Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
"And we have this," Inspector Melendez replied. With a tweezers he held up a piece of writing paper. On it were bloodstains and three handwritten words: "Frank and Joe." "The dead man's handwriting. The paper is covered with his fingerprints. The pen that wrote those words was in his hand when he was found."
"None of that proves anything," Frank said.
"Perhaps," Inspector Melendez replied. "I think he was trying to name his killers but never got the chance to finish. Have you another explanation?"
Joe started to stand, but a policeman put a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to sit. "He could have been leaving us a note."
"With his dying breath?" Inspector Melendez said. "I find that unlikely."
"All right. A warning then."
The inspector dropped his cigarette to the floor, ground it out with his heel, and looked at Joe with new interest. "Oh? Of what would he need to warn you?"
He'll never believe us, Frank thought. Everything we say just makes us better suspects. "We were chased by Russians this morning and spent all day trying to stay out of their way," he said in a weary voice. "He might have been trying to tell us about them."
With a burst of laughter Inspector Melendez asked, "Russians? You are spies, then?"
"No, but — " Frank began.
"Then what," the inspector continued, "would Russians want with you?"
The Hardys looked at each other. Their last card was played, and it was useless. They were beaten.
"We don't know," Joe said.
Inspector Melendez snapped his fingers, and the two policemen stood up straight. One grasped Joe's shoulder and the other took hold of Frank. "One last thing," Inspector Melendez asked. "What did you expect to find here?"
Joe shook his head. "Something to prove our innocence, I guess."
"Take them to headquarters," Melendez ordered. "We will get some real answers from them there." The policemen shoved Frank and Joe to the door of the room.
The whole situation was hopeless. No one would believe their story—unless they did something to prove it. Frank glanced at the door, and Joe nodded. As they were going through the door, Frank said, "Now!"
Together they spun, and each shoved one of the policemen back into the room. "Run," Frank shouted, and together they headed for the front stairs.
Next to the stairs the elevator had stopped and was letting people out. Behind them Frank could hear Inspector Melendez and the policemen coming out of Martin's room. Inspector Melendez yelled in Spanish, and Joe could hear a pistol cock.
"The elevator!" Joe said. "They won't shoot while there are other people around." He pushed through the crowd coming off the elevator and grabbed the door, holding it open. A second later Frank jumped into the car, and Joe let the door slip closed. As the elevator sank in its shaft, Joe could see Inspector Melendez furiously ordering his man down the stairs.
On the main floor the elevator door slid open. The Hardys raced across the lobby with Inspector Melendez and his men only a few yards behind them. "Outside!" Frank said. "We'll lose them in the dark."
But as they stepped through the door, they were greeted by the glare of the lights that lit the front of the building. "We're better targets out here than in there," Joe said reasonably. Three steps at a time, they sped down the front steps to the relative darkness of the street.
They were halfway across the street when a dark van screeched to a halt between them and the police. Before Joe or Frank could react, the side door of the van was slid open and strong arms gripped them, dragging them inside. A damp cloth pressed against Joe's face, and the stench of chloroform burned into his nose and mouth, filling his lungs. The last things he saw before plunging into unconsciousness were his now sleeping brother and the face of the girl who had spoken to them at Picasso's birthplace.
A coarse cloth patted Joe's cheek, and he tried to open his eyes. "Frank?" he called out. "Are you there?"
"Your brother is here," said a rough, cold voice, and Joe's eyes snapped open. Sunlight glared into them, and he raised a hand to shield his face. There were bars on the windows of the room. He rolled his head to see Frank seated on a chair a few feet away. Another chair stood in front of him. Except for a small table with a lamp on it, the rest of the room was bare.
Morning, he realized. He remembered the police and the van and the sting of chloroform fumes. Captured, he thought. But who?
The girl from the plaza knelt beside him, a cloth in her hands. "Are you all right?" she asked, with genuine concern in her voice.
"Silence, Elena! Move away from the boy," ordered the cold voice. The girl backed off. Joe stared up at a bald man with a heavyset build. Standing behind him, one on either side of the door, were two of the Russians who had chased them across Malaga the day before. The bald man scowled at Joe impatiently. "Tell me the name." Joe looked at Frank. "KGB?" Frank nodded. "His name's Vladimir. The boss, I guess. He keeps asking about some name."
The man called Vladimir gave them a frosty smile. "The Network should not employ babbling children."
Joe stiffened. He and Frank had worked with the super-secret government agency called the Network in the past. But there had been no contact between them for several months. Now, it seemed, the Network was back to haunt them.
"What network are you talking about? NBC?" Frank said. "And who are you calling children?"
"Do not play the fool." Vladimir's voice was cold and flat, but his eyes glittered with menace. "You will not get your agent back until we have received the name. We had an agreement, your masters and mine."
"I'm starting to get it," Frank said to Joe. "The Network set us up. I gather Martin was working for them—"
"Of course he was," Vladimir told them impatiently. "Just as you are. He reported he had passed the name to you. And now I want it."
"The Network pulled a fast one on you, pal," Joe said. "We've got nothing to do with them."
"Ah." Vladimir shrugged and turned away. Then he pivoted, throwing his weight into a slap aimed at Joe's face. But it never connected. Instinctively, Joe reached up and blocked the blow. Then he clenched his fist and drew back his arm. At the door safeties clicked off two pistols.
"No!" shouted Elena. She flung herself between Vladimir and Joe, pushing them apart. To Vladimir she said, "You promised it would not be like this." Then to Joe she whispered, "Strike him and they will shoot you."
Vladimir shoved her away. "They will cooperate—or suffer." He pushed Joe off his chair. "I would think carefully," Vladimir said as he grasped Joe's arm and tossed him back in the chair. "Your only hope of leaving this consulate alive is to give me answers." Joe shook his head and said nothing. Vladimir shrugged. "Perhaps they don't believe me." He went to the gunmen by the door and took one of their pistols. "We do not need both of them. If this one will not cooperate, perhaps his death will convince the other one." He sighted along the barrel, aiming at Joe's head. "Don't move now." Smiling at his little joke, he slowly squeezed the trigger.
A black-gloved hand reached in the door and seized Vladimir's wrist, jerking his hand back and up. The bald man whirled around, furious, then he jerked back in surprise. "Konstantin!"
Whoever this Konstantin might be, it was obvious that Vladimir wasn't expecting him and wasn't happy to see him. The tall blond stranger, on the other hand, was calm and completely at ease. His piercing blue eyes twinkled over his confident smile.
"Vladimir, Vladimir," Konstantin said as he took the gun away. "Exile to this lonely country has not changed your ways?"
Vladimir rubbed his bruised wrist, still glaring. "What brings you to Spain, comrade?" he asked. "Have you come to invite me back to Department V?"
"Department V?" Frank whispered to Joe. "That's the KGB's assassination bureau!"
"No, Vladimir." Konstantin put a restraining hand on the big man's shoulder as he studied the Hardys. "The department is no secret — not among professionals." He emphasized the word as Vladimir's eyes narrowed angrily. "However, we prefer stealth and skill, not the brute force you demonstrate here."
Furious, Vladimir shrugged off Konstantin's hand and headed for the door. "Very well, I leave them in your hands. We shall see whose methods are most effective." He turned on his heel and stormed off, slamming the door behind him.
Sighing with relief, Elena picked herself up off the floor and approached Konstantin. "Thank goodness you arrived when you did, comrade. He was about to torture them, I'm sure."
Konstantin shook his head. "How terrible. Brutality solves nothing. There are more appropriate techniques." Casually, he walked to the table, picked up the lamp, and ripped the wire from its base. The lamp cord, still plugged into the wall, sprayed a shower of sparks as the exposed wires met.
With the look of a scientist who has performed the same experiment many times, he moved the sparking wires toward Joe's face. "Now," he said, "we shall get our answers."
"DON'T!" ELENA SCREAMED. "How can you think of such a thing? Who are you?"
Konstantin blinked at Elena as if noticing her for the first time. To one of the gunmen he said, "One of ours?" The gunman shook his head, and Konstantin faced Elena again. "Ah! One of Vladimir's local puppets. This is beyond you, girl."
"You can't — " she began, but Konstantin cut her off. "I can. I am Vladimir's superior. While he may permit you to question his decisions, I will not.
Perhaps your loyalty to the Party is insincere — " "I am loyal," Elena insisted. "But torture—" "This is incentive," he said, tapping the live wires together, creating a fat spark.
"You don't need that wire," Frank told him. "We've been telling the truth."
Nodding, Konstantin rested the cord on the table so that the ends dangled off without touching. "But one must make certain, no? Let us put together a picture of events.
"One: My government graciously accepted a proposal from your agency to exchange a captured agent for a piece of information of extreme interest to us. Your agent had been caught in the midst of treacherous action against the Soviet Union."
"Agency?" Joe asked. "You're talking about the Network?"
"Two: You were chosen as couriers to deliver this information to us. Your own contact radioed that you had received it. Yet, when our go-between," — he waved a thumb at Elena — "contacted you, you refused to speak with her or turn over the information. I wish to know why."
"We still don't know what you're talking about." Frank sighed.
Konstantin shrugged and lifted the cord from the table. "So you say."
"Perhaps," Elena said uncertainly, "they are telling the truth."
"And perhaps you betrayed us. You could have ruined the exchange." Konstantin turned toward Elena, the sparking wires in his hand now pointing at her.
Elena backed away in horror, fiercely shaking her head.
Konstantin turned away from her, disgusted. "Get the fool out of here." One of the guards stepped forward and grasped Elena's shoulder. He shoved her toward the door.
"Leave her alone!" Joe shouted. Without thinking, he leapt from his chair, fists clenched. The gunman released Elena, and he and his partner spun, their pistols out and aimed at Joe.
With a shriek Elena threw herself against the gunman next to her, knocking him off balance. As he stumbled, her hand snaked out, and before Konstantin or the other guard could move, the pistol was in her hands.
"Now let them go!" she ordered.
Konstantin set the cord down again. "You are free to leave," he told Frank and Joe.
The second gunman lunged for Elena, but she pivoted and aimed at him. He stood flat-footed and scowled. "Your gun," Elena said to the man. "Give it to him." She pointed to Joe.
Konstantin sat casually on the edge of the table and joined his hands behind his head.
"Let's go," Frank said.
Konstantin smiled and shook his head. "You may leave this room, but you will not escape the consulate."
"We'll see," Frank said as Joe and Elena slipped from the room. He joined them in the hallway a second later, then slipped the outside bolt on the door, locking Konstantin and the gunmen in the room.
The long hallway was lined with doors, and they were at the end of it. At the other end was a stairway. "Any other way out?" Joe asked Elena. She shook her head sadly. "No. There are three floors below us. I am sorry. This is all my fault."
"We'll discuss that later," Frank said, taking the gun from Elena and pocketing it. "We've got to get out of here before they sound the alarm." They ran for the stairs. "How many people does Vladimir have in here?"
"I don't know," Elena said. "A dozen, two dozen perhaps. It is the Soviet consulate. I'm sorry." "Oh, great," Frank said. A Russian voice shouted from the stairs they were running toward. A guard stood staring at them. He pulled back the bolt on his AK47 assault rifle.
A stream of bullets from that, the Hardys knew, would cut them in half before they could even reach the Russian—and the guard looked only too eager to shoot.
Joe shrugged, took the pistol he carried by its barrel, and started to raise his hands. The Russian grinned — then stared in confusion as Joe's hand kept going up, hurling the pistol at the guard's head.
"Down!" Joe warned, falling to the floor as Frank tackled Elena.
The hurtling pistol caught the Russian in the head. He tumbled forward, riddling the ceiling with bullets before he collapsed.
"Joe," Elena cried. Her eyes brightened as he got to his feet. "I thought you were — "
"I'm okay," Joe answered, flashing her a smile. He picked up the AK47.
They heard heavy boots pounding up the stairs toward them. "This way!" Elena said. She flung open one of the many heavy oak doors. They dashed inside and she slammed it behind them, slipping the locks into place.
"Where are we?" Frank asked. The room was paneled in dark wood. One wall was lined with bookshelves while the opposite wall was lined with file cabinets.
"Vladimir's private office," Elena said as someone began pounding on the other side of the door. "He is very concerned with security. The door will hold."