Passport to Danger

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Okay, Joe, where are you?” Frank said under his breath. “Ten minutes to closing.”

  The crowd began to thin and file toward the exit. Joe has got to still be in the building, Frank thought, staring at the little screen. This thing says so. Unless, of course, this is a faulty prototype. ...

  Frank fiddled with the handheld, turning it off and on and trying different settings. No matter what he did, the GPS still pinpointed Joe as being right near where he stood.

  Frank frowned at the small screen. Wait a minute, he thought. Of course! If he’s still registering on this, he’s still in the area. And if he’s still in the area, but I can’t see him, he must be in one of the hidden passageways!

  Frank looked around. Guards were ushering people from the galleries into the reception area. He had to think fast.

  If Joe found an entrance to the secret passages between the walls, it was probably in that first room we were in, he reasoned. The one where the Victoire guy vanished.

  Frank dodged the guards and slipped through the crowds of departing visitors. Finally he reached the room where he had last seen Joe. A guard in the room was asking a few people to move on downstairs.

  I’ve got to get out of sight, Frank thought, his mind moving quickly.

  Staying out of the guard’s line of vision, he ducked into a restroom. The room was empty, and there was no security camera. Frank searched the room quickly for a hiding spot and found a storage closet in the back wall. Perfect. He took the lockpick from his pocket and opened the door. Once inside, he lit his penlight, hoisted himself up onto the top shelf, and tucked himself in behind a stack of paper towel packages.

  Get comfortable, he told himself as he reached down to the lock and turned the bolt from the inside. You’ll probably have to hide out here for at least an hour while the place is cleared and the guards make their rounds.

  Frank was right. He heard several people wander in and out through the next sixty minutes. Several times, someone turned the knob of the storage closet, but only one person actually unlocked it and looked inside. Frank snuffed his penlight and held his breath. It worked; the guard closed the door and locked it without finding Frank.

  Between interruptions, Frank bided his time with his handheld, surfing the Net. First he checked his own e-mail. He had a few notes from friends back in Bayport, and he answered them quickly. Then he searched for a game to play, but he discovered that his mind was so jumpy he couldn’t concentrate on it.

  He surfed to the Web site of one of his favorite English-language newspapers in France. Scanning the headlines and lead stories, he found out that not much progress had been made on solving any of the incidents at Le Stade.

  He also discovered that the authorities had determined the exploding light incident was definitely an act of sabotage. A small article on Coach Sant’Anna stated that he was continuing to improve. At last, Frank thought. Some good news.

  After he skimmed the newspaper, he decided to look up some of the articles that Jacques had published. He fed several possible keywords into the search engine: Jacques’s name, the names of some of the papers and magazines he had written for, and a few topics he had researched for stories. But none of Frank’s guesses were right. No articles by Jacques Ravel came up.

  Then Frank checked the last five years of graduation lists from the Sorbonne, the university Jacques said he’d attended. There was no record of a student with his name.

  Frank realized it had been a while since anyone had stopped in to check the room. He looked at his watch. It was seven twenty.

  Looks like the closing-time checks are over, he thought. Now all I have to do is stay ahead of their regular rounds.

  Frank cautiously unlocked the closet and pulled himself out of his hiding place. He flexed his legs a few times before quietly relocking the door. He crossed the restroom, inched open the door, and peered outside.

  It was very quiet. Carefully Frank moved into the hall. Dodging a couple of guards lost in conversation, he took a quick but safe route back to the small room with the elegant wood paneling.

  The room was empty. Frank secretly inspected the walls and jumped to the same conclusion: A hidden latch was connected to one of the small wood squares.

  After a few unsuccessful attempts, Frank finally found the square that slid up and tripped the latch behind the wall. As soon as the panel began to give, Frank gave it a strong push. The door creaked open. He moved swiftly through the narrow opening and closed the secret revolving panel behind him.

  Frank pulled on his night goggles and surveyed the same greenish scene that Joe had earlier. He also smelled the same disgusting stench. But he had an advantage his brother hadn’t had. Frank switched on the GPS and discovered instantly that Joe was somewhere to his left.

  “Joe?” Frank called out in a loud whisper. “Joe? Where are you?” He hurried along the corridor.

  Frank felt a jolt in the pit of his stomach. It was like a chuck of ice milling around inside of him, freezing and burning at the same time. Something’s wrong, he thought. “Joe, where are you?”

  He glanced back and forth from the floor to the GPS screen. Following the trail forged by centuries of people—including his brother—Frank wound down to the cool, damp tunnel. A bat squealed past his head, and the stink of rodents and mold filled his nose.

  Frank took in the green scene directly ahead. He spotted Joe lying on the damp floor of the tunnel. His eyes were closed, and his chest was barely moving. Riding the slow, shallow rising of his chest were two large rats.

  12 Breakaway to Danger

  * * *

  Frank ran toward Joe, swinging his backpack and yelling. The two rats on Joe’s chest scampered off his body and into the shadowy crevice in the tunnel wall.

  “Joe!” Frank yelled, feeling his brother’s pulse. “Joe! Can you hear me?”

  Joe shook his head from side to side. “Oogh. What’s that gross smell?” he muttered.

  “Probably the rats who were just sniffing around your chin,” Frank answered.

  Joe sat up quickly, brushing rat hairs off his chest. Then he groaned. “Yikes, my head! What happened?” He felt the large bump on the side of his head. “Hang on…. I remember. Someone in a khaki jacket or shirt came flying out of nowhere and decked me.” With some help from Frank, he slowly got to his feet. “Man, my head is pounding.”

  “Come on,” Frank urged. “We’ve got to get out of here and have someone take a look at you.” He looked around, then peeled off the night goggles. “There’s light coming from down there,” he said, pointing. “Maybe that’s a way out of here.”

  They headed for what Frank hoped was an exit. He discovered that the light was seeping through a massive ancient door. A rusty iron bar lay on the ground, and the door had been pulled open about a foot and a half.

  “This must have been here for centuries,” Frank noted, poking at the wood. “It’s solid. Looks like someone’s already done the hardest work for us.”

  “Yeah—the guy I was tailing, I’ll bet,” Joe said, hauling the door a bit farther across the rock floor. “Let’s go.” He and Frank—and a half dozen large rats—sidled through the narrow opening. They were finally outside.

  Joe stood and inhaled as much fresh air as he could take without hyperventilating. His sore head throbbed. It took several minutes before the smell of the fresh air began to erase the stink of decay that had filled his nose. With each breath he began to feel better.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Frank said. “I want to get you to a doctor.” He checked his watch. “It’s after eight thirty. Let’s go to the hospital.”

  “No, it’s okay,” Joe said. “I’m feeling all right now. I just had to get out of that place. I thought I was going to lose it in there a couple of times.” He felt the side of his head. “Doesn’t hurt as much,” he added. “I’m not feeling dizzy or anything. It was just a bump. I’ll let you know if I need help.”

  Joe looked around. It was dark, but there was a full m
oon. The sky was full of stars above where they were standing, but to the right was the soft pinkish-white glow of electric lights.

  They were on a grassy embankment in what felt like a very isolated area. Joe looked back at the door they’d just come through. Vines and grasses almost shielded it from view. If you were passing by and didn’t see the rat waddling through the opening, you’d probably not notice the door at all.

  He turned around. “That has to be the city over there,” Joe said, pointing to the rosy glow in the sky. He took a few steps up the embankment. “Hey, look at this,” he called back. “I think it’s the Seine—or maybe a canal leading to the river.”

  “Yeah… it’s got to be,” Frank realized. “If you’re setting up an escape route from a palace, you’ve got to include a path to the river.”

  The Hardys began walking along the bank toward the city lights. While they walked, Frank told Joe about losing Isabelle in the crowd and hiding out in the storage closet. “One of the first things I want to do when we get back to the apartment is call Jacques,” Frank said. “He lied to us about his degree and being a published investigative reporter. I’m going to find out why.”

  Their path curved with the flow of the water. As they rounded the bend, Joe grabbed his brother’s arm. “Hey, check that out,” he said in a hushed voice.

  Nestled in a secluded cove was a small houseboat with a large purple V painted on the hull. “Victoire,” Frank murmured.

  “So this is where the Victoire guy was headed,” Joe guessed.

  “This might even be the private meeting place Isabelle uses,” Frank pointed out. “Jacques says no one’s been able to find the group’s headquarters.”

  “It doesn’t look like anyone’s around,” Joe said. The inside of the houseboat was dark.

  “Let’s check it out,” Frank said, leading the way down the embankment to the cove.

  Armed with penlights and lockpicks, the Hardys poked around in drawers and closets. “If we could just find something… ,” Joe said from the galley. He scanned his light beam around the narrow pantry. “Anything that tells us that Victoire has been targeting Le Stade.”

  “Quiet a minute,” Frank said. He stopped looking through the writing desk in the small sleeping quarters. “I heard something.”

  The Hardys stood very still. Both strained to hear the slightest noise. At first Frank heard nothing but water lapping the hull. Then through the open window rippled the unmistakable laugh of Isabelle Genet.

  Frank and Joe quickly cut off their lights. “Hide!” Frank said. He watched Joe dive under a jumbled pile of tarpaulins in a dark corner of the galley.

  Frank felt trapped in the tiny sleeping quarters. He could feel the boat give as Isabelle and someone else boarded. He quickly scanned the room for a hiding place but he couldn’t find one.

  When he saw Isabelle’s combat boots on the steps, he knew he had only one choice. He scrambled up over the desk and wriggled out of the window above it. Then he crawled to the inflated raft lying upside down on the back deck and tucked himself under it. The adrenaline shot through his body at lightning speed. His heart was pumping so fast and hard, it made the raft bounce.

  Finally he calmed down some. The pulse in his temples quieted, and he could hear what the Victoires were saying. They spoke in French, but he understood most of it.

  “Are you sure no one saw you use the secret panel?” Isabelle asked the man with her. “Those Americans were in the museum. I don’t like them; they’re too curious. And it seems our little warning at the bookstall didn’t work.”

  “No one saw me,” her henchman said. “And I fixed the camera, as usual.”

  “Good,” Isabelle said. Frank heard the refrigerator door open. He held his breath as he pictured Joe under the tarps in the galley.

  “Did someone beat us to Le Stade?” asked Isabelle’s henchman. “Was it an accident that the lights were smashed, or did someone else rob us of our place in the headlines?”

  “That we must find out,” Isabelle said. “We are working on our plans to bring about destruction at Le Stade. We cannot let others upstage us.”

  “I say it was no accident,” the henchman claimed. “I say we have a rival saboteur, and this will not be good for Victoire and our cause.”

  “Perhaps we will find out from our friend,” Isabelle said. “He must have a reason for wanting a meeting. Cast off, Gaston. It is time to go.”

  Frank felt a cold ripple down his spine. He heard the words “cast off” echo through his mind. He visualized the boat and the precarious hiding places he and Joe had found. He knew there was no way they could get off the boat now without being discovered. He sent a mental message to his brother. Stay low. We’ll have to ride this one out.

  The boat chugged along at idle speed for a while, then it turned and revved up. Frank figured the boat had left a canal and then turned into the Seine.

  They continued to move along the water. Frank didn’t dare turn on his light to check his watch. At last the boat slowed, and he felt a bump. He guessed they had touched against a pier.

  “Tie it off quickly,” he heard Isabelle say. “I am eager to meet with Monsieur Bergerac.”

  From under the raft, Frank heard and felt boots clattering across the deck. The boat dipped as Isabelle and Gaston debarked. Their footsteps moved farther and farther away.

  Finally, stillness. Frank heard nothing but a nightbird singing and the breeze through the trees. No time to waste, he thought.

  An inch at a time, he pushed up the edge of the raft and scanned the deck. The houseboat looked like it had when he’d first seen it: dark and uninhabited.

  He pushed the raft back completely and slid out from under it. He then pulled himself up to a crouch and looked around. The full moon was so bright that he could clearly see the landscape. It looked as if they were somewhere in the countryside surrounding Paris. They were docked at the foot of a vast lawn leading up to an enormous chateau.

  “Frank,” Joe whispered from inside the sleeping quarters. “Are you out there?”

  “Yeah,” Frank said. “Is the boat clear?”

  “Yep, they’re gone,” Joe answered. “Did you hear Isabelle’s comment about warning us at the bookstall?”

  “I sure did.” Frank stood and flexed his arms and legs. “And now they’re meeting with Bergerac.”

  “Probably our buddy Auguste, don’t you think?” Joe said.

  “Let’s go find out,” Frank answered.

  The Hardys stepped off the boat and hurried along the pier to the soft green grass of Monsieur Bergerac’s country estate. “Watch for guards,” Frank warned as they neared the chateau.

  As the Hardys got closer to the corner of the building, they heard voices. Frank and Joe both ducked into a tall, unclipped hedge. From there they were able to hear most of the conversation.

  “May we speak freely here?” Isabelle asked.

  “You may,” a deep male voice answered. “Except for my personal bodyguard, my staff has the evening off. I wanted our meeting to be private.”

  Frank and Joe looked at each other and nodded. It was definitely the voice of Auguste Bergerac.

  “Were you responsible for sabotaging the lights at Le Stade?” asked the man with Isabelle.

  “I will ask the questions, Gaston,” Isabelle said. “Monsieur Bergerac, why have you invited me?”

  “Call me Auguste, mademoiselle, s’il vous plâit. I am proposing that we combine our efforts. That my network of support and Victoire work together and double our influence.”

  “Aaaaahh. Well, I don’t know,” Isabelle responded. The Hardys heard several clinking sounds, like ice being dropped into glasses.

  “Think about it,” Bergerac urged. “You have yet to make a real mark in Paris. You have yet to command the respect you deserve. If you join with me, your cause will receive a much wider audience.”

  “That might be true, Auguste,” Isabelle began, “but—”

  “We do not need you,”
Gaston blurted out. “We have great plans for achieving the respect you mention. And we will do it on our own!”

  “Gaston!” Isabelle ordered. “Enough. Take a walk. Now!”

  The Hardys heard grumbling noises, then something that sounded like a glass being slammed down onto a counter or table. They ducked back as they saw a man stomp around the corner and off toward a small building with a fenced pen off to its side.

  “As I was saying,” Auguste explained, “now is the ideal time for your team and mine to come together. We have prime leverage with this world invitational tournament—many extra visitors to Paris, many opportunities to ensure that the world understands the seriousness of our intentions.”

  The conversation was interrupted by a sudden ferocious barking. Joe could tell there were at least two dogs, maybe more. The barking and growling escalated to a threatening, terrifying din.

  “He has gone to the pen,” Bergerac said. “Get him away. He’s arousing the dogs.”

  Another man strode around the corner and off toward the direction Gaston had taken. “That must be Bergerac’s bodyguard,” Frank whispered to Joe.

  “And it sounds like Gaston has bothered the guard dogs,” Joe responded.

  The Hardys could no longer hear Bergerac or Isabelle talking over the intense noise from the dogs. The frenetic barking continued in spite of the hollers of Bergerac’s bodyguard.

  “We might need to find an escape hatch.” Joe looked around as he spoke. “We’ll never make it to the trees,” he said, gesturing to the small woods along the side of the estate.

  “If we need to, let’s head for the garage,” Frank said, nodding toward a large building about fifty yards away.

  “I say we head there now,” Joe suggested. “Sort of a preemptive escape.” He nodded toward Gaston, who was running back toward the chateau. The sound of the dogs had reached a frantic pitch. They sounded like wild animals about to begin a hunt.