Passport to Danger

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Heads up!

  “Hey, Joe! Everyone! Get off the field.” Frank quickly pulled a few people out of the way and pushed them toward an exit. As the whining canister neared them, more people noticed it. Joe joined Frank in herding people to safety. Finally they headed for the exit themselves.

  “Hit the deck!” Joe yelled as he looked back one last time. The metal missile was about to crash into the ground. “Now!” Once inside the large exit ramp, Frank and Joe dove for the floor.

  With a deafening thud, the canister hit the ground and shattered. Pieces of metal shrapnel flew around the field. A couple of shouts from the vicinity of the band told Frank that some lethal pieces might have hit that area.

  “Are you okay?” Joe asked, scrambling to his feet.

  Contents

  * * *

  Chapter 1: A Deadly Dud

  Chapter 2: Red Card Up

  Chapter 3: Foul Play

  Chapter 4: A Clue of Gold

  Chapter 5: Hanging with Marie

  Chapter 6: Gimme an M?

  Chapter 7: Gimme a W?

  Chapter 8: Yellow Card Up

  Chapter 9: The Art of Detecting

  Chapter 10: Without a Trace

  Chapter 11: GPS Says Yes

  Chapter 12: Breakaway to Danger

  Chapter 13: And Then There Were Two

  Chapter 14: Buried with the Bones

  Chapter 15: The Quarry in the Quarry

  Chapter 16: Kickoff!

  1 A Deadly Dud

  * * *

  “Joe—watch out!” Frank Hardy yelled at his brother. “Duck!”

  The warning came too late. With a juicy splat, a huge red tomato smashed into Joe Hardy’s face. When it hit, he knew instantly why it was so big: The tomato was swollen with rot. The smell of it filled his nostrils as he wiped bits of greenish black pulp from his clear blue eyes.

  “Man, this is gross,” Joe complained, spitting out a few foul-tasting slimy seeds.

  Frank fought back the grin as long as possible. He couldn’t help smiling, even though he knew if it had happened to him, he wouldn’t think it was funny.

  Sometimes people didn’t realize at first that the Hardys were brothers, because they looked so different. Eighteeen-year-old Frank was taller, with short, straight dark hair and brown eyes. A year younger, Joe had wavy blond hair, and although he was shorter, he had a stronger build.

  “Hey, I’m really sorry about that.” A man who looked like he was in his late twenties handed Joe a towel. “This place is a zoo today, as you Americans say.” He was tall with light brown hair and bright blue-green eyes, and he spoke English with a French accent. “I’m Jacques Ravel, here to work the tournament. Are you volunteers too?”

  Joe wiped the tomato juice off his face and nodded. They were standing in front of Le Stade de France, the world-class soccer stadium in Paris. Since their team’s masterful capture of the World Cup in 1998, the French were crazier about the sport than ever—if that were possible. A noisy crowd clustered around the stadium entrance.

  “I’m Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe. We’re on the equipment team for the Americans.” The Hardys had been invited to work as volunteers at a four-team world amateur invitational soccer tournament held in Paris. It was a sunny Wednesday morning, and they were reporting for their orientation meeting.

  “So what are they so excited—or bothered—about?” Frank asked, nodding toward the noisy crowd.

  “Which group?” Jacques replied with his own question. “We seem to have two sets of protestors today.” He shrugged as though he wasn’t surprised by the crowds.

  “Let’s start with the ones who are pitching the rotten vegetables,” Joe said, shaking out the towel.

  Jacques pointed out where the clusters of protestors seemed to be divided. “Those would be Isabelle’s gang,” he said, pointing to the left of the stadium’s entrance. “See, there she is—the one with the long red hair. That’s Isabelle Genet.”

  Frank spotted the woman Jacques pointed out. She looked like she was maybe forty years old, and she had a hard, mean look. She was dressed in camouflage clothing and combat boots. She was yelling in French, but Frank could understand most of it.

  “She’s talking about Victoire, right?” Frank translated. “Is that the name of her group? Victory?”

  “Very good,” Jacques said, nodding. “Victoire started out as a nice friendly group interested in preserving the history of our beautiful city. They wanted Paris to keep her flavor as an old-world capital, but still function as a force in the twenty-first century.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Joe said, wiping the last bit of tomato off his green T-shirt. “They’re real nice and friendly.”

  “Well, she actually sounds pretty friendly,” Frank said, listening intently to Isabelle. “She’s talking about not wanting Paris to be like London, with smog and sewage in the river.” He was quiet for a minute or two, then his eyes widened. “Whoa,” he said, then continued listening. “I see what you mean, Jacques.”

  “What’s she saying?” Joe asked. “My French is way rusty.”

  “Well, she seems to be calling for Victoire to destroy Le Stade. Have I got that right?” he asked Jacques. “She wants to destroy the stadium?”

  “That’s pretty much what she’s saying,” Jacques said with another shrug. “They see the construction of our space-age stadium as a huge setback to their cause. So their answer is to tear it down. But it’s never going to happen,” he concluded.

  “What about that group?” Joe asked, pointing to the smaller crowd on the right side of the entrance.

  “Absolutely no competition for Isabelle,” Jacques said. As he spoke, a very tall, thin man stepped forward holding a small microphone. He looked distinguished, dressed in a suit and tie, with perfectly combed hair. “That’s Auguste Bergerac,” Jacques continued. “He was a pretty big deal, as you Americans say. He was once a local politician, but he was recently voted out of his office. He is quickly becoming a has-been.” Jacques pronounced the last word with a long E sound, like the word “bean.”

  “He seems to be blaming a lot of different people and groups for what happened to him,” Frank said. “Mostly the opposing party, I take it.”

  “Yes,” Jacques said. “He blames everyone but himself.”

  “So why is he here?” Joe asked. “What’s his beef against Le Stade?”

  “Nothing against the stadium specifically, probably,” Jacques explained. “But he wants to keep his name alive.”

  “So what better place than the venue for the international amateur soccer tournament,” Frank added.

  “Exactly,” Jacques agreed.

  “You know a lot about what’s going on around here,” Frank said. “I take it you’re a Parisian.”

  “I am,” Jacques said. “Lived here all my life.”

  “Speaking of the tournament, let’s get inside,” Joe said. “I’m ready to get to work.” He started for the door, keeping his eyes on the vegetable-wielding protestors.

  “Space-age is right,” Frank murmured, as they entered Le Stade.

  The Hardys had driven by the stadium, but no view from outside could begin to do it justice. The enormous elliptical bowl was topped by a roof that looked sort of like frosted glass. It was open to the sky in the center and also open all around the top of the stadium.

  The roof seemed to be floating above the field. A closer look showed that it was balanced on top of eighteen steel pillars shooting up about a hundred and fifty feet into the air. It looked as if someone just dropped the roof down and perched it on those pillars.

  It was just as noisy on the field as it was outside the stadium, but the commotion was much friendlier. A couple of teams were scrimmaging.

>   Other groups in the stadium were preparing for the next day’s opening ceremonies. Behind the goalposts at one end, dancers rehearsed to rock music being played by a band up in the stands. Behind the opposite goal posts, a fireworks crew worked through their routine, occasionally sending up a trial rocket. Sound and lighting technicians tested their equipment around the stadium.

  The Hardys and the other volunteers reported to a mess tent set up at the side of the field. The volunteer coordinator met with them first. “Bonjour, everyone. I am Henri. Look around this incredible building. It is a marvel of modern construction. The roof alone weighs thirteen tons—that’s as much as the Eiffel Tower!”

  His arm swept through the air, gesturing toward the lower rows of the stand. “The stands are divided into three layers,” he said. “Right now—for the soccer game—they are all in view. But if we wanted a larger arena, the whole bank of lower stands is retractable. All twenty-five thousand of those seats can be rolled back on a cushion of air, steel, and rollers. And they disappear under the middle stands.”

  The volunteers spent the rest of the morning touring the facility. They checked out the locker rooms and equipment facilities and learned all the safety and evacuation procedures.

  When lunch break was called, the Hardys joined the others at the mess tent. Frank and Joe took their places in the line that snaked around the food table. They filled their plates with sandwiches and heaps of pommes frites—the original French fries. Then they picked up some juice and wandered over toward the tables.

  “Frank, Joe—over here,” Jacques called from a table in the corner. The Hardys took the two remaining empty chairs, and Jacques introduced the others at the table. A few were also volunteers, but most were American and British players and coaches.

  “So, are we all pumped about this tournament or what?” Joe said with a big grin. He had loved sports all his life, and soccer was one of his favorites. As if to answer his question, a sudden burst of crackling fireworks sounded from the other end of the field.

  “Absolutely,” answered one of the British assistant coaches. “This is like a launching pad for us. Today, we are amateurs, tomorrow we are pros!”

  “So where are you all staying?” Jacques asked. “I know they set up dorms for some of the players at schools.”

  Everyone answered at once. The volunteers who didn’t live in Paris seemed to be spread out all over the city, staying with family, friends, or strangers who had opened their homes to the visitors.

  “We’re sleeping in the players’ dorm,” said one of the American players.

  “We’re staying with a friend of the family,” Joe told the others. He and Frank exchanged looks. Joe didn’t mention that their father, Fenton Hardy, was in Paris too, attending a top-secret symposium on security for sports events.

  A former ace detective with the New York City Police Department, Fenton had opened a private detective agency in Bayport. He was now considered one of the best private investigators in America. Frank and Joe had inherited his skill at cracking cases, and they often assisted him.

  “There’s no way we could be in a dorm,” a young British player answered. “Coach Roberts always insists we stay somewhere apart—”

  As if on cue, a burly man in a bright red jacket stormed up to the table. He had dark blue eyes, and hair the steely color of a medieval sword. Frank recognized him immediately as Montgomery Roberts, coach of the British team.

  “Garber. Horton. Brantley. Waltham.” Coach Roberts barked out the names as if he were a drill sergeant at roll call. “Meeting in five minutes.”

  Joe stood up and extended his hand. “Coach Roberts,” he said, “it’s an honor to meet one of the greatest soccer coaches of all time! I’m Joe Hardy, and this is my brother, Frank.”

  The coach’s beefy hand gripped Joe’s firmly, and pumped it once. Then he nodded at Frank, turned, and stomped away. The players and coaches whose names he’d called out stood up quickly and took their plates to the mess counter. Then they followed Roberts to the locker room.

  “So that’s Montgomery Roberts,” Frank said.

  “Also known as ‘Magnificent Montie, Soccer Legend,’” Joe added. “He’s one of the most successful coaches in soccer. He’s a strict coach—a real taskmaster. But he’s a genius, and he knows how to get the job done.”

  “Also known as ‘Monster Montie,’ a legend of another sort,” Jacques countered. “Some say he’s a bully and a tyrant and will do just about anything to ensure that his team has the upper hand. I think I’ll follow along. Maybe I can get an exclusive.”

  “You’re a reporter?” Frank asked.

  “Yes,” Jacques said in a low voice. “But keep it our secret. I’m doing some undercover work, posing as a volunteer. I want to get the real inside story of the tournament—not just the same stories that everyone else gets.”

  A low voice boomed a sentence in French through the stadium speaker system. That was followed by the same sentence in Spanish, then in English: “Volunteers, please report to your captains for afternoon orientation.”

  “Cover for me?” Jacques asked. “If anyone asks, tell them I’ll be right back.” Frank and Joe deposited their lunch trays and dishes on the mess counter and left the tent. The music revved up, filling the air with high-pitched guitar whines and pounding bass thumps. Frank could feel the vibrations in his stomach and instinctively nodded his head to the beat. Then another noise pierced through the music. It was a higher pitch than the lead guitar, more of a tight squeal. And it seemed to be coming from near the locker room.

  Shielding his eyes from the sun, Frank looked up toward the band, but the sound wasn’t coming from there. It was behind him, and it was getting louder. The sound began to chase all the other noises out of the stadium; it filled his ears. Frank wheeled around. Streaming down from the sky with a whistling whine was a large metal canister about the size of a bucket—and it was coming right at him.

  2 Red Card Up

  * * *

  “Hey, Joe! Everyone! Get off the field.” Frank quickly pulled a few people out of the way and pushed them toward an exit. As the whining canister neared them, more people noticed it. Joe joined Frank in herding people to safety. Finally they headed for the exit themselves.

  “Hit the deck!” Joe yelled as he looked back one last time. The metal missile was about to crash into the ground. “Now!” Once inside the large exit ramp, Frank and Joe dove for the floor.

  With a deafening thud, the canister hit the ground and shattered. Pieces of metal shrapnel flew around the field. A couple of shouts from the vicinity of the band told Frank that some lethal pieces might have hit that area.

  “Are you okay?” Joe asked, scrambling to his feet.

  “Yeah,” Frank said. “Anybody hurt out there?” he called out.

  There were a few grumbles from around the stadium, but no screams of pain.

  The Hardys walked back onto the field and checked out what was left of the strange missile. Joe touched a piece of it with the toe of his shoe. “What do you think—”

  “Fireworks,” Frank interrupted. He looked down toward the opposite goalpost. Two members of the fireworks crew were running across the field toward them. “Look,” he said, pointing to them. “I’ll bet it was an unexploded firework.”

  “I’ll go check out the band,” Joe said. “I think I heard some yells when the thing exploded.” He streaked up the aisle steps to where the band had been rehearsing.

  When the two men from the fireworks crew reached Frank, they were frantic and chattered nonstop to each other and to him—at first in quick Italian. “English?” Frank asked. “Do either of you speak English?”

  “I,” one of the men said. “I speak English.” He wore faded blue coveralls with a patch on the front pocket that read MACRI MAGNIFICO on the first line and SYLVIO on the second.

  “Your name is Sylvio?” Frank asked. When the man nodded, Frank continued his questions. “What happened? Was this part of a firework?” He po
inted to the small hole in the ground and the pieces of twisted metal.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Sylvio said. “An accident, a terrible accident. We don’t know how it happened. We have called the medics. They will be here soon.”

  “I’ll take it from here,” another man said, coming up behind Frank. He spoke English, but with a heavy French accent. “I am Officer Binet.” Frank saw the stadium security badge on the man’s jacket. “Are you hurt?” he asked Frank. “Is anyone hurt?”

  “Joe?” Frank called out to his brother. “How’s it look up there?”

  “We’ve got some injured here,” Joe said. Frank watched as his brother helped some of the players lie down, took pulses, and covered the bass player with a jacket.

  Frank listened as Officer Binet interviewed the fireworks crew members, but they didn’t offer any more than he’d already heard. Then he and the officer joined Joe in the stands. A few of the players had minor shrapnel wounds from the metal that had exploded. When the EMTs arrived, they patched up the wounded before taking them to the hospital. Frank and Joe finished giving their statements to Officer Binet, and then he left.

  “Looks like they’re getting back to work,” Joe noted as they walked across the field. The volunteer squad was slowly gathering under the goalposts.

  “Come on,” Frank said. “I want to check the fireworks setup first.”

  “What are you thinking?” Joe asked.

  “I don’t know,” Frank said. “We’ve got demonstrators outside threatening to mess up the tournament and saying they’re going to tear down the stadium. Then suddenly there’s this so-called accident. I just want to check it out.”

  The Hardys walked around the edge of the field to the opposite end where the fireworks crew had set up. A large trailer stood about forty yards from the field and anchored the small compound. On the side of the trailer were pictures of exploding fireworks and the words MACRI MAGNIFICO. Nearby was a small tent full of electronic equipment.