Read The Crowning Terror Online
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
The Crowning Terror (6 page)
***
Breathless from running, Joe Hardy neared his uncle Hugh's apartment. He hoped Frank was still there. Questions kept bouncing around in his head. But between his brother and himself, he felt sure they could sort out the answers.
He stopped suddenly and gaped at the limousine passing him. In the front was the short man who had driven the getaway car in New York. There in the back, as he expected, was the man with the eye patch. With Frank.
"Frank!" he shouted as he turned and ran after the limo. It was no use. On the now-quiet street, the limo easily pulled away from him. Gasping for breath, he came to a halt and watched the limo vanish into the distance.
A car sped up to him, and he waved his arms to flag it over. But the car continued by without slowing down. Another car passed, and then a motorcycle. The cyclist, his face hidden behind a black visor, turned his head to watch Joe wave, but both car and cyclist continued on.
Joe began to run again, but he knew it was hopeless. Without transportation, he had no way of catching up to the limo.
Then he smiled. The cyclist had pulled into a parking space just ahead; he got off the bike and was walking into a pharmacy, leaving the keys in the ignition.
In seconds Joe was on the big machine, turning the key. As it roared to life, he flipped off the brake and ripped onto the street. The owner ran out of the pharmacy and stared silently as Joe followed the limo. If it had not been an emergency, Joe would never have stolen anything. But he also knew his brother's life hung in the balance, and to save his brother he would take any risk.
He spotted the limo as it was pulling onto Geary Street. He followed as it became an expressway and then switched back to a street. In vain, Joe searched for an opening.
There were too many people and cars around. If the Russians started shooting at him, too many people could get hurt. He could see Frank moving in the backseat of the limo. For the moment, at least, his brother was all right.
At Park Presidio Boulevard, the limo switched on its headlights and turned north. Joe was still behind it. They followed the boulevard to Doyle Drive, heading northwest. In the distance Joe could see the lit-up Golden Gate Bridge, which led from San Francisco to Marin County in the north. No matter that he had seen the famous bridge before; he was overcome by its beauty once again.
And right then he understood why the Russians were going there. He hoped he was wrong, but instinctively knew he was right. And he knew that if Frank were to be rescued, he had to do it right then.
As they pulled onto the bridge, Joe shifted into high gear and sped past the limousine. Neither the short man nor the one-eyed man noticed. They were watching for the perfect spot to pull over and shove Frank into the merciless water below. Frank probably didn't spot me, either, Joe thought. I just hope he'll be quick on his feet.
When he was one hundred feet ahead of the car, Joe slammed his heel to the pavement and jerked the front end of the cycle off the ground. The bike spun, the front wheel slammed down again, and then he was racing head-on toward the limousine.
For what seemed like an eternity, the cycle sped toward the limo, Joe's eyes fixed slightly above the headlights so the glare wouldn't blind him. Joe swerved the bike to the right of the car seconds before it would have collided with it. Tires locked and screeched, and the cycle flew into a skid, throwing Joe at the car, just as he had planned. The driver's window was open, and Joe reached through it, locking his arm around the short man's neck.
The car swerved and weaved as Oleg gasped for breath. In the back Frank slammed his elbow into Feodor's chin, stunning him.
The limo crashed into the side of the bridge, knocking Joe to the pavement. With a groan, he picked himself up. The front end of the limo was twisted against a steel railing, and no one inside was moving. Then Frank moaned, and Oleg and Feodor stirred.
"Come on, Frank," Joe called. "Let's get out of here."
"Just a minute," Frank said. He leaned over the front seat and reached into Oleg's coat. His hand came out holding a folded sheet of paper.
"Got it!" he said as he climbed out of the car. "Let's go."
As they ran across the bridge, a bullet spanged off a girder. Frank looked over his shoulder. Feodor and Oleg were out of the car, shooting at them. "They've almost got our range, Joe," he said. "We'll never make it."
Joe eyed the dark waters below. "There's one chance," he said.
"Too dangerous," Frank said. "Do you know how many people die every year by jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge? If we get caught in the undertow — " He cut himself off as he glanced over his shoulder. Feodor was down on one knee, taking careful aim.
"Right," said Joe. He knew that look in his brother's eye, the look that said one chance in a million was better than no chance at all. "Let's do it."
As another shot whizzed by, the Hardys lunged over the railing and plummeted with twin splashes into the deadly bay.
Frank Hardy swam to the surface, spat out water, and gulped in air. Treading water, he strained to pull the cord from his wrists. Above, he saw the Russians, straining their eyes to pick the Hardys out against the inky darkness of the bay. It was too dark, he knew, and the flashing red lights approaching from the distance would quickly drive the Russians off. "Stay low, Joe," he whispered. "The cops are on their way." There was no reply. "Joe?" he said louder. Still the only sound was the fierce lapping of waves. Frank peered across the night sea. Nothing else bobbed there.
Joe had not come up for air after the dive. He was gone.
Just under the surface of the water, something moved. A head bobbed up, then sank again. Joe!
Frank called his brother's name, but there was no answer. He hoped Joe was only unconscious, knocked out by the impact. But Frank had to wake him quickly, before he drowned or was swept out to sea. Water flowed around them, pulling them gently toward the mouth of San Francisco Bay. The farther they moved, the faster they went, dragged relentlessly in the murderous undertow. A few more minutes, Frank knew, and they would both be beyond help.
Taking in a lungful of air, Frank dived underwater. The cord hindered his movements, making it difficult to swim. He wished for more light, but none came. In that undersea night he could see nothing but shades of gray and black.
A dozen feet away a dark, man-shaped patch rose. Joe again, Frank guessed, rising for perhaps the last time. Frank kicked his feet and propelled himself against the current. His lungs burned and air forced itself up into his throat, but he kept his mouth closed. The dark patch, helpless against the current, pulled away from him. Frank kicked frantically, building up speed. His vision blurred and his lungs ached from the effort of holding in the air. If he should open his mouth, he knew, the sea would rush in, and he would never make it to the surface again.
He slammed into Joe, but Joe didn't move. Frank dived again, coming up with his shoulder under the small of Joe's back, pushing his brother upward.
They broke the surface, and Frank gasped desperately for air. But Joe was rolling away, already beginning to sink again. Without his hands free, there was no way for Frank to keep Joe afloat. Frank grabbed his brother by the belt. Kicking to keep himself above water, he jerked Joe toward him as hard as he could and then let him go.
With as much strength and leverage as he could muster in the water, Frank punched Joe in the stomach.
Reflexively, Joe gasped, a geyser of water and air rushing from his lungs. Shaken to semiconsciousness, he hacked the rest of the fluid out with a fierce cough and thrashed in the water.
Joe!" Frank cried. "Wake up! Please wake
At last Joe opened his eyes and stopped slapping the water. Like Frank, he started to kick his feet to keep himself afloat. "Frank! Where are we? What — " He looked at the bridge and suddenly remembered. "The Russians!"
Red lights spun and flashed on the bridge. The police were there. A spotlight went on, shining down and skimming along the water.
"It's a sure bet the Russians are gone by now," Frank said. "And we had better be out of here, too. It won't do us or Uncle Hugh any good, having to explain this to the police."
"Right," Joe agreed. They bobbed beneath the water as the searchlight neared. It touched the place where they had been and moved on. They surfaced again. "It's only a couple hundred feet to shore and the current should be moving in that direction. Let's go."
"Joe? Would you mind?" Frank held out his arms. With a chuckle, Joe untied his brother. "Thanks."
As the searchlight began another circuit, they swam and came ashore in the shadow of Fort Point. The old fort was closed, and there was no one else around. Exhausted, they crawled onto the beach and collapsed there. The searchlight still beamed off the bridge. No one suspected they had survived.
"This could be a break," Frank said. "The Russians are probably watching the cops. I hope they'll think we're finished when we're not found. That would make it easier for us to wreck their plan."
"What is their plan, anyway?" Joe asked. Soaked to the skin, he shivered in the chill night air. "I know they're planning to steal an old Inca crown, but aside from that — "
"What?" Frank interrupted, dumbfounded. "Where did you learn that?"
Joe smiled. It wasn't often that he was able to surprise Frank. "There's a woman involved in this, the one we saw at the elevator. Her name's Charity. I followed her and got to see some photos she has of the crown. She wanted to know what Uncle Hugh's plans for stealing it were."
"Then she's not on Uncle Hugh's side," Frank said. "So whose side is she on? Starkey's? If that's the case, why didn't he tell us?"
"Don't expect him to tell us anything," Joe said. "Unless it's a lie. Something's not on the level about him."
"Something's off about all of this," Frank said. "Like those Russians. Sometimes they speak broken English, and sometimes they speak as well as you or I. It's like they're playacting."
Frank's face grew more serious. "I wish I could figure out how Uncle Hugh fits into all this. I learned the Russians fed him a slow-acting poison, and if he does this job for them, they'll The owning To give him the antidote. So it seems he's been forced into helping them. But he didn't lift a finger to help me when the Russians carted me off. If you hadn't shown up — "
"You would have thought of something," Joe said. "I guess the key to this whole thing is the crown, but I can't believe the Russians are only interested in this old treasure. If only we knew where it was, we could get a good look at it and then — "
It was Frank's turn to smile. "Funny you should mention it." He pulled a crumpled, soggy piece of paper from his back pocket and spread it out as best he could on the grass.
"That's what you dragged out of the little Russian's coat before you got out of the limo," Joe said. "What is it?" he asked, taking out a small penlight.
"A photocopy of the floor plans for the Carlyle Museum of History, complete with instructions on how to bypass all the security. Uncle Hugh figured it out."
"Look at this place," Joe said and shone the light across the paper. "Lasers, heat sensors, air pressure sensors. It's more like a fortress than a museum. Ever notice how this case gets screwier the deeper into it we get?"
"Boy, have I," Frank began and then froze. Near the wall of the fort, something snapped.
"Someone's there," Frank whispered. "We have to get out of here." He snatched up the paper and stuffed it into his pocket again. Another snap.
Frank and Joe crawled across the grass, hugging the ground. At the wall they heard a match scratch, and a man touched the flame to the tip of a cigarette. Shadows cast by the flame blacked out his eyes and made him unrecognizable. He tossed the match down and ground it out with his heel.
The glow of the cigarette slowly pulsing over his face, he walked straight at the Hardys. From a shoulder holster hidden beneath his coat, he drew a gun.
"Hit him!" Frank whispered. As if a single mind directed them, Frank and Joe, hidden by the night, lunged at the armed man.
Headfights flared on, catching them in midlunge, and the man held his revolver aimed at the Hardys. He stepped toward the boys, signaling them to raise their hands.
Frank backed into Joe's shadow and crushed the paper completely into his pocket before he lifted his hands. No one noticed.
The man with the gun jostled Frank and Joe, roughly pushing them toward the waiting car. "You've had enough fun for one day," he said. "Starkey wants to talk to you."
"Care for some tea?" Starkey said. "It'll help drive the chill out."
"Sure," Frank replied. His clothes had mostly dried on the ride from Fort Point to the VanNess Avenue hotel district, but he was still cold. Joe and Frank each sat on a bed in their hotel room; Starkey leaned against the wall. In the corner the man with the revolver watched a movie on cable television and paid no attention to them.
Another man poured two cups of tea from a large silver pot and handed them to Frank and Joe. "So," Starkey said. "What did you find out?"
"You answer a question first, okay?" said Frank. "Who's Peregrine?"
"Well, well," Starkey said, amused. "Since you ask, that was Hugh Hunt's code name when he worked in Eastern Europe. Why? Someone mention it?"
"The Russians," Frank began.
"So Hunt is working for them," Starkey said excitedly. "He probably started working for them when he was Peregrine."
"I don't think so," Frank said. "They were taunting him with the name. They're extorting his help."
"To do what?" Starkey asked.
"Something to do with a crown at the Carlyle Museum," Joe said. "They're planning to snatch it."
"Let me get this straight," Starkey said excitedly. "Hugh Hunt and the Russians are planning to rob a museum?"
"It looks that way," Frank admitted. "But don't you understand? They're forcing him into it!"
"But Hugh Hunt is working with the Russians, and they are planning to knock over the Carlyle Museum, right?" Starkey insisted.
