"Martin? But he's — "
Frank waved a finger, cutting off his brother's thought. "Right. But the police have sealed off his room, so odds are everything he had is still in there."
"Of course!" Joe said. "If he left any information in his room — but how do we get in?"
"That's what we've got to figure out," Frank replied. "One thing's for sure. We'll have to wait until dark. Till then, we might as well eat." He picked up the menu and studied it, then raised his hand to flag the waiter to the table.
Despite the bright spotlights that lit up the front of the hotel at night, the rear of the place was dark, except for the parking-lot lights and ground lamps that marked the edges of walkways.
Frank and Joe slipped around to the back of the hotel, staying in the shadows. There were no signs of police in the parking lot, and guests were coming and going now as they pleased.
"I don't know if we should have spent so much time in that cafe," Joe whispered. "All that food is starting to weigh me down." A car sped by them, catching them in its headlights, and the boys turned their heads to hide their faces.
"We can make up for it by eating light for the rest of the trip," Frank answered. "Besides, if this doesn't work, we may not get another chance to eat at all. Did you leave a big tip?"
"Sure. Never know when we'll have to hide out there for a few hours again."
Following his brother, Joe crouched down and darted across the parking lot until he reached the safety of the darkness on the other side. Now they were at the bushes just in back of their hotel, and he looked up to the third floor, counting silently to himself. "There's our room," he said, pointing to a window on the third floor. "Four rooms in from the end."
Frank nodded. "That's good to know for when we have to get in there."
Joe walked to the corner of the building and turned up the side, counting carefully. Finally he stopped under two balconies, one above the other, and looked up. The top balcony was dark, and he could see no shadows on the shades drawn inside the room there. "Martin's."
Frank cupped his hands together and held them down at his knees, palms up. "Ready?" he asked Joe.
"Ready," Joe said. He broke into a sprint, heading straight for Frank. His last step landed in Frank's cupped hands, and Frank jerked upward, hurling Joe into the air. Joe stretched out his arms, and his fingers locked onto the balcony above him. Straining, he pulled himself up and over the railing and rolled with a thud onto the balcony.
Joe flattened himself on the balcony floor and reached down through the railing until Frank gripped his hand. "Hold on," Joe said. Slowly, he lifted his brother up. Finally, Frank grabbed the bottom of a rail and dragged himself onto the balcony.
"One down," Frank said breathlessly. "Care to try for another?"
"Why not?" Joe said, gathering his strength. Frank cupped his hands together again, and in seconds Joe had disappeared over the railing of the top balcony.
For a long minute Frank watched in vain for some sign of him. But there wasn't even a sound.
"Joe!" he whispered. "Are you all right?"
As if in answer, an arm extended down from the top balcony. Frank grabbed it and hung on as he was lifted.
"You know, you could have answered me," Frank complained as he came over the railing. "I thought something had hap — "
That's when he realized Joe wasn't alone. Two policemen were holding his arms. Standing in front of Frank was the man who had been interviewing the blond girls that afternoon.
"You are Frank Hardy?" the man asked in accented English. "I've been waiting to meet you. I am Police Inspector Melendez.
"You and your brother are under arrest."
Chapter 5
"You CAN'T ARREST US," Joe said. "We haven't done anything."
Police Inspector Melendez clutched Frank's arm and shoved him inside the room beside Joe. "Sit down," he said. The Hardys sat on the bed. "Men who haven't done anything don't come creeping into dead men's rooms through the balcony in the middle of the night. Perhaps in America murder is considered nothing — "
"That's not what I meant," Joe interrupted.
"But in Spain we take it very seriously," Inspector Melendez continued as if Joe had said nothing. "What was your relationship with the dead man?"
"You mean Martin?" Frank said. "We met him only once, yesterday. He was supposed to be our guide around Malaga. I'd won this contest — "
Inspector Melendez cut him off. "Then what was your motive for killing him?"
"You're crazy if you think we did it," Joe said.
Inspector Melendez scowled. "I would be crazy to think you did not. You were the last persons to be seen with him before his death and the only persons ever seen with him in this hotel."
"What about the chauffeur?" Frank asked.
"Chauffeur?" Inspector Melendez repeated. He pulled out his notebook and leafed through it. "No one else has mentioned a chauffeur. Please describe him."
Frank swallowed hard. "We can't. He had disguised his face."
"I see." With a sigh of exasperation Inspector Melendez flipped the notebook closed and returned it to his pocket. "You were overheard to threaten Martin Chase in the elevator." "That was a joke," Joe said. "A figure of speech."
"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."
Chapter 6
"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.
Too Many Traitors Page 3