Too Many Traitors

by Franklin W. Dixon

"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.

  Chapter 11

  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.

  "Any sign of the cops?" Frank asked, still choking on the sea. They bobbed in the shadow of a moored yacht, hidden from the shore by it. Joe peered around the yacht's bow and studied the harbor.

  "No," he said. "But it won't be long before they send boats out to look for us." Joe turned toward the open sea and saw the sailboat they should have been on drifting away from them, its gold-and aqua-striped sail waving at them like a flag. "Think we can catch it?"

  Frank dabbed a finger on his tongue and stuck the finger in the air. "Not much wind," he replied. "What choice do we have?"

  Kicking
off from the side of the yacht, they propelled themselves toward the drifting sailboat. With powerful strokes the Hardys cut through the warm blue water, moving farther and farther out to sea.

  "Think there're any sharks or octopuses out here, Frank?"

  "Let's hope we won't find out," Frank said, his eyes on the sailboat. It was closer now, carelessly washing eastward on gentle winds and currents. He could see Elena on the stern, still staring back at the harbor. "Only a few more yards."

  "Hey!" Joe yelled as loud as he could, and Elena stiffened and looked around. Again he yelled, "Over here!" He treaded water and waved frantically. Elena shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand and gazed out over the water. A second later she stepped out of sight.

  "Did she see us?" Frank asked. But before Joe could answer, he answered himself. "I wonder. I'm not sure we can trust her, Joe."

  "We can trust her," Joe said. "Look at how she's helped us so far." But doubt was creeping into his voice. The sails on the boat had shifted, and the boat picked up speed, cruising away from them. Had she seen them, he wondered. Had she told the captain to leave them adrift there? It was the only explanation he could think of.

  "Look!" Frank said excitedly. "It's turning." The wind had caught the sails and was moving the sailboat rapidly back toward them. "I take it all back," he told Joe. "Elena's great."

  Ropes were tossed down as the sailboat cruised past them, and the Hardys grabbed the ropes and tied them around their waists. One by one they were pulled onto the deck, and Joe smiled at Elena as he rose.

  "You were lucky the little lady saw you, boys," said one of the men who had brought them aboard. He was tall and red-faced, and his voice had a familiar twang. "And here we thought she was fooling us when she said some fellow Americans needed a ride. You oughtn't to have been late though. Made her look like a liar."

  "Sorry about that. We ran into a little trouble. You're Texan?" Joe asked, unable to believe his ears. "I'm Joe, and this is my brother, Frank."

  Frank nodded and peeled off his wet shirt.

  "Sam," the Texan replied. He pointed to a rugged-looking man at the wheel. "That's Jimmy Luke. You boys easterners, hey? Well, I guess not everyone can be born lucky. You better get out of those wet clothes. The sun'll dry them out by the time we hit Malaga, and there are some swim trunks in the hold you can wear in the meantime."

  "Thanks," Frank said. "When do you expect we'll reach Malaga?" He and Joe walked toward the hold.

  "A couple hours at the rate we're going," Sam replied. "You all just relax and enjoy yourselves, y'hear?"

  "Thanks again," Joe said. "We really appreciate this."

  Sam winked. "Think nothing of it. What are countrymen for, right?" As the boat straightened out its course, he called after the Hardys, "But the next time you go swimming, you ought to dress for it."

  "Is there something wrong?" Elena asked Frank as they climbed onto the pier at Malaga. Frank had been frowning.

  "I'd still like to know how the cops knew to expect us at the harbor," he said. "You never explained that."

  "I cannot explain," Elena said desperately. "I had nothing to do with it. You must believe me."

  "We do," Joe said, stepping between her and his brother. "Inspector Melendez probably notified every cop on the Costa del Sol to be on the lookout for us. All it would have taken was for one to spot us. For all we know, they think we're in Algeciras by now, just as we planned."

  "Look, I'm sorry," Frank said to Elena. "But this is a life-or-death situation. We can't afford to ignore all the possibilities."

  "I forgive you." But Elena's voice trembled as she spoke. She pressed close to Joe, and he put a comforting arm around her. "I only wanted to help."

  "You have," Joe said, and he glowered at Frank. "A lot. If that's settled, we'd better figure out where we go from here."

  "The bus," Frank said, and both Joe and Elena stared at him in surprise. "We're running out of money," he explained, "so we'd better get to the hotel and try to get our travelers' checks. It'll be risky, but if the police are convinced we're on our way to Africa, security might be lax."

  "Plus," Joe said, "if Martin really gave us something, it's got to be in our stuff. I think the only way we're going to crack this thing open is to find the information. So where do we catch a bus?"

  "Right this way," Elena said.

  After a slow, crowded ride back into central Malaga, they arrived in front of their hotel.

  "It's quiet," Joe said as he stepped off the bus. "Too quiet. It might be a trap."

  "No," said Elena. "Siesta time. It's customary during lunch for the stores to close up. Everyone goes home to eat and sleep. The hotel should be just as quiet."

  They reached the front door and Frank looked in. In the lobby three people sat in armchairs, reading papers. Only one man stood behind the main desk. "We've got to get in without being seen," he said. Then, to Elena he said, "Can you distract them?"

  "Yes," Elena said. She left them and walked around the hotel until they could see her framed in the rear exit. "Help!" she screamed. "Socorro! Help!"

  The desk clerk ran to the hall, and Elena disappeared from the back door as he rounded the corner and moved toward the exit. The guests in the lobby turned their heads toward the screaming.

  In a flash Joe dashed through the lobby and slipped behind the front desk, grabbing the key to their room. He joined Frank at the stairwell, and together they sprinted up to the third floor. No one else was in the hallway.

  Carefully, they leaned around the corner and looked down the hall. "They've taken the guard off the door," Frank said. "Let's go." They slipped silently to their room. Joe put the key into the lock, quickly turned it, and swung open the door. They darted in, shutting the door behind them.

  Frank let out a sigh as he opened the closet door. Then he froze.

  None of their luggage was there.

  He frantically went over the room, then turned to his brother. "The police took everything," Frank said, dismayed. "We've hit a dead end."

  "That's a good way of putting it," said a voice behind them. As the Hardys turned, the door slammed shut.

  "Now," the Gray Man continued as he stood in the narrow entrance hall. "Where were we?"

  Chapter 12

  JOE HURLED HIMSELF at the Gray Man. In the cramped area Joe hoped the Network agent wouldn't have space to maneuver.

  The Gray Man ducked under Joe's swing, stood up, and drove his arm against Joe's back. Joe slammed into the wall and bounced off. The Gray Man caught him behind the knees, and then Joe was flying across the room. He sprawled on his bed as the Gray Man, hands in his pockets, sat in a chair near the door.

  The government man sighed. "Frank, sit on your brother while we have a little chat."

  Frank leaned on a wall and put his hands in his own pockets, keeping his eyes on the Gray Man. "What's there to talk about? You've got to take us in, right?"

  "Maybe," the Gray Man replied. "Maybe not."

  "Does this mean you believe we didn't kill Martin?" Frank asked.

  "I wrote up your profiles for the Network, remember? Cold-blooded murder's just not in your makeup. Even if you had a motive, which you don't."

  "Yeah," Joe said, sitting up on the bed. "But you said your boss wouldn't be satisfied."

  "I've been thinking about that," the Gray Man said. "I had a lot of time to think yesterday. You might remember. Someone left me tied up to a tree."

  "Sorry about that," Frank said. "We had to. You understand."

  The Gray Man shrugged. "I would have done the same. But let me explain something to you. It doesn't matter if you're innocent or not. A deal with the Russians got messed up. The Network won't take the rap for that; it would look bad for our side. If they can lay the blame on the go-betweens, well, it's what happens sometimes when you use freelancers."

  "That's not fair," Joe protested. "We didn't ask to get in the middle."

  "Welcome to the spy business," the Gray Man answered. "Face it. You're w
hat we in the business call 'out in the cold,' unless you can pull a rabbit out of your hat."

  "Or a killer and a name," Frank said. "We sort of figured that out already. Why are you telling us all this?"

  "I feel responsible for you," the Gray Man admitted. "I got you involved with the Network in the first place. So I'm going to help."

  "Won't that upset your people?" Joe asked.

  "We won't tell them," the Gray Man said. "They won't suspect anything for another twenty-four hours. That's our time limit. What have you got so far?"

  "A theory," Frank replied. "Our most likely suspect for the murder is the KGB mole."

  "Who is—?"

  Frank shook his head. "That's the problem. We can't know for sure until we get our hands on Martin's information. Do you have any idea what it looked like?"

  "None," the Gray Man said. "No one in Washington does either. That was Martin's department. He was a strange guy, a real loner." He rubbed his chin, thinking. "What's your girlfriend's role in this anyway? Ever consider that she might be your suspect?"

  "We considered it," Frank began.

  "No, we didn't," Joe interrupted angrily.

  "No offense, Joe," the Gray Man said, "but I'll take Frank's word over yours in this case. You're a sucker for a pretty face." Joe reddened with embarrassment. "Frank, go on."

  "We dismissed it," Frank said. "She's as innocent as we are. We think it's Vladimir, the KGB agent. And we think Martin did slip us the information to prove it—without telling us. But the cops got all our stuff, so how are we going to find it?"

  "That is a problem," the Gray Man agreed. "Unless you knew that it was probably in the local police storage warehouse and that the warehouse is half a mile from the harbor."

  "How did you know that?" Joe asked.

  "It's my business, remember?" the Gray Man said. "If I showed you where it was, you think you could sneak in and get your things?"

  "You make it sound so easy," Joe said.

  "You'll find a way," the Network agent replied. "You have to. The mole's probably as eager to get his hands on the information as you are. You'd better get to it first."