Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Strategic Moves (3 page)
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."
"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 the 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.
"This outfit feels like a straitjacket," Frank said with a laugh, adjusting his white fencing jacket.
"Have you not fenced before?" Petra asked.
"Yes. But it was some time ago - and in a suit that fit." Frank looked up into the bleachers, where the other students had gathered. "Looks as if you're the only girl," he said, indicating the others.
Frank and Petra joined the five other students, all boys, who were sitting together in the bleachers, talking and looking around.
Petra was adjusting the straps of her mesh mask, before putting it on. Frank thought he read worry in her eyes.
"You'll do fine," he said.
"I'm sure I will," Petra said with a sly smile.
"Good morning, gentlemen," said a tall man in fencing gear as he approached the seven students. He was taller than Frank, broad-shouldered and square-jawed, with deep-set eyes. Something about the man looked familiar to Frank. "And lady," the man added with a nod toward Petra. "I am Mr. Fitzhugh. You know me as the director of the International Classroom. I will also be your fencing instructor. It is a pleasure and an honor to welcome each and every one of you here."
Fitzhugh went on to explain that the students would study electrical fencing as opposed to dry fencing. In dry fencing, the athlete used a rubber-tipped foil and relied on the honesty of the opponent and the astute observation of the judge. In electrical fencing, the foil was plugged into a small transformer. Each fencer wore a vest - known as a lame - woven with metal wires. The foil's tip was spring-loaded. When it touched the vest, the metallic lame would close a circuit and one of two lights would flash on. A green light meant the hit was valid. A white light signaled an off-target hit.
"I know from your resumes," Fitzhugh continued, "that all of you have fenced in your own schools, and so I will not insult you by reviewing the basics. Limber up and we'll begin our first match in ten minutes."
"Hey, aren't you Frank Hardy?" one of the students asked as Frank stretched his legs.
Frank looked up. The student had dull blond hair that fell to his shoulders in thick strands. He seemed older than the other students and had a mustache that looked more like a piece of dirty old carpet than hair.
"Yes," Frank said.
"Hey, man, I'm Chris St. Armand. From California." Chris held out his hand.
"Nice to meet you," Frank said, grabbing Chris's hand.
"Your brother's my roomie."
"I see." Frank twisted to the side, stretching his muscles.
"Yeah. You know, your brother is one uptight dude. I know what his problem is, though."
"What?" Frank said, wishing he was somewhere else talking to anybody but Chris St. Armand.
"He needs to learn to skateboard. You know, ride the concrete curl. Do three-sixty ollies. Feel the wind in his hair." While he talked, Chris pretended he was skateboarding.
"Who's your friend?" Petra asked as she joined Frank and Chris.
"Petra, this is - " Frank began.
"Wow, a fencing chick. Far out."
Fitzhugh cleared his throat and spoke. "Very good, students," Fitzhugh said. "Who wishes to be one of the first contestants?"
"I do, sir," Petra said, stepping forward.
"Me, too," Chris said, hopping into the fencing lane and jumping up and down.
Fitzhugh frowned at Chris. "Yes, well, all right."
Petra entered the fencing lane.
"Don't worry," Chris said to Petra. "I'll take it easy on you."
"Thank you," Petra said without emotion.
Petra and Chris adjusted their lames and slid their wire mesh masks over their heads and faces. Chris also put on black gloves. Gloves were optional in fencing.
"E n garde, chick," Chris said, taking his stance, his foil in his left hand.
"En garde," Petra said. She crouched.
Frank couldn't see her face, but from the cold tone of her voice and the confident and strong way she held herself in her stance, Frank could tell that Chris St. Armand was in for a fight.
Fitzhugh gave the signal. Chris lunged forward with a sweeping motion. Petra moved to her left and brought her foil over and down. The tip hit in the center of Chris's lame, where the heart was located.
"Hit!" Fitzhugh cried out as the green light flashed on Chris's side.
The first match had taken just under one second.
Chris flipped up his mask, his face red and angry. He stared at Petra, then turned, swinging his foil in a deadly arc.
"Good job," Frank said as Petra got a drink from the refreshment table.
"He is too sure of himself," Petra replied. "And not too sure of me." She smiled.
Frank looked past Petra at Chris. He was standing at the end of the fencing lane, next to the electrical transformer into which his foil was plugged.
Petra returned to her spot on the fencing lane, and they began their second match. The winner of two out of three matches would be declared the victor.
Chris began more seriously and fended off Petra's thrusts. He countered with downstrokes that were quick and displayed a fury that had been lacking in his first match. Petra had to retreat, regroup, and then attack again and again.
Chris backed up, his foil held down, giving Petra a clear shot. Petra lunged. Chris twisted to his right, and Petra's foil missed his chest. Then he flipped his foil to his right hand and pressed the tip against Petra's wire mesh mask.
Sparks flew from the mask and the foil.
Petra screamed, dropped her foil, and tried to pull the mask from her head.
The transformer hummed, then smoked, and sparks flowed out like a fireworks fountain.
Frank sprang from the bleachers and ran toward the pair. Chris let go of his foil, but it stayed attached to Petra's mask, the foil acting as an arc welder.
Frank swung his foil in a downward stroke and knocked Chris's foil to the floor.
The sparks stopped, and the transformer sputtered one last time before dying out.
Petra crumpled to the floor. Frank carefully and slowly slid the mask off as Fitzhugh and the other students gathered around.
Petra's face was ashen, and she wasn't breathing.