake him quickly, before he drowned or was swept out to sea. Water flowed around them, pulling them gently toward the mouth of San Francisco Bay. The farther they moved, the faster they went, dragged relentlessly in the murderous undertow. A few more minutes, Frank knew, and they would both be beyond help.
Taking in a lungful of air, Frank dived underwater. The cord hindered his movements, making it difficult to swim. He wished for more light, but none came. In that undersea night he could see nothing but shades of gray and black.
A dozen feet away a dark, man-shaped patch rose. Joe again, Frank guessed, rising for perhaps the last time. Frank kicked his feet and propelled himself against the current. His lungs burned and air forced itself up into his throat, but he kept his mouth closed. The dark patch, helpless against the current, pulled away from him. Frank kicked frantically, building up speed. His vision blurred and his lungs ached from the effort of holding in the air. If he should open his mouth, he knew, the sea would rush in, and he would never make it to the surface again.
He slammed into Joe, but Joe didn't move. Frank dived again, coming up with his shoulder under the small of Joe's back, pushing his brother upward.
They broke the surface, and Frank gasped desperately for air. But Joe was rolling away, already beginning to sink again. Without his hands free, there was no way for Frank to keep Joe afloat. Frank grabbed his brother by the belt. Kicking to keep himself above water, he jerked Joe toward him as hard as he could and then let him go.
With as much strength and leverage as he could muster in the water, Frank punched Joe in the stomach.
Reflexively, Joe gasped, a geyser of water and air rushing from his lungs. Shaken to semiconsciousness, he hacked the rest of the fluid out with a fierce cough and thrashed in the water.
Joe!" Frank cried. "Wake up! Please wake
At last Joe opened his eyes and stopped slapping the water. Like Frank, he started to kick his feet to keep himself afloat. "Frank! Where are we? What — " He looked at the bridge and suddenly remembered. "The Russians!"
Red lights spun and flashed on the bridge. The police were there. A spotlight went on, shining down and skimming along the water.
"It's a sure bet the Russians are gone by now," Frank said. "And we had better be out of here, too. It won't do us or Uncle Hugh any good, having to explain this to the police."
"Right," Joe agreed. They bobbed beneath the water as the searchlight neared. It touched the place where they had been and moved on. They surfaced again. "It's only a couple hundred feet to shore and the current should be moving in that direction. Let's go."
"Joe? Would you mind?" Frank held out his arms. With a chuckle, Joe untied his brother. "Thanks."
As the searchlight began another circuit, they swam and came ashore in the shadow of Fort Point. The old fort was closed, and there was no one else around. Exhausted, they crawled onto the beach and collapsed there. The searchlight still beamed off the bridge. No one suspected they had survived.
"This could be a break," Frank said. "The Russians are probably watching the cops. I hope they'll think we're finished when we're not found. That would make it easier for us to wreck their plan."
"What is their plan, anyway?" Joe asked. Soaked to the skin, he shivered in the chill night air. "I know they're planning to steal an old Inca crown, but aside from that — "
"What?" Frank interrupted, dumbfounded. "Where did you learn that?"
Joe smiled. It wasn't often that he was able to surprise Frank. "There's a woman involved in this, the one we saw at the elevator. Her name's Charity. I followed her and got to see some photos she has of the crown. She wanted to know what Uncle Hugh's plans for stealing it were."
"Then she's not on Uncle Hugh's side," Frank said. "So whose side is she on? Starkey's? If that's the case, why didn't he tell us?"
"Don't expect him to tell us anything," Joe said. "Unless it's a lie. Something's not on the level about him."
"Something's off about all of this," Frank said. "Like those Russians. Sometimes they speak broken English, and sometimes they speak as well as you or I. It's like they're playacting."
Frank's face grew more serious. "I wish I could figure out how Uncle Hugh fits into all this. I learned the Russians fed him a slow-acting poison, and if he does this job for them, they'll The owning To give him the antidote. So it seems he's been forced into helping them. But he didn't lift a finger to help me when the Russians carted me off. If you hadn't shown up — "
"You would have thought of something," Joe said. "I guess the key to this whole thing is the crown, but I can't believe the Russians are only interested in this old treasure. If only we knew where it was, we could get a good look at it and then — "
It was Frank's turn to smile. "Funny you should mention it." He pulled a crumpled, soggy piece of paper from his back pocket and spread it out as best he could on the grass.
"That's what you dragged out of the little Russian's coat before you got out of the limo," Joe said. "What is it?" he asked, taking out a small penlight.
&nbs
p; "A photocopy of the floor plans for the Carlyle Museum of History, complete with instructions on how to bypass all the security. Uncle Hugh figured it out."
"Look at this place," Joe said and shone the light across the paper. "Lasers, heat sensors, air pressure sensors. It's more like a fortress than a museum. Ever notice how this case gets screwier the deeper into it we get?"
"Boy, have I," Frank began and then froze. Near the wall of the fort, something snapped.
"Someone's there," Frank whispered. "We have to get out of here." He snatched up the paper and stuffed it into his pocket again. Another snap.
Frank and Joe crawled across the grass, hugging the ground. At the wall they heard a match scratch, and a man touched the flame to the tip of a cigarette. Shadows cast by the flame blacked out his eyes and made him unrecognizable. He tossed the match down and ground it out with his heel.
The glow of the cigarette slowly pulsing over his face, he walked straight at the Hardys. From a shoulder holster hidden beneath his coat, he drew a gun.
"Hit him!" Frank whispered. As if a single mind directed them, Frank and Joe, hidden by the night, lunged at the armed man.
Headfights flared on, catching them in midlunge, and the man held his revolver aimed at the Hardys. He stepped toward the boys, signaling them to raise their hands.
Frank backed into Joe's shadow and crushed the paper completely into his pocket before he lifted his hands. No one noticed.
The man with the gun jostled Frank and Joe, roughly pushing them toward the waiting car. "You've had enough fun for one day," he said. "Starkey wants to talk to you."
"Care for some tea?" Starkey said. "It'll help drive the chill out."
"Sure," Frank replied. His clothes had mostly dried on the ride from Fort Point to the VanNess Avenue hotel district, but he was still cold. Joe and Frank each sat on a bed in their hotel room; Starkey leaned against the wall. In the corner the man with the revolver watched a movie on cable television and paid no attention to them.
Another man poured two cups of tea from a large silver pot and handed them to Frank and Joe. "So," Starkey said. "What did you find out?"
"You answer a question first, okay?" said Frank. "Who's Peregrine?"
"Well, well," Starkey said, amused. "Since you ask, that was Hugh Hunt's code name when he worked in Eastern Europe. Why? Someone mention it?"
"The Russians," Frank began.
"So Hunt is working for them," Starkey said excitedly. "He probably started working for them when he was Peregrine."
"I don't think so," Frank said. "They were taunting him with the name. They're extorting his help."
"To do what?" Starkey asked.
"Something to do with a crown at the Carlyle Museum," Joe said. "They're planning to snatch it."
"Let me get this straight," Starkey said excitedly. "Hugh Hunt and the Russians are planning to rob a museum?"
"It looks that way," Frank admitted. "But don't you understand? They're forcing him into it!"
"But Hugh Hunt is working with the Russians, and they are planning to knock over the Carlyle Museum, right?" Starkey insisted.
With a resigned sigh, Frank replied, "Yes."
Starkey opened his jacket and pulled a small tape recorder from an inside pocket. "That's all we need," he said. "Independent verification that Hugh Hunt is working with an enemy government."
"You haven't listened to a thing we said," shouted Joe.
"Sure I have, tough guy," Starkey said, smirking. "Mickey!" The man with the gun shut off the television, turned, and drew his revolver.
"These boys have outlived their usefulness," Starkey said. With a smile, the man called Mickey took aim at Frank and Joe and Cocked the hammer on his gun.
Chapter 10
"You're kidding," Frank said, but the cruel glint in Starkey's eyes told Frank that he meant it.
"This is a secret organization," Starkey replied. "We can't have a couple of kids running around with all our secrets, can we?" He glared at Joe. "Keep those hammy fists where we can see them, kid, and don't do anything stupid. Mickey here knows every way there is to kill a man. He'll be very quick and painless, and he won't leave a mark."
"How very convenient for you," Joe muttered.
"Or he can make it very messy if you get on his bad side," Starkey continued. "On second thought, do something stupid. I'd like to see that." "Anyone ever tell you how thoroughly unpleasant you are?" Frank said.
Starkey grinned. "It's the job."
"There's no way out of this, is there?"
"No, I'm afraid there isn't. If you somehow managed to get out of this room, which I doubt you could do, I have my agents all over the hotel. You'd never make it to the front door."
"I almost wouldn't mind going if I knew why you're doing this, Starkey."
"Well, I'm not going to tell you. Anything else I can do?"
"Another cup of tea?" Frank asked.
"You think you get a last request, just like in the movies?" Starkey shrugged. "All right, go ahead. Just one cup, though."
"Thanks," Frank said. Picking up his cup, he moved toward Mickey. The gunman drew his revolver as Frank approached, keeping him covered. Frank swung in a wide arc around Mickey, staying out of the gunman's reach. At the table Frank picked up the teapot.
"More tea, Joe?" Frank asked.
"I hate tea," Joe said sullenly. His rage-filled eyes fixed on Starkey, who was ignoring him.
Furtively, Frank studied Mickey. The man looked like a professional quarterback. And Frank guessed that Mickey could withstand any attack Frank could make.
"Sure, you want some tea," Frank said.
"I don't like tea," Joe said. It was true. He hadn't touched the cup Starkey gave him.
"Sure you do," Frank insisted, watching as Mickey snuffed out a cigarette in an ashtray on top of the television. "Pass me your cup, Joe."
"Frank, I don't want any tea," Joe maintained.
"If the kid doesn't want any tea, he doesn't want any tea," Starkey barked. "Get on with it."
"No, he likes tea," Frank said. "When he gets burned, he says things just to be contrary. A little light in the head, you know?"
Joe's eyes widened with a rush of comprehension, and he narrowed them again before Starkey saw. He finally understood what his brother was up to.
Frank poured his own tea while watching Mickey carefully. Mickey, a chain-smoker, drew a pack of cigarettes from his pocket with one hand, forcing a cigarette out with his thumb. He grasped it with his teeth and put the pack back. Then his hand went into another pocket and came out with a wooden match. All the time, he kept his eyes on Frank and Joe.
"Any lemon?" Frank asked. Mickey scratched the match head with his thumbnail, lighting it.
"This isn't a restaurant," Starkey said. A'Drink up." Mickey raised the match to his lip.
"I would like some tea, Frank," Joe Said. He sprang off his bed, moving toward Mickey with a teacup in his outstretched hand. Mickey kept the gun aimed at Joe.
Frank grabbed the teapot and threw the steaming water into Mickey's face. Mickey shrieked, one hand flying to his eyes, his pistol swinging toward Frank. Twisting out of the way, Frank clamped a hand on Mickey's wrist and pinched. The gun dropped out of his hand.
Joe caught the revolver in midair and turned it on Starkey while Frank smashed the teapot on Mickey's head. The gunman dropped to his knees, clawed at the air, and then plunged forward. The cigarette rolled from his lips and Frank ground it out underfoot.
"Out like a light," Frank said, looking down at Mickey.
"Your flunky should have known smoking was hazardous to his health," Joe told Starkey. Slowly Starkey's hand moved toward his coat. "Huh - uh," Joe said, wagging the gun up and down. "Hands where we can see them."
Starkey moved his hands out to the side and splayed his fingers. Joe seized Starkey's shoulder, spun him around, and slammed him against the wall.
"The shoe's on the other foot, pal," Joe said. He jabbed the revolver's muzzle into
Starkey's spine.
Frank frisked Starkey. He had a forty-five in a coat pocket, plus a thirty-eight special in a holster on the back of his belt. Frank took them. "What my brother's trying to say is that the three of us are marching out of here. Together. You're going to lead us right past all your men."
"You cross me, you cross the United States government," Starkey said angrily. "You'll never be safe anywhere — "
"Shut up!" Joe barked. Roughly, he shoved Starkey to the door. "Move."
Frank reached the door first and looked down the hall. There was no one. "Looks like your men aren't staying as close as you thought." He pulled Starkey out of the door. "We'll give you a better deal than you gave us. Just play along until we're outside, and you'll come out of this in one piece."
"But remember who has the guns," Joe said.
At a normal pace they walked down the hall and rounded a corner. On a chair next to the bank of elevators, a balding man in a business suit was seated, reading a newspaper. He was overweight, and his extra bulk pushed the outline of a gun and shoulder holster into his coat. A walkie-talkie hung from his belt.
"One of yours, right?" Joe asked Starkey. Starkey said nothing, but his gritted teeth were answer enough. "Be cool."
The seated man looked up with a big grin as they approached. "Hey, Starkey," he said cheerfully. "What gives? Thought you were working late tonight."
With a wink and a smile, Starkey said, "You know what they say about all work and no play."
Frank hit the elevator button and waited impatiently for the elevator to arrive. Joe stood a few feet behind Starkey as Starkey and the seated man chatted on. It was meaningless talk about the weather in San Francisco. Frank almost laughed. He had no idea Starkey had such trivial talk in him.
At last the bell chimed and the elevator doors slid open. As they moved into the elevator, Starkey cried, "Danger, Charlie. Move!"
With dazzling speed, the man on the chair drew his pistol. His jovial smile warped into a no-nonsense frown. "Everyone out of there. Now!"
The Crowning Terror Page 5
