Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
"We must go somewhere so you can rest," Elena told Frank. "Your hotel?"
Frank shook his head weakly. "The police might be waiting for us there. Any way we can get out of town without running into cops?"
"Certainly," Elena said. "We can follow the dirt roads along the hills and go south along the Costa del Sol. There is a resort village called Marbella not too far away."
"Anywhere we won't get chased or shot at is okay with me," Joe replied. Elena started the car, and they wound through the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. They could see the highway that hugged the coastline but were far removed from it. The hillsides were dotted with small pastel-colored houses.
"I cannot believe Vladimir is an assassin," Elena said after some time.
"So why'd you save us from him at the consulate?" Joe asked.
"It was that man, Konstantin," Elena said. "Electricity." She swallowed in disgust. "He would have killed you."
"I don't think so," Frank replied. He thumbed through the one file he had taken from Vladimir's office. "Konstantin just wanted to scare us."
"That doesn't make him a nice guy though," Joe said.
Frank pulled a map of the Spanish coast out of the file. On it, the town of Torremolinos was circled in red. He held up the map so Elena could see it. "Does this mean anything?"
"Vladimir's villa is there," Elena replied, glancing at the map. "I went there once."
"Hmmm," Frank said, setting down the map and picking up another piece of paper. "Here's a memo from some KGB agent accusing Vladimir of anti-Soviet activities. He probably intercepted before it got to his superiors."
"Maybe they did get the message. That could be why he's stuck in Spain," Joe said, chuckling.
Then he stopped laughing, his eyes opening wide. Joe looked at Frank. He had the same expression on his face.
"Vladimir's the mole!" they said at the same time.
Frank settled back in his seat. "That would explain why the KGB sent Konstantin in to look after things. They suspect Vladimir." He made a fist and chewed on his knuckle as he thought. "Elena, who brought you in to contact us?"
"Vladimir," Elena said.
"And who were you supposed to give the information to?"
"Vladimir," Elena replied.
"Where was he the morning of the contact?" Frank continued.
"I don't know," she said uncertainly.
"Yeah, he could have been the chauffeur," Joe said. "What's that noise?"
Frank heard it too, a soft whirring growing louder each second. He stared out the window at the sky.
"Helicopter!" Frank shouted over the noise. "No markings. It's not the police."
Something flashed from the side of the helicopter and screamed toward them.
The ground erupted in smoke and thunder, throwing Frank out the window as the car swayed on two wheels. It crashed back to the ground as the helicopter fired another missile.
An explosion in front of the Audi brought it to a halt and spattered it with dirt. The car half vanished in the gathering smoke.
As Frank watched helplessly from the roadside, a third missile screamed down. Shock waves hurled him back as the car went up in a ball of fire.
"Joe!" Frank called as he picked himself up off the ground. "Joe!"
No sound came from the Audi except a steady crackling, and no movement but the dancing of the flames.
"JOE!" FRANK CRIED out again. He tried to reach the burning car, but the heat and smoke forced him back.
I've got to keep yelling so Joe and Elena can find their way out of the flames, Frank told himself. Joe has survived worse than this. I can't give up. I can't. But even as he shouted, Frank wondered how long he could keep convincing himself.
The beating of the rotors drowned out his voice as the helicopter landed on the road a few yards from the wreck. The pilot got out, holding a rifle. Out from the other side stepped an agent Frank recognized. The agent flashed Frank an unpleasant smile, and Frank could feel his grief burn away into anger.
"Your foolishness cost your brother his life," the pilot said. "Do not resist, or the same will happen to you." He cradled the rifle in the crook of his arm, leveling it at Frank.
Frank clenched his fists. Just stay cool, he told himself. They had killed Joe, and they had to pay for it. Hot anger wasn't going to help him. He had to cool down. He had to stay alive and make them pay.
The Russians walked toward him, and Frank backed away from them. "Stop," ordered the pilot, his finger pulling back on the trigger.
"Go ahead," Frank said, surprised by the coldness in his own voice. "Shoot. You'd like that. Vladimir would like that. Then he'd never get the information he wants, would he? It'd be out there, waiting for someone else to find it. I can just imagine what he'd do to the men who kept him from getting it."
The smile faded from the agent's lips. He shot a worried glance at the pilot, who seemed unconcerned. Frank turned away from them and began walking, but as he took his fifth step, the pilot fired. The shot sprayed up a jet of dirt just inches in front of Frank's feet. He stopped.
"But Konstantin will not mind," the pilot said, laughing. "Hands up, please." Frank raised his hands. "Come here."
Frank marched toward them. His bluff had failed, he realized, and if he tried to run from the rifle, it would cut him down. He stared bitterly at the burning car as he headed back.
All of a sudden Frank stopped, startled. "Come," the pilot repeated, and Frank began walking again, his face toward the ground to keep them from realizing wiurt he had seen.
In the smoke something had moved, then vanished behind the helicopter.
With the rifle the pilot nudged Frank toward the helicopter. He circled in front of Frank to lead the way, backing up to keep Frank covered. The silent agent followed on Frank's heels, ready to block any escape attempt. At last the pilot backed through the helicopter door, signaling Frank to follow.
But something moved behind the pilot, inside the helicopter. Joe! His face was streaked with smoke, and he looked grim as he slammed into the pilot's back, knocking him out of the helicopter. Frank grabbed the rifle with both hands, rolled into a backward somersault, and, kicking upward, threw the surprised pilot over his head and into the silent agent.
They tumbled to the ground, and then Frank and Joe were on them. When Frank and Joe stood, the pilot and the agent were unconscious.
"Am I glad to see you!" Frank said, giving his brother a hug. "How?"
"Luck, mostly," Joe replied. "When you got knocked out of the car, I guessed what was coming next, so I grabbed Elena and pulled her out the other side." He whistled. From behind a bush Elena appeared. "I'm not sure what happened next. An explosion, I guess, and when I woke up, I saw those jerks hauling you off. So I stuck around to the other side of the chopper and got in to surprise them."
"You saved my life," Elena said.
"No problem," Joe said, a bit embarrassed. He looked at the remains of the Audi. The fire was almost out, leaving a blackened husk. "It's a cinch we're not going anywhere in that. Maybe we ought to turn back."
"No," Elena said. "Marbella is only five kilometers more. Perhaps less."
"About three miles, then," Frank said. "We'd better get walking." Joe and Elena stared at him. "It's safer and less conspicuous than hitchhiking," he explained. "And none of us knows how to fly a chopper, right?"
"When you're right, you're right." Joe picked up the rifle in both hands, twirled it over his head, and let it go. It disappeared into a tree. "No sense leaving it for the Russians. Should we tie them up with their belts?"
Frank nodded.
As soon as they were finished, they began the long hike to Marbella.
***
"I hope this works," Joe said the next day. He was basking in the morning sun, refreshed after a good night's sleep in a soft bed. It now seemed like the day before had never happened. But he did remember everything. They had reached Marbella, checked into a hotel, and made plans over dinner.
"I don't see why it won't," Frank answered. They stood on a crest overlooking the harbor of Marbella, which was filled with yachts. "Elena kept up her end. A family's willing to take us back to Malaga on their private boat, so that'll get us past all the roadblocks."
"Think the desk clerk bought our stories?" Joe asked.
"After I asked him all those questions about how to get from Algeciras to Morocco?" Frank said. "Sure. He'll be able to identify us to the police all right."
"But will they buy it?" Joe wondered out loud.
"After we phone in a tip to Inspector Melendez, they ought to. While they're trying to keep us from getting to Africa, we can search our hotel room and Martin's in Malaga."
They walked past a row of boutiques and restaurants. Stopping in front of a swimwear shop, Joe studied the window. "You know," he said, "the boat ride to Malaga will last awhile. If I bought a suit, I could work on my tan on the way. And I did come to Spain to work on my tan."
"Dream on, brother," Frank said. He glanced at his watch. "Elena said we have to be on that yacht at nine A. M. sharp, or we'll get left behind." He stiffened. "Joe, look straight ahead, and whatever you do, don't turn around."
Puzzled, Joe stared in the window and gasped. On the other side of the street, reflected in the shop window, was a policeman. "He couldn't be looking for us, could he?" he whispered to Frank.
"I don't know," Frank whispered back. "Start walking. Slowly."
They sauntered down the street, leaving the policeman behind. As they turned a corner, they saw another policeman ahead of them, and, a block farther along, another.
The Hardys ducked into a doorway and waited for a third to pass.
"The harbor's crawling with cops," Joe realized when the policeman had walked by. "They must be after us."
"It's not possible," Frank said as they returned to the street. He looked at his watch again. It read 8:55. "Not unless— What if Elena sold us out?"
"Couldn't be," Joe replied. "Not after all we've been through together. More likely the hotel clerk got itchy and called the cops."
"We'll find out when we reach the harbor," Frank decided. "Or sooner." Another policeman walked straight toward them. There was no time to duck out of sight, and turning around would attract his attention. They would have to brazen it out.
He looked them up and down as they passed, but did nothing. Joe breathed easier. It had been simple, almost too simple, and he looked over his shoulder to get another look at the policeman's reaction.
He saw the policeman raise a whistle to his lips.
"Run," Joe yelled as a shrill whistle pierced the air. The Hardys sprinted off with the policeman close behind. Ahead lay the harbor, and the Hardys could see swarms of boats, all shapes and sizes, as they neared. But there was no sign of Elena.
Other policemen joined in the chase. "We're in luck," Frank said as he ran. "If you can call this luck. I don't think they've sealed off the harbor yet. That means all the cops are behind us."
They reached the harbor and dashed from pier to pier, looking for the boat. Where's Elena, Joe wondered. Maybe she did set us up.
No, he thought, and put the idea out of his mind. But they couldn't find Elena or the boat. More whistles sounded from all directions. The police were closing in.
"Look!" Frank shouted. "There she is!"
Elena stood in the stern of a large boat with sails of aqua and gold. She was staring sadly at them.
Between them and the boat were fifty feet of water.
Trapped at the end of a pier, the Hardys watched the sailboat drift away, moving out to sea.
THE HARDYS SLOWLY turned around. A semicircle of policemen had formed at the other end of the pier. They linked hands, barring any path of escape, and walked slowly toward the Hardys.
"Great," Joe said. "What do we do now?"
"The way I see it," Frank replied, "we fight or we surrender."
"What's the worst that could happen if we surrender?" Joe asked, though the grim humor in his voice told Frank he wasn't really serious. "We get thrown in a Spanish jail for what? Twenty, thirty years? Life maybe?" He clenched his fists and stood shoulder to shoulder with his brother, ready to do battle with the cordon of policemen.
Frank studied the crowd that was gathering to watch on the dock. "If we fight, we could probably break through. But the police might start shooting. Someone could get hurt."
"Us, more than likely," Joe growled. The policemen were ten feet away, and closing in. "I guess there's only one thing to do."
Frank nodded. "One — two — three ... "
At the count of three the Hardys took two steps back and dropped from the pier into the ocean. The policemen broke ranks and dashed to the end of the pier. There was no sign of the Hardys, only ripples on the water. Two policemen dived into the water, stayed under for a few seconds, then bobbed to the surface, shaking their heads. Others ran back down the pier and scattered the length of the harbor, their eyes on the water. They, too, had nothing to report. The Hardys were gone.
Air trapped in his puffing cheeks, Joe swam underwater, moving steadily away from the land. The water above him looked golden with the morning sun shining on it, but below was darkness. His lungs burned, and he desperately needed to breathe.
He clamped his lips, holding the air in as he passed under something long and dark. The hull of a boat, he realized. Ahead he saw a soft glow, and he knew that there, on the other side of the boat, he could surface and breathe again, hidden from the harbor.
Joe reached up, clawing toward the light. His chest ached. How long had he been under, he wondered, and he knew it was too long. His mouth burst open with a rush of air, and saltwater came flooding in. It stung his lips and tongue, and pushed down his throat, choking him. His waterlogged clothes were dragging him down, but he kicked desperately, forcing himself up toward the light.
Sputtering and coughing, Joe broke through the surface of the sea, arching his back so that his face remained above water. As he floated and gulped the warm Mediterranean air, the sea churned in a bubbly froth, and a small wave splashed over him. From the middle of the wave burst Frank, gasping for life. Joe grabbed his brother's arm and held him up until Frank caught his breath too.